Kingdom (40 page)

Oudin tried to scramble away, but John crawled after him and seized his leg. He moved on top of Oudin and grabbed his hair, forcing the Frank’s face down into the muddy water. Oudin thrashed wildly, but John kept his face pressed into the muck. Finally the Frank went still.

John sat back. ‘That’s one more reason for me to kill you, Reynald,’ he muttered. And then pain flooded through him. His lip was split and his throat had been bruised so that it hurt to breathe. His right arm was bleeding heavily. He groped in the mud until he found a sword, and used it to cut a strip of fabric from Oudin’s caftan. He tied the cloth tightly around his arm to slow the bleeding. Then he pushed himself to his feet. The water was up to his calves now. He almost
fainted
, but recovered and headed into the brush, slipping and stumbling on the slick, muddy ground. God was with him, and he managed to find his horse. He dragged himself into the saddle and urged the animal further along the game trail. Having managed to ride out of danger, he finally stopped to look back. The stream had become a raging torrent, expanding rapidly to fill the ravine. John saw the horse of one of his attackers flash by, swept away in the current. He watched until past noon, when the rain stopped and the waters subsided. Then he rode for Jerusalem.

FEBRUARY 1175: JERUSALEM

‘Father?
Father
!’

John jerked awake and nearly fell from the saddle. He blinked against bright sunlight. His horse was standing before Jerusalem’s eastern gate. He had ridden day and night without stopping, afraid that if he dismounted he would pass out and never rise again. He must have ridden the last few miles unconscious, slumped in the saddle.

One of the gate’s guards was holding the reins of his horse. ‘Are you well, Father?’ he asked, staring at John wide-eyed.

John looked down at himself. He was caked in dried mud from head to toe. He knew his face was bloody and his lip split and horribly swollen. There was an ugly gash on his right forearm, and the mail around it was crusted with blood. When he had tied the cloth around his arm to stop the bleeding he must have tied it too tight, for his right hand was tinged blue. He looked like he had been dragged to hell and back, but there would be time to bathe and dress his wounds when he had finished with Heraclius.

‘I am well enough,’ he told the guard. He took back the reins and urged his horse through the gate. He rode straight to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and entered through the eastern
portal
. He almost collapsed when he dismounted, but caught himself on his saddle. An acolyte approached with mouth agape. John handed him the reins and stumbled through the cloisters to the refectory, where several canons were eating breakfast. Silence descended as all eyes turned to John. He passed through without stopping and stepped out into a courtyard, which he crossed to the door of what used to be the royal palace and now housed the archdeacon’s residence. Two knights of the Holy Sepulchre framed the door.

‘Where do you think you are going?’ the guard on the right demanded as he barred John’s way. ‘Get back to the streets, you rabble.’

John showed him his cross. ‘I am John of Tatewic, a canon of the church. I have come to see the Archdeacon.’

‘The Archdeacon is not receiving.’

John gave the man a withering look. He reached for the mace at his belt, only to find it was not there. ‘I have ridden far and I am in no mood to argue. I must see the Archdeacon.’

The guard bristled. ‘I said, he is not receiving.’

John’s hands balled into fists. The other guard put a hand on his companion’s shoulder. ‘I will deal with this one, Gersant. Follow me, Father.’

The guard led John inside and upstairs to the archdeacon’s private apartments. He knocked, but before there was a response John pushed the door open and stormed inside. A blond man with heavy jowls and red cheeks sat dining at a small table beside the window. He looked at John in surprise, then alarm.

‘What is this?’ John demanded. ‘Where is the Archdeacon?’

The fat man blinked. ‘I am the Archdeacon.’

‘Where is Heraclius?’

‘He has been made Archbishop of Caesarea.’

John frowned. Heraclius an archbishop? So he, too, had been rewarded for his role in Amalric’s death. John turned and stumbled from the room. He crossed the street and entered the hospital without a word to the guards at the door. The doctors
looked
at him with dismay. John strode to a table holding various medicines.

‘Wait!’ one of the doctors called. He was a beardless young man in a monk’s cowl. ‘You cannot—’

John glared at the doctor, and the monk backed away. John removed his filthy cloak and alb, and struggled out of his mail, pulling it off over his head. The flesh around the gash on his arm was angry and red. He took a bottle of pure alcohol from the table and poured some over the wound. He gritted his teeth at the stinging pain.

