Kingdom (25 page)

He sat on a low divan and placed a writing desk on his lap. In the other room, he could hear Faridah addressing the women. ‘You, stay. The rest of you may go.’ Yusuf wondered who she had picked for him. He quickly dismissed the thought. He took up a sheaf of papers, messages from all parts of Egypt. They were all alike. A farmer or a merchant or a bath attendant claimed to have seen one of the Hashashin, but the claims invariably proved false. That was why the sect was so dangerous. The Hashashin blended in, taking up positions as merchants or soldiers, looking no different than any other man … until they struck.

There was a knock at the door. ‘Go away, Faridah,’ Yusuf said without looking up. ‘I am working.’

‘Excuse me, Saladin.’ It was the Egyptian Al-Khlata.

‘Pardon my rudeness. What is it?’

‘Your uncle—’

‘Does he need me?’

‘He is dead.’

‘
What
?
How
?’

But Yusuf did not wait for an answer. He sprinted across the palace to Shirkuh’s apartments. In the reception room he found the huge mamluk Qadi – one of Shirkuh’s most trusted men – leaning
against
the wall and weeping. Yusuf continued into the bedroom, where Shirkuh lay motionless, his eyes staring sightless at the ceiling. Selim stood with the doctor Ibn Jumay. Yusuf went to his uncle and touched his hand. It was already cold. He felt tears forming and blinked them away. He looked to Ibn Jumay. ‘What happened?’

‘He was eating his supper and—he had a seizure. I did all I could—’ The doctor’s head fell.

Yusuf placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘If anyone could have saved him, it was you.’ He looked back to his uncle and suddenly remembered Shawar’s final words: ‘Viziers in Egypt have short lives.’

‘The seizure,’ he said to Ibn Jumay. ‘Could it have been poison?’

‘It is impossible to say.’

Al-Khlata had entered behind Yusuf. ‘We must inform the Caliph,’ he said. ‘He will need to choose a new vizier.’

‘Yes, of course. Selim, you will prepare our uncle for burial. I will tell the Caliph myself.’

‘As for the jihad, thou art the nursling of its milk and the child of its bosom. Gird up therefore the shanks of spears to meet it and to plunge on its service into a sea of sword points.’

Yusuf stood before the caliph’s palace, on the same platform where his uncle had stood not long ago, and listened as Al-Fadil presented him to the people of Cairo. They were his people now, for at the age of thirty, Yusuf was ruler of Egypt. He wore the tall white turban, the red silk robes and the jewelled sword of the vizier. Yet his mood was dark. It was only three days since his uncle had died. Yusuf had been summoned to the caliph’s palace the previous day and had been told that he would succeed Shirkuh. From the dismissive way the young caliph had addressed him, Yusuf had gained the impression that he was not expected to last long in his new role.

Al-Fadil was now discussing Yusuf’s exemplary righteousness.
It
should have been Al-Khlata speaking, but the comptroller had excused himself, claiming an illness. Yusuf doubted that was the true reason. The comptroller had hoped to be made vizier himself, although that was hardly possible with Nur ad-Din’s army still sitting a short distance outside Cairo. Yusuf would have to keep an eye on Al-Khlata. Resentful men could be dangerous.

Al-Fadil finished speaking and the crowd cheered. The applause was not quite as enthusiastic as it had been for Shirkuh. The people were still taking Yusuf’s measure. He knew what was expected of him now. Shirkuh had left the platform to greet the people, and Yusuf must do the same. He jumped down, landing lightly on his feet. He started at the left edge of the crowd, walking slowly, allowing the people to greet him, to touch his robes.

‘Allah guard you!’ an old man with a curly, grey beard shouted.

‘Bless you, King!’ another man cried as he tugged at the sleeve of Yusuf’s robe.

‘Go back to Syria, Kurd!’ a bald man spat. A mamluk shoved him back into the crowd.

Yusuf kept his face expressionless. His heart, however, was pounding. He could not shake off the suspicion that Shirkuh had been murdered.
Viziers in Egypt have short lives
. He finally allowed himself to smile when he reached the end of the row of people. He stepped back as his troops parted the crowd, creating a path to the vizier’s palace. Two-dozen mamluks from Yusuf’s khaskiya surrounded him and he set off, waving to the populace as he walked.

His brother Selim was waiting in the entrance hall. ‘Congratulations, sayyid,’ he said and bowed.

