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.’
‘Good day, then, Yaqub, and may God grant you fortune.’
John shook water from his cloak as he stepped into the palace. He was late for the meeting of the Haute Cour. Baldwin had been king for three months, and the court had finally assembled to select a permanent regent. The guards at the door to the council chamber nodded in greeting and opened the door just enough to allow John to slip inside. He could not vote, but he was allowed to be present as an adviser to the king. The throne at the far end of the hall was empty. Some forty nobles were gathered before it, some whispering quietly, others in animated discussion. Barons from all over the kingdom had come, and they had separated themselves into two distinct groups. On the left side of the hall stood Agnes’s faction, which was expected to support the acting regent, Miles de Plancy. John found him arrogant and high-handed, and he was not alone in his opinion. Miles’s refusal to accept advice had alienated many of the leading barons, but Agnes had stuck with him. John guessed his lack of support made him pliable. Amongst Miles’s supporters, John noticed the archdeacon Heraclius speaking with Reynald de Chatillon. That was a match made in hell, if ever there was one. They were talking with a third man who John did not recognize.