Kingdom (3 page)

‘I am Harold, a sergeant and vassal of the King.’ Sergeants were Frankish warriors who, in return for title to their lands in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, served as foot-soldiers in the armies of their lord.

‘Do you swear by God that you will speak the truth?’ the seneschal asked.

‘Aye, I do.’

The seneschal nodded. ‘Heraclius, you may question the witness.’

Harold did not wait to be questioned. He pointed at John. ‘That whoreson killed my brother! And he did this to me.’ Harold touched the wound on his face.

‘Where was this?’ Heraclius asked.

‘Butaiha. We had routed the Saracens. My men were mopping up, taking captives for ransom, when he arrived on horseback like some demon out of hell. He rode into a company of over one hundred men to rescue a Saracen lord. They killed seven of us, and the two of them rode out again unscathed. I have never seen the like. He is a man possessed, a demon in human flesh.’

‘A man possessed,’ Heraclius repeated. ‘A demon who kills his own. Let us consign this demon to the fires from which he sprang!’

John noticed that the patriarch and Gilbert the Hospitaller were both nodding their heads in approval. King Amalric was listening carefully, but his expression remained neutral. William addressed the King. ‘John is no demon, sire. He is a warrior who fought in defence of himself and of the lord to whom he had sworn allegiance. His honour was at stake.’

Heraclius shook his head. ‘It was not honour that led him
to
kill his fellow Christians, but his depravity. What are the Saracens but the hand of Satan made manifest in this world? When the Saxon killed for his Saracen master, who was he killing for?’

‘He fought for his lord, nothing more,’ William insisted. ‘How many of you here have killed your fellow Christians in France or England? Gilbert and Bertrand, you have faced one another in battle. There was nothing heretical about that.’

‘Yes, but I was not under a crusader’s oath,’ Gilbert replied. ‘I had not sworn to fight only the Saracens and to aid my fellow Christians.’

‘John’s crusade was long over,’ William replied. ‘It ended at Damascus when our army was routed and he was captured fighting for Christ. Now, at long last he has returned to the fold. Let us welcome him back. He has suffered enough.’

‘He has not!’ Heraclius shouted. ‘His soul is at stake. Only fire can purify it!’

William’s nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘Torturing this man further will only stain your black soul, Heraclius. It will not save John.’

There was a moment of silence, and then the constable Humphrey stood. He was barrel-chested and had a handsome, broad face. ‘This court is not fit to decide the fate of this man’s soul,’ he said, his voice low and rasping, like the sound of steel on a whetstone. ‘That is a matter for the Church. We are here because the safety of the Kingdom is at stake. I fear that if we let this Saxon live, more men will join the enemy. We all know of the Saracens’ wealth. If there are no consequences for betraying the Kingdom, what will stop them from buying the allegiance of our sergeants? We will find our own people turned against us.’

‘Hear, hear!’ Gilbert agreed.

‘But John did not join the Saracens of his free will,’ William pointed out. ‘He was captured and enslaved.’

Humphrey shook his head. ‘He still chose to fight for them.’

‘He chose to serve his lord, who was a Saracen. John is a man of honour: he could not do otherwise.’

‘I too am a man of honour,’ said the grey-haired Templar, Bertrand. ‘If this man fought in the service of the lord to whom he was bound, then I am inclined to be lenient.’ Bertrand turned to John. ‘Tell me truly, John: why did you fight our men?’

‘I owed my life to Yusuf. I fought to repay that debt.’

‘And if you had it to do again?’

‘I would do the same.’

Bertrand looked to Amalric. ‘I cannot fault him for that. If John will swear an oath to never again take up arms against the Kingdom, then I say we pardon him.’

‘An oath? I do not trust the word of this Saxon,’ the Hospitaller Gilbert protested.

John spoke quietly. ‘I am a man of my word.’

Gilbert snorted. ‘You have already betrayed us once. If we free you, how long will it be before you betray us again?’

‘I am no traitor! It was Reynald who betrayed me in Damascus and left me to die.’

‘Prince Reynald?’ the seneschal demanded. ‘The former ruler of Antioch?’

John nodded.

‘You see!’ Gilbert declared. ‘He besmirches the honour of a brave man in order to save himself. How can we trust this deceiver?’

John’s hands balled into fists. He took a step towards Gilbert.

