01 - Murder in the Holy City Read online

  The great hall was already heaving with men. The window shutters had been thrown wide open, but the air inside was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, Jerusalem dust, and oiled leather. Geoffrey immediately felt the prickle of sweat at his back, and pulled uncomfortably at his clothes. Even within the great walls of the citadel, the knights wore armour—mostly light mail tunics over their shirts. When they left the citadel, they wore heavy chain-mail shirts that reached their knees; over the shirts, they donned padded surcoats emblazoned with a Crusader’s cross on the back and their lord’s insignia on the front. Added to this were thick mail gauntlets, a metal helmet with a long nosepiece, and weighty boiled-leather trousers.

  The hall was a rectangle, so large that there were two—not one—hearths to warm it in the brief winter months. There were round-headed windows on the west wall, which looked out across the inner bailey, but none in the east wall, which faced the outside, to render it more secure against attack. The end nearest the kitchens was marked by a brightly painted screen that hid the movements of the servants preparing the food behind it, while a dais at the opposite end bore a table at which the Advocate sat with his younger brother, Baldwin. At right angles to the table on the dais were four massive trestle tables, set up at mealtime and then dismantled. The more senior knights sat at the ends nearest the Advocate, while the lesser ones sat farther away.

  Geoffrey, Roger, and Hugh found places near the head of the nearest table and helped themselves to watered wine, overripe figs, and hard bread. Two of the Advocate’s knights came and settled opposite them: Warner de Gray and Henri d’Aumale, both of whom Geoffrey loathed almost as much as he did the cunning Hospitaller Courrances. Geoffrey stifled a sigh and began to discuss the sword drill planned for that afternoon with Hugh. Meanwhile, Warner began to describe an encounter he had had the day before with a small group of Arabs who had ambushed his scouting party. Geoffrey tried to ignore him, but Warner’s voice was strident, and he and Hugh were eventually forced to abandon their own discussion.

  When Warner saw he had an audience, he began to elaborate. In many ways, he looked like his cousin the Advocate: both were tall, well-built, and fair-haired. But whereas the Advocate was a thoughtful man and, rumour had it, religious, Warner was brash and arrogant, and he encouraged a lawlessness among his knights that Geoffrey found reprehensible.

  “How many of those Saracens were there?” asked Roger, interested as ever in matters military.

  “Ten,” responded Warner. “Each one armed with a great scimitar and holding a golden idol of Mohammed in the air as they attacked.”

  Geoffrey stared at him with undisguised dislike. “Moslems do not make idols of Mohammed,” he said disdainfully. “They consider it blasphemous.”

  Warner turned to him with a look of loathing that equalled Geoffrey’s own. “I am not conducting a theological debate on Mohammedanism. I am describing an encounter in which I was forced to fight for my life against a band of Saracen fanatics intent on butchering me,” he said haughtily.

  “No soldier so intent would impair his fighting skills by holding an idol aloft,” persisted Geoffrey. “That would be foolish. The whole scene you describe sounds most unlikely.”

  He felt Hugh’s warning hand on his arm, while Roger unsheathed his dagger and casually used it to hack a lump of stale bread from a loaf on the table.

  “Are you suggesting I lie?” asked Warner, the colour draining from his face. Around them, conversations began to die away as nearby knights watched the scene with interest. The Advocate’s men moved to one side of the table, while Bohemond’s and Tancred’s moved to the other, anticipating a fight. It would not be the first—nor the last—time that the knights of rival factions pitted themselves against each other. The Advocate, who would certainly prevent such unseemly brawling among his men, was in deep conversation with his brother on the dais, and the noise from the other tables was sufficient to drown out any sounds of disturbance.

  “I am suggesting that your description rings false,” said Geoffrey, fully aware that he might start an incident that could end in bloodshed, but angered by Warner’s ridiculous assertions. “Moslems do not have idols of Mohammed, and no intelligent soldier would willingly use an arm in such a pointless gesture when he would be better to use it to fight.”

  Warner began to rise to his feet, white-lipped with fury, his hand reaching for the dagger that hung in a sheath from his belt. But before he could draw it, Edouard de Courrances was behind him, both hands pressing down on Warner’s shoulders.

