01 - Murder in the Holy City (25 page)

The burning post set more hay alight, and the flames began to roar and crackle. Geoffrey could not have put it out now, even had he tried. The release of the horses must have alerted someone that mischief was afoot, and the door had been closed on the arsonist as a kind of instant revenge. Or was it more sinister than that? Was the person who trapped him in the burning building Melisende, or one of the Greeks she had ordered to follow him?

He coughed hard, his lungs rebelling against the choking fumes he was inhaling. A distant part of his mind told him that the identity of the person responsible for locking him in the stable really did not matter much, and that he would be better served seeking another way out. The stable was a small building, low and single-storied. He tried to focus his smarting eyes on the roof, but it was dense with smoke, and the stillness of the fumes indicated that there were no gaps to the outside that he could exploit. He tried to stand to grope his way round to the back of the stalls, but he became dizzy through lack of air and dropped back onto his hands and knees.

Slowly, becoming weaker by the moment, he crawled along the floor until he reached the back wall. He hammered half-heartedly, but the wood was solid. He moved on further, hoping to find a gap, or even some kind of door. Just as he was beginning to despair and to feel it might be easier to give up, his fumbling fingers detected an irregularity in the wood. It felt as though one of the planks had rotted, and rather than go to the expense of replacing it, someone had simply nailed another over the top. If he could prise the new plank away, he might be able to break through the rotten wood and escape.

But whoever had nailed the plank in place had done a thorough job, and after several abortive attempts, Geoffrey knew he would not be able to get it off. Above him, the roof began to burn, flames running in ribbons up the timbers to the dried mud roof. Another supporting pole crashed to the floor, showering Geoffrey with sparks, and he saw his surcoat began to smoulder. Now he could barely breathe at all, and his head swam. As another pillar began to collapse with a tearing groan, darkness descended over him.

CHAPTER NINE

T
hrough a hazy blackness, Geoffrey heard the screech of tearing wood, and then felt himself seized by the shoulders, and manhandled through a hole in the wall, the ragged edges of which ripped at his hands and face. He was dragged away from the searing heat and found himself breathing cool, clean air. As he gasped for breath and fought to open his eyes, which still burned and stung, he was heaved like a sack along a dark alley and over a wall.

Gradually, he regained his senses. His breathing ceased to rasp, his eyes cleared, and the acid, sick feeling in his stomach caused by the smoke receded. He opened his eyes and saw the explosion of glittering stars in the night sky, blocked immediately by a large, anxious face.

“Roger!” he croaked. “You should be in the citadel.”

“I know how you like a fire of an evening, and I thought you might get carried away,” said Roger. But although he smiled, the humour did not reach his eyes. Roger looked like a man who had been on a battlefield.

“What happened?” asked Geoffrey, struggling to sit up. Roger helped him.

“I did as you asked, and poor Eveline now lies in the street. I even took the knife of the knight who lay next to her, and plunged it into her wound. So people will now assume that Sir Henri d’Aumale killed her.”

“D’Aumale is dead?” asked Geoffrey, his mind whirling.

“I could not tell,” said Roger, “but he was unconscious at any rate. I am not surprised that those Lorrainers are involved in all this. And I would not be surprised if it were them who killed Eveline in the first place.”

Was that it? Was Geoffrey making a mistake in assuming all these incidents were connected? Perhaps this was merely the latest step in the war of attrition the Norman knights had waged with the Lorrainers since the Crusaders had taken the citadel a year before. Geoffrey took a deep breath and coughed violently.

“Shh,” said Roger, looking over his shoulder. “We are in someone’s garden, and we do not want them raising the alarm.”

“Sorry,” said Geoffrey. “What happened then? Did anyone see you?”

Roger shook his head. “Two destriers came thundering down the road, and since they were loose and unmarked, they were considered fair game. Most of the knights went tearing after them, and those who did not were watching the fire. Then there was some kind of hubbub at Abdul’s, and everyone who was left went racing back inside. I thought I would wait for you, since the streets had emptied and there was no hue and cry raised for us. But then I saw an odd thing.”

