Kingdom (36 page)

The doctor spoke in an agitated whisper. ‘I tried everything I could. I used buckthorn to help purge him of his foul humours. I used up my supply of blackberry syrup, normally an infallible remedy for the flux.’ The monk shook his head. ‘Nothing availed.’

William looked as if he had been punched in the gut. ‘Do you mean—?’

Deodatus nodded and led them into the king’s bedchamber, closing the door behind them. Amalric lay pale and unmoving, his eyes staring sightless towards the ceiling. Strands of his hair had fallen out and lay scattered on his pillow. William went to the king and closed his eyes, then removed the royal signet ring. John noticed Amalric’s fingernails. He looked to Deodatus. ‘Why are his nails yellow? You are certain he died of the flux?’

The monk looked down his nose at John. ‘Do not presume to tell me my business! It was the flux. He had all the usual symptoms: vomiting, bloody discharge, fever, confusion.’

John was not so sure. He thought back to his last discussion with Agnes. She had hinted that Amalric would die soon.

‘Thank you, Deodatus,’ William said. ‘I am sure you did everything in your power. Please prepare him to be viewed. His family and retainers will want to see him.’

Deodatus nodded. ‘Give me some time with him.’

John followed William out of the room. All eyes turned towards them. William opened his mouth to speak, but John
pulled
him aside. ‘I am not so sure he was not murdered,’ John whispered. ‘The lady Agnes—’

‘It does not matter how he died, John,’ William said in a tired voice. ‘He is gone now. We are a kingdom without a king. God help us.’

John gestured to the prince. ‘What of Baldwin?’

‘He is only thirteen. He will not come of age for three years. Until then, a regent shall govern in his stead.’

‘Who?’

‘The seneschal Miles de Plancy will take over the government until the Haute Cour decides upon a permanent regent.’ William took a deep breath and turned from John to the room of kneeling priests and nobles. He raised his voice and called out: ‘The King is dead!’

Shock registered on the faces of the men in the room. The news sank in for a moment. Then they murmured more or less in unison, ‘Long live the King!’

‘What do you think of our new king?’ the fat-cheeked priest sitting in the next stall of the choir whispered to John. He nodded in the direction of Baldwin, who sat on a gilt throne at the centre of the sanctuary of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. For his coronation, Baldwin’s face had been covered with creamy white lard to hide the ugly red splotches, and he was dressed in the royal robe of red silk, decorated with gold thread. The seneschal Miles knelt before the king, holding his sceptre. Beside him was the dour chamberlain Gerard de Pugi, who held the king’s sword, a mighty blade with a lengthy hilt, the pommel decorated with gems. Beyond them, a crowd of leading nobles and rich merchants sweated in the summer heat.

‘You have spent time with him,’ the priest continued. His name was Benedict, and John recalled that he was a fourth or fifth son from a noble family in France. ‘Will he be able to rule?’

‘And why would he not be?’ John whispered back.

‘The boy has leprosy, God help him.’

John smiled wryly. Baldwin hated nothing more than when people underestimated him because of his illness. ‘He will be a capable king,’ he responded.

‘That is good,’ Benedict murmured. ‘I hear the mother is already meddling.’ He looked towards Agnes, who stood in the front ranks of the crowd beyond the colonnade. ‘Rumour has it that she is a woman who does not know her place, that she seeks to rule through her son. And her daughter is said to take after her; she is a headstrong, wilful child. She is beautiful though,
eh
?’ Only fourteen, Baldwin’s older sister Sibylla was fine-boned and had long auburn hair and large blue eyes. John noticed several lords in the audience casting longing glances in her direction. It was not just because of her beauty. Baldwin’s leprosy had rendered him incapable of producing an heir. The future of the line lay with Sibylla. Now that she had left the convent of Saint Lazarus in Bethany, she was the most eligible woman in the Holy Land.

Benedict leaned close and winked. ‘I prefer the mother, though. Exquisite.’

John was saved from having to reply by Stephen, the dean of the canons, who glared at Benedict and hissed for him to be quiet.

The introductory portion of the ceremony was concluding. Baldwin rose from his throne and knelt before the patriarch, who prayed quietly as he anointed the king-to-be with holy oil. When he had finished Baldwin stood, and the patriarch raised his voice so that the crowd could hear him. ‘Baldwin, son of Amalric, sixth King of Jerusalem, may God grant you the wisdom to rule justly!’ The patriarch nodded to the chamberlain, who took the sceptre from Miles and placed it in the king’s right hand.