  “Sit, Sir Warner,” he said softly. “I am sure the story of your ambush yesterday cannot yet be fully told.”

  “There is more?” enquired Hugh drolly. “And us so well entertained by his story already!”

  The ironic emphasis on the word “story” almost brought Warner to his feet again, but Courrances’s hands on his shoulders were firm, and he subsided. The Hospitaller soldier-monk bent to whisper something in Warner’s ear, which was heard with a glittering malice, and then sat next to him on the bench. Geoffrey regarded him coldly.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company today?” asked Hugh blithely, voicing the question in everyone’s mind as to why Courrances had forgone his usual place on the dais near the Advocate to sit with mere knights.

  “I am a monk,” said Courrances with mock humility. “I cannot bear to see signs of friction within the ranks of God’s knights. I am here in His name to keep His peace.”

  Roger snorted loudly, and there were sarcastic sniggers from Bohemond’s men. One or two of the Advocate’s knights came to their feet, but sat again at a glance from Courrances. Geoffrey was impressed at the power of this man, who purported to be a monk, but even now wore the broadsword that the other knights were forbidden to bring into the hall because of past outbreaks of violence. Daggers had been banned too, but this had quickly proved impractical because of the tough nature of most of the food.

  “Any further news of the monk—Loukas—who died yesterday after you and I killed those rioters in the Greek Quarter?” Courrances asked Geoffrey casually. But Geoffrey caught a glitter in his eyes that suggested more than a passing interest. So that was it, Geoffrey thought. He thinks to pump me for information about the murders that Tancred believes threaten the security of the Holy City.

  He shrugged noncommittally and accepted a rock-hard chunk of week-old bread from Roger. “None that you have not heard already, I am sure,” he replied.

  “I heard that John of Sourdeval and a monk were dispatched yesterday,” said d’Aumale, with what Geoffrey thought verged on malicious glee. “One in the house of a harlot, and the other in a church. That makes five murders now.”

  Geoffrey gritted his teeth, unsurprised but resentful, that John’s death should be a source of gossip for men like Warner and d’Aumale.

  “John was not in a brothel,” he said to d’Aumale, his voice cold. “He was in the house of a widow in the Greek quarter.”

  “Oh! A widow!” exclaimed d’Aumale, with a wink at Warner. “That makes it perfectly respectable!”

  “Now you listen here,” began Roger angrily, not fully understanding the irony in d’Aumale’s words, but guessing some slur was being cast on John’s reputation.

  “Sir Warner, Sir Henri,” said Hugh gently. “Our friend is dead, and we grieve for him. Can you not respect our mourning? Do not sully his memory. John was a good man.”

  Warner and d’Aumale exchanged glances but stood to leave. Warner gave Geoffrey a curt nod before heading off to join the Advocate, on the dais. Geoffrey, seeing a fight had been averted after all, sighed and replaced his dagger in its sheath. Gradually, sensing Courrances had successfully averted a skirmish between Geoffrey and Warner in which everyone else would have joined, men began to drift away. Soon, only Courrances, Geoffrey, Hugh, and Roger were left.

  “Be easy, Geoffrey,” said Hugh in a low voice. “Warner has hated you ever since you revealed him for a fool over that business with the Bed
ouins. He would love to fight you—and kill you.”

  “He was on the verge of murdering a handful of children!” retorted Geoffrey, still angry. “Quite apart from the question of ethics—fully armed knights slaying children is not the most chivalrous of acts—it would have been foolish in the extreme. The Bedouin would have dogged our every step through the desert until they found an opportunity to slit our throats as we slept.”

  “I know, I know,” said Hugh soothingly. “No one here doubts that the position you took was the correct one—from the tactical point of view, if not the ethical. And that is precisely why Warner loathes you so.”

  “Aye, lad,” put in Roger. “You made him look like a brainless butcher. Which he is, of course!” he roared with laughter. Geoffrey did not join in.

  “Men like Warner and d’Aumale have no right to speak ill of John,” he said, scowling.

  “True enough,” said Hugh. “But they are only men, and men will inevitably speculate on the manner of John’s death. What was he doing in the Greek quarter in the first place? You must admit, it is curious.”

