01 - Murder in the Holy City (38 page)

Hugh gave a great yell and kicked his horse forward, away from the chaos of goats. Several others followed, trying to break free to gallop to the open road ahead. Geoffrey and fifteen men from his small army left their hiding places and tore into the battle.

Hugh saw Geoffrey, and his face dissolved into a mask of hatred and loathing. He wheeled his horse around and drove at Geoffrey, oblivious to everything but the man who was attempting to foil his carefully laid plans. Geoffrey raised his shield to parry the blow, and felt himself all but dislodged from his saddle. Hugh swung again, the impact cleaving a great dent in Geoffrey’s shield. Then Geoffrey jabbed straight-armed at Hugh’s side and heard him grunt with pain.

Another man joined the affray: Wolfram, who had been Geoffrey’s man. Geoffrey had a brief vision of Ned Fletcher and rode at him hard and low, aware that despite all his nagging and encouragement, Wolfram was still not wearing full armour. He caught the young man a hefty blow with his sword; in blocking the well-placed swipe, Wolfram was knocked out of his saddle and fell to the ground.

Geoffrey whirled around as Hugh struck again and again, taking the brunt of the blows on his shield. Geoffrey was stronger by far than the smaller Hugh, whose skills lay in carefully executed swordplay rather than brute strength. But Hugh was fighting like a fool, letting his hatred blind him into exhausting himself before the fight had really begun.

But Hugh had not survived numerous battles while on Crusade by being stupid, and his innate sense of survival forced him to regain control of his temper. With a final lunge, he wheeled away and regarded Geoffrey from a distance. Hugh and Geoffrey knew each other well and had matched their fighting skills against each other many times in sport. Hugh was quick and cunning; Geoffrey was strong and intelligent. In their mock battles, Geoffrey imagined that they shared a more or less equal number of victories. His own success against Hugh now was far from secure.

In the brief respite, he felt a searing pain in his leg and looked down to see Wolfram at his side, armed with a dagger. Impatiently, Geoffrey kicked him away as hard as he could, and with a yell, rode at Hugh, using his superior strength to drive him backward, hoping to force him off balance. Hugh took the blows on his shield, reeling in his saddle at their force. Then he kicked out suddenly with his foot, catching Geoffrey’s horse with a stunning kick in the throat. The horse reared in pain and terror, forcing Geoffrey to use his sword arm to control it. While Geoffrey tried to calm his bucking mount, Hugh attacked with a series of quick jabbing thrusts, at least one of which pierced Geoffrey’s chain mail, sending a dull aching sensation through him. Geoffrey tore his horse’s head around and forced it away. Hugh followed.

Geoffrey sensed Hugh’s raised sword behind him, poised to strike at his back—like poor John of Sourdeval and the scribe Marius, Geoffrey thought suddenly, attacked from behind—and he whirled around in his saddle, raising his shield and swinging his own sword at the same time. It was not a wise manoeuvre, placing him awkwardly in the saddle, and without lending any real strength to his sword arm. But it was also not a manoeuvre Hugh anticipated, and his shield went skittering from his grasp. He recovered quickly and swung at Geoffrey, sitting unsteadily in his saddle, with a violent swing that took both of his hands. Geoffrey raised his shield, but the force of the blow unseated him, and he went tumbling to the ground, his helmet flying from his head.

He scrabbled to his feet as Hugh drove his horse forward, trying to trample him under its hooves. Geoffrey ducked and dodged, and escaped by the skin of his teeth at the expense of a painful kick on his leg. He gripped his sword and turned to face Hugh. Hugh now had the considerable advantage of height, and he rode at Geoffrey wheeling his sword like a windmill. Geoffrey dropped to the ground and scrambled away, feeling the whistle of the sword the merest fraction away from his bare head. He climbed to his feet again and considered running away. But then Hugh would break away from the melee and ride for Jaffa to kill the Advocate, and everything Geoffrey had worked for would have been for nothing.

Meanwhile, Wolfram had recovered and was also advancing on Geoffrey with sword drawn. Geoffrey looked from Wolfram to Hugh, trying to ascertain who would attack him first. Geoffrey spun round and raced at Wolfram, forcing the young man to retreat rapidly to avoid being hacked to pieces by Geoffrey’s expertly wielded weapon. Wolfram would know he could never beat Geoffrey in such a confrontation, but Wolfram had Hugh. Hugh spurred his horse forward a second time, driving the terrified beast to where Geoffrey sparred with the young soldier. At the very last moment, Geoffrey threw himself to the ground and covered his head with his hands. One of the horse’s hooves smashed into his thigh, but he was otherwise unharmed.

