CHAPTER FIVE
From the Perspective of Foucaud, Spymaster of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, The City of Jerusalem, 1232 AD.
“You’re completely certain?” I asked. “A man murdered in broad daylight? What is this city coming to?”
Gaston grinned, and for a moment he looked twenty years younger. “I am. Come and see the body for yourself.” I shrugged and set off for the morgue. Gaston kept pace with me easily despite his age. “So how did it happen?” I inquired.
“Someone in the city saw two men enter an alley, and barely a minute later only one came out. Luckily for him, a patrol of the city watch was nearby. He alerted the guards, but by the time they arrived on the scene the other man had vanished.”
I rubbed my chin, deep in thought. “What of the dead man?”
“The man he went into the alley with was found stabbed at least ten times, and his body thrown behind a pile of boxes and crates. According to his garment and personal effects, we’ve deduced that he is – was a Muslim, and most likely resided in the Muslim Quarter here in Jerusalem. He had a note on him, but it is written in Arabic and thus I’ve enlisted the help of a local to translate the words.”
I stopped him. “You WHAT?”
Gaston gave me a reassuring look. “Relax. I’ve split the message into seven different phrases that will be given to him to translate in a random order. He will not read or know of the entire message.”
I sighed in relief, and then reflected that perhaps I should not have overreacted so quickly. Gaston was older than me, but with age came experience.“Sometimes I feel that the King should have put you in charge, Gaston.”
He clapped me on the back. “Well, I have the cunning, but not your smarts or your way with the nobles. You’re better off in charge. Besides, if we muck something up, the King will have your head first.”
I chuckled. “Get me the translated message as soon as you can, old man.”
From the Perspective of Lord Jean, First Prince of Jerusalem, The City of Jerusalem, 1232 AD.
I could feel the scorching, unrelenting heat of the Sun blazing down on me as I stepped into the training yard for my daily sword drills. I had never particularly liked using a sword. Some days I had wondered what it would feel like to fully draw a bowstring, or hear the twang of a bolt being released from a crossbow, or the thunk of a mace on a shield, but the Master-at-Arms never let me train with a weapon other than the sword. “The sword is the weapon of a lord.” Tigel de Linus had said. “It is the simplest weapon to use, but also the most complex. A death by the blade of a sword is a good death. A death from a coward’s arrow launched a hundred feet away is a poor death.”
I had half a mind to change my retinue of bodyguards to bowmen, or at least include some archers. If arrows could kill as easily as swords, then why not use them? They offered the user some degree of protection, as their distance from the engagement meant that only other arrows could kill them. But my father had said no. My bodyguard was meant to protect me, and therefore sword and shield would be their weapon of choice, just as it would be mine.
Tigel de Linus looked as strict and stern as ever in his armour. Sometimes, I felt deep down that he would have made a better father than my own, and on a few occasions he had shown me the tender care and concern I had so longed for from my father, sometimes even bothering to listen to my gripes. But on the training yard he was not a man to be trifled with, and I had learned the hard way not to expect any mercy from him during training. Just now he was instructing another boy around my age to properly swing a sword, scowling and shouting, with spittle flying from his mouth. As I approached, I dropped into a battle stance, holding my wooden sword over my shield, ready for his blows. But today the training sword he had so often whacked me with was absent from his arm, and when he noticed me, he simply waved me over nonchalantly.
“Lord Jean!” He barked. “Today marks the end of your pointless jabbing with the wooden sticks.” I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Tigel strode over to a nearby weapons rack and threw a sword in my direction, pommel first. I dropped the wooden sword, and caught it with my right hand, almost being thrown off balance, for I was taken by surprise by its weight. I gave it a couple of practice swings, then brought it above and slightly in front of my shield, just as Tigel de Linus had taught me.
Lord de Linus gestured to a squire in mail armour and a pig faced helmet, and tossed him another blunt iron sword. The squire caught it deftly, hefted his shield with his left hand, then turned to face me. “You will be facing each other today. Be careful with the swords, they are blunt iron but can still give you a gash if you’re not paying attention. En garde!” I dropped into my favourite stance – my shield held around chest level and my sword straight upon the right, ready to slash downwards or parry a blow.
I faced the squire with a certain excitement in my belly. When I was against Tigel I had no chance of winning, but against this boy, perhaps I could.
That notion was instantly dismissed as the boy swung his sword against my shield with all his might. My arm trembled from the force of the blow, and I barely lifted my shield in time to block his next strike.
I was kept on the defensive for the next few seconds as my opponent rained blow after blow on my defences, giving me no chance to retaliate. Damn he’s good! I thought after I jabbed speculatively at him, only to see him twirl aside and strike again from my unprotected left. Well, it would have been unprotected if I didn’t turn my shield to face the blow in the nick of time.
“Are you going to cower behind that shield all day, Jean? ATTACK!”
Tigel’s voice goaded me into action. I took a few steps forward and swung as hard as I could at my opponent’s chest. He blocked the blow effortlessly with his shield and lunged at me with his own sword. I staved off the blow with my shield, whirled around and attempted a strike at his legs, but he stepped back nimbly and countered with a stab of his own at my head. I parried with my sword and took a few steps back, breathing heavily. The squire gave me no respite, though, and slashed at me with his sword again. I blocked using my shield, but he unexpectedly rammed his shield against mine with great strength, throwing me to the ground. When I looked up, his sword was at my throat. The sand tasted bitter in my mouth.
Then the squire held out his hand. I grasped it firmly and muttered my thanks as he lifted me up. “You fight well, my lord.” He remarked as he removed his helm, grinning.
