01 - Murder in the Holy City (27 page)

Melisende lit two more lamps, handed them to her men, and gestured for Celeste to precede them down the tunnel. Geoffrey swallowed hard and clenched his fists to prevent his hands from shaking. He recalled nightmares from his childhood of dark tunnels like this, swelling to fill the entire room and sucking everything down to a bottomless pit. And he remembered even more vividly helping to dig a tunnel to undermine the walls of a castle in France. The walls had collapsed while Geoffrey was inside the tunnel, and he still had nightmares about the long hours spent in the dark, with water rising steadily around him and the air turning foul. He would wake after these dreams feeling weak with a helpless terror that was never equalled by the anticipation or aftermath of even the most ferocious of battles.

Celeste had already disappeared, and the others were waiting for Geoffrey to follow. He contemplated the chances of success if he grabbed the weapon of the nearest swordsman or simply ran back up the stairs, but Melisende seemed to read his thoughts. She seized a dagger from Adam, and waved it at Geoffrey with a menace her swordsmen could never achieve.

“Down you go,” she said.

He swallowed again and forced himself to move his legs, deliberately avoiding meeting her eyes lest she saw the fear he was sure was apparent. At the mouth of the tunnel he faltered, unable to help himself. Melisende gave him a hard poke with the dagger, and he inched forward, walking stiffly, so that he stumbled twice before he was even out of sight of the cavern.

“Where are we going?” he asked to break the eerie silence.

“Have you not heard of the caves and tunnels under the rock on which Jerusalem stands?” she asked. Geoffrey had, of course, but had certainly never entertained the notion of visiting them. “We use them for all sorts of things—communication between different parts of the city, storage, even dungeons.”

Geoffrey’s heart turned to lead. Not that, he thought, not left in a tiny cell thousands of feet below the ground in the pitch blackness, with water rising higher and higher, and the air becoming thin …

“What is the matter? Afraid of the dark?” sneered Melisende, and the contempt in her voice steeled his nerve. He made himself unclench his hands, and used them for balance against the walls. He tried not to think about the great weight of rock pressing down on the tunnel roof, nor of the fact that the cave seemed to be becoming narrower as they descended. It was growing lower too, so that he could feel the rock brushing the hair on the top of his head, and once he cracked his skull painfully.

The water dripping down the walls became an ooze and then a trickle. It lapped around his ankles, seeping icily into his boots. Then it was up to his calves, while the height of the tunnel forced him to walk hunched over. He wondered how there could be enough air to breathe with seven people in such a tiny space, and he began to cough uncontrollably.

“Stop,” said Melisende, catching his arm. “What is wrong with you?” She peered at his face as if looking for weaknesses, and he pulled away angrily to begin walking again. He tried to take long slow breaths to control the trembling in his knees, but he felt as though the atmosphere was growing thinner. However deeply he breathed, he could not seem to draw enough air into his lungs.

The water rose sharply; the bottom of the tunnel dropped away completely; and then the water was over his head, enclosing him in total blackness. The chain mail weighed him down, and he felt himself sinking, down and down in black water that was shockingly cold. Hands grabbed at his hair and the scruff of his neck, and he was hauled gasping and spluttering to the surface by Melisende and the archer, to find the water reached only to his waist. Melisende and Adam exchanged a grin of amusement.

“If you had been watching Brother Celeste,” said Melisende, “you would have seen he did not plough through this pond like a great ox, but took the path that curves around the edge of it.”

Geoffrey began shivering uncontrollably. When, earlier that night, he had decided to take baths more frequently, he had not intended that it be within hours. He sloshed out of the pool and along the path that Melisende had indicated, realising that she had known perfectly well that he would fall in the water without a warning. Well, perhaps that repaid him for the terror he had imparted to her when he had provided her with an escorted visit to the Patriarch’s dungeons. And she clearly had had good cause to be terrified then, since Geoffrey knew she was guilty of something untoward, even if it were not the murders.