He paused. Geoffrey waited until he thought Roger had forgotten what he was going to say. “What did you see?” he prompted.

Roger gazed at him sombrely. “When all those knights ran into Abdul’s, one went instead to the stables. Smoke was pouring out of the door, and I wondered whether you might emerge and bump into him. But you did not come out, and I saw him heave the doors closed. At first, I assumed he was trying to contain the fire, but then I saw him bar them.”

“Did you see who it was?”

Roger continued to gaze. “It was smoky and dark. But he looked very familiar.”

“Who?” demanded Geoffrey impatiently.

Roger shook his head uncertainly. “I cannot swear to it, lad, but I thought it was Courrances.”

Geoffrey said nothing, but looked at the piece of material he still clutched in his hand: the scrap of cloth that had ripped from a surcoat when someone had leaned against the rough wood of the heavy doors to force them closed. It was an expensive black linen and still clean, even after what it had been through. Geoffrey knew of only one person whose surcoat was black and spotless, and that was Courrances.

He told Roger, and the big knight blew out his cheeks unhappily. “Looks like he does not want you to investigate after all,” he said. “Despite having gloated at the position you were in a few days ago.”

“Perhaps he did not know there was anyone still in the stables,” said Geoffrey uncertainly.

Roger raised his eyebrows. “Maybe. But it was pretty damned obvious the fire was started deliberately, especially since someone had taken the trouble to let the horses out first. He may not have known it was you, of course. Maybe he just does not like arsonists.”

Geoffrey rubbed his eyes, feeling them gritty and sore under his fingers. He wondered when he had last felt so physically and emotionally battered, and slowly climbed to his feet. He wished he could awaken in the morning and find all his suspicions were just dreams, and he could go back to his position of trust with Roger. But even as the wish flitted through his mind, he knew it could never be fulfilled; from now on, he must regard Roger with as much caution as he did Courrances.

“When Courrances had gone, I went to undo the gates, but they had jammed from the inside,” continued Roger, solicitously slipping a burly arm under Geoffrey’s elbow. “I assumed you would be looking for another exit, and came across that weak spot at the back. It was getting unpleasant, with smoke pouring off the roof, and sparks everywhere, but then I thought I heard a scratching sound above all that cracking and roaring. I battered the wall in, and you were just inside.”

“I was lucky you thought to look round the back,” said Geoffrey, trying to clean his begrimed face on his sleeve.

“I know how you think,” said Roger with a sudden grin. “Friends do after a while.”

Geoffrey felt an uncomfortable twinge of guilt.

“We cannot return to the citadel looking like this,” he said brusquely, sniffing cautiously at the acrid burning smell that pervaded his clothes. “It might give us away.”

“I know a bathhouse round here that is reasonably clean,” volunteered Roger.

Geoffrey balked at the word “reasonably,” but allowed himself to be led down a maze of twisting alleyways in the general direction of the Patriarch’s palace. Roger moved through the shadows like a great cat, almost as light and fleet of foot as the smaller, more agile Geoffrey. They made little noise, and melted into the shadows when they heard or saw someone coming the other way. By unspoken agreement, every so often one would stop and hide while the other went on ahead to see if they were being followed, but there was no suggestion that they were. Geoffrey was often cautious while out at night, but Roger seldom was, and Geoffrey imagined the events of the night must have shaken him indeed to make him depart from his usual confident complacency.

Eventually, Roger stopped in front of a nondescript house, and looked around carefully before knocking. The door was opened immediately, and the two knights were ushered inside. They were given a quick look over, and then led along a tiled corridor without a word being spoken, and down some stairs to a room in a basement. It was cool, almost chilly, and contained several vats of water that, while they were certainly not freshly poured, were sufficiently clear that Geoffrey could see the bottoms. Just.

