Holy War (5 page)

Baldwin’s eyes fluttered open. He stared straight at John, but did not seem to see him. ‘It’s poisoned . . .’ he murmured. ‘Father! Father!’ His eyes closed as he lost consciousness.

John looked to one of Baldwin’s squires. ‘A doctor. Fetch a doctor!’ The boy raced off. ‘Carry the King to his tent,’ John ordered the onlooking knights.

Four men took hold of the king. John was following them to Baldwin’s tent when Amalric grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. ‘What of the men?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘The battle?’

‘Are you mad? The King is ill. We cannot fight.’

‘But the men stand ready,’ Amalric protested. ‘We may not have another chance to take Damascus. It would be a great victory.’

‘A great victory for you.’ Amalric opened his mouth to protest, but John continued before he could speak. ‘And a bitter defeat if you should lose. With the King ill, you would bear all the blame.’

‘Yes,’ Amalric murmured, his brow furrowed. ‘Yes. I will tell the men to return to their tents.’

Amalric began shouting orders. John hurried inside. The knights had laid Baldwin on his bed and removed his mail shirt. The padded vest beneath was soaked with sweat. The king’s fingers began to tremble, and soon his whole body was shaking. The knights stepped back.

‘He is cursed,’ one of them muttered.

‘It is a fever, nothing more.’ John drew a blanket over the king, and the shaking soon ceased.

A moment later, the doctor entered. He was a clean-shaven man in a monk’s brown robes. He looked young enough to be John’s son. The doctor carried a trunk, which he set down at the foot of the king’s bed. ‘Off with you,’ he instructed the knights. ‘You, too, father. Leave me to my work.’

The knights trooped out of the tent, but John stopped at the flap. The doctor placed the back of his hand on the king’s forehead. ‘He burns,’ he murmured. He began to chant the Pater Noster as he went about his work. He lit a brass brazier and placed a small pot on it. Into the pot he poured water and a splash of vinegar and added some white crystal, a handful of tiny seeds and some shavings that he peeled off a long root with his knife.

‘What is that?’ John asked.

The doctor looked up, startled. ‘I told you to leave.’

‘What is it?’

‘Horseradish, along with salt and caraway seeds. Together, they are an infallible cure for fever.’

The doctor continued to chant the Pater Noster until the water boiled. He put his face in the steam. ‘Good, good.’ He used the hem of his tunic to grip the pot and move it to the floor. ‘We must let it cool. Now I will restore his humours to balance.’

He opened his case and removed a small lancet and a bowl to collect blood. John crossed the tent and grabbed the doctor’s arm. ‘Do not bleed him.’

The doctor shook free. ‘Do not tell me my business. The King burns. I must reduce his blood to bring the fever down.’ He found a vein and took the blade of the lancet between his thumb and forefinger. Before the doctor could make the incision, John grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. The doctor gasped in pain. ‘Are you mad? Stop! I—’ He fell silent as John took the lancet from him and held the blade to the doctor’s throat.

‘If you bleed the King, you will bleed. Do you understand?’

‘Y-yes, father.’

‘John!’ Amalric cried as he entered the tent. ‘What are you doing? Unhand Brother Jaquemon.’

John released the doctor but kept the lancet.

‘Come,’ Amalric called. ‘This is no place for us. Let the man do his work in peace.’

Before John stepped out, he turned back to Jaquemon. ‘No bleeding.’

John spent the remainder of the day pacing before Baldwin’s tent. At first, several dozen anxious knights kept vigil with him, but when the rains returned, shortly after midday, they left one by one. Darkness was falling when Jaquemon finally emerged. He stopped short when he saw John. ‘I did not bleed him. I swear it!’

‘How is he?’

Jaquemon shook his head. ‘The fever is very bad. The King has not woken. Go to your tent. I will send for you if his condition changes.’

