John did so. The guard stood uncomfortably close behind him.
‘What is your business, Saxon?’ Reynald demanded. ‘I presume you have not come for the pleasure of my company.’
‘Raymond sent me. You have been raiding the caravans that travel from Damascus to Cairo. It is a violation of our treaty with Egypt and Damascus.’
‘I couldn’t give a piss for your precious treaty.’
‘Raymond does not share your feelings. We are in no position to go to war with Egypt.’
‘Raymond is a coward.’
‘He has been elected regent. If you wish to keep your lands, you will do as he says.’
Reynald bristled. ‘I have these lands by the King! I earned them!’
‘By murdering the merchant Jalal?’
Reynald frowned and made a show of turning back to his lamb. ‘I know nothing of what you speak.’
‘I recognize your handiwork, Reynald; the heads on spears.’
‘So what if it was me? One less Mohammedan to worry about.’
‘Jalal was a Syrian Christian. And a dealer in poison. One of his poisons was used to kill King Amalric.’
Reynald’s eyes widened and he dropped his knife and fork. He seemed genuinely surprised.
‘You had cause to hate Amalric,’ John pointed out. ‘He failed to ransom you, and he gave your kingdom to Bohemond.’
‘What are you suggesting, Saxon?’
‘I think you poisoned Amalric. You learned I was investigating his death, and you killed Jalal to cover your tracks.’
Reynald burst out laughing. ‘That is ridiculous!’
‘Someone poisoned him, Reynald. If not you, then who?’
Reynald was suddenly angry. He grabbed his carving knife and pointed it at John. ‘I could have you killed for such an accusation. I am a man of honour! Amalric was my king.’
John met Reynald’s eyes without blinking. ‘And you killed the one man who knew who murdered him.’ Reynald was still holding the knife, but John decided to push him further. ‘In Baldwin’s eyes, that makes you look guilty,’ he lied. In truth, Baldwin knew nothing of John’s inquiry. ‘The King wants to see you beheaded.’
Reynald lowered the knife. ‘I knew nothing about any poison,’ he muttered. ‘I was only doing Heraclius a favour.’
‘Heraclius?’
‘He asked me to raid the caravan. Told me it was carrying spice from the East, that I could sell it for a fortune. He did not say anything about poison.’
John’s forehead creased. ‘But Heraclius does not have the authority to grant you Kerak. Who did?’
‘Baldwin.’
‘Why? The King has no love for you.’
Reynald shrugged. ‘Perhaps because I am a man of action, unlike Raymond.’
John’s mind was racing. Reynald had killed Jalal at Heraclius’s bidding. Baldwin had then made Reynald lord of Kerak and Oultrejourdain. Why? What was the link between Heraclius and Baldwin?
‘If you are finished, Saxon,’ Reynald said, ‘then you can go. Oudin, here, will show you out.’
John spent the night at an inn in the town of Kerak. He was surprised to find that the townspeople were pleased with their new lord. The town was thriving. Merchants bought the goods that Reynald stole in his raids on the caravans, and then sold them for a profit. The people felt more secure, too. Reynald meted out strict justice, hanging thieves and personally beheading any Saracens who came too close.
Early the next morning he left for Jerusalem. The rain had stopped, but the roads were still muddy. It would be slow going, so he decided to take the shorter route home; through Saracen lands along the eastern side of the Dead Sea. He doubted that he would run into any trouble. Few travelled in the winter rainy season; the roads were poor and the ravines subject to deadly floods. John saw no one as he rode north along the hilly shore of the sea.
He spent that first night beside a stream that fed into the Dead Sea. He made camp away from the road, well upstream in order to avoid being surprised by other travellers. The wood he found was wet, and he was unable to start a fire. He spent a restless night shivering as he huddled against the side of his horse. The next morning he awoke bleary-eyed and stiff. All his old injuries ached: his left shoulder, which had dislocated on the rack; his right shoulder, where he had taken an arrow; his side, where he still bore a long scar from a sword thrust that should have killed him. He managed to start a fire, but the rain returned and extinguished it. Cursing, he climbed into the saddle and continued north, huddled under his cloak.
The rain drowned out all sound and limited visibility, which was why John did not notice the men on horseback until they were almost upon him. There were three of them, dressed in the loose caftans of Saracens, their keffiyehs drawn down over their faces. When John first saw them, they were only one hundred yards behind him. He accelerated to a trot, but the men kept pace. John spurred his horse to a canter, but glancing over his shoulder he saw that the men were gaining ground. There could be no doubt. They were pursuing him.
John cursed his stupidity. He preferred to travel alone rather than with the Frankish sergeants with whom he had so little in common, but he could have used an escort now. ‘Yalla!’ he shouted and flicked the reins, urging his horse to a gallop. It kicked up mud as he turned into a ravine that twisted into the hills bordering the Dead Sea. The winding trail prevented him from seeing his pursuers, but he could hear their hoofbeats coming steadily closer.
The ravine turned sharply and widened into a shallow wash. In the centre was a stream bordered with tall brush. John slid from the saddle and guided his horse into the cold water. He walked north a dozen paces in order to hide his tracks and then left the steam and led his horse up a game trail that wound through thick brush. He tied his horse off amongst the bushes, out of sight.
John crept back to near the stream, which was now noticeably wider. The rain was pouring down in sheets, and as he peered through the leafy branches of a bush, he could just make out his pursuers. They had reined in beside the stream a dozen yards away and were searching for some sign of him. Finally they drew their swords, and one crossed to John’s side of the river and began to ride along the bank. The other two searched for tracks in the mud on the far side.
John stepped back into the brush as the rider on his side of the stream approached. The man passed by and then stopped. ‘Here!’ he called in French. ‘Tracks!’ These were no Saracens. John cursed silently as the man rode up the game trail that he had taken earlier. The other men crossed the stream and followed him. John waited a moment and then took his mace from his belt and headed up the trail after them.
The lead rider had stopped beside John’s horse. ‘Where did the Saxon bastard go?’ he growled.
John crept up behind the rearmost rider and grabbed him. The man shouted as he was dragged from his saddle. His scream was cut short when John smashed his face in with his mace. He transferred the mace to his left hand and took the dead man’s sword in his right.
The other riders had turned on hearing the cries of their fallen comrade. ‘Kill the bastard!’ the nearer man shouted.
John used the blade of his sword to slap the flank of the fallen rider’s horse. The beast reared up, blocking the two riders’ path, and John took the opportunity to run in the opposite direction. After ten feet he stopped in ankle-deep water. The stream was rising fast, flooding the wash. If John did not get to higher ground soon, he would drown. He stepped from the trail and waited, crouching behind a bush. The first man trotted past. As the second came by, John swung his sword, catching the man in the gut. The suit of mail that the man wore beneath his caftan stopped the blow, but it still knocked him from the saddle. The man scrambled to his feet, sword in hand.
John charged. The man held his ground and swung for John’s head. John parried, and brought his sword slicing down towards the man’s knees. The man managed to block the blow, but his sword was down, leaving him exposed. John swung for his face with his mace. The man lurched backwards, but John caught him in the throat, crushing his windpipe. He fell without a sound.