‘Do you wish to strike me, Saxon?’ the Hospitaller sneered. ‘Come. You need to be taught a lesson.’

‘That is enough, Gilbert!’ Amalric’s voice was sharply authoritative. ‘I have heard enough.’ He looked to Heraclius. ‘Do you have anything to add?’ The priest shook his head. ‘William?’

‘I ask only for lenience. If John has done wrong, let him earn his forgiveness in service to the Kingdom.’

Amalric nodded to the seneschal Guy, who addressed them in a loud voice. ‘The accused can only be found guilty by a clear majority – four or more votes. If guilty, John shall suffer the fate of a traitor. He will be crucified and hung from the Jaffa Gate for one week. At the end of that time, his body shall be burned.’ The seneschal paused to allow his words to sink in. ‘Patriarch, what is your verdict?’

The patriarch stood stiffly. ‘Guilty.’

Gilbert rose next. ‘Guilty.’

‘And you, Bertrand?’ the seneschal asked.

‘Not guilty!’ the grand master of the Templars declared firmly.

The seneschal looked to Humphrey. ‘Guilty,’ the constable said gravely. John felt his mouth go dry. That was three guilty verdicts. He held his breath as the seneschal cleared his throat.

‘I pronounce him not guilty,’ Guy said. ‘King Amalric will cast the deciding vote.’

John met Amalric’s blue eyes. The king hesitated for a moment before looking away. ‘Guilty.’

John felt suddenly faint, and William held his arm to steady him. John stood with his head bowed as the seneschal delivered the verdict. ‘John of Tatewic, you have been pronounced guilty of treason. Tomorrow, you will be crucified before the Jaffa Gate.’

The guards came forward and took hold of John’s arms. They began to escort him from the room.

‘Wait!’ William called. He went to John and spoke in a low voice. ‘There is a way to save yourself. You can challenge the judgement. Fight to prove your innocence.’

‘Fight? I can barely stand.’

‘God favours the innocent, John.’

‘God does not play favourites,’ John muttered. But if he were to die, he would rather do so with a sword in hand. He raised his voice. ‘I challenge the judgement. I will fight those who think me guilty.’

The judges turned to look at him wide-eyed. ‘But this is ridiculous!’ Heraclius sputtered. ‘The court has decided.’

‘Our laws grant him the right to challenge those who condemned him,’ the seneschal declared. ‘But to prove his innocence, he must defeat all four of them – or their chosen champions – in a single day.’ He looked to John. ‘Are you certain?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well. We will meet in the courtyard at noon tomorrow, and John of Tatewic will fight to prove his innocence.’

John stood in the palace courtyard and looked up at the dome of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Its top had disappeared into the fine, misting rain that beaded on John’s mail armour. He felt William’s hand on his shoulder. ‘It is almost time,’ the priest said. John nodded and lowered his gaze to the courtyard. The stones that paved it were slick with moisture. That would work to John’s disadvantage. His feet were a mess of torn skin and burst blisters; he had almost fainted from the pain when he pulled on his boots. The slick footing would further limit his mobility.

Across the courtyard, King Amalric, Gilbert and Humphrey stood in their mail. The seneschal was there too, along with Heraclius and the patriarch, who had brought a champion to fight for him – Harold, the man with the long gash on his face. The men drew straws to see who would fight first, and the sergeant Harold selected the shortest straw. He grinned and looked to John. ‘Now you will pay for what you did to my brother.’

John did not reply. He exaggerated his limp as he walked to the centre of the courtyard. Anything he could do to make Harold over-confident would help. It was the only advantage that John had.

William handed John a three-foot sword with a grip of worn leather and a wide blade of dark-grey steel. John slashed it side
to
side, testing its balance. The priest offered John a shield. John tried to lift it, but a blinding pain tore through his shoulder. ‘’Sblood,’ he growled and dropped the shield. ‘It’s no use. Find something to bind my arm to my body. I don’t want it getting in my way.’ William untied the cord about his waist and looped it around John, cinching it tight to pin John’s left arm to his torso. ‘My helmet,’ John said.

William slid the open-faced, iron helmet over John’s head. John turned to face Harold. The sergeant was a squat, thick-necked man. He, too, had opted to fight without a shield. He held his sword with both hands.

The seneschal stepped between the combatants. ‘The swords have been dulled to prevent serious injury. You will fight until one of you yields or cannot continue.’ He stepped out of the ring. ‘Touch swords and begin.’