On the other side of the pool, the tunnel was little more than a hole, and Geoffrey realised he would have to crawl on his hands and knees. Celeste’s light had already disappeared into the darkness, and there was nothing but an impenetrable blackness. Keeping his eyes firmly closed Geoffrey dropped to his knees, and made his way along the tunnel, feeling it grow smaller and smaller until it forced him to lie on his stomach. He felt a rising panic as he opened his eyes and could see nothing at all—no light ahead, and none behind—and the cold realisation came that they had tricked him into entering a blind alley. Melisende would now block the open end with stone, and he would end his days where he was, in a thin tube with the great mass of rocks pressing down from above, with water trickling in to fill it, and the air becoming more and more difficult to breathe. He stopped and tried to catch his breath, and could not stop coughing.

“Hurry up!” shouted Melisende impatiently from behind him. “I do not like this part, and I resent being holed up here while you mess about.”

Geoffrey never thought he would be so relieved to hear a human voice again. Still coughing, he edged forward and found that the tunnel suddenly expanded so that he could stand. He hauled himself upright and tried not to lean against the wall in relief. One by one, Melisende, the swordsmen, and the archer emerged from the crack and stood brushing themselves down. Experience had taught them where to tread so as not to get wet, and so none were as sodden and bedraggled as Geoffrey. Shaking with cold, he began to think wistfully of the searing heat of the desert.

Melisende urged him on again, and he rounded a corner that led into a vast cavern, like a huge cathedral, lit with torches around the edges. At one end, a number of crates were stored, along with bales of cloth, great boxes of nails and tools, and barrels of wine. The unmistakable aroma of spices bit the cold air too, along with the sharper tang of fruits. Some of the goods bore Greek letters, while others had Arabic script. Here, then, were the illegally imported goods, sold without taxes in the seedier parts of the city. It was this black market that was undermining the Advocate’s power in the city, forcing him to make crippling trade agreements with the Venetian merchants in Jaffa. The Advocate, thought Geoffrey, would give his eyeteeth to see these mountains of illegal imports.

Geoffrey was too exhausted and too shaken to put this information to good use, other than the casual thought that John, Guido and the monks had possibly died because they had stumbled upon this great cache of black-market goods. Was this what Dunstan had blackmailed Melisende about? Her smuggling career? Geoffrey wondered how she could justify being morally harsh with Maria, when her own personal life was so deeply embedded in crime.

Melisende began to deliver orders to her men, who scurried about like ants across the uneven floor of the cavern. Celeste eyed Geoffrey with suspicion.

“What do we do with him now?” The Benedictine shook his head. “It would have been better for everyone—including him—if we had dispatched him in the street.”

Geoffrey, recalling the terrifying journey—and with his stomach sick with anticipation of worse to come, was inclined to agree.

“Even if we had succeeded in killing him without being seen and had successfully hidden the body, it would have been found eventually,” said Melisende, shaking her head and regarding Geoffrey dispassionately. “Imagine the reprisals there would have been had we been suspected of killing the Advocate’s man. Geoffrey Mappestone is a nuisance, but Uncle will know how to deal with him.”

The way she said it, “Uncle” was a sinister title. Geoffrey imagined some small, fat Greek merchant sitting surrounded by his illegal goods in an underground palace somewhere, issuing a continuous stream of orders to hundreds of scurrying servants.

“How will you manage him?” asked Celeste doubtfully, looking Geoffrey up and down like a piece of suspect meat.

Melisende laughed, her voice ringing about the chamber to be thrown back as echoes. “Him?” she said with disdain. “He will be no bother! Look at him!”

Geoffrey was sure he was no longer the picture of sartorial elegance he had been when they had started this journey to hell, but he was still a knight and still larger and stronger than any of Melisende’s motley crew. He began to cough again and then sneezed. Celeste nodded.

“I see what you mean. But you should tie his hands.”

Melisende agreed, and Geoffrey’s arms were tied behind him with unwarranted enthusiasm by Adam, who, judging from the time he took, was determined to do a thorough job.

“Thank you, Adam,” said Melisende, when the young soldier had finally finished.