John spent a restless night tossing and turning on the damp ground as the rain beat down on the fabric of his tent. Over the next two days, while the men huddled in their tents attempting to stay dry, John stood in the rain outside Baldwin’s tent. He did not know what else to do. On the third night, John was standing by the tent flap, nodding off as he hunched beneath his cloak, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the doctor.

‘He is awake,’ Jaquemon said. ‘He asked for you.’

The interior of the tent was dark. John felt his way to the king’s bedside and knelt. He could just make out Baldwin’s face. A wet cloth lay across the king’s forehead. His eyes fluttered open.

‘John? Is that you?’

‘I am here, Your Grace.’

‘I – I cannot see, John.’

‘I will light the lamp, Your Grace.’

John started to rise. ‘No! It is not that. I
cannot
see. I am blind.’

John felt a pain in his chest. ‘You will recover,’ he told Baldwin, trying to convince himself as much as the king. ‘Once the fever has passed.’

‘I cannot move my arms, John.’ Baldwin’s voice trembled. ‘I am afraid.’

John gripped the king’s hand, unsure of what else to do. ‘You must drink something,’ he said at last. ‘You will feel better afterwards.’ John went to the pot the doctor had prepared and scooped out a cup of the potion. But when he returned to the king’s side, Baldwin was asleep. John set the cup down and sat beside the king. He gently pushed the hair back from Baldwin’s forehead. He looked up as Amalric entered the tent.

‘The doctor tells me he may not survive,’ the constable said.

‘He will live. He is too stubborn to die.’

‘He also said the King is blind and crippled.’

‘Perhaps when the fever leaves him—’

‘A crippled king cannot rule,’ Amalric said with certainty. ‘We must return to Jerusalem and choose a regent.’

January 1183: Jerusalem

Smoke from the bakeries and kitchens of Jerusalem hung in the clear blue sky, showing John where the city lay long before the walls came into view. The sunshine and unseasonably warm January weather were at odds with the sombre mood of the army as it trudged the last miles to the city. Amalric had sent messengers galloping ahead to call for a meeting of the Haute Cour. They would have reached the city in only two days. The main body of the army had taken six days to make the journey from Damascus; they had been slowed by the king, who was carried in a covered litter to spare him the bumps and jolts of the road. Baldwin had awoken twice to murmur incoherently. At least the doctor had managed to feed him a little broth before the king lapsed back into unconsciousness.

The litter-bearers were now struggling up the hill past rows of grapevines. John spurred ahead. From the top, he could see the north wall of Jerusalem, the domes of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Templum Domini rising behind it. Two dozen knights had set out from Saint Stephen’s Gate and were making their way towards the army. The flag of Jerusalem flew over them. Next to it was another banner: on the left a field of blue topped with a band of gold; on the right three red disks on a field of gold. They were the arms of Agnes of Courtenay.

John urged his horse down the far side of the hill at a canter. He slowed to a walk as he approached Agnes. Her face was drawn, and there were dark circles under her eyes. The king’s mother had aged gracefully, but now she looked every one of her forty-nine years. ‘John,’ she greeted him. ‘How is he?’

Agnes had been his lover once, but she had betrayed him for power. She had bedded the constable Amalric – and likely other men besides – to establish her influence at court. And she had masterminded the plot that led to the death of the previous king. John despised her even as he desired her, but today, in the face of her grief, he could not summon his usual resentment. ‘He is rarely conscious,’ he told her. ‘He has lost his sight and the use of his arms and legs.’

Agnes blinked back tears. ‘Where is he?’

‘I will take you to him.’

John headed back up the hill with Agnes riding beside him. ‘You must be on your guard in Jerusalem,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There are those who mean harm to my son, and to those who would protect him.’

‘Who? And why tell me this? Do not pretend that you care for me.’

‘I do not need to pretend, John. But if you will not believe that, then perhaps you will believe this. My daughter Sibylla wants Baldwin dead. If he dies, then she becomes queen, and her husband Guy will take power, along with his friends Reynald and Heraclius. You would do anything to protect Baldwin, and so would I. That makes us allies, and puts us both in danger.’