‘May God grant you the strength to defend the kingdom he has given you!’ the patriarch continued, and the chamberlain took the king’s sword and belted it around Baldwin’s waist.

‘May God grant you the faith to rule in his name!’ the patriarch concluded. Heraclius stepped forward holding the signet ring and a silver orb topped with a jewelled cross. The
chamberlain
slipped the ring on to Baldwin’s finger and placed the orb in his left hand.

Baldwin sat while the patriarch retrieved the crown from the altar and passed it to the chamberlain, who stood behind the throne and held the crown over Baldwin’s head. ‘
In nomine patris
,
et filii
,
et spiritus sancti
,’ the patriarch declared. ‘I pronounce you Baldwin IV, King of Jerusalem.’

The chamberlain lowered the crown on to Baldwin’s brow, and the audience knelt. Gerard raised his voice: ‘Long live the King!’

‘Long live the King!’ the crowd answered, their voices echoing off the marble-clad walls. Before the echoes had faded, some in the crowd were already leaving for the coronation feast. John had to stay for another half-hour while the patriarch prayed over the king and delivered a brief sermon exhorting Baldwin to rule according to God’s will and to fight the infidel Saracens. Finally the ceremony ended and John was able to return to his quarters and remove his suffocating priestly garb. He changed his clothes and then headed to the feast. He had not seen Agnes since Amalric’s death. This was his chance.

The celebration was being held at a luxurious home, built by a rich Jewish merchant before the city fell to the Christians. It was now owned by a Syrian. Two storeys tall, it was built around a series of courtyards that took up most of a city block. John was shown into the great hall. Three long tables ran its length, the king’s table, set at the far end, perpendicular to them. Baldwin sat at the centre of the table with Agnes and Sibylla to his right, alongside the patriarch, and the heads of the Templars and Hospitallers. The officers of the realm sat to his left, joined by Raymond of Tripoli and Bohemond of Antioch.

John skirted the perimeter of the hall and took up a position in a side passage not far from the king’s table. He waited until he caught Agnes’s eye and then nodded to her and stepped into the passage. She arrived a moment later.

‘Now is not the time, John,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

‘You killed Amalric.’

Agnes flinched. ‘How could you think that of me, John?’ There was hurt in her eyes.

‘Do not lie. You told me you were in the city to see Baldwin made king. Not four months later, Amalric lies dead.’

‘I have not been in the same room with Amalric since he annulled our marriage eleven years ago. How could I have killed him?’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I shall miss him. He tried so hard to be a good king.’

John was confused. This was not what he had expected. ‘Do not pretend to mourn him.’

‘But I do mourn him. I loved him, John.’

‘Like you loved your other husbands. William told me what happened to them.’

Agnes’s mouth set in a thin line. ‘Whatever William might think, I did not kill them,’ she said coldly. ‘And I did not kill Amalric. I was angry with him, John. But that does not make me a murderer.’ She met his gaze unflinchingly. Was she telling the truth?

John lowered his eyes. ‘Forgive me,’ he murmured. ‘But Amalric was poisoned. I am sure of it.’

Agnes reached out to gently touch his cheek. ‘We are all of us upset, John. Do not go chasing after shadows. Amalric was only a man. The flux does not take rank into account.’

‘I saw his body, Agnes. Men do not lose their hair because of the flux. I owe Amalric my life. I could not save his, but I will avenge his death.’

Agnes took his head in her hands and kissed him. ‘God help you, John.’

OCTOBER 1174: JERUSALEM

John pulled his heavy cloak tightly about him to ward off the autumn chill as he dodged the puddles forming in the Street of Herbs. Vaulted stonework covered the narrow market passage
and
kept out most of the rain, but the vertical slits at the base of the roof that allowed light to penetrate also admitted steady streams of water, which pooled on the cobbles below. Many of the shops were closed. John prayed silently that the one he was looking for was not one of them.