Yelling with savage delight, Wolfram dived at him, while Hugh brought his horse in a tight circle to bear down on them again. Geoffrey was still off-balance, and Wolfram’s graceless lunge knocked him to the ground again. Then Hugh was on them, his sword whirling and slashing, and the hooves thundering into the ground all around them.

Wolfram went limp. Geoffrey struggled out from underneath him and saw that one of Hugh’s wild swipes had cut deeply into the young soldier’s back.

“Should have been wearing your chain mail,” Geoffrey muttered as he rolled the lifeless body away and struggled to his feet yet again. Gritting his teeth, he turned to face Hugh. He could see the glitter of Hugh’s eyes under his helmet, and saw that he smiled. As far as Hugh was concerned, this contest was already won: Geoffrey was limping and had lost his helmet. Hugh knew that Geoffrey’s chances of besting a mounted knight of Hugh’s experience and skill were remote. He began to relax.

Geoffrey hurled his sword away and drew his dagger, leaping toward the back of Hugh’s horse where Hugh could not see him. Roaring with fury, Hugh wheeled his horse around in a tight circle. But Geoffrey moved with it, using his dagger to hack and slice at the leather straps that anchored the saddle to the horse’s back. The horse reared in terror and pain, and Hugh fought to control it. A flailing hoof caught Geoffrey a glancing blow on the chin and sent him sprawling. Within moments, Hugh was with him, crashing to the ground with his saddle tangled about his legs.

Now is the time,
Geoffrey’s instincts screamed at him, while Hugh struggled to free himself from the saddle and its clinging stirrups. But the blow to his chin had left him dazed, and it was all he could do to climb groggily to his feet. He made a feeble lunge at Hugh with his dagger, but Hugh punched him away and succeeded in freeing himself. When Geoffrey’s vision cleared of the exploding lights that blinded him, he found he had dropped dagger and shield, and faced Hugh unarmed. Eyes glittering, Hugh advanced with his sword and raised his arm for the strike that would rid him of the man who had thwarted all his plans. Geoffrey met his gaze unflinchingly.

The blow never came. Hugh’s expression changed from one of twisted malice to one of surprise, and his sword descended slowly. Behind him stood Roger, and Hugh buckled and fell to the ground. In his back was a curved dagger with a jewelled hilt.

“Took a fancy to this when I saw it in his room,” said Roger, bracing a foot against Hugh’s back and retrieving it. He showed it to Geoffrey, turning it in his hands. “Fancy, eh?”

Geoffrey tore his eyes away from the bloody dagger and back to Roger. “Have we succeeded?”

“Aye, lad. Courrances and his monks wreaked havoc in the middle part, and the trapped men trying to escape hindered the fighting at the back and the front. I killed that treacherous Father Almaric—he was wearing chain mail, would you believe, and he had a sword! And I got Maria’s lad, Adam, too, and Courrances killed Armand, among others.” He paused, looking at the bodies strewn across the road in satisfaction. “Those goats worked a treat.”

Only just, thought Geoffrey wearily. He looked around for his dog and saw it gnawing something bloody between its paws. He hoped it was only an animal. He glanced toward the village, and saw Courrances and d’Aumale rounding up the few remaining soldiers in Hugh’s army, and setting them to gather up those who had been killed. It appeared to have been a massacre, and Geoffrey suddenly felt sick.

“It is not as if we have nothing better to do,” he said to a bemused Roger. “This whole land is surrounded by hostile Saracens, and all we can do is kill each other! Perhaps we are not fit to be here at all and should give up our claims to others.”

“Don’t talk daft, lad,” said Roger. He gestured at the slowly growing heap of corpses in the street. “The world is a better place without the likes of them in it.”

On the ground, Hugh gave a soft groan and forced himself onto his back. Geoffrey and Roger exchanged a glance and looked down at him dispassionately. Hugh saw them and smiled.

“I always thought it would be glorious to die in battle with my friends.”

