Free Kingdom by Jack Hight

This was the key moment of the ceremony. John placed his folded hands between those of the patriarch, who spoke in a low voice: ‘Do you promise me and my successors reverence and obedience?’
    John hesitated. If he agreed, he would become the patriarch’s man, just as he had once been Yusuf’s man, and Reynald’s before that. He swallowed, and said loudly, ‘I promise.’
    ‘As canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, do you promise to live a life of chastity, consecrated to God and without private property?’
    ‘I promise.’
    The patriarch, still holding John’s hands in his own, leaned forward and kissed John on the right cheek. ‘The peace of the Lord be always with you, my son.’
    ‘Amen.’
    ‘My dear son, ponder well the order you have taken and the burden laid on your shoulders. Strive to lead a holy and devout life, and to please almighty God, that you may obtain His grace. May He in His kindness deign to bestow it on you.’
    The patriarch released his hands. John rose and went to sit in his choir stall as a full member of the chapter of canons. He had come to the Holy Land years ago searching for redemption, and surely he had found it. His life now belonged to God.
    John sat in the chancellery, a small room dominated by an oak desk covered in scrolls. He unrolled one of them. It was a list of tax revenues from the town of Ramlah. Keeping track of taxes and landholdings was not so interesting as John’s work tutoring Prince Baldwin, but he had proved adept at it. He picked up a quill with ink-stained fingers. He dipped it and began to enter numbers from the scroll into a leather-bound register. He heard the slap of sandals on the stone floor and looked up to see William enter.
    John arched an eyebrow. ‘I thought you were with Baldwin.’
    ‘I have been called to audience with the King. You will tutor the Prince.’
    ‘Shall I teach him swordplay?’ John asked hopefully.
    William shook his head. ‘Arabic.’
    John found Prince Baldwin in his quarters, playing with two wooden figures under the watchful eyes of a nurse. The prince was three, the same age John’s son Ubadah had been the last time John had seen him. Like Ubadah, Baldwin was a handsome child, with fat cheeks and straight, sandy-brown hair. But Baldwin’s eyes were green, not dark. Though hardly more than a babe, he had already shown himself to be a clever boy. John spent several hours a day with him, and the boy was absorbing Arabic with surprising rapidity.
    ‘It is time for the Prince’s lesson,’ John said. The nurse departed, and John sat on the floor across from Baldwin. ‘Arabic today. Let us begin by seeing how much you remember. Sword.’
    ‘
Saif
,’ Baldwin repeated in Arabic.
    ‘Good. Lamp.’
    ‘
Chiragh
.’
    ‘Very good!’ But the child had ceased paying attention. A clatter of horses’ hooves had come through the open window. Baldwin flew to it, and John also rose to look down on the paved courtyard. Four knights in mail were dismounting. With them was a darker man in a white caftan.
    ‘A Saracen?’ Baldwin asked. Muslims were forbidden in the city, and this might well have been the first one the prince had ever seen.
    John nodded. He watched until the men entered the palace, then returned to his place on the floor. ‘Come, Prince. We should continue.’
    Baldwin crossed his arms over his chest. ‘No!’
    ‘Sit!’ John snapped, and Baldwin began to cry, his angelic face twisted into an ugly mask of anguish. ‘Stop it. Men do not cry,’ John scolded, but this only seemed to make matters worse. Baldwin began to wail. Desperate for some way to distract the child, John removed the gold cross from around his neck and set it on the floor before Baldwin. ‘Look at the pretty gold.’ The boy quieted instantly. He reached for the cross but froze, his eyes fixed on the door.
    ‘Good day, young Prince.’
    John turned to see a woman standing in the open doorway. She was about John’s age. Her tunic fit