Yusuf frowned. ‘I am your brother, not your lord.’
Selim bowed again. ‘You are both now, Yusuf.’ He held out a tightly rolled scrap of paper. ‘A message has come from Aleppo.’
‘From Nur ad-Din?’
‘Gumushtagin.’
Yusuf’s stomach twisted. He checked the message’s seal. It was unbroken. ‘Thank you, Brother. I will read it in my quarters.’
The dark-eyed Turkish beauty that Faridah had selected for him was waiting in his bedroom. She wore a transparent cotton shift. ‘Congratulations, sayyid,’ she purred. ‘Do you wish to celebrate?’
Yusuf waved her away. ‘Leave me.’
He went to his study and shut the door. He broke the seal and unrolled the small scrap of paper. Gumushtagin’s message read: You are Vizier, as I said you would be. The opportunity will come soon for you to aid me in turn.
A wave of anger flooded through him. He went to the table along the back wall and swept the quills and inkstand away, splattering dark ink on the rug. The bastard! Gumushtagin was the one who had killed his uncle. Did the eunuch truly expect Yusuf to be thankful? He would kill him. He would have his head on a spear.
Yusuf’s anger left as quickly as it had come. He could not touch Gumushtagin without endangering Asimat and Al-Salih. But the eunuch had made a mistake. He had made Yusuf vizier. If Gumushtagin thought he would serve as his puppet, then the eunuch was sorely mistaken. He would bide his time, and he would have his vengeance.
Yusuf held the message to one of the candles burning on his desk until it caught light. He dropped the paper on the stone floor and watched it burn to ash.
Chapter 10
JUNE 1169: JERUSALEM
John scratched at a mosquito bite on the tonsured patch atop his head as he strode down a narrow lane in the shadow of the Temple Mount. Usually, he would now be at the chancellery sifting though stacks of correspondence, or in council with the king, or tutoring his son Baldwin, but this morning he had a different task. Under his left arm he carried a small box that contained holy water and the host. He had never before taken confession or delivered the Sacrament of Holy Communion, and he was nervous; doubly nervous because the woman whose confession he was to hear was Agnes de Courtenay. It had been over four years since John had last seen her. She had stayed at her home in Ibelin, and John had long since forgotten about her request that he serve as her confessor when she visited Jerusalem. But she had not forgotten him. Yesterday she had arrived in the city and had sent for him.
John passed a bakery that flooded the street with the rich smell of baking bread. His stomach grumbled, and he regretted not eating before he left the dormitory in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He turned on to a sunny lane that twisted into the heart of the Syrian quarter. After asking directions from two Assyrian men drinking coffee in the shade of their shop, he found Agnes’s home.
He knocked, and a thin Frankish man opened the door. ‘Father?’
‘I am John of Tatewic. The Lady de Courtenay has sent for me.’
‘You are expected.’ The servant led John through the courtyard where he had met with Agnes before and into a dim room, the windows covered with intricately carved wooden screens. ‘Wait here.’ The floor was thickly carpeted. Cushions lay scattered around a low table set with two glasses and a bottle of wine. Beyond the table, a silk screen divided the room. Through it, John could make out the outlines of a large bed.
‘John!’ Agnes smiled brightly as she entered from a door to the right. She was dressed in a loose robe of green silk.
‘My lady, I have come to hear your confession.’
‘Sit, John.’ She gestured to the cushions around the table.
‘Perhaps we should go somewhere more appropriate. You have a private chapel?’
‘I am more comfortable here.’ She raised her chin and looked down her delicate nose at him. ‘Sit.’ This time, it was a command.
John placed the box with the host on the table and sat, sinking into the down-filled cushions. Agnes sat beside him, uncomfortably close. She poured two glasses of wine and offered one to him. He hesitated.
‘It is not poison, John,’ Agnes said playfully.
He took a sip. The wine was uncommonly good. He set the cup aside. ‘You did wish to confess, my lady?’
Agnes smiled slyly. ‘I will confess this: I brought you here on false pretences. I wished to see you again, John.’
He felt his pulse quicken. He took a deep breath and forced himself to look away from Agnes’s green eyes. ‘I am a priest and a councillor to the King. I do not have time to wait upon your pleasure.’
He began to rise, but she place a hand on his arm. ‘Do not be upset, John. I have recently been widowed and I need to talk. You are a priest. I thought I could confide in you.’
‘My apologies, Lady de Courtenay,’ John said as he sat back down. ‘I did not know.’
‘Hugh died earlier this year while on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.’ Agnes shrugged. ‘He wished to be closer to God, and now he is. I did not love Hugh, but I do miss him. Women are not meant to live alone, are they, Father?’
John was not sure how to respond to this.
She laughed at his discomfiture. It was a high, musical sound, like birdsong. ‘But I do not wish to discuss my late husband.’ She set her wine aside. ‘Let us talk of you, John.’
‘Of me, my lady? What is there to discuss?’
‘Amalric offered you a good marriage with a large dowry, but you chose to become a priest. Why?’
John felt a pain in his chest. ‘I do not wish to speak of it.’
‘A woman? A Saracen?’ John looked away and nodded. Agnes reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair back from his face. ‘I know what it is like to be separated from the one you love, John.’
He caught her by the wrist and pulled her hand away from his hair. ‘My lady, do not-’ he began, but she interrupted him with a kiss. Her lips were full and soft. John closed his eyes, and an image of Zimat flashed through his mind. He shoved Agnes away with more force than he had intended, and she fell back on the cushions, her eyes wide with surprise. For the first time since John had met her, she did not look commanding or superior. She simply looked like a woman. How long had it been since he had lain with a woman? He had lost track of the years. She started to push herself up, but John put his hand on her shoulder and stopped her. He moved on top of her and kissed her hard. She kissed him back hungrily, opening her mouth to his as her arms wrapped around him. His hand ran down her side to grasp her firm buttock, pulling her tight against him.
Agnes moaned softly as he kissed her neck. He allowed her to drag his chasuble off over his head, taking the gold cross he wore with it. He sat back and pulled off his linen alb. Agnes had untied her robe and it lay open, revealing her slim form, her skin as white as newly fallen snow. John put his arms around her back and lifted her to him, taking one of her pink nipples in his mouth. She gasped and grabbed his hair, pulling him up to kiss her mouth again. She lay back amongst the soft cushions, bringing him with her. Her hands moved down his sides to his waist.
‘Mmm,’ she purred. ‘It should be a sin for a priest to be so well mounted.’ She guided him inside her, and John groaned with delight. Her legs wrapped around his waist. He drove deeper, faster, grunting with pleasure. He felt a dizzying sensation, as if he were a spirit, free to float above the world. He kissed her lips, her neck. He could feel Agnes’s breath hot in his ear. Then there was a sudden rush of pleasure so intense that it was almost painful. He collapsed spent and rolled off Agnes to lie panting.
She pressed herself against his side and whispered in his ear: ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’
John felt suddenly sick. He turned away and pushed himself up to sit with his head in his hands. He noticed his golden cross sitting on the wrinkled chasuble. What had he done?