“But you expected to be in battle
with
your friends, not
against
them,” said Roger, slightly indignantly. “Besides, we are not dying.”

Hugh’s smile widened, showing teeth that were stained with blood. Geoffrey knelt next to him, repelled by the whole treacherous business.

“Was it worthwhile, Hugh?” asked Geoffrey softly. He gestured to the pile of soldiers’ bodies. “Your men are dead, and you will soon follow them.”

“It was worthwhile,” Hugh responded. “I sent word to Bohemond two weeks ago that I was going to kill the Advocate, and that he should be ready to step forward to claim Jerusalem. Even as we talk, he will be massing his troops in anticipation.”

“But he will find the Advocate alive,” said Geoffrey. “And no one will support Bohemond if he tries to snatch the leadership by force. The Advocate was crowned in the Holy Sepulchre by the Patriarch himself.”

“Yes, yes,” said Hugh wearily. “But the Advocate is weak, and even his own men are wavering in their loyalty to him. You think you have won because I am dying. But there are others who think like me and it will only be a matter of time before one of them succeeds. And regardless, Bohemond will come soon with a great force, and you two will have no choice but to fight for him.”

“How do you know he will come?” asked Geoffrey. “He might decide he wants no crown won with blood.”

“Oh, that will not bother him,” put in Roger cheerfully. “Bohemond is no lily-livered monk.”

“I sent word to him with a man whom I know will be able to persuade him of his best options,” Hugh whispered. “Sir Guibert of Apulia took my message that Bohemond should prepare himself two weeks ago.”

Geoffrey gazed at him. “Sir Guibert is dead,” he said softly.

Hugh’s eyes grew round with horror, but then he dismissed Geoffrey’s claim. “You lie. Guibert would not fail me or Bohemond.”

“Doubtless not,” said Geoffrey. “But Guibert and his soldiers were attacked by Saracens before they ever reached Bohemond, and were killed to a man. Tancred told me about it in a message he sent from Haifa. He was curious as to why Guibert should be in the desert at all, and thought it sufficiently odd to mention in his letter. Bohemond did not receive your message.”

The colour drained from Hugh’s face, and he closed his eyes.

There was a shout of warning from Helbye, whom Roger had posted to watch the road for any reinforcements that Hugh might have had stashed further away. Roger dashed for his horse, while Geoffrey snatched up Hugh’s sword, anticipating another skirmish. There was no time to arrange a second ambush: they would simply have to do battle as they were.

Helbye strode forward to intercept a small party of soldiers that was riding toward Jerusalem, and Geoffrey watched as the sergeant engaged in a hurried exchange of words. Geoffrey saw Helbye’s jaw drop, and then the sergeant seemed to collect himself. He came racing toward Geoffrey.

“The Advocate!” he gasped. “The Advocate is dead!”

Geoffrey looked from Helbye to the soldiers who had just arrived. One was Sir Conrad of Liege, a knight who Geoffrey knew well, who was one of the Advocate’s staunchest supporters.

“It is true,” said Conrad, fixing Geoffrey with exhausted, red-rimmed eyes. “He died of a fever early this morning.” He looked at Geoffrey and Roger, and then at Courrances and d’Aumale, who had come to see what the commotion was about. “What happens now?”

Geoffrey looked down to where Hugh lay, smiling with the last of his dying strength.

“Was it you?” Geoffrey asked in a whisper. “Did you poison him?”

“You will never know,” replied Hugh, his voice so weak Geoffrey had to kneel to hear him. “You will never know.”

HISTORICAL NOTE

D
uring his year as Advocate of the Holy Sepulchre, Godfrey, Duke of Lorraine, proved himself to be an honourable and pious, but ineffectual and unwise, ruler. The problems for the young kingdom caused by external threats and challenges from all sides and by the Advocate’s lack of ability were compounded by intrigues, quarrels, and power struggles between the Advocate, Daimbert the Patriarch, and the other leaders of the Crusade who had remained in the Holy Land: Raymond of Toulouse; Bohemond; Tancred; and Baldwin, the Advocate’s younger brother. These internal struggles were particularly problematic because Daimbert, who wanted control of both the city and Kingdom of Jerusalem, not only officially represented the Catholic Church, with the supposed backing of the Pope, but was clearly allied with the Normans, under the leadership of Bohemond and Tancred.