“Do not think of the shield as simply a tool for defence.” Tigel de Linus’ voice boomed out from my left. “Many of my opponents have made that mistake, and paid the price for their ignorance.” He strode over and clapped the squire on his shoulders, then turned to me with a sly grin on his face. “Lord Jean, meet your cousin from Acre, Henri de Lusignan. He is here to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem.”
I stared at the ‘squire’, nonplussed. “Truly, I did not know that your family had arrived in Jerusalem. You must forgive me for not being a more gracious host.” I said, mindful of the courtesies I was to show visiting lords, as mother had instructed me. Henri laughed gaily, before jesting: “I would say that getting to beat the Prince of Jerusalem in a duel is more than what I deserve as a welcome.” My face flushed at that jibe, and I had no comeback to make. Tigel de Linus patted us both on the shoulders. “Today’s session is at an end, Lord Jean. You must have much to discuss with your cousin.” I smiled, for there was that fatherly kindness that I loved from the Master-at-Arms.
“Shall I escort you to the dining hall, cousin?” I asked. Henri de Lusignan laughed and told me that was not necessary, and he would rather chat with me wherever I fancied. I was starting to like this cousin of mine more and more. We passed our blunt iron swords back to Lord de Linus and sat in a shaded area of the training yard from which we could deliver our own lordly critique on the squires that were currently training.
I spent the next few hours that had been allocated for sparring training getting to know Henri better. He was one year younger than I, a fact which gave me no small amount of consternation when I remembered that he had beaten me at sparring, though my vexation was abated somewhat when I learned that he had done naught but train with sword and shield since he was six.
“So you know nothing of governance, politics, and tactics?” I inquired, only realising at the last second that the way I had phrased that might have caused offense. This time it was Henri’s turn to blush, and he shook his head abashedly, muttering something about him being trained as a squire. Although I knew that it was wrong to take pleasure from another man’s misfortune, I couldn’t help but feel delighted and relieved that Henri did not surpass me in knowledge as well as swordplay.
I couldn’t resist feeling pangs of jealousy when he recounted tales of thrilling hunts or exciting jousts at the tourney field at Acre, all of which his mother had organized for his entertainment. He had also led a more relaxed life than I had, with his training only scheduled on weekdays, and then only in the mornings when the sun did not scorch the earth as badly as the afternoon. And chess! Henri knew how to play chess! “You will have to teach me someday.” I remarked sheepishly, to which Henri instantly agreed. Then we exchanged stories of our upbringing, and to my surprise, Henri found Jerusalem much more rowdy and vibrant than Acre. I had expected the impregnable fortress to be garrisoned with some of the finest troops the realm had to offer, and yet from what Henri had described, it seemed as if no more than a few companies of levies had the walls. Small wonder, then, as my father had ordered most of the Kingdom’s fighting men to Jerusalem.
Just then, Henri noticed my sister, Yolande de Brienne, walking across the courtyard, with her handmaidens in tow. He whistled. “We don’t really get to see that in Acre. Dour castles never did attract as many highborn ladies as cities, and none can compare to Jerusalem.”
Feeling slightly awkward, I feigned disinterest and tried to change the subject. “I’m sure Jerusalem isn’t the greatest city in all the world. Haven’t you heard of Constantinople? The jewel of the Black Sea, they call it.”
Henri wasn’t listening. He was grinning sheepishly and stammered: “Well, do you think that someday I’ll, you know, see the jewel between her –”
He stopped abruptly when I turned his face towards mine. “That’s my sister. Say another word and I’ll send you straight to the dungeons.” I said through gritted teeth. Never have I seen any man’s expression change so quickly. Henri was flummoxed, not knowing whether to apologise or remain silent.
Then I clapped him on the back and laughed heartily. “I got you there, didn’t I?” Henri swore and heaved a huge sigh of relief. “You sure did, Lord Jean. I must get you back some day.” I grinned and shrugged. “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. We’ll see. Come on, let’s be off.” I stood up and dusted the sand of my mail. Henri looked at me inquisitively. “Where to?”
I smiled. “Why, don’t you want to meet my sister?”
From the Perspective of Foucaud, Spymaster of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, The City of Jerusalem, 1232 AD.
I was sipping a mug of Italian wine when I spotted Gaston de Rocafolio sprinting down the hallway, towards me. Damn. Never a moment’s rest. Gaston closed what must have been forty metres in less than six seconds. “We must speak.” He blurted out, breathless from running. I snorted. “Of that I have no doubt.” I retorted. “What is it now?”
Gaston gave me a look that told me I should be taking this more seriously, and so I steer him into a chamber and close the door behind us. “So what’s got you scampering over like you got the Devil himself on your heels?” I jested. Gaston handed me a sheet of paper.
The Cairo sect has been contracted to eliminate the Prince of Jerusalem, Lord Jean, before the month has ended. Payment is in the usual location, along with six able bodied men. May Allah speed you on your way.
I stare at Gaston, mouth agape. “Do you know what this means?”
Gaston nodded fervently, his lips twisted into a scowl.
“War.”
From the Perspective of Lord Jean, First Prince of Jerusalem, The City of Jerusalem, 1232 AD.
Soon it was time for lunch, and I led Henri to the dining hall where we feasted on potatoes and roasted pig. “Will you be staying here long?” I asked. Henri nodded, much to my delight. “My father has instructed me to train alongside you, and to study the arts of war under the Constable.” Henri emphasized the word ‘constable’ with an air of grandeur, and it became obvious that he had great respect for the man.
When it was time for me to depart for my afternoon lessons on military tactics, I shook his hand solidly and firmly, and for the first time in many months, a warm tingly feeling spread across my stomach.
I had a friend!