John turned sideways to protect his vulnerable left side. They touched swords, and Harold attacked immediately, charging and hacking down with a mighty, two-handed blow. John parried and stepped to the side and knelt, raking his sword left to right and catching Harold in the shins. With a cry of pain the sergeant fell forward, losing his sword and landing hard on the stone pavement. As Harold rolled on to his back, John knelt on top of him, slamming his knee into the man’s chest. He pressed the edge of his sword against Harold’s neck. ‘Yield!’ Harold spat in John’s face. John smashed his sword’s hilt into the sergeant’s face, splitting his lip. He hit Harold again, spattering the stones of the courtyard with blood.

‘Enough! Enough!’ Amalric roared. ‘John is the victor.’

John used his sword to push himself up, wincing at the pain in his feet. He hobbled towards William, who was staring at him wide-eyed. ‘God is surely with you, John!’

‘God had nothing to do with it. Harold was angry and over-confident. That won’t happen twice.’

Across the courtyard, Harold had been dragged to the side, and now sat cradling his face in his hands. The other men were
again
choosing straws. The constable, Humphrey, held up the short one. Without a word he pulled on his helmet and picked up the sword that Harold had dropped. Humphrey was about John’s height and size, but a few years older.

‘Careful of this one,’ William warned. ‘The constable commands the King’s armies. He is a formidable warrior.’

John faced off across from Humphrey. The two men touched swords, and Humphrey began to circle around the edge of the ring, forcing John to turn in order to keep his opponent in front of him. Each step brought a sharp pain in John’s feet. Humphrey kept circling, refusing to close. ‘Come on, you bastard,’ John growled under his breath.

Suddenly, Humphrey charged. John just managed to turn the constable’s sword aside before Humphrey slammed into him, bowling him over. Humphrey landed on top of John, and the two men skidded across the slick stones of the courtyard. John managed to throw Humphrey off, but struggled to rise with his arm pinned to his side. Humphrey was already on his feet while John was still on his knees. The constable attacked with an overhead chop. John parried, and Humphrey kicked out, catching John in the chest. John fell back into a somersault and landed again on his knees. Humphrey charged with his sword held high. As he swung down, John threw himself forward under the blow, slamming into the constable’s knees. Humphrey flipped forward and landed hard, giving John time to push himself to his feet. Humphrey had also risen, and the two warriors faced off.

Humphrey began to circle again. This time, John did not wait for him to attack. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his feet, he charged, thrusting for Humphrey’s chest. The constable was caught off guard and just managed to sidestep the blow. John spun and slashed for his head. Humphrey jumped back out of the way but slipped on the slick pavement. His guard came down, and John swung for his head to finish the fight. Somehow, Humphrey managed to block the blow. Their blades grated
against
one another and locked at the hilt, bringing the two men face to face. John head-butted Humphrey, who staggered back, his blond beard matted with blood from his nose. John attacked again, putting all his strength behind a slashing backhanded blow. Humphrey parried, but John’s sword glanced off the constable’s blade and caught him on the side of the helmet, leaving a deep dent. Humphrey fell to lie unconscious at John’s feet.

The seneschal proclaimed the obvious: ‘John is the victor.’

A moment later, Humphrey’s eyes blinked open and focused on John. ‘Well fought.’

John dropped his sword and extended his hand to help Humphrey to his feet. ‘I had more to fight for.’

‘
Hmph
.’ Humphrey pulled off his helmet and gingerly touched the knot forming on the side of his head. He picked up John’s sword and handed it to him. ‘I like you, Saxon. I hope you live.’

Amalric and the patriarch had already drawn straws. The king held the short one. He had begun to put on his helmet when the seneschal placed a hand on his arm. ‘Sire, do you not wish to choose a champion?’

Amalric shrugged off the seneschal’s hand and pulled on his helmet. ‘I will fight for myself.’

‘But sire!’ the patriarch protested. ‘You could be injured, or worse.’

‘How can I condemn this man to death if I am not willing to risk my own life?’

Amalric stepped into the ring and picked up the dulled sword. He rolled his broad shoulders to loosen them. The king was a large man, fleshy but strong looking, and he was fresh. At least the pain in John’s feet had dulled, although he dreaded what he would find when he removed his boots. He turned sideways to the king and raised his sword.