Holy War (29 page)

Outside, the snow was falling so heavily that it had already filled Caesarius’s footsteps. John trudged through the storm to the manor. The guard at the gate nodded to him. ‘He’s in the hall, father.’

John found Caelin slouched in his seat at the end of the table. A bowl of stew sat untouched before him. He had a mug of ale in hand, and he took a long drink as John entered the hall. Last spring Caelin had left for France to join King Henry in battle against his son, Richard. He had left on a sunny spring day and had been in high spirits. He had ridden a magnificent chestnut destrier, and his mail had been scoured so that it gleamed to match his bright smile. Now his armour was rusted and rent at the shoulder. An angry scar ran down his right cheek.

‘Brother!’ Caelin called. He was missing his two top front teeth. He took another swig from his mug. ‘Sit. Eat. I have no stomach for food.’

John sat beside him and glanced at the stew. ‘I am not hungry.’

‘Ale for my brother!’ Caelin ordered.

A young boy came forward with a mug. John accepted the warm ale gratefully and took a long drink. ‘What has happened to you, Brother?’

‘Have you not heard? The King is dead.’

‘News travels slowly. We heard rumours.’

‘It is more than rumours. In June, we met to parlay with Richard and King Philip of France. They offered outrageous terms, which Henry refused. We returned to Le Mans.’ Caelin shook his head and took another drink. ‘A truce had been called for the parlay. Richard attacked before it ended. We were caught unprepared. Richard broke into Le Mans and set it afire. We fled, but Richard and Philip caught up to us at Ballans. They crushed us. Afterwards, Richard forced Henry to recognize him as his heir instead of John. Two days later, Henry was dead.’

‘At Richard’s hand?’

‘Henry was old, but he was not dying, not until Richard drove him from Le Mans in the midst of a raging storm. Henry took ill, and he never recovered. Richard may not have struck him down, but make no mistake, he killed his father.’ Caelin drained the mug and slammed it down on the table. ‘More ale!’ The servant boy hurried forward with a mug, sloshing ale as he set it on the table.

‘So Richard is king?’

Caelin nodded. ‘And a right bastard he is, too. His men call him Cœur-de-lion, Lionheart.’ Caelin snorted. ‘But the man has no heart.’

‘The brothers at Roche Abbey say he is a religious man.’

‘His only religion is blood and steel. Richard has taken the cross, but do not think it is for God. He is using his crusade as an excuse to squeeze his father’s allies dry. He would not let me leave court until I paid him a hundred pounds.’

‘But he will march for Jerusalem?’

‘Aye. He is in London now, collecting coin and men. An army of cut-throats and murderers, if you ask me. He’s promised a full pardon to any who take the cross. The gaols of Wales and England have emptied.’ Caelin shrugged and took a long drink from the fresh mug of ale. ‘I suppose a few more thieves hardly matter; most of his knights are brigands.’

A crusade. This was John’s chance to return to the Holy Land. ‘Do you suppose Richard would take a priest?’

Caelin set his mug down and gripped John’s arm with surprising urgency. ‘Do not think of taking the cross, John. You do not want to serve under Richard. He is a man without honour.’

John thought of Reynald and Guy. ‘I have fought for men without honour before. God can use even the basest of tools to achieve his purposes.’

Caelin released John. ‘If the grange does not please you, Brother, then I will find you another residence. You are always welcome in my hall.’

‘It is not the grange, Caelin; it is England. I am a stranger here. My place is in the East. Richard is going there, and I mean to join him.’

Caelin gave his brother a long look. He nodded. ‘Very well. I will see that you are fitted out with armour, weapons and enough coin to see you to London.’ He shook his head again. ‘God save you, Brother.’

January 1190: London

John smelt London long before he saw it. The damp air over the Thames was heavy with the reek of decaying waste, rotting meat, offal and shit, all overlaid with the sharp scent of wood smoke. He wrinkled his nose. The captain of the small merchant ship noticed and laughed. He was a red-cheeked man with thin arms and an enormous belly. ‘You should smell her in the summer, priest. Today she’s sweet as a rose by comparison.’