After three months of fruitless investigations, John was beginning to think that the doctor Deodatus might have spoken true when he said the king died of the flux. First of all, John could not imagine how the poison had been administered. Everything that the king ate or drank had to pass two tests. First, it was put in a cup made from unicorn’s horn, which several cooks and Deodatus swore would render any poison harmless. John was dubious; when he had offered to have Deodatus drink poison from the cup, the doctor had refused. Still, he was not sure how the poison could have passed the second test: the king’s food was consumed by at least one of the dozen tasters in Amalric’s court.

Nor had he had any luck discovering who might have administered the poison. There were dozens of candidates: the cooks, Deodatus, even a councillor such as Humphrey. There were too many possibilities and too few clues. So John had finally decided to focus his efforts on the poison itself. If he could identify the type of poison and its seller, then perhaps that man could lead him to the poisoner. John was going to speak with one such dealer in the dark arts. A palace cook had told him of a Syrian merchant named Yaqub the Bald, who was rumoured to sell more than spices.

John had almost reached the end of the street when he found Yaqub’s stall. A bald man, perhaps a few years younger than John, sat amidst large earthenware pots filled with fragrant spices. The man had dark features, a prominent nose and fingertips stained reddish-orange from handling spices.

‘Yaqub?’ John asked.

The man nodded. His eyes narrowed as he examined John. ‘What can I help you with, Father?’

‘I am preparing a special dish. I was told that you are the man to see.’

‘Perhaps,’ Yaqub said in a guarded tone. One of his hands moved beneath the counter. ‘What is it that you wish to prepare?’

John spoke in a low voice. ‘Murder.’

The man’s forehead creased. ‘Leave, now,’ he hissed and pulled a curved dagger from beneath the counter.

John did not move. ‘Tristan in the palace kitchens said you were the person to see for such things.’

Yaqub held the point of the dagger close to John’s chest. ‘Tristan is a fool. Go, now!’

John moved fast, grabbing Yaqub’s wrist beneath the dagger with one hand while seizing the man’s caftan and pulling him into the street with the other. The merchant in the next stall made no move to intervene. John pinned Yaqub down and leaned over him. ‘I do not have time for games.
Talk
.’

‘What are you doing?’ Yaqub cried, his eyes wild. ‘
Help
!’

John twisted the knife from Yaqub’s hand and held it close to the merchant’s face. Yaqub quieted immediately. John pulled him to his feet and hauled him down the street and into a side alley open to the sky. It was raining heavily, and soon they were both soaked. John slammed Yaqub’s back against the wall of the alley. ‘You will tell me what you know,’ he said to the merchant, ‘one way or another.’

‘W-what sort of priest are you?’

‘Who I am does not matter. Talk. You deal in poisons, yes?’

‘I am a spice merchant,’ Yaqub insisted.

John held the dagger near the man’s crotch and tapped it against the inside of his thigh. ‘Talk. I will not ask again.’

‘I-I sell certain herbs,’ Yaqub admitted. ‘To increase virility or to ensure love. Not to kill.’

‘That is not what Tristan says.’ John moved the blade closer to the man’s privates.

‘I swear to you!’ Yaqub whimpered. ‘Do not hurt me. I did
sell
such things once, but it was a bad business. A dangerous business.’

John looked into the man’s wide brown eyes. ‘I believe you,’ he said and released Yaqub. ‘A friend of mine died recently, and I suspect he was murdered. I am looking for a drug that would make it seem as if a man had died of the flux. Do you know of such a poison?’

‘Was his death sudden?’

‘He grew sick over several weeks.’

‘And did you notice your friend’s fingernails after he died?’

‘They were tinged yellow.’

‘Al-Zarnikh,’ Yaqub said. ‘A most deadly poison. Odourless, undetectable. It takes many doses to kill, so tasters are useless.’

‘Who sells it?’

‘I know of one man, a Syrian merchant, Jalal al-Dimashqi.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘He comes to Jerusalem every other month with a caravan from Damascus. He should be here next week.’

John frowned. He wanted answers today.

Yaqub took John’s creased forehead as a sign of anger. ‘I promise, I speak the truth! I can tell you where to find him. He stays in the Syrian quarter and worships at the Church of Saint Anne. If you ask for him there, someone will show you the way.’

‘Thank you.’ John held out Yaqub’s dagger, handle first. The spice merchant hesitated. Finally he took it. John started to walk away, but turned. ‘If you warn this Jalal al-Dimashqi that I am coming for him, it will not go well for you.’

‘I will not,’ Yaqub promised. ‘I bear him no love.’