Nur ad-Din’s death had presented an unprecedented opportunity for the Franks. Aleppo and Damascus were too weak to hold out on their own against Saladin or Nur ad-Din’s nephew, Saif ad-Din, who ruled from Mosul. As recently as last month, Amalric had led an army to Damascus, forcing Emir Al-Muqaddam to form an alliance with Jerusalem. John looked across the room to where Raymond of Tripoli knelt near Reynald de Chatillon. The two men had been freed as part of the deal. Aleppo had also sent envoys to forge an alliance. When it was completed, the Kingdom would finally be secure. But now Amalric was dying, and the alliances would die with him.
John was about to return to his prayers when the bedroom door opened. William emerged and came to kneel beside him. ‘How is he?’ John whispered.
‘Amalric is far gone. I do not believe he understood me.’
John bowed his head and resumed his silent prayers. He looked up as the door opened again, and the king’s doctor stepped out. Deodatus was a hollow-cheeked man in monk’s robes. John had experienced his notion of medicine years ago, when recovering from torture at the hands of Heraclius. John thought Deodatus a fool, but the king trusted him. Deodatus gestured for William to approach. John came, too.
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.