John had ridden the short distance to Hull, from where he had taken a ship, preferring to chance the winter seas rather than the muddy roads leading to London. The captain had hugged the coast, and the voyage had passed uneventfully. John spent most of it below decks retching. Better this, he had told himself, than weeks spent riding south through the bitter cold. After they entered the mouth of the Thames, his seasickness had abated and he had come on deck. He could see the Tower of London now, a massive keep looming above grey walls on the north bank of the river. A ray of sunshine escaped the clouds and illuminated the keep, causing it to shine like fresh snow.

‘The White Tower,’ the captain said. ‘Newly built of limestone. A pretty site, but I wouldn’t want to go there. Richard uses it as a prison for those who displease him.’

Beyond the Tower, the city of London squatted behind its walls. It was a jumble of wood and stone houses and taller church towers, all pressed up against one another. A bridge spanned the river, connecting London to Southwark across the Thames. The bridge was under construction. The section nearest the walls was built of stone and the rest of wood.

‘What are you doing?’ John asked the captain. The boat was angling away from the city and towards the south bank. ‘You promised to take me to London.’

‘And so I have. It’s cheaper to dock at Southwark, father. It’s only a short walk to the city.’

Men busied themselves about the deck, and the sails came down as the boat glided towards a pier. Sailors jumped ashore to tie the ship off. John waited until they had lowered the gangway. He crossed himself as he stepped on to the pier. The waterfront was crowded with sailors, merchants and whores. He shouldered his way into the crowd. Beneath his fur-lined cloak, he wore a coat of mail that his brother had given him, and most of the men and women in the crowd stepped quickly aside when they felt it. But one young whore, hardly more than a child, clung to his arm. She leered at John. ‘Fancy a fuck, good sir? I’m newly arrived from the country, fresh as new linen.’

John pulled away and pushed on. The crowd thinned as he left the waterfront behind. The streets of Southwark were paved, but the stones were slick with snow and filth. John stepped carefully as he made his way to the bridge. A stone gatehouse stood at its head. He joined the line of people tromping across the drawbridge that separated it from the town. When he reached the gate itself, a soldier in mail stopped him. ‘Two pence to cross on foot.’

John handed over the coins and shuffled forward with the crowd. The bridge was wide enough to accommodate sixteen men abreast, but the sides were lined with merchants’ booths and pedlars hawking their wares. In between, singers, fire-eaters and jugglers were entertaining the crowd. Near the middle of the bridge, John passed a barber pulling a man’s tooth before a crowd of onlookers. The barber was a bear of a man with muscled shoulders and meaty forearms covered in thick black hair. More hair protruded from the collar of his thick wool shirt. He grabbed hold of the man’s tooth with iron pinchers and jerked it free in one pull. His patient fell forward, blood dribbling from his mouth, while the barber held up the tooth for all to see.

After crossing the stone portion of the bridge, John entered the city. Narrow wooden houses crowded close on either side, casting the street in dark shadows. He stopped at the first intersection. A small stone church sat at the south-west corner. At the far end of the street to the right, he could make out the walls of the Tower of London. Ahead, the road ran straight through the city for as far as he could see. The street to his left curved slightly so that he could only see a short way up it. He had no idea where to go. A man with a white crusader’s cross sewn on his cloak stepped out of the church. He wore boiled leather beneath his cloak. A soldier. The man was clean-shaven and had a broad nose and full lips.

‘God keep you, good sir,’ John greeted him.

‘And you, sir,’ the man murmured as he made to pass on by.

John fell in beside him. ‘I see you have taken the cross. I also wish to join Richard’s crusade. Might you tell me where his army is gathering?’

The man stopped. He examined John and frowned. ‘I’ll tell you, but I don’t think they’ll take you, old man. Richard is looking for warriors – young, strong men.’ He nodded towards the street that curved away to the left. ‘Follow Watling Street out past Newgate. The army is camped north of the city on the banks of the Fleet.’

