Free Holy War by Jack Hight Page A

hundred and fifty sergeants at its command. Take them to La Sephorie.’
    John shook his head. ‘I have no wish to return to my cell. Guy will have me cast in irons the moment he sees me.’
    ‘I think not. When you arrive, seek out Raymond, the Count of Tripoli. He will support you. And you will have your men. Guy needs every sword he can get, even yours. He will grant you your freedom, if only so long as Saladin’s men threaten the
    Kingdom.’
    ‘So I go to La Sephorie. What then?’
    ‘You must see to it that Guy does not return.’
    John met her emerald green eyes. They had no warmth in them. ‘I am not you, Agnes. I am no murderer.’
    ‘I am not asking, John. You can help me, or you can return to your cell.’
    ‘I thought you knew me better than that.’ John headed for the door.
    ‘I know you love my son! I have kept Baldwin safe until now, but once Guy is king, I will not be able to protect him. How long do you think he will live then?’
    John paused in the doorway and looked to Baldwin. He had known the young man since he was a child. He had tutored him and taught him to fight. The king was more of a son to him than Ubadah. ‘This Guy, does he truly deserve to die?’
    ‘Does Baldwin?’
    ‘Very well; I will do it.’
    October 1183: La Sephorie
    John rode hunched forward in the saddle. His exercises in prison had not prepared him for the weight of his mail hauberk or for days spent on horseback. He felt as if a dagger had been plunged into the small of his back. He would have liked to call a halt, but La Sephorie was not far off .
    He and his men had left Mount Sion three days ago. The abbey was located just outside the wall of Jerusalem, and when John first arrived after meeting with Agnes, the brothers had received him with indignation. A stranger, straight from the palace dungeons, would not rule over them; it was an outrage! In the end, the gold had won them over. John had been elected abbot the next day. His first act had been to call the sergeants who owed service to the abbey. They had set out the next morning, riding up the west bank of the Jordan. The previous night they had reached Beisan. Both the fortress and the town huddled at its base had been sacked and burned. He and his men had passed an anxious night amongst the blackened stones of the castle. Today, John rode with his hand on his mace.
    A breeze stirred his hair, and John’s nose wrinkled. He could smell the stench of unwashed men, horses and full latrines. The camp was close. He spurred ahead, leaving behind the sergeants, who marched on foot. He rode to the top of a low hill, and there was the camp. Dozens of large barracks tents and hundreds of smaller ones sat on a broad plain amidst fields of golden wheat and groves of olive and pomegranate trees. At the centre of the camp, two dozen homes of stone and mud were huddled at the base of a hill topped by a squat square keep with one tower. Above the keep flew the flag of Jerusalem, and beside it, Guy’s flag – two silver crosses on fields of azure, quartered with red lions rampant on silver and blue. John scanned the camp until he spotted Raymond’s standard flying over his tent. He turned and signalled for the captain of his men to join him.
    John had first met Aestan years ago, shortly after the Englishman had arrived in the Holy Land to seek his fortune as a soldier. Aestan’s dark hair had now gone white, and his once fair skin was tanned and wrinkled like worn leather. But his green eyes still twinkled when he laughed, and he was still well muscled and flat-bellied. John had been delighted to find him serving amongst the sergeants of Mount Sion.
    ‘Domne,’ Aestan greeted John, using the Saxon for lord.
    ‘I must speak to Raymond. Find a place for the men to camp. Keep well away from Reynald’s men.’
    ‘You don’t have to tell me. I served under the bastard before the Saracens captured him.’
    John dismounted and handed the reins to Aestan. ‘See to my