  “I personally find this whole business most worrying,” said Courrances. Geoffrey jumped. He had forgotten that Courrances was with them, and was unaware that he had been listening to his conversation with Roger and Hugh.

  “So you said yesterday,” Geoffrey said. Masking his discomfiture, he took a piece of goat from a huge bowl proffered by a servant. He inspected the meat carefully and dropped it back again, sickened by the smell of rancid fat. They had been eating goat for weeks now, even on those religious days when the Church claimed meat was to be avoided. Geoffrey hoped men like Roger, who grabbed the lump Geoffrey had discarded in company with another two that looked worse, would hurry up and finish whatever herd had been cheaply purchased by the citadel cook so they could have something else to eat.

  “These deaths are a threat to the very foundation of our rule in this city,” continued Courrances. Geoffrey looked searchingly at him. Tancred had said exactly the same. Perhaps they were right. Courrances met his eyes briefly, and then turned his attention to a futile attempt to pare the gristle from his portion of goat. After a while, he gave up in disgust, and flung it from him toward Geoffrey’s ever-watchful dog. It was neatly intercepted by Roger, whose powerful jaws were not averse to gristle. The dog’s expression changed from gluttonous anticipation, to astonishment, and then to outrage within the space of a moment.

  Courrances leaned across the table toward Geoffrey. “The Advocate is also concerned about these murders. If Bohemond and Tancred are half the statesmen I believe them to be, they will be concerned too.”

  “Your point?” enquired Geoffrey, as Courrances paused.

  “My point,” said Courrances, turning his strange pale eyes on the Englishman, “is that these deaths are a threat to us all, whether Norman or Lorrainer, English or French, knight or monk. We should work together to solve them. I believe they are the work of Moslem fanatics who are aiming to bring us down by devious means, because their armies cannot defeat ours in battle. The Advocate himself thinks that the Patriarch may know more than he is telling, while the Advocate’s brother thinks that the Jews are responsible.”

  “The Jews?” exclaimed Geoffrey. “They are only interested in maintaining as great a distance as possible from us, and who can blame them? They have neither the motive nor the inclination to become involved.”

  “Oh but they do,” said Courrances smoothly. “Few can deny that they were happier, more free, and more prosperous under the control of the Moslems than they are under us. They would be only too pleased to see us ousted and the Moslems back.”

  “That is probably true,” said Geoffrey, “but it does not mean that they would be so foolish as to attempt to bring it about. Their position is far too vulnerable. If they are in any doubt about what our armies are capable of, they only need to think back to the massacre when the city fell.”

  “Ah yes,” said Courrances, “the massacre. Tancred was misguided in trying to offer protection to the infidel. If he had succeeded in his policy of mercy, there would have been more than the occasional knight or priest murdered in the streets by now.”

  Geoffrey said nothing. At Geoffrey’s insistence, Tancred had attempted to save some of Jerusalem’s citizens by gathering them together in a building that flew his standard. But knights and soldiers alike had ignored his orders, and the people who had thrown themselves on Tancred’s mercy had been slaughtered like everyone else. Geoffrey had only realised what had happened when he saw the flames rising from the roof as the bodies were incinerated. Tancred had shrugged stoically when Geoffrey, almost speechless with rage and horror, told him what had happened, and promptly put the matter out of his mind in order to concentrate on the more interesting problem of where to loot first. Geoffrey had argued many times with Courrances about this incident, and neither was prepared to concede the other’s point of view. Discussing it yet again would only serve to make them loathe each other more than they did already, if that were possible.

  “You are something of a scholar, Sir Geoffrey,” Courrances went on. “You know Arabic, I am told, and you have made yourself familiar with some of the customs of the Saracens. I approve.”

  Geoffrey regarded him suspiciously. In the past, Courrances had made no pretence at the scorn with which he held Geoffrey’s predilection for learning about Arab culture.

  “The point is,” said Courrances, leaning so far over the table that the expensive black cloth of his tabard became stained in a pool of spilled grease, “the point is that there are few men here who are suitably equipped to investigate the deaths of these unfortunate men—and John was a friend of yours, after all. You speak Arabic and Greek, and you understand these infidels better than we do. The Advocate would like you to look into the matter.”