The bath attendant eyed Geoffrey and Roger dubiously, and poured a hefty dose of fragrant oil into the water.

“We will smell like whores,” muttered Roger disapprovingly, but stripped off his dirty clothes and presented them in an unsavoury bundle to the bath attendant. Geoffrey did likewise, and climbed into the bath, screwing up his face at the agonising coldness.

“I hate doing this,” he grumbled to Roger, trying to stop his teeth from chattering.

“My father took a bath once,” said Roger conversationally. “He said it was an experience every man should have once in his lifetime.”

“Why?” asked Geoffrey, peevishly. “To mortify the flesh? To curb physical desires?”

“So he would know better than to do it again,” said Roger with a roar of laughter that echoed around the basement room and brought the attendant running in alarm.

“Right,” said Geoffrey, beginning to climb out, “that is enough.”

“You need to put your head under the water,” said Roger, wallowing like a pig. Geoffrey looked at him in dismay. “Your hair stinks of smoke. You need to get it right under.” He nodded at the attendant, and Geoffrey felt powerful hands begin to push him down. He squirmed and struggled, but the oils made the sides slippery, and he was helpless until the attendant pronounced himself satisfied.

“Ordeal by fire and water,” he muttered, climbing out onto a floor that was awash.

While they waited for their clothes to be cleaned, they sat draped in towels, dripping onto the already saturated floor. Geoffrey pretended to be dozing, because he was confused by the information he had collected: he was disturbed by the notion that while Roger attempted to kill Hugh, he had risked his own life to save Geoffrey from the fire. It made no sense. Perhaps Roger was not the one who had killed Marius after all. Perhaps it was Courrances, who had shown his murderous streak by locking Geoffrey in the burning stable. But all knights had murderous streaks, he reasoned, for that was what warfare was all about. Even Geoffrey had been seized with the occasional burst of bloodlust, especially after a long siege or if the opponents were Lorrainers.

Their clothes were returned washed, brushed, and smelling sweeter than they had done since Geoffrey had set off on Crusade. It was an agreeable feeling, and Geoffrey determined not to wait four years before taking his next bath. Outside, the air was still pleasantly cool, although dawn was not far off. Geoffrey breathed deeply and coughed, aware of the lingering effects of the smoke deep in his lungs.

As they walked along the street where Melisende’s house was, Geoffrey melted deeper into the shadows, and Roger, unquestioning, followed suit. Lights were burning dimly in her upper and lower windows, although Geoffrey realized it was not unusual for bakers to be up and busy long before dawn. Nevertheless, he was curious, and edged closer to see if he could see through the shutters.

Fortunately for Geoffrey, there was a split in the wood that afforded him an excellent view of the room within. He saw Melisende and Maria sitting at the table together. Maria had been crying, and there was a vivid bruise on her cheek, while Melisende appeared to be listening to what she was saying. It did not take much imagination to detect that Maria had fled straight from the riot at Abdul’s to the safety and comfort of Melisende’s clean and welcoming home. Maria must have confessed her whereabouts—for Melisende was no fool and would see an immediate connection between Maria’s battered face and a night of fighting at Abdul’s. Which meant, thought Geoffrey, that Maria had probably also told Melisende that she had spoken to him there, and that he had asked her all manner of questions. After all, why should Maria keep his trust when it was no longer necessary for him to keep hers?

He glanced behind to see what Roger was doing, wondering how he might react to seeing his accomplice spied upon, but Roger was doing exactly what he would normally have done—he was prowling the shadows to make sure they were not observed. Satisfied for the moment, Geoffrey put his eye to the crack again and strained to hear what was being said. But however hard he listened, he could hear only the occasional word, and nothing of any note. The two women seemed to be discussing cakes, for words like “raisin” and “almond” cropped up. Then Maria stood and moved toward the window. Her next words brought a whole new flow of questions racing through Geoffrey’s mind.