Murder in the Holy City

By Simon Beaufort

This first book in the critically acclaimed 11th century mystery series featuring Sir Geoffrey Mappestone. Jerusalem, 1100. On returning to the city following an exhausting desert patrol, Crusader knight Sir Geoffrey Mappestone hears screams coming from the house of a Greek baker and discovers that one of his closest friends, a fellow knight, has been murdered in the woman's bedchamber. But this is not the first suspicious death in the city: other knights and priests have also been killed, all with the same type of curved dagger with a jewelled hilt.

Ordered to investigate the deaths by his liege lord, Prince Tancred, it is not long before Sir Geoffrey finds himself drawn into dire straits involving some of the most dangerous men in the city--and learns that his closest friends could also be his deadliest enemies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Nov 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781780105512

Simon Beaufort

Simon Beaufort is a pseudonym for a pair of academics formerly at the University of Cambridge, both now full-time writers. One is an award-winning historian, the other a successful crime writer under the name Susanna Gregory.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

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Sir Guibert of Apulia’s head snapped up from the ground, and he was alert instantly as he heard the cry outside his tent.

Saracens, Lord, Saracens!

Snatching up his sword, Sir Guibert threw open the flap to the tent. The darkness was broken only by the low-burning fire and the streaks of light in the sky preceding dawn. Guibert quickly took in the scene.

His small camp was being attacked from all sides. If the sentries forming the triangle outside the camp were therefore already lost, only his sergeant, Adhemar, and the other nine men of his party of fourteen were left. He could not tell with certainty, but there appeared to be at least fifty Saracens pouring into his camp.

Draw closer together, and stand back to back, Guibert yelled to his panicking troops. Adhemar and two of the men formed a small cluster, but it was already far too late. Awakened from deep sleep after a rapid and thirsty march, his weary force was unable to