He looked to the doctor who had tried to stop him. ‘Can you stitch this wound closed?’

‘I can, but I think it best if—’

‘Do it.’

The doctor hesitated for a moment and then retrieved a needle and thread. John stood with jaw clenched while the man stitched. ‘Thank you.’ John took a jar of sulphur paste from the table and smeared it over the wound. ‘Now bandage it.’

‘Yes, Father.’

The doctor was just finishing when William entered. ‘John! What has happened to you? The Archdeacon told me you barged into his quarters looking like death itself. I see he was not exaggerating.’

‘Reynald’s men ambushed me during my return from Kerak.’

‘You are certain it was his men?’

John nodded.

‘Leave us,’ William told the doctor. He lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. ‘So Reynald killed Amalric?’

‘No. They used him. Heraclius was involved, too. He poisoned the King, or he will know who did. I am going to Caesarea to speak with him.’

‘I do not think that wise, John.’

‘They must pay for what they have done, William. It is not just Amalric that I wish to avenge. The bastards tried to kill me.’

‘Exactly. Our enemies are alert to you. You must be cautious.’

‘So we do nothing?’

‘We wait. Heraclius will come to Jerusalem eventually. We will deal with him then. In the meantime there is much to occupy us. Saladin has brought Syria and Egypt together. If the Saracens are united, the Kingdom cannot stand.’

‘I do not believe Saladin means to make war with us. He wants peace.’

‘Perhaps. But what happens when Saladin is gone? Our only hope for lasting peace is strength, John. We must drive the Saracens apart, convince Aleppo to turn against Saladin. Then we can face him from a position of strength.’

John frowned. ‘We would do better to hope the peace with Saladin holds. The regent of Aleppo, Gumushtagin, is not a man to be trusted.’

‘Raymond believes we have no choice, and I agree. I am leaving for Aleppo in order to negotiate. You will remain here to advise Raymond.’ William placed a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘I know Saladin is your friend, John, but if we want peace then we must restore the balance of power. We must make war against Saladin.’

Chapter 19

APRIL 1176: DAMASCUS

Y
usuf spurred his horse to a canter as Damascus came into sight. He had left Selim behind to gather the army and had ridden from Cairo with only one hundred men when he received Turan’s news. Aleppo had betrayed him, signing alliances with Jerusalem and the ruler of Mosul, Saif ad-Din. When combined, the three armies would number nearly twenty thousand men. And they were coming for Damascus. Despite the danger, Yusuf was glad. Now, finally, he would be able to deal with Gumushtagin. He had been willing to let the eunuch live in peace so long as he served Al-Salih faithfully, but his ill-conceived alliances had made the boy a pawn in the hands of the Franks and Saif ad-Din. Sooner or later, Aleppo would be absorbed by one of those stronger powers. Yusuf would not let that happen.

Near the gate he rode past some two hundred Bedouin; reinforcements riding from the south to join the camp that sprawled along the Barada River. Yusuf spotted the standards of Al-Muqaddam and Al-Mashtub flying over two of the emir’s luxurious pavilions, which stood amidst the ordered rows of mamluk tents. Interspersed amongst them were the dusty, goat-skin dwellings of the Bedouin. A dozen men had organized a game of polo on the sandy banks of the Barada. One struck the kura – a ball of willow root – with a loud crack. It hurtled over the ground, nearly hitting a fat mamluk cook who was headed
to
the river to fill two buckets. The mamluk began to curse the players and then stopped and knelt as Yusuf approached in his distinctive gold armour. The polo players bowed from their saddles. Yusuf nodded back.

He was almost at the Al-Saghir gate when Turan rode out to greet him. ‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Yusuf! Thank Allah you have come so quickly. I received troubling news this morning from our spies in Aleppo.’

‘We will talk in the palace,’ Yusuf said and turned back to his men. ‘Qaraqush, make camp alongside the river.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

‘That is not necessary,’ Turan said. ‘Your men are welcome in the palace.’

‘The palace will make them soft. They will make camp here. After we talk, I will join them.’

‘As you wish, Brother.’

Turan led the way to his study in the palace. ‘When will Selim arrive with the Egyptian army?’ he asked Yusuf.

‘It will take time to gather and provision the men, but he should set out before month’s end. He will be in Damascus before May is through.’