  “What?” exclaimed Geoffrey, aghast. “I cannot undertake an investigation for the Advocate! I am in Tancred’s service!”

  Hugh began to laugh softly, shaking his head and jabbing at a rough spot on the table with his dagger. Roger looked puzzled.

  “I know that,” said Courrances soothingly. “But this would be an unofficial matter.”

  “Are you saying the Advocate wishes me to spy for him without Tancred’s knowledge?” asked Geoffrey coldly.

  “Yes,” replied Courrances, his honesty taking the wind from Geoffrey’s indignation. “Because it is in Tancred’s interest to have this matter investigated too. I cannot see that he would object.”

  Geoffrey was thoughtful. There were a number of possible solutions to the case of the murdered men, and investigating them was going to prove difficult, whatever the outcome. If he had the Advocate’s blessing, as well as Tancred’s, the task would be made immeasurably easier. He could report his findings to Tancred first, and discuss with him what the Advocate needed to be told.

  He rubbed his chin and nodded slowly. Courrances gave a quick, almost startled, smile. Geoffrey glanced up to the dais and saw that the Advocate was watching him. For an instant, the eyes of the two men met before the Advocate turned away.

  “Are you insane?” exclaimed Hugh. He gaped at Geoffrey as Courrances left to rejoin the august company on the high table. “How can you ally yourself with the Advocate? You are Tancred’s man! What will he say when he hears of this?”

  “He will know I am acting in the best way to serve him,” said Geoffrey calmly.

  Roger eyed him with amusement. “So that was where you went last night, lad! Off to see Tancred when all good men slept the sleep of the just.”

  “Not you, apparently, if you saw me leave,” retorted Geoffrey.

  “Is it true?” demanded Hugh. “Has Tancred asked you to act as his agent to discover the truth behind these murders?”

  Geoffrey nodded. “But you are not the first to guess, evidently. Whoever left the dagger and the pig’s heart in my chamber also knew what I have been charged to do.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Back in his chamber, Geo
ffrey pondered the information contained on the scroll Tancred had given him. He sprawled in the window seat, feet propped up against the wall opposite, tapping the parchment thoughtfully with his forefinger. Roger lounged across the bed, paring his nails with his dagger, while Hugh sat on the bench plucking tunelessly at a lute Geoffrey had chosen from the sack of Antioch. The door was firmly closed, and Helbye had been given instructions to allow no one near it. Geoffrey’s dog flopped on the stone floor in a vain attempt to cool itself down, and the sounds of its agitated panting filled the room.

  “Tell us again,” said Roger. “This heat is dulling my brain.”

  “It was dull long before the heat got to it,” muttered Hugh. Roger flung a mailed glove at him, which was retrieved by the dog and returned in the hope of an edible reward.

  “The two knights—Guido and John—were in Bohemond’s service,” Geoffrey began. “The dead monks were Jocelyn, a Benedictine from Conques in France; Pius, a Cluniac from Ripoll in Spain; and Loukas, a Greek. The monks have no connections with each other as far as is known, and they were found in random locations around the city. The only common factor between all five is that they were killed with carved Arab daggers.”

  “I cannot see another connection between them,” said Hugh. “Although I suppose there must be one.” He sighed. “Lord, Geoffrey, what have you let yourself in for this time? This is nothing like the matter of those thefts you solved, you know. Then, the culprit was no one of consequence and he was conveniently dispatched and forgotten. God only knows who might be involved in this business.”

  Geoffrey nodded. He, too, was already having misgivings about becoming embroiled in the matter. It boded ill that the Advocate considered it of sufficient importance that he would consider recruiting an agent whose allegiance lay with another, and anything that secured the interest of Edouard de Courrances was bound to have some sinister twist. But Tancred had gone to some pains to ensure Geoffrey performed this duty willingly. Tancred was a good general, and allowed Geoffrey considerable freedom to use his own judgement, a privilege that neither the Advocate nor Bohemond granted their knights. Geoffrey knew Tancred would applaud Geoffrey’s acceptance of the Advocate’s commission, since it would grant him access to far more places than Tancred’s authority would allow.