“I do not trust him,” said Adam, moving toward Geoffrey belligerently, displaying exceptional confidence now that the knight was helpless. “He might overpower you or attempt some trick.”

“There is little he can do,” said Melisende. “Even if he managed to break away, he would never find his way out. And what would he do with no light and no food? Anyway, he does not present a threat to me. He is a thoroughly miserable specimen.”

Celeste and Adam went off to attend their own business, while Melisende turned to Geoffrey.

“Now. We have another little trip to make, you and I. You heard what I said to Adam. It is perfectly true. You are most welcome to run if you like—it would certainly make matters easier for me—but if you do escape from me, you will die here without question.”

He nodded understanding, and Melisende peered at him closely. “You do not like these caves, do you?”

“I have been in more pleasant places,” responded Geoffrey carefully. He did not want to provide her with ammunition with which to torment him on their next journey by telling her there was little that could unnerve him like a dark cave.

“You are quite white,” she said, turning him roughly to face the light, so she could see him better.

“I am quite cold.”

“No,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “It is more than that.”

“I have not slept well for days; I have been locked in a burning stable; I have been in several fights; half of my scalp has been left on that tunnel roof; and I have had two baths,” he said. “Perhaps that explains it.” He did not mention the sickening discovery that one of his closest friends was a murderer, or that being underground came second to nothing on his personal list of horrors.

She grinned. “Typical Norman,” she said. “Soft. Now, you go first, and I will follow. I will use this dagger without hesitation if I think you are up to no good. We are going to see Uncle.”

Geoffrey forced his icy limbs to move, and Melisende directed him across the cavern to the other side. He was uncertain whether to be relieved or afraid that they were to take another route. She directed him to one tunnel of several in a row, and they set off, the light from her lantern creating monstrous patterns on the dripping walls. Unlike the last journey, this one appeared to require some navigating. Every so often, the passageway would fork, and Melisende would pause before making her choice. Geoffrey forced himself to concentrate on what she was doing, and quickly grasped the pattern she was following: at each tunnel entrance, a series of letters in different alphabets was carved, and Melisende merely chose the passages whose letters spelt the word “Kristos” in Greek.

He trudged wearily ahead of her in a variety of directions, which had him wondering whether they were travelling in circles. The passageways all looked the same to him: slender narrow cylinders of roughly hewn rock, some natural, others created by people, but all damp, cold, and airless. At one point, his tiredness led him to select the correct tunnel before Melisende had finished reading the letters, and she eyed him with distrust.

“That did not take you long to work out,” she said with grudging admiration.

“But it will do me no good,” he said, “for I do not know where we are going.”

“To see Uncle,” she said brightly, grabbing his arm and pushing him on.

“But I do not know whether I will like Uncle.”

She laughed behind him. “No. You probably won’t.”

Geoffrey banged his head once again on the low roof, and then slipped in the slime that seemed to grow in all the tunnels Melisende chose. He noticed that the cave walls were becoming narrower again. Melisende bumped into him when he paused, and he skidded a second time. It was difficult to retain his balance with his hands behind him, but he was determined to avoid the indignity of being helped to his feet by the appalling Melisende.

The walls of the passageway were clearly converging, and the roof only just cleared the top of his head. He was forced to turn sideways; and then that too became tight, and he was in the unpleasant position of having one side brushing his face and the other scraping at his hands. Ahead, the tunnel narrowed into a black slit of nothingness, and he stopped. The air was still, damp, and had the chill of the grave. He wondered how long it had been there, unrefreshed from outside, and breathed again and again by the smugglers who used the tunnel. He had heard of poisonous air in caves, and he began to wonder whether the staleness he detected might be attributed to deadly fumes. On cue, he began to cough. He lost his footing and slipped forward, plunging between the narrow walls. He found himself jammed tight, the combined bulk of surcoat and chain mail wedging him so firmly he could not move at all.

He began to struggle, panic sweeping in great waves as he realised he could neither move forward nor backward. Behind him, Melisende insulted, urged, threatened, and finally pleaded, but her voice was a mere babble to him. Finally, she took a handful of his hair and pulled it hard.