They had reached the litter, and Agnes dismounted and entered to ride with her son. Her men fell in around the carriage. John followed them. As he approached the gate, he took his mace from his saddlebag and hung it from his belt. He did not trust Agnes, but it would not hurt to be cautious.

At the palace, the courtyard was filled with anxious guards and servants. They watched silently as Agnes stepped out of the litter and began to issue orders. ‘You men,’ she snapped, waving at some of the guards near the door. ‘Bring a stretcher for the King.’ The men returned a moment later, and Baldwin was transferred to the stretcher. ‘Take him to my quarters,’ Agnes instructed. ‘I will care for him myself.’ Four men lifted the stretcher, and she accompanied them into the palace.

John started to follow, but the guards framing the door crossed their spears to bar his way. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ John demanded. ‘I am the King’s councillor.’ He was about to call out to Agnes when two more guards grabbed his arms from behind.

‘Come quietly now,’ one of them whispered in his ear, ‘and we’ll do you no harm, father.’ He reached for John’s mace, but John managed to pull away. He elbowed the man in the throat, then took his mace and swung for the guard holding his left arm. His mace clanged off the man’s helmet, dropping him. Next moment, John felt a blow to the back of his head. He slumped to the ground, and the world went black.

He jerked awake only a moment later. He felt the back of his head and winced. His hair was wet with blood. The four guards were standing around him. John started to rise when one of them punched him in the gut, doubling him over.

‘Leave that man be!’

John looked up to see Agnes’s brother Joscelin of Courtenay standing in the doorway to the palace.

The guards stepped away from John. ‘The regent said—’ one of them began.

‘I am the seneschal, and I tell you I will see to him.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

The guards moved away. Joscelin helped John to rise and kept hold of his arm as he guided him inside the palace.

‘Thank you, Jos. What was that about?’ Joscelin led them down a staircase, away from Agnes’s quarters. ‘Where are we going?’

‘The dungeons.’ John stopped and pulled his arm free. Joscelin met his eyes. ‘You can follow me willingly, John, or I can have the guards take you.’

John’s gaze went to the dagger at Joscelin’s belt. The seneschal was a small man. He could overpower him. With his dagger, he might get past the guards outside and to a horse. But even if he managed to get away, where would he go? John still remembered the look of hatred that Yusuf had given him before he limped off the field at Montgisard. His friend would not take him in. ‘Lead on,’ he said and fell in behind the seneschal. The stairs ended in a long hallway. The air was chill and damp. Their footsteps echoed loudly. ‘Why?’

‘Regent’s orders.’

‘The regent?’

‘Guy.’

‘The Council chose Guy?’ Sibylla’s husband was brave enough, but John was surprised that the native lords had not selected one of their own.

‘The Council has not yet met,’ Joscelin said as he led John down another, narrower staircase. ‘Sibylla came up from Ascalon three days ago at the head of two hundred knights led by Reynald of Chatillon. She named her husband regent, and with the army gone to Damascus, there was no one to stop her.’
Joscelin frowned. ‘We had best get used to it. She will be queen when her brother dies.’

‘Baldwin will live.’

‘You had best hope so. Heraclius has the ear of the queen, and he has sworn you will rot to death before you see the light of day. You made a mistake when you made an enemy of that one.’

They reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped before a thick wooden door. Joscelin knocked, and the grille in the centre of the door slid open to reveal a man’s face. He was bald, with sallow skin that hung from his cheeks in folds.

‘I bring a prisoner,’ Joscelin told the gaoler. ‘The priest, John of Tatewic.’

The gaoler grunted and slid the grille shut. There was the clank of a key in the lock, and the door swung open. The gaoler proved to be a block of a man, dressed entirely in boiled leather. He raised a wicked-looking mace with a head of grooved steel. ‘If you make any trouble, I’ll spill your brains on the floor, priest.’ He returned the mace to his belt and began to pat at John’s robes, looking for weapons or coin. After finding neither, he moved to close the door.