‘You have my thanks.’

The soldier grunted and continued on his way. John turned up Watling Street. Patches of melting snow dotted the way, and a mixture of night soil and God knows what else drained down the middle. John caught his reflection in a pool of murky water. His hair, more grey than blond now, had receded at his temples. Crow’s feet stretched out from the corners of his eyes and his forehead was marked by deep creases. When had he grown so old? He still remembered arriving in the Holy Land as if it were yesterday. He had been sixteen. That was forty-two years ago.

He continued up Watling Street and crossed a wooden bridge over a stream. The waters smelt foul, but women were washing clothes in them. A child scooped up a pail of water and lugged it away. Further on, the road branched. To the left it ran to a massive, half-finished church, the nave open to the elements at one end. He took the right branch and soon came to a vast square with half a dozen streets leading from it. In front lay a grain market where merchants haggled with farmers who had brought carts loaded with wheat or barley. John was halfway across the square when he heard a loud scream behind him, followed by shouting. He turned to see another market at the far end of the square. Four of the houses that bordered it were burning. A crowd had gathered before each of them, but the people were not attempting to extinguish the blaze. They were shouting at the occupants. One particularly strident voice reached John. ‘There’s a taste of hell for you, Jew!’ A man ran from one of the houses. His hair was on fire. The crowd closed on him, and he disappeared amidst swinging fists and kicking feet.

John turned away and went to the stall of the nearest grain merchant. Its proprietor was a thin, bald man with long fingers that had thick, red knuckles. He sat on a stool, huddled beneath thick furs. ‘What is happening?’ John asked.

‘The Jews.’ The merchant spat. ‘They sent men to the King asking to have their portion of the Saladin tithe decreased. The King turned them out. Someone at the palace gate struck one of the Jews, and a crowd gathered. I saw them parade by with one of the Jew’s heads. Bad for business, that.’ The merchant spat again. ‘The crowd isn’t content and has come looking for more Jews. They’re burning them out of their homes.’

John watched the buildings burn. The crowd was growing louder, shouting taunts. Suddenly, a man jumped from the second storey of one of the houses. He landed in the crowd, knocking three men down, and was up instantly and running. He managed to get free and sprinted down the street towards John. The crowd gave chase. The man flashed by. He was young and had a short black beard. He turned sharply and ducked into a church. The crowd gathered outside and shouted for him to come out. Finally, four men headed in after the Jew.

John thought of his friend, Ibn Jumay. The Jewish doctor had saved John’s life more than once. John would likely never see him again, but perhaps he could return the favour. He pushed through the crowd and into the church.

The interior was dim, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He walked forward between shadowy pews. There was the Jew, crouching behind the altar as the four men approached. Two of them wore leather armour and carried clubs. One wielded a cleaver. The fourth was in mail and held a sword.

‘Leave him be!’ John shouted. ‘That man has sought shelter in a house of God.’

The man with the sword turned. He was a handsome youth with long blond hair that framed an angular face. He was a lord. Over his mail he wore a velvet doublet emblazoned with the arms of his house: a field of ermine bordered with a band of scarlet containing six gold horseshoes. ‘This is no business of yours, old man,’ he snapped in French.

‘I am a priest, ordained by God. What happens in His house is my business.’

‘God don’t care about his sort, father,’ the man with the cleaver said. He wore a bloody butcher’s smock.

John took his mace from his belt. His voice was hard and edged with menace. ‘You will not shed blood in the house of God.’

‘Do not make us hurt you, grandfather,’ the young lord scoff ed.

‘You are welcome to try.’

The lord smirked. ‘I shall do quite a bit more than try.’

The butcher held back, but the other three advanced together, the lord flanked by the men in leather. John let them come. The man on the right swung his club for John’s head. John sidestepped the blow and grabbed the man’s arm. The lord lunged at John, and he swung the man he held on to the lord’s sword point. The man in leather screamed and fell to the floor, blood seeping between his fingers where he clutched his gut.