‘We need every man he can bring. I have gathered nearly five thousand warriors, but I fear it will not be enough.’ Turan retrieved a scrap of paper from his desk and handed it to Yusuf.

‘
Saif ad-Din has arrived in Aleppo with seven thousand men
,’ Yusuf read. ‘
He leaves tomorrow with the army of Aleppo at his side. He wished to march directly on Damascus, but Gumushtagin has insisted that they retake Homs and Hama first
.’ The two cities had voluntarily turned themselves over to Yusuf the previous year. Their emirs had complained that Gumushtagin was a poor ruler who taxed them too much and did too little to protect their lands from the raids of the Franks and Bedouin. Yusuf had lowered taxes and sent Al-Mashtub to Homs with five hundred men and orders to secure the countryside.

‘With Gumushtagin’s men, Saif ad-Din has more than ten thousand warriors,’ Turan said. ‘If they attack Homs first, that will buy us time. We can wait for Selim to arrive with the army of Egypt. That will even the odds. We can weather any siege they bring against us.’

Yusuf’s brow furrowed. Ever since Alexandria, he dreaded the prospect of being under siege. ‘We will not stay in Damascus and wait for them. We would still be too few once Saif ad-Din joins forces with the Franks. And we will have lost Homs and Hama. I will not let that happen. We will attack now. I will leave tomorrow morning. You will stay to wait for Selim.’

‘I should ride with you,’ Turan protested. ‘The men of Damascus are mine to command.’

Yusuf placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘I ride to fight a force twice the size of mine, Turan. If I am defeated, then I need you to lead the armies of Egypt to avenge me.’

Turan looked as if he were about to protest, but instead he nodded. ‘At least wait until next week, when more Bedouin will have arrived.’

‘There is no time to wait. We will ride now and trust in Allah.’

APRIL 1176: TELL AL-SULTAN

Yusuf held his arms over his head and arched his back. He had spent the previous two weeks in the saddle as his army criss-crossed Syria in search of the enemy, riding to Shaizar, then Kafartab, Maarat, Artah, Aleppo, Hama, and now back to Aleppo. It was like trying to catch smoke. Again and again they were told by passing Bedouin or local farmers that Saif ad-Din’s army was just over the next ridge, but when they arrived they found nothing but cold cooking fires and fields littered with horse droppings. Saif ad-Din was avoiding them, biding his time until he could join forces with the Franks.

Yusuf winced at a pain in the small of his back. The days in the saddle were not as easy as they had been when he was younger. He placed one hand on his back, while with the other he shaded his eyes against the afternoon sun. He watched as his men watered their horses at the wells of Jibab al-Turkman, the last source of water until they reached Aleppo, fifteen miles distant. There were a dozen wells scattered over the quarter-mile stretch of broad plain and a mile to the west there was a low ridge. At each well a camel trudged slowly in a circle, powering a wheel that brought up brimming buckets and dumped them into a pipe, which could be redirected to send the water to different portions of the surrounding fields and orchards. Currently the water was pouring into long troughs, where the horses of Yusuf’s army buried their muzzles and drank. Meanwhile the men sat in the shade, some sharpening their swords, others eating or sleeping. Only Yusuf’s private guard stood ready. The five hundred mamluks of his khaskiya were still in the saddle. They had formed a protective square around the grove where he stood.

Yusuf spotted Qaraqush nearby, speaking with the sheikh of the tribes who farmed the fields of Jibab al-Turkman. The mamluk general finished talking and walked over to Yusuf. ‘The sheikh says they saw a field of fire to the north last night.’

‘Campfires?’

Qaraqush nodded. ‘Saif ad-Din is close.’

Yusuf glanced at the shadows cast by the palms. They were slowly vanishing as the sun moved overhead. ‘We will move on at noon. The horses can drink again once we reach Aleppo.’

Qaraqush began to walk away but froze, his eyes on the ridge to the north-west. Yusuf followed his gaze and saw the flash of sunlight off metal. There it was again, and again. An army was cresting the ridge, and Yusuf’s men were spread out over the floor of the valley, in no position to fight.

‘Have the men mount up, now!’ Yusuf shouted to Qaraqush. ‘We will withdraw—’ he looked about and spotted a flat-topped
mound
near the horizon ‘—east. We will regroup at that hill. I will cover the retreat with my khaskiya.’