The prisoners reached the ring, where they were lined up before Reynald. He examined the four men for a moment, then placed himself in front of the huge Saracen. The other prisoners were led off to the side, where they stood shifting their weight as they eyed the menacing crowd around them. Meanwhile, Reynald had retreated to the edge of the ring and grabbed a sword. He threw it at the feet of the giant Saracen, who picked it up cautiously, as if he feared some trick.
‘Ernaut, you hairy oaf!’ Reynald yelled. ‘This fat-arse is yours.’
Ernaut pulled on his helmet and stepped forth to face his adversary. As Ernaut drew his sword, Reynald turned the hour-glass. An excited clamour went up from the crowd as bets were laid on how long it would take Ernaut to dispatch the Saracen. A few men even took the long odds and bet on the Saracen to win. There was little chance of that. Ernaut was not quite as tall as the Saracen, but he was even broader. And whereas the Saracen had nothing but his sword to protect him, Ernaut
carried a shield and wore full-length chainmail with plating on the chest.
‘Two coppers on Ernaut in under one turn!’ Rabbit shouted, waving the coins.
‘I’ll take that,’ a man behind him called.
Rabbit turned to face John. ‘Aren’t you going to bet?’ John shook his head. A fair fight was one thing, but he had little taste for this sort of blood sport. He had come to the Holy Land for redemption, not for this.
Ernaut stepped towards the centre of the ring, and the crowd whistled and jeered as the Saracen backed away. The men surrounding the ring drew their swords, poking at the Saracen and forcing him back into the centre of the ring, where Ernaut waited. As the Saracen inched forward, Ernaut launched an attack, thrusting for the huge man’s unprotected middle. But the Saracen was quicker than he looked. He parried Ernaut’s thrust, spun away and slashed at Ernaut, who barely raised his shield in time to deflect the blow. The crowd roared as the two men separated. John looked to the glass, which was nearly a quarter empty.
‘Finish him!’ someone yelled. Others who had bet on a quick end to the fight took up the cry. With a roar, Ernaut raised his sword over his head and charged, bringing his blade down in a deadly arc. At the last second the Saracen sidestepped the blow and with a cry of triumph slashed at Ernaut’s unguarded side. The blow should have killed him, but instead it glanced off his armour. Ernaut spun and struck out, catching the huge Saracen in the neck. The man dropped his sword and fell to his knees, blood gurgling in his throat. Then he dropped face first and lay unmoving, his blood pouring out to stain the dusty earth red. There were cheers and curses from the crowd as men settled up their bets. Reynald grabbed Ernaut’s hand and raised it high. ‘The victor!’ he roared. ‘A skin of my best wine for Ernaut tonight!’
Whilst the crowd cheered, John stepped forward and picked
up the dead Saracen’s sword, testing the blade with his thumb. His suspicions were confirmed; the blade had been dulled. It would not cut through hardened leather, much less chainmail. The Saracen had been given no chance.
‘Give that here, Saxon,’ Reynald said, and John handed the sword over. Reynald turned again to the crowd. ‘Bring the next prisoner! The skinny one!’
The lanky Saracen was matched against Tybaut, the old bull of a man who had fought in the first crusade. Tybaut made short work of his opponent, parrying the young Saracen’s clumsy first strike and dispatching him with a quick counter-blow to the chest. The older Saracen was next, and Reynald fought the man himself. The Muslim warrior was a confident swordsman, and at first the fight seemed even as he and Reynald traded blows. But the Saracen’s limp made him a step slow. When Reynald pressed his attack, the Saracen stumbled, lowering his guard. He was standing just in front of John when Reynald finished him with a vicious blow, nearly decapitating the Saracen and spraying John with gore.
John wiped the blood from his face and looked at his hand, smeared with red. He closed his eyes as memories surged up inside him: his brother’s shocked face; the pommel of their father’s sword, engraved with the head of a lion; John’s own face and hands wet with hot blood. He turned away from the ring and started to push his way through the crowd.
‘You! Saxon!’ Reynald called. ‘Where do you think you’re going? It’s your turn.’
John stopped. Around him the men stepped back, opening a path back to the ring. John stood clenching and unclenching his fists as he struggled with his dark memories. Perhaps this was how God had decided he would pay his blood debt; here, against this Saracen. He turned and strode back to the ring.
Rabbit’s nose twitched nervously as he presented John with his helmet. ‘Keep it,’ John said as he shed his shield. ‘And help me with my armour.’ Rabbit helped pull off the heavy coat of
chainmail. John removed his tunic too, so that now he wore only his leather breeches and boots. His bare chest was already glistening with sweat under the intense sun. John drew his sword and stepped into the ring where the battle-scarred Saracen stood waiting for him.
Reynald stepped in front of John. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he hissed.
‘I’ll fight him fairly, or I won’t fight,’ John replied. Reynald looked from John to his opponent. John was lean and fit, but he was still smooth-faced, barely a man. His opponent was an experienced warrior, broad-chested and thickly muscled. Reynald shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off. ‘Like you said, he’s only a Saracen, flesh and blood. I’ll handle him.’
‘I like you, Saxon. I hope you live.’ Reynald stepped away, leaving John to face his opponent.
The Saracen swung his sword from side to side, testing its weight, and then stood still, his blade held low. John raised his own sword, holding it with both hands. His heart pounded in his chest, and sweat trickled down his face. He could hear men shouting in the crowd. ‘Five on the Saracen!’ ‘The Saracen in one turn of the sands!’ ‘Get on with it, bath-boy!’ Others began to shout his name, and gradually their voices merged into a chant: ‘Saxon! Saxon! Saxon!’
John took a step towards his opponent, and the Saracen moved sideways. John pivoted in the middle of the ring, while the Saracen circled around him. A drop of sweat stung John’s eye, and he blinked. Instantly, the Saracen attacked, his sword sweeping up from the ground and towards John’s groin. John parried, but no sooner had he blocked the blow than the Saracen spun away and launched another slicing attack at John’s head. John ducked the blade, but a moment later his face exploded in pain as the Saracen’s knee connected with his jaw. John stumbled backwards, stunned, and barely managed to deflect a wicked thrust aimed at his gut. The Saracen resumed circling.
John stood in the centre of the ring, breathing hard. His jaw was on fire, and he worked it side to side to make sure nothing was broken. The Saracen continued to circle, his sword pointed down towards the earth. John had never faced someone who fought like this: always spinning and circling. He had been trained to fight head-on, in a line. He thought back to the countless hours he had spent in practice with his father. John could hear the gravelly voice in his head: ‘Keep your distance, find a pattern, break him down.’
The Saracen attacked again, slicing up towards John’s face. John raised his sword, but at the last second the Saracen shifted his attack, cutting back down at John’s waist. John jumped backwards, and the tip of the blade missed him by inches. He chopped down at the Saracen, but the man was already spinning away. John’s sword bit into the dirt, and he barely brought it up in time to block a vicious blow aimed at his chest. The two swords locked, bringing him close to his opponent. The Saracen head-butted John in the face, sending him reeling backwards. John raised his sword to fend off another attack, but the Saracen had moved away, circling again.
John licked his lower lip and tasted blood, metallic and salty. His jaw clenched as anger rose in him, driving away the fear, the pain, and the sound of the chanting crowd until there was only him and his opponent. ‘Bastard!’ he snarled as he raised his sword and sprang forward, slashing at the Saracen’s side. The Saracen parried and spun away, swinging for John’s head as he did so. But this time John anticipated the move. He dropped to one knee to avoid the blade, then lunged forward, driving his sword at the Saracen’s gut. The Saracen just managed to deflect the blow, but not entirely. John’s blade slid past and sliced his adversary’s side, leaving a ragged crimson gash.
John stepped back, and this time he was the one to begin circling. His opponent, a grimace of pain on his face, stood holding his sword in one hand and clutching his side with the other, bright blood oozing between his fingers. John charged
forward, stabbing at the Saracen’s chest. The Saracen parried, knocking John’s sword aside, and John reversed his blow immediately, swinging for his opponent’s neck. The Saracen ducked the attack and lunged at John, who sidestepped the blow and brought his sword down hard, knocking the Saracen’s blade from his hand. John kicked the sword away and stood facing his defeated foe. The Saracen sank to his knees, waiting for the blow that would finish him. John raised his sword, and as his anger faded, the roar of the crowd came rushing back to him. ‘Kill him!’ someone yelled. ‘Finish him!’
John hesitated. Honour and mercy, the virtues of a warrior: that was what his father had taught him. He had not come to the Holy Land to place more blood on his head. He lowered his sword and stepped away. ‘I spare you.’ The crowd booed.
‘Very chivalrous of you,’ Reynald said as he stepped past John. In one smooth motion, he drew his sword and brought it down on the captive’s neck, killing him instantly. The crowd roared its approval as Reynald hacked down again and again, severing the man’s head from his body. Reynald picked up the head and threw it to the cheering crowd. Then he turned back to John and put his arm around his shoulders. ‘You’re brave, Saxon; a man after my own heart. What’s your real name?’
‘Iain, my lord. Iain of Tatewic.’
Reynald frowned. ‘That’s no name for a knight.’ Franks could never get their mouths around ‘Iain.’
‘John, sir. You can call me John.’
‘Very well, then, John. You will come to the castle with me tonight, and you will meet our King.’
John spurred his horse as he followed Reynald into the courtyard of the palace of the King of Jerusalem. Reynald was dressed in leather breeches and a handsome green silk tunic. John wore his chainmail and crusader’s surcoat: the only clothes he owned that were fit for the occasion. They dismounted, handed their
reins to the waiting servants and headed for an arched doorway at the far side of the courtyard.
A sentry at the door blocked their way. ‘Your swords, milords.’
‘The High Council meets tonight,’ Reynald explained to John as he unbuckled his sword belt. ‘Everyone of any importance will be here: the Patriarch of Jerusalem and the archbishops of Caesarea and Nazareth; the Grand Masters of the Temple and the Hospital; the Kings of Jerusalem, Tripoli, France and the Holy Roman Empire, along with their leading nobles. If tempers get out of hand – and they inevitably will – then it is best that no one be armed.’
John handed over his sword and followed Reynald through a wide doorway and into the great hall. He stopped, dumbstruck. Thick, stone pillars – torches mounted in brackets affixed to their sides – ran down either side of the space, supporting a vaulted roof so high that the ceiling disappeared in the darkness. Chairs had been set up in the wide spaces between the pillars. They were filled with bishops in their robes, German and Frankish lords in simple linen tunics, and armoured Templar and Hospitaller commanders, all with their men standing behind them. In the centre of the hall the floor was thickly carpeted with rugs decorated in a dizzying profusion of geometric patterns. But all of this was as nothing compared to the finery of the men and women at the far end of the hall. The flickering torchlight glimmered against gold embroidery, flashed off rings sporting enormous rubies and amethysts, and shimmered on silk caftans in rich red, saffron yellow, bright green and deep sea-blue. At the centre of this luxury were a middle-aged woman and a young man, seated side by side on gilt thrones. The woman, dressed in scarlet silk and wearing a crown of interwoven strands of gold, had wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but her long black hair had not a touch of grey. Her jaw was firmly set and her eyes were a piercing blue. The man, who wore blue silk and a heavier gold crown, looked to be half
her age. He had a florid complexion, straight hair the colour of straw and a full beard of the same colour. He sat rigidly straight, repeatedly licking his lips.
‘They dress like bloody Saracens, don’t they?’ Reynald whispered. ‘That is King Baldwin of Jerusalem and his mother, Queen Melisende. Baldwin’s a good man, but don’t let his finery fool you. He and Melisende have been hounding our King Louis for money like two Jews. There’s our king, there.’ Reynald gestured to a youthful man in linen breeches and a green linen tunic fringed with silk. His long chestnut hair and thick beard disguised a rather weak chin. But what caught John’s eye was the woman on the king’s left. She was a beauty, with flawless alabaster skin, sharp cheekbones and long auburn hair that curled at the end. She glanced in John’s direction, and he saw that her eyes were of darkest amber. He looked away, embarrassed.
‘Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine,’ Reynald said with a smirk. He lowered his voice. ‘They say the slut has been sleeping with her uncle, Raymond of Antioch, that man there.’ He pointed across the hall to a handsome, square-jawed man with sparkling blue eyes. ‘I’m more interested in Eleanor’s cousin, Constance,’ Reynald continued, pointing past Raymond to a rather plump woman with a pug nose and close-set eyes. ‘She is the heir to Antioch. Whoever marries her will have his own kingdom.’ He paused. ‘Now come, let me introduce you to our king.’
Reynald led the way across the hall and bowed low before King Louis. John did the same. ‘I trust that everything is in place for tonight, Reynald?’ Louis asked. ‘You have Baldwin’s answer?’
‘I do indeed, sire. He is with us.’