The hairs on the back of John’s neck rose, and he ducked instinctively, just before the third rider’s sword flashed over his head. John did not wait for the man to attack again. He sprinted for the brush located alongside the trail. Brambles and thorns tore at his clothes and scratched his face, but he pressed on. The brush was too thick for his foe to follow on horseback. Behind him, John could hear the man roaring with anger. ‘Damn you! Come back here and fight, Saxon!’
John stopped. Of course: they were Reynald’s men. The lord of Kerak must have decided that John knew too much. John could hear the sound of someone crashing through the brush behind him. He moved on until he came to a small clearing, half of which was already covered in ankle-deep water. John turned and waited. His pursuer stopped when he saw him. The man held a shield in one hand and a sword in the other.
‘You are Reynald’s man, aren’t you?’ John demanded.
In response the man reached up with his sword hand and unwrapped his keffiyeh. It was Oudin, the guard from Kerak. His lip curled back in a snarl and he charged, swinging backhanded for John’s head. John blocked with his sword and countered with his mace. Oudin took the blow on his shield and thrust for John’s gut. John managed to twist out of the way of the blade, but Oudin brought up his shield, smashing John in the face. John tasted blood from a split lip. He stumbled backwards and slipped, landing on his back in the mud. He saw a sword arcing towards his face and parried before kicking out, catching Oudin in the side of the knee. John felt his enemy’s leg give way. Oudin fell on his hands and knees.
John rolled towards him and swung his mace for the back of Oudin’s head. The Frank pushed himself up to his knees at the last moment, and the mace sank into the mud. Oudin chopped down on John’s arm. John felt a flash of blinding pain and dropped the mace. Oudin’s sword had cut through the mail over John’s forearm, leaving a deep gash.
Oudin raised his sword again, but John struck first, driving his blade into his enemy’s right shoulder. Oudin dropped his sword. With a roar, he swung his shield, hitting John in the side of the head. Everything went black for a moment. When John came to, he was lying on his back with Oudin kneeling on his chest. The water had risen so that it almost covered John’s face. Oudin had cast his shield aside and was groping in the rising water for his sword. John grabbed his enemy’s caftan. He pulled Oudin down and head-butted him, feeling a satisfying crunch as Oudin’s nose broke. He then brought his knee up into his enemy’s groin. Oudin grunted in pain, and John shoved him off his chest. He searched in the mud for his mace, but before he could find it Oudin slammed into him from the side. The two men grappled in the muddy water, each struggling to get a hold of the other. Oudin’s hands found John’s throat and began to squeeze. John choked, unable to breath. He managed to grab Oudin’s head with both hands and dug his thumbs into the man’s eyes. Still Oudin refused to let go of John’s throat. John shoved his thumbs deeper. He could feel hot blood running from Oudin’s eyes. The Frank pulled away, screaming.
Oudin tried to scramble away, but John crawled after him and seized his leg. He moved on top of Oudin and grabbed his hair, forcing the Frank’s face down into the muddy water. Oudin thrashed wildly, but John kept his face pressed into the muck. Finally the Frank went still.
John sat back. ‘That’s one more reason for me to kill you, Reynald,’ he muttered. And then pain flooded through him. His lip was split and his throat had been bruised so that it hurt to breathe. His right arm was bleeding heavily. He groped in the mud until he found a sword, and used it to cut a strip of fabric from Oudin’s caftan. He tied the cloth tightly around his arm to slow the bleeding. Then he pushed himself to his feet. The water was up to his calves now. He almost fainted, but recovered and headed into the brush, slipping and stumbling on the slick, muddy ground. God was with him, and he managed to find his horse. He dragged himself into the saddle and urged the animal further along the game trail. Having managed to ride out of danger, he finally stopped to look back. The stream had become a raging torrent, expanding rapidly to fill the ravine. John saw the horse of one of his attackers flash by, swept away in the current. He watched until past noon, when the rain stopped and the waters subsided. Then he rode for Jerusalem.
FEBRUARY 1175: JERUSALEM
‘Father? Father!’
John jerked awake and nearly fell from the saddle. He blinked against bright sunlight. His horse was standing before Jerusalem’s eastern gate. He had ridden day and night without stopping, afraid that if he dismounted he would pass out and never rise again. He must have ridden the last few miles unconscious, slumped in the saddle.
One of the gate’s guards was holding the reins of his horse. ‘Are you well, Father?’ he asked, staring at John wide-eyed.
John looked down at himself. He was caked in dried mud from head to toe. He knew his face was bloody and his lip split and horribly swollen. There was an ugly gash on his right forearm, and the mail around it was crusted with blood. When he had tied the cloth around his arm to stop the bleeding he must have tied it too tight, for his right hand was tinged blue. He looked like he had been dragged to hell and back, but there would be time to bathe and dress his wounds when he had finished with Heraclius.
‘I am well enough,’ he told the guard. He took back the reins and urged his horse through the gate. He rode straight to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and entered through the eastern portal. He almost collapsed when he dismounted, but caught himself on his saddle. An acolyte approached with mouth agape. John handed him the reins and stumbled through the cloisters to the refectory, where several canons were eating breakfast. Silence descended as all eyes turned to John. He passed through without stopping and stepped out into a courtyard, which he crossed to the door of what used to be the royal palace and now housed the archdeacon’s residence. Two knights of the Holy Sepulchre framed the door.
‘Where do you think you are going?’ the guard on the right demanded as he barred John’s way. ‘Get back to the streets, you rabble.’
John showed him his cross. ‘I am John of Tatewic, a canon of the church. I have come to see the Archdeacon.’
‘The Archdeacon is not receiving.’
John gave the man a withering look. He reached for the mace at his belt, only to find it was not there. ‘I have ridden far and I am in no mood to argue. I must see the Archdeacon.’
The guard bristled. ‘I said, he is not receiving.’
John’s hands balled into fists. The other guard put a hand on his companion’s shoulder. ‘I will deal with this one, Gersant. Follow me, Father.’
The guard led John inside and upstairs to the archdeacon’s private apartments. He knocked, but before there was a response John pushed the door open and stormed inside. A blond man with heavy jowls and red cheeks sat dining at a small table beside the window. He looked at John in surprise, then alarm.
‘What is this?’ John demanded. ‘Where is the Archdeacon?’
The fat man blinked. ‘I am the Archdeacon.’
‘Where is Heraclius?’
‘He has been made Archbishop of Caesarea.’
John frowned. Heraclius an archbishop? So he, too, had been rewarded for his role in Amalric’s death. John turned and stumbled from the room. He crossed the street and entered the hospital without a word to the guards at the door. The doctors looked at him with dismay. John strode to a table holding various medicines.
‘Wait!’ one of the doctors called. He was a beardless young man in a monk’s cowl. ‘You cannot-’
John glared at the doctor, and the monk backed away. John removed his filthy cloak and alb, and struggled out of his mail, pulling it off over his head. The flesh around the gash on his arm was angry and red. He took a bottle of pure alcohol from the table and poured some over the wound. He gritted his teeth at the stinging pain.