She smiled slyly. ‘Would you believe me if I said it was you?’
‘No.’
‘That is what I missed most about you, John. You are so refreshingly blunt, so unlike the other men in my life. My husband Reginald is a bore.’ Her smile faded, and she became serious. ‘Baldwin will be of age soon. That is why I am here, to help him become king.’
‘Why should he need your help? He is Amalric’s son and heir.’
‘Amalric does not plan for Baldwin to rule. He believes him to be cursed by God. Baldwin’s sister Sibylla is almost of an age to marry. It is her child that will take the throne, not Baldwin.’
John frowned. ‘But William-’
‘William agrees with Amalric.’ Agnes met his eyes. ‘We both want what is best for Baldwin, John. William does not. When Amalric is gone, you will have to decide whose side you are on. You could go far, if you would let me help you. You could be patriarch, even.’
‘Amalric is younger than I. He will be king for many years yet.’
‘Even kings die.’ Agnes cocked her head at the sound of Baldwin’s footsteps approaching down the hall. ‘Say nothing of this to him. The boy does not know.’ She clapped her hands with pleasure as Baldwin entered. ‘Ah! You have found the swords. Come, John. You must show me what my son has learned.’
MAY 1174: CAIRO
Yusuf paced back and forth before the window in his bedroom, a crumpled scrap of paper in his hand. The message had been sent by pigeon from one of his spies in Damascus. Nur ad-Din’s army had left the city two days ago. Yusuf had hoped to stay in Cairo until Shamsa delivered, but he could delay no longer. He would leave tomorrow to meet his fate.
‘Please, stop pacing and sit down,’ Shamsa said as she patted the bed beside her. She lay propped up by pillows. Her loose silk robe was untied in front, leaving her swollen belly exposed. Yusuf came and sat beside her. He could see movement under the skin of her stomach. This child had been more active than the others. He — Yusuf already thought of him as another son — seemed eager to enter the world.
‘What are you thinking of?’ Shamsa asked.
‘Of you.’ He touched her stomach, feeling a strange bulge on the left side — an elbow, or perhaps a head. ‘Of the child inside of you. You should leave for Aden soon. Turan has taken the city.’
‘I do not wish to go.’
‘You must.’
She took his hand. ‘You can stay, Yusuf. Fight! Defend your kingdom.’
‘And betray my lord?’
‘Better that than betray your sons. What will become of them?’
‘They will be safe in Yemen. It is far from Nur ad-Din’s lands.’
‘Yemen.’ Shamsa grimaced as if the word left a foul taste in her mouth. ‘Here they are princes of Egypt. They will be nothing there.’
‘There are more important things than power and wealth.’
‘So says a man who has never been poor.’
‘Even the poor man treasures honour, Shamsa.’
‘That is because it is all he has.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look, as if she were watching events from her past. She looked back to him. ‘You do not have to fight. There are other ways. When you eliminated the Caliph-’
‘No!’ Yusuf resumed his pacing. ‘I will not resort to murder. Never again. I am a man of honour, a warrior.’
‘A warrior who refuses to fight,’ she said sharply. ‘There is another word for that, one that your emirs know well.’
He flinched. ‘I am no coward. I fight when and where my lord wills it.’
‘Nur ad-Din is not coming to recruit you for battle, Yusuf. He wants your head.’
‘And he shall have it!’ he shouted. Shamsa winced, and her hands went to her belly. All anger drained from Yusuf. ‘Forgive me. I should not vent my anger on you. Are you well?’
‘It is nothing. The baby is shifting.’
There was a knock on the door. ‘Enter!’ Yusuf called.
Ubadah stepped into the room. He was sixteen now, and the soft lines of his face had given way to sharper angles. He looked more like John than ever.
‘What is it?’ Yusuf asked.
‘You are needed in the council chamber, Uncle.’
Yusuf frowned. ‘At this hour? Who sent you?’
‘Selim. He is there with Qaraqush, Al-Mashtub and Imad ad-Din.’
Yusuf opened his mouth to curse his brother’s impertinence, but the words died on his lips. His stomach began to churn. Was this a mutiny? Why else would his leading councillors summon him to the council chamber? Yusuf knew they did not approve of his refusal to fight. Had they decided to resist Nur ad-Din, even if that meant removing their king? Ubadah’s face told him nothing.
‘Ubadah, you will stay here. Saqr!’ The head of his khaskiya entered immediately. ‘I want a dozen men of my private guard here, now.’
Yusuf waited for the guardsmen to gather, then set out across the palace. He paused at the stairs to the council chamber. ‘Remain here,’ he told Saqr. ‘If you hear me cry out, you are to come with swords drawn. Kill everyone. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Malik.’
Yusuf climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to the council chamber. ‘What is this?’ he demanded.
The men turned to face him. Selim stepped forward and handed him a creased sheet of paper. Yusuf’s eyes widened as he read the short note: Nur ad-Din is dead. He died suddenly, only two days’ march from Damascus. He looked up. ‘Is this true?’
‘We have received other messages confirming it,’ Imad ad-Din said.
Yusuf read the message again. He could scarcely believe it.
Selim place a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘You were willing to die for the good of Islam, for the good of our people, Brother. Allah has rewarded your faith. I am sorry I doubted you.’
‘Shukran, Brother,’ Yusuf said and then scowled as a suspicion rose in his mind. The note said Nur ad-Din had died suddenly. Could it have been murder? Gumushtagin’s doing? No. The eunuch had made it clear that he was unable to move against Nur ad-Din without Yusuf’s help. Who, then? Yusuf looked at the men before him. ‘Do any of you know the cause of Nur ad-Din’s death?’
Imad ad-Din shrugged. ‘When Allah whispers the command that cannot be ignored, all men must answer.’
‘I do not believe this was Allah’s doing.’ Yusuf looked to Selim. ‘Tell me true, Brother. How did our lord die?’
‘We cannot be certain.’
‘Was it poison?’ Yusuf demanded. Selim looked away. That was all the confirmation that Yusuf needed. His fists clenched. ‘Which of you did this?’ His voice rose to a shout. ‘Who killed him?’ No one spoke. Yusuf went to Imad ad-Din. ‘Was it you?’ The scribe shook his head. Yusuf moved on to Al-Mashtub. ‘You?’
‘No, Malik.’
‘You, Qaraqush?’ The grizzled mamluk shook his head. Yusuf came back to Selim. ‘You urged me again and again to fight. Was it you, Brother?’
‘I did not kill him.’
‘I think you lie. We are all sons of Allah!’ Yusuf roared. ‘We do not murder one another!’
Selim straightened and met his brother’s gaze. ‘You know me better than that, Brother. I, too, am a man of honour.’
Yusuf’s anger ebbed from him as quickly as it had come. His fists unclenched, leaving red marks where his nails had dug into his palms. He took a deep breath, and when he continued his voice was calm and all the more frightening for it. ‘I believe you, Selim. But know this, all of you. When I find who killed our lord, they will hang. I swear it.’
Chapter 16
JULY 1174: JERUSALEM
John knelt in prayer on the stone floor of the crowded antechamber to Amalric’s apartments. He looked up as a low moan of pain emanated from the king’s bedroom. Three weeks ago Amalric had grown ill. His symptoms had steadily worsened, diarrhoea giving way to vomiting and then delirium. Just now, William had been called in to administer the last rites. John could hear Baldwin weeping from the corner where the young prince prayed. He was not the only one with tears in his eyes. It was not just that the king was dying; his illness could not have come at a worse time for the Kingdom.