Yusuf frowned. ‘I am your brother, not your lord.’

Selim bowed again. ‘You are both now, Yusuf.’ He held out a tightly rolled scrap of paper. ‘A message has come from Aleppo.’

‘From Nur ad-Din?’

‘Gumushtagin.’

Yusuf’s stomach twisted. He checked the message’s seal. It was unbroken. ‘Thank you, Brother. I will read it in my quarters.’

The dark-eyed Turkish beauty that Faridah had selected for him was waiting in his bedroom. She wore a transparent cotton shift. ‘Congratulations, sayyid,’ she purred. ‘Do you wish to celebrate?’

Yusuf waved her away. ‘Leave me.’

He went to his study and shut the door. He broke the seal and unrolled the small scrap of paper. Gumushtagin’s message read:
You are Vizier, as I said you would be
.
The opportunity will come soon for you to aid me in turn
.

A wave of anger flooded through him. He went to the table along the back wall and swept the quills and inkstand away, splattering dark ink on the rug. The bastard! Gumushtagin was the one who had killed his uncle. Did the eunuch truly expect Yusuf to be thankful? He would kill him. He would have his head on a spear.

Yusuf’s anger left as quickly as it had come. He could not touch Gumushtagin without endangering Asimat and Al-Salih. But the eunuch had made a mistake. He had made Yusuf vizier. If Gumushtagin thought he would serve as his puppet, then the eunuch was sorely mistaken. He would bide his time, and he would have his vengeance.

Yusuf held the message to one of the candles burning on his desk until it caught light. He dropped the paper on the stone floor and watched it burn to ash.

Chapter 10

JUNE 1169: JERUSALEM

J
ohn scratched at a mosquito bite on the tonsured patch atop his head as he strode down a narrow lane in the shadow of the Temple Mount. Usually, he would now be at the chancellery sifting though stacks of correspondence, or in council with the king, or tutoring his son Baldwin, but this morning he had a different task. Under his left arm he carried a small box that contained holy water and the host. He had never before taken confession or delivered the Sacrament of Holy Communion, and he was nervous; doubly nervous because the woman whose confession he was to hear was Agnes de Courtenay. It had been over four years since John had last seen her. She had stayed at her home in Ibelin, and John had long since forgotten about her request that he serve as her confessor when she visited Jerusalem. But she had not forgotten him. Yesterday she had arrived in the city and had sent for him.

John passed a bakery that flooded the street with the rich smell of baking bread. His stomach grumbled, and he regretted not eating before he left the dormitory in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He turned on to a sunny lane that twisted into the heart of the Syrian quarter. After asking directions from two Assyrian men drinking coffee in the shade of their shop, he found Agnes’s home.

He knocked, and a thin Frankish man opened the door. ‘Father?’

‘I am John of Tatewic. The Lady de Courtenay has sent for me.’

‘You are expected.’ The servant led John through the courtyard where he had met with Agnes before and into a dim room, the windows covered with intricately carved wooden screens. ‘Wait here.’ The floor was thickly carpeted. Cushions lay scattered around a low table set with two glasses and a bottle of wine. Beyond the table, a silk screen divided the room. Through it, John could make out the outlines of a large bed.

‘John!’ Agnes smiled brightly as she entered from a door to the right. She was dressed in a loose robe of green silk.

‘My lady, I have come to hear your confession.’

‘Sit, John.’ She gestured to the cushions around the table.

‘Perhaps we should go somewhere more appropriate. You have a private chapel?’

‘I am more comfortable here.’ She raised her chin and looked down her delicate nose at him. ‘Sit.’ This time, it was a command.

John placed the box with the host on the table and sat, sinking into the down-filled cushions. Agnes sat beside him, uncomfortably close. She poured two glasses of wine and offered one to him. He hesitated.

‘It is not poison, John,’ Agnes said playfully.

He took a sip. The wine was uncommonly good. He set the cup aside. ‘You did wish to confess, my lady?’

Agnes smiled slyly. ‘I will confess this: I brought you here on false pretences. I wished to see you again, John.’

He felt his pulse quicken. He took a deep breath and forced himself to look away from Agnes’s green eyes. ‘I am a priest and a councillor to the King. I do not have time to wait upon your pleasure.’

