‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I could use a man like you. You are a priest, so Miles and his men will be less likely to have you killed. Will you retrieve him for me?’
‘I have business in Jerusalem, my lord.’
Raymond frowned. ‘Surely it can wait.’
John thought of the Syrian poison dealer, Jalal al-Dimashqi. He would be in Jerusalem the following week. ‘If you are willing to wait a week before I set out, then I am your man.’
‘I have waited three months to be named regent. What is another week?’ Raymond gripped John’s shoulder. ‘You will have as many of my men as you need. Find that bastard for me, John, and bring him back here.’
A week later John walked the narrow streets of the Syrian quarter, winding his way towards the Church of Saint Anne. The quarter was filled with the low, resonant sound of nawaqis — wooden boards played with mallets — that the Syrians used to call their faithful to prayer. Jalal’s caravan had been due to arrive in Jerusalem that morning. If the poison dealer had come with it, then he would now be headed to church. John stopped for a moment outside Saint Anne’s. It was a Roman-style building with arched windows and a small dome at the junction of the nave and the transept. The men entering were all Syrian Christians, indistinguishable from the Saracens except by their faith.
When the flow of men had slowed to a trickle, John stepped inside. He paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Dozens of men were kneeling on the floor before him, while a priest prayed in Aramaic. John spied a young man near the door in the black robes of a Syriac priest.
‘Excuse me, Father, I am looking for Jalal al-Dimashqi. I understand he prays here?’
‘He did.’
‘Do you know where I can find him?’
The priest frowned. His head tilted as he examined John. ‘You are a friend?’
‘Yes,’ John lied.
‘Then I regret to inform you that Jalal is dead.’
John blinked in surprise. ‘What? How?’
‘His caravan was raided during the journey from Damascus. It was a terrible business. All but a few were killed. They were decapitated, and their heads impaled on stakes driven into the ground.’ The priest shook his head. ‘Jalal was so generous to the church. God rest his soul.’
‘Amen,’ John said and made the sign of the cross. ‘Thank you, Father.’
His mind was racing as he made his way back to the palace. It could not be a coincidence. Years ago, while travelling with Yusuf, John had come across a field of heads on stakes. It was the work of Reynald de Chatillon. Could Jalal’s death be his doing? John thought back to the feast in Aleppo, to when Reynald had complained bitterly about Amalric’s failure to ransom him. Had he killed the king? And if so, how could John prove it now that Jalal was dead?
John headed for the chancellery to discuss his new suspicions with William. He found the priest bent over a parchment. ‘What did this Jalal have to say?’ William asked without looking up.
‘Nothing. He is dead.’
‘Do you think-?’
‘Yes. I suspect he was murdered by Reynald. This bears his stamp.’ John explained about the caravan and the decapitated heads.
‘That is upsetting,’ William said when John had finished. ‘I have just had news from Acre. Miles de Plancy is dead, murdered by Walter of Brisebarre. It seems they quarrelled over the lordship of Oultrejourdain. Miles claimed it through his wife, but Walter felt the lands should have passed to him.’ William frowned. ‘After what you have told me, I now suspect there is more to his death.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Guess who has been named the new lord of Oultrejourdain.’
John felt a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘Tell me it is not Reynald.’
‘It is. He left this afternoon for Kerak. He is to marry Miles’s widow, Stephanie, and to become lord of Montreal, Kerak, and the lands beyond the Jordan.’
‘A reward for killing Jalal?’
‘I suspect so. But who has the power to grant such a reward? It was surely not Baldwin’s idea, and I do not believe Raymond capable of such deviousness.’
‘Nor do I,’ John agreed.
‘Agnes, then.’
‘No. She swore to me she had nothing to do with Amalric’s death.’
‘There is only one way to find out for certain who is behind Reynald’s sudden rise in fortune.’
John nodded. ‘I must pay him a visit in Kerak.’
Chapter 17
OCTOBER 1174: CAIRO
‘I am a loyal man-’ Yusuf stood at the window of his study and looked out over the flat rooftops to where the sun was sinking towards the horizon. Behind him, he could hear Imad ad-Din’s quill scratch as he transcribed Yusuf’s words. ‘I am a loyal man,’ Yusuf repeated. ‘I have vowed to protect the kingdom that Nur ad-Din left behind. In the interests of his son Al-Salih, I put first and foremost whatever will safeguard and strengthen his rule. In the interests of Islam and its people, I put first and foremost whatever will combine their forces and unite them in one purpose.’
Yusuf paused and looked to Imad ad-Din, who nodded when he had caught up. ‘I believe we can live in harmony with the ifranj, but not if we allow them to turn us against one another. You have signed a treaty with Jerusalem, a treaty aimed against me and against Al-Salih. Nur ad-Din would regard such a treaty as a betrayal. He is not here to take vengeance, and his son is too young to punish you, as you deserve. So I shall act for him. Tomorrow, I leave for Damascus. My army marches not for conquest, not for riches, but for Allah. We march to save the honour of the great city and its people, and to bring them back to the path of righteousness. If you wish to join us on this path, then you will open the gates of your city to us. If you persist in your perfidy, then you shall be punished for your actions. Bismillah, Saladin ibn Ayub, al-malik al-nasir. Add whatever other honorifics you see fit.’
‘Yes, Malik,’ Imad ad-Din murmured. He finished writing and placed his quill back in its inkwell. His forehead furrowed as he re-examined the document. ‘Perhaps you might consider a more diplomatic phrasing. Al-Muqaddam is husband to your sister and a great emir, yet you threaten to punish him as if he were a misbehaving child.’
‘If my threat is to have its desired effect, then it must be harsh.’
‘And do you truly think he will turn the city over to you?’ the secretary asked. ‘You plan to ride with less than a thousand men.’
‘Speed is more important than numbers. Al-Muqaddam is no fool. He knows that Damascus cannot stand on its own, and with Amalric dead and a boy on the throne, his treaty with the Kingdom is meaningless. He will ally with the first powerful force that arrives at his gates. Gumushtagin does not command enough men to take Damascus. That leaves either us or the ruler of Mosul. I met Saif ad-Din once, at the court of his uncle, Nur ad-Din. He struck me as haughty and impetuous, convinced of his greatness and eager to prove it. He will waste little time in raising an army to move on Damascus.’
‘And we must arrive first,’ Shamsa said as she entered the room in a tight-fitting caftan of saffron yellow silk. It was only five months since she had given birth to her third son, but she had already recovered her slim form. ‘You may go, Imad ad-Din,’ she said. Yusuf nodded, and the secretary left the room. Shamsa crossed to Yusuf and kissed him. ‘I have something to give you before you leave.’
Yusuf slipped his arms around her waist and kissed her again. She pushed him away. ‘No, not that. Come.’ She led him into his bedroom, where a chest had been set against the wall. ‘Open it.’
Yusuf raised the lid to find a vest of jawshan; an armour made of hundreds of small rectangular plates in overlapping rows. Each plate was laced to the others above, below and to the sides of it, making the armour effective at turning aside arrows or sword thrusts. But this vest of jawshan had not been made with defence in mind. The plates were of gold and shimmered as they caught the late afternoon light filtering though the window. ‘It is magnificent, but surely you do not mean for me to fight in this?’