Free Holy War by Jack Hight Page B

horse.’
    Guards had been posted at the edge of the camp, but they were chatting as they leaned on their spears and hardly spared John a glance. He wove between tents, passing sergeants in boiled leather and knights in mail, blond Franks and Syrian Christians with the same olive skin and dark hair as the Saracens. He reached Raymond’s tent, which was topped by a flag bearing the outline of a gold cross on a field of scarlet. Two men in mail stood guard at the tent flap.
    ‘I must speak with your lord,’ John told them.
    ‘Raymond is at council in the keep.’ The guard nodded towards the hill, which began only a dozen paces away.
    ‘My thanks.’
    John examined the keep as he climbed the hill. The walls were uneven, incorporating stones in a variety of shapes and sizes, some decorated with inscriptions in Latin or carvings of animals. They had no doubt been taken from the ancient Roman town that had once stood on the site. On the upper floor there were a few windows, each too narrow for a man to crawl through. The single tower stood at the north-west corner of the keep. A privy extended from the tower, a tall pile of shit buzzing with flies on the ground beneath.
    The door to the keep was guarded by a dozen men. Their captain, a handsome man with only one hand, stepped forward to confront John. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
    ‘To the council meeting.’
    The captain’s eyebrows rose. ‘You a lord?’
    John could understand the man’s doubts. He was thin and ghostly pale – no man’s idea of a great lord. He gestured to the gold cross with split ends that adorned his surcoat. ‘I am the Abbot of Mount Sion. I bring one hundred and fifty men.’
    The captain studied him a moment longer, then pointed to John’s mace. ‘Leave your weapon here.’ John handed the mace over, and the guard stepped aside. ‘You’re late, abbot. You had best hurry. First door on your left.’
    John went inside and paused beside the door to the council chamber. He could hear raised voices. Despite the pain in his back, he straightened and walked in with a determined stride. A dozen men were gathered around a table. John recognized most of them: Guy and his brother Amalric, the constable; Reynald and his son-in-law Humphrey of Toron, a fat-cheeked young man with an unfortunate overbite and weak chin; Raymond of Tripoli, a slender, straight-backed man with dark hair and a swarthy complexion; and beside him taciturn, balding Reginald of Sidon and Balian of Ibelin, a handsome man with a thin nose and wide, dark eyes. The men fell silent as John entered the room.
    ‘Saxon?’ Reynald asked. ‘What are you doing here?’
    Guy frowned. ‘That man should be in prison. Guards!’
    Two men in mail entered the room, but Raymond and Balian stepped between them and John. ‘Let him be,’ Raymond said. ‘We need every sword we can muster.’
    ‘I have brought one hundred and fifty sergeants,’ John said.
    Reynald’s eyebrows shot up. ‘And whose men are these?’
    ‘Mine. I have been elected abbot of Mount Sion.’
    ‘On whose authority?’ Guy demanded.
    ‘The King.’
    Reynald snorted. ‘The King is too ill even to feed himself.’
    ‘Then John’s election is nothing short of a miracle,’ Balian declared in a soft voice that matched his delicate features. ‘All the more reason to welcome him.’ He looked to Guy. ‘Unless you wish to lose his men.’
    Guy’s forehead creased. He rubbed the hilt of his dagger with his thumb as he tried to come to a decision.
    John met his eyes. Perhaps this was his opportunity to eliminate the regent, and to do so in a way that would not stain his own honour. ‘I have been found guilty of no crimes, my lord. If you wish, I will undergo trial by combat against my accusers to prove my innocence. I believe that means I would fight you.’
    ‘That will not be necessary. You may stay.’
    ‘But he is a traitor!’ Reynald protested. ‘He—’
    ‘My brother said he may stay!’