He began to rise, but she place a hand on his arm. ‘Do not be upset, John. I have recently been widowed and I need to talk. You are a priest. I thought I could confide in you.’

‘My apologies, Lady de Courtenay,’ John said as he sat back down. ‘I did not know.’

‘Hugh died earlier this year while on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.’ Agnes shrugged. ‘He wished to be closer to God, and now he is. I did not love Hugh, but I do miss him. Women are not meant to live alone, are they, Father?’

John was not sure how to respond to this.

She laughed at his discomfiture. It was a high, musical sound, like birdsong. ‘But I do not wish to discuss my late husband.’ She set her wine aside. ‘Let us talk of you, John.’

‘Of me, my lady? What is there to discuss?’

‘Amalric offered you a good marriage with a large dowry, but you chose to become a priest. Why?’

John felt a pain in his chest. ‘I do not wish to speak of it.’

‘A woman? A Saracen?’ John looked away and nodded. Agnes reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair back from his face. ‘I know what it is like to be separated from the one you love, John.’

He caught her by the wrist and pulled her hand away from his hair. ‘My lady, do not—’ he began, but she interrupted him with a kiss. Her lips were full and soft. John closed his eyes, and an image of Zimat flashed through his mind. He shoved Agnes away with more force than he had intended, and she fell back on the cushions, her eyes wide with surprise. For the first time since John had met her, she did not look commanding or superior. She simply looked like a woman. How long had it been since he had lain with a woman? He had lost track of the years. She started to push herself up, but John put his hand on her shoulder and stopped her. He moved on top of her and kissed her hard. She kissed him back hungrily, opening her mouth to his as her arms wrapped around him. His hand ran down her side to grasp her firm buttock, pulling her tight against him.

Agnes moaned softly as he kissed her neck. He allowed her
to
drag his chasuble off over his head, taking the gold cross he wore with it. He sat back and pulled off his linen alb. Agnes had untied her robe and it lay open, revealing her slim form, her skin as white as newly fallen snow. John put his arms around her back and lifted her to him, taking one of her pink nipples in his mouth. She gasped and grabbed his hair, pulling him up to kiss her mouth again. She lay back amongst the soft cushions, bringing him with her. Her hands moved down his sides to his waist.

‘
Mmm
,’ she purred. ‘It should be a sin for a priest to be so well mounted.’ She guided him inside her, and John groaned with delight. Her legs wrapped around his waist. He drove deeper, faster, grunting with pleasure. He felt a dizzying sensation, as if he were a spirit, free to float above the world. He kissed her lips, her neck. He could feel Agnes’s breath hot in his ear. Then there was a sudden rush of pleasure so intense that it was almost painful. He collapsed spent and rolled off Agnes to lie panting.

She pressed herself against his side and whispered in his ear: ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’

John felt suddenly sick. He turned away and pushed himself up to sit with his head in his hands. He noticed his golden cross sitting on the wrinkled chasuble. What had he done?

He felt Agnes’s hand on his back. ‘I am sorry, John.’

John turned to look at her. It was the last thing he had expected her to say.

‘You love her still. I can see that. I should not have seduced you.’

‘I am the one to blame.’ He grabbed his cross and hung it around his neck. The metal was cold against his hot skin. ‘I wanted to.’

‘As did I.’ She pulled her robe about her and then leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek.

‘I should go,’ he said gruffly. He stood and pulled on the linen alb and the chasuble. The priestly garments had never felt
so
strange. He took up the box with the host. ‘I will not come again.’

Agnes smiled as if she knew better. ‘Farewell, then, John.’

John stood in the courtyard of the king’s new palace and watched as Prince Baldwin played with several other boys. Only eight, he was already a leader. The children had been playing with wooden swords, following his commands as he organized a mock battle. Now, they cast the swords aside and began a new game. Two boys would sink their fingernails into one another’s forearms. Whoever could stand the pain longer was the winner. Baldwin was facing off against a larger child, who smirked confidently as the boys gripped arms. Slowly, however, the child’s smirk faded into a tight-lipped grimace. ‘
Enough
!
Enough
!’ he cried. Baldwin released him, and the boy stood fighting back tears as he rubbed at the marks on his forearm. Baldwin was grinning triumphantly.

‘You must not see her again, John.’

John turned towards William. The priest had been staring fixedly at the ground without speaking ever since John told him what had happened between him and Agnes.