Kingdom Read online

  Also by Jack Hight

  Siege

  Eagle

  Kingdom

  Book Two of the Saladin Trilogy

  JACK HIGHT

  www.johnmurray.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by John Murray

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Jack Hight 2012

  The right of Jack Hight to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Maps drawn by Rosie Collins

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-84854-532-8

  John Murray

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.johnmurray.co.uk

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Jack Hight

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Maps

  Part I: Kingdom of the Nile

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part II: The Will of Allah

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Historical Note

  For my grandparents,

  Jack and Patsy, Tom and Jean

  Part I

  Kingdom of the Nile

  Egypt, garden of the Nile. In those days it was weak after years of misrule – viziers betraying one another for power while the caliphs withdrew into luxurious seclusion. Egypt was weak but still rich. The Nile brought trade from the heart of Africa and nourished abundant crops, all of which fed the coffers of the caliph in Cairo. The Kingdom of the Nile was a fruit ripe for the plucking, and Crusader and Saracen alike longed to take it. Whoever controlled Egypt would eventually control the Holy Land. King Amalric in Jerusalem knew this. So did Nur ad-Din, the King of Syria. And so did Saladin …

  The Chronicle of Yahya al-Dimashqi

  Chapter 1

  OCTOBER 1163: JERUSALEM

  John’s head jerked to the side as he was slapped. He blinked awake to the taste of blood in his mouth and looked about trying to orient himself, then groaned as the excruciating pain in his shoulders washed over him. He was still stretched out on the rack, his feet tied down at one end, his bound hands stretched too far above his head. He looked to the crank on his right. Its every turn stretched his hands and feet a little further apart. He must have fainted after the last turn. Past the crank he could see a small square window set high up in a stone wall. The light filtering through was dim. He was sure it had been day just a moment ago. How long had he been unconscious? As he watched, a hand grabbed and turned the crank. John howled as he felt his shoulders starting to dislocate. His vision dimmed and then someone slapped him again. His eyes blinked open to see Heraclius leaning over him.

  The priest had an almost feminine beauty, with high cheekbones, a thin nose and full lips. His deep-set eyes – as blue as the turquoise waters of Acre Harbour on the day years ago when John had first arrived in the Holy Land – narrowed slightly as they studied his victim. The priest smiled, betraying a grim satisfaction at the suffering he had wrought. ‘Stay with me, Saxon,’ he purred in heavily accented Latin. Heraclius was a half-educated country priest from the wild Auvergne in France, and he had a peasant’s love of cruelty. He leaned forward to whisper in John’s ear. ‘Tell me, why did you fight for the Saracens? Why did you betray the Cross?’

  ‘I never betrayed the Faith,’ John growled through gritted teeth.

  ‘Liar!’ Heraclius hissed. ‘You killed your fellow Christians. You served the infidel, the forces of Satan.’ Heraclius placed his hand on the crank. John flinched. But the priest did not turn the crank; he made a show of studying it, running his finger lightly over its handle. ‘The rack is a dreadful thing. A few more turns and your arms will be pulled from their sockets. You will be crippled, unable to lift a sword ever again.’ He bent over so that his breath was hot on John’s face. Their eyes met. ‘You spent many years in Aleppo, Saxon. You know its fortifications, its weaknesses. Tell me: how can we take the city?’

  ‘I have told you. It will take a siege of many months. You will have to starve the people out.’

  ‘No! There must be a secret entrance, a weak point.’ John shook his head. ‘I see.’ Heraclius sighed and then straightened. When he spoke again it was in a louder voice, as if he were delivering a homily in church. ‘All that happens is part of God’s plan, Saxon, even your faithlessness. It was He who determined that the infidels would capture you; that you would betray Him by serving them. And it was God who delivered you into my hands. Do you know why? Because you have come to know our enemy, their cities, their people, their walls. You have been sent to us by God as the key to their destruction.’

  ‘You are wasting your time. I know no secrets.’

  ‘We shall see. Perhaps we simply need to find new ways to motivate you. Pepin! Bring the coals.’

  John twisted his head to the side and saw a brawny, square-faced guard approaching, his hands wrapped in cloth. He carried a shallow bronze dish containing a layer of smouldering coals. He set the dish on the table beside the rack. Heraclius took a pair of pincers and selected a chestnut-sized coal. He held it just inches from John’s bare stomach and then moved it up past John’s chest towards his face. John tried to twist his head away, but Pepin grabbed hold of his ears, holding him still. Heraclius held the coal just above the bridge of John’s nose. The heat was intense – like the blast from an oven – and within moments John felt as if his forehead were on fire. An acrid smell filled the room as his eyebrows began to singe. Heraclius bent close so that his face was lit red by the glowing coal. ‘Tell me about your master, this Yusuf.’

  John swallowed. ‘He is Emir of Tell Bashir. His father is the governor of Damascus and his uncle, Shirkuh, commands the armies of the Saracen king.’

  ‘And how did you come to be in his service?’

  ‘I came to the Holy Land with the Second Crusade. I was captured at Damascus and purchased by Yusuf as a slave. He was only a boy then.’

  ‘You saved his life at the battle of Butaiha. Why?’

  John hesitated, his eyes fixed on the burning coal. ‘Yusuf is my friend.’

  ‘He is an infidel!’

  John looked away from the coal and met Heraclius’s eyes. ‘He is the best man I have ever known.’

  ‘I see.’ Heraclius turned away and dropped the coal back into the dish. John exhaled. ‘Oh, I am not done with you,’ the priest said. ‘Not yet.’ He nodded to Pepin, who placed the coals on a shelf just beneath John’s feet. At first the warmth was almost pleasant, but then John’s feet grew uncomfortably hot, as if he had set them too long beside a fire. He twitched, trying to jerk himself away, but his arms were still stretched to breaking point, and the motion caused a spasm of pain in his left shoulder. He lay
still and squeezed his eyes shut, his teeth grinding as he fought against the burning in his feet. He thought he could feel blisters starting to form on his heels. And then the heat was gone. Pepin had removed the dish of coals. A moment later Heraclius’s face reappeared above him.

  ‘What of Nur ad-Din, the Saracen king? You met him, yes?’ John nodded. ‘How is he protected? Could an assassin reach him?’

  ‘In camp he is surrounded by the mamluks of his private guard. In Aleppo he rarely leaves the citadel. No assassin could reach him alive.’

  ‘Do you swear it?’

  John nodded. ‘By Christ’s blood.’

  ‘We shall see.’ Heraclius gestured to Pepin, who replaced the dish of coals.

  The pain came more quickly this time. John’s entire body tensed and he began to squirm despite the pain in his shoulders. To keep from shouting, he bit his tongue so hard that it began to bleed. Heraclius watched impassively. John could smell burning flesh – his own. ‘I speak the truth!’ he shouted. ‘What do you want from me, you bastard? What do you want me to say?’

  ‘There, there. I believe you,’ Heraclius soothed. He frowned. ‘I was wrong. You are not the key to defeating the Saracens. Pepin, take the coals away.’

  The heat vanished. Heraclius fetched a wet cloth, with which he gently dabbed John’s feet. The relief was so overwhelming that John almost fainted. ‘Thank God,’ he murmured.

  ‘Do not thank him yet,’ Heraclius said. ‘Your suffering has just begun.’

  ‘But you said you believe me!’

  ‘And I do.’ Heraclius set the wet cloth aside. He crossed the room and paused before a table covered with instruments of torture: thumbscrews, hooks for tearing flesh, metal claws known as Spanish ticklers, and other devices whose use John hoped he would never learn. The priest picked up one of these last objects, a pear-shaped metal contraption with a wing nut at the top. ‘Now that we have discovered what you know, I must see to your salvation. Your time amongst the infidels has stained your soul. We must wash it clean.’ As he began to turn the wing nut the pear expanded, four separate pieces of metal spreading out. ‘You must suffer for betraying the faith. It is the only way to find salvation.’ The priest nodded to Pepin. ‘Hold his mouth open. He shall pay the price for breaking his crusader’s oath.’

  John clenched his mouth shut, but Pepin grabbed his lower jaw with one hand and pulled back on his nose with the other. The second John’s mouth opened, Heraclius shoved in the pear. It tasted of metal and blood. Heraclius gave the wing nut a twist and the pear expanded slightly, forcing John’s mouth to open wider. John gagged and coughed. He jerked his head side to side, trying to spit the pear out, but Pepin grabbed him by the ears and held him still.

  Heraclius’s eyes betrayed an eager excitement as he watched John squirm. ‘The pear of anguish is an ingenious piece of work, especially useful for punishing blasphemers and oath breakers. First, your jaw will dislocate.’ Heraclius gave the wing nut another twist, forcing John’s jaws further apart so that they began to ache. ‘Then the skin of your mouth will tear, disfiguring you.’ He gave another twist. John’s jaw felt as if it were going to snap. His fingernails dug into his palms as he fought the pain. ‘If I expand the pear all the way, then you will never lie again: you will be unable to speak.’

  Heraclius reached out to give the wing nut another turn, but stopped at the sound of booted feet approaching. A dozen soldiers in mail entered the torture chamber, a tonsured priest in black robes at their head. John recognized the priest; it was William of Tyre, who John had met long ago when he first came to the Holy Land.

  ‘Stop!’ William demanded. ‘Leave that man be!’

  Heraclius turned. ‘The Patriarch turned the Saxon over to me. You have no authority here, William.’

  ‘I have the King’s backing and the King’s men. That man is a noble. If he is to suffer then he must first stand trial before his peers.’

  ‘The Saxon killed our men. He threw his lot in with the infidel Saracens. He must be made to suffer if he is to be redeemed!’ Heraclius reached again for the wing nut at the end of the pear.

  ‘Stop him!’

  Two guards grabbed Heraclius’s arms and pulled him away. William went to the rack and pulled a lever, releasing the tension on the ropes that bound John’s hands and feet. The guards removed the pear and began to untie John’s bonds. He groaned in relief as he gingerly flexed his arms and legs, and then gasped as a stab of pain shot through his left shoulder. William helped him to sit up just in time for John to see Heraclius being dragged from the room by two soldiers. At the door Heraclius managed to shrug them off. He turned to face John and William.

  ‘This is not the end!’ Heraclius spat. ‘The Saxon betrayed his oath. I will see that he goes before the High Court. And mark my words, William: he will burn!’

  John awoke to the sound of a door creaking. He blinked against the bright light streaming in from a window above his bed. Yesterday, after his feet had been bandaged, he had been carried to this tiny room in the compound of the Knights Hospitaller. Overcome with exhaustion and pain, he had passed out as soon as they laid him in his bed.

  Now he stretched out and rolled over, away from the wall. The door to the room was open and a lean young man in monk’s brown robes stood in the corner. The monk was clean-shaven and tonsured, and had sunken cheeks, a weak chin and protruding eyes. He reminded John of a praying mantis. He was sniffing at the contents of the bronze chamber pot. ‘His black bile is weak,’ the monk murmured to himself.

  ‘Who are you?’ John sat up, wincing at the pain in his left shoulder.

  The monk looked up from the chamber pot. ‘Ah, you are awake. Good. My name is Deodatus, and I am a doctor. Father William has sent me to tend to you.’ He approached and nodded towards John’s feet. ‘May I?’

  John swung himself around so his feet hung off the bed. Deodatus began to unwrap the bandages. The soles of John’s feet were covered in angry, red blisters that oozed a sticky, clear fluid. Deodatus touched one of the blisters, and John winced in pain. ‘Your flesh is hot. Your humours are out of balance,’ the doctor said gravely. ‘I understand you were subjected to the rack?’

  ‘Yes. I cannot move my left arm without pain.’

  The doctor grasped John’s left wrist with one hand and placed his other hand on John’s shoulder. As Deodatus lifted the arm, a stabbing pain shot through John’s shoulder, as if a white-hot iron had been plunged into the joint. ‘’Sblood!’ John cursed through clenched teeth.

  Deodatus shook his head and then went to a small, leather-bound trunk. He took out a handful of dried roots, a mortar and a pestle. He murmured the Pater Noster as he ground the root to powder.

  ‘What is that?’ John asked.

  ‘Daffodil root for the burns on your feet. It will draw the heat out.’ The doctor finished grinding the root and went to the chamber pot, from which he scooped out some faeces. John’s eyes widened as the doctor placed the faeces in the mortar and mixed it in with the daffodil root. The doctor approached the bed with the foul-smelling mixture.

  John drew back his feet. ‘Keep that away from me!’

  ‘The faeces will help to restore your black bile,’ Deodatus assured him.

  John’s nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘Do you have any aloe?’

  The doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘Aloe?’

  ‘A plant. It helps to cure burns. The doctor Ibn Jumay says—’

  ‘A Jewish doctor?’ Deodatus huffed. ‘His medicine will send you to the grave.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances with Jewish medicine. Keep that shit away from my feet.’

  ‘Very well. But you are still too sanguine. I must bleed you to reduce your heat.’

  ‘No,’ John replied firmly. ‘You will not.’

  Deodatus spread his hands. ‘If you will not accept my aid then I cannot be responsible for the consequences. At least allow me to treat your shoulder. I fear the damage will fester, drawing foul humours to it.’ Deodatus reached in
to his trunk and pulled out a short saw. He tested the blade with his thumb. ‘The arm must come off.’ Deodatus stepped over to the bed. He gripped John’s shoulder and brought the saw blade down towards the joint. ‘This will hurt.’

  ‘Yes, it will.’ John grabbed the doctor’s cowl, pulled him forward and head-butted him. Deodatus stumbled back, his eyes wide and his nose dripping blood.

  ‘You’re mad! You’ll die if I don’t take the arm.’

  ‘Then I’ll die. If you touch my arm again, you’ll join me.’

  ‘Damned fool,’ Deodatus muttered as he hurriedly closed up his trunk and tucked it under his arm. ‘God help you!’ On the way out he bumped into William.

  William watched the doctor go and then turned to John, eyebrows raised. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The man is a quack. He doesn’t know the first thing about medicine.’

  ‘But that is the court physician!’

  ‘A quack,’ John repeated. William looked as if he would pursue the matter, but then shrugged. John met his gaze. ‘I owe you my thanks. Were it not for you, I would still be in that dungeon.’

  ‘I did not do it for you. You may be of some use to us. But first we must save you from the hangman’s noose. The High Court meets tomorrow to hear your case. I will defend you.’

  ‘Why? All that Heraclius says is true. I chose to fight for the Saracens.’

  ‘I do not share Heraclius’s belief that suffering is the only road to salvation. Whatever sins you have committed, you should be given the chance to redeem them in service of the Kingdom. But if I am to defend you, I must know the truth. How did you come to be in the service of the Saracens?’

  John closed his eyes, his mind racing back to his first days in the Holy Land. ‘I came as a soldier with the Second Crusade. I was captured at the siege of Damascus and purchased by Najm ad-Din Ayub, now the wali – the governor – of Damascus. I served as a household slave and then as the personal servant of Ayub’s son, Yusuf. After I saved his life, he freed me.’

  ‘And why did you not return to your people?’