The eunuch straightened, and a trace of his old arrogance returned as he met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘The Hashashin never fail. You can kill me, but you will join me soon enough. I will-’
Gumushtagin’s eyes widened as Yusuf drove the point of his sword into his gut. The eunuch fell forward on to his hands and knees, moaning in pain and spitting blood. Yusuf raised his sword and brought it down on the back of Gumushtagin’s neck. He wiped the blade on the eunuch’s tunic and handed it back to Qaraqush. Then he raised his voice to address the crowd. ‘Come. We have much to celebrate.’
Chapter 21
JULY 1176: JERUSALEM
A fat bee buzzed through the air and landed on the sleeve of John’s tunic. Its antennae wavered and then it flew off, back towards the herbs and flowers at the centre of the small cloister of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. In the belfry tower on the far side of the church the bells began to toll, calling the faithful to Sunday Morning Mass. John stepped back into the deep shadows of the colonnade that surrounded the cloister. The stone was cold beneath his bare feet.
A vicar on his way to the sanctuary entered the cloister and passed John without noticing him. Two canons followed. John’s stomach tensed and he tightened his grip on the dagger in his hand. He was waiting for Heraclius. William had forbidden John to go to Caesarea, but now Heraclius had come to him. The archbishop was in town, staying in the patriarch’s palace. He would pass through the cloister on his way to Mass.
John heard the approach of booted feet. Four knights of the Holy Sepulchre stepped into the cloister, trailed by the patriarch and Heraclius. John let them pass and then followed, moving silently on his bare feet. He need not have taken the precaution of removing his sandals, for the bells were still ringing, their tolling drowning out all other sound. He crept after Heraclius into a shadowy hallway. On the right-hand wall was a narrow staircase; the night stair, which gave the canons easy access to the sanctuary for late night prayers. The guards marched up the stair in single file, followed by the patriarch. Heraclius had just put a foot on the bottom stair when John grabbed him from behind, clamped a hand over his mouth and slammed the butt of his dagger into Heraclius’s temple. The archbishop went limp, and John slung him over his shoulder and carried him from the room.
He hurried as he crossed the paved courtyard of the central cloister and slipped into the canon’s dormitory. He passed the vicars’ beds — pallets of straw, separated by wooden screens — and took a narrow staircase down to a long underground hallway with rooms opening off on either side. He stepped into a small square chamber, the only furniture a trunk and a chair lit by light filtering through a window high on the far wall. John placed Heraclius in the chair. He shut the door and then took rope from the trunk and tied Heraclius down at the wrists and ankles. John retrieved a bucket of water from the corner of the room and poured it on the archbishop’s head.
‘Strewth!’ Heraclius spluttered as he started awake. He looked about at the bare-walled room, then to John. ‘John? Where am I?’ He tried to rise, only to find that he was tied down. ‘Release me at once!’
John turned his back on Heraclius and went to the chest. He rooted about inside, pulling out a series of horrifying torture implements — knotted whips, spikes, hooks — before tossing them back in the chest.
‘Do you hear me?’ Heraclius screamed. ‘Release me! Guards! Guards! Help!’
‘No one will hear you,’ John told him. ‘They are all at Mass.’ He found what he was looking for: a pear of anguish. He took the device out and turned to face Heraclius.
The archbishop blanched. ‘What are you doing?’ There was panic in his voice. ‘If you dare touch me, I’ll have you burned. Release me at once. Release me!’
‘I have a few questions first.’
‘Who are you to question me?’ Heraclius demanded, but his voice shook. ‘I am an archbishop. I answer only to the Patriarch and to God.’
John brought the pear closer. He had taken the wicked device from the palace dungeon. It was the same one the priest had once used on him. ‘You will answer to me, Heraclius. I am sure of it. If you answer truthfully, you shall go free. If not-’ John twisted the wing nut on top of the pear so that it expanded slightly. ‘Did you kill King Amalric?’
‘That is preposterous!’
‘Reynald told me that he killed the poison dealer Jalal at your bidding. The poison Jalal prepared was used to murder Amalric. The King was not dead a year before you were made archbishop of Caesarea.’ John leaned close, so that his face was only inches from Heraclius’s. ‘It all points to you as the murderer.’
‘I do not know what you are talking about.’
‘Wrong answer.’
John grabbed Heraclius’s chin and tried to force his mouth open, but the archbishop clenched his jaw shut. John pinched his nose closed. Heraclius’s face shaded red, and finally he opened his mouth to breath. John tried to shove the pear inside, but failed as Heraclius jerked his head to the side. John dropped the pear and drew his dagger. He held it close to Heraclius’s face. The archbishop went still.
‘If you continue to struggle, I will have your nose, Heraclius. And if you do not answer true, you will suffer the pear of anguish. If you will not take it in your mouth, then there are other places I can introduce it. Do you understand?’
Heraclius nodded. He was wide-eyed with fear.
‘Good. We shall begin again. Did you kill Amalric?’
‘No.’
John pressed the flat of his dagger against the side of Heraclius’s nose. ‘I told you the price of lying, Heraclius.’
‘No! Please! I speak the truth!’
‘You had Reynald kill the poison merchant. Why?’
‘Because-’ Heraclius swallowed. ‘Because I purchased the poison. But I did not use it! I swear it!’
‘Who did? Who did you give it to?’
‘Agnes.’
John stepped back as if he had been struck. Agnes. She had lied to him. John felt the blood begin to pound in his temples. He stepped back and sheathed his dagger. He placed the pear of anguish back in the small trunk, which he shut and placed under his arm. He went to the door.
‘Wait!’ Heraclius screamed. ‘You said you would free me.’
‘Mass will be over soon. If you yell loudly enough, I am sure one of the canons will find you before the day is through.’
John deposited the trunk in his cell and went straight to the palace. Once Heraclius was found, there would be a price to pay. He had to speak with the king first. The guards posted at the door to the king’s apartments barred his way. ‘The King is occupied.’
John pulled an old scrap of paper from his pocket. It was a list of things William had asked him to purchase at market last week. ‘I have important news from our spies in Damascus,’ he lied. ‘I must see the King.’
The guards made a show of examining the scrap of paper, but John knew that neither of them could read. After a moment they waved him inside. The curtains were drawn, and the king’s receiving room was dim but for the light cast by a low fire in the hearth. John closed the door quietly and stopped in the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust. The king sat in a chair close to the fire. His malady left him cold, even in the heat of summer. Agnes sat across from him, her back to the door. Baldwin’s sister Sibylla stood by the curtained window. She was sixteen, and John had heard that since leaving the convent of Saint Lazarus to live in the palace, she had been caught in bed with no less than three men. It was said she was now forced to wear a chastity belt, and that only Agnes held the key. Sibylla was plucking the petals from a pink rose. No one had noticed John’s presence.
‘He is a good match,’ Agnes was saying. ‘The son of the Marquis of Montferrat. He will bring us powerful allies.’
‘He is a Provencal who cannot speak French properly,’ Sibylla protested. ‘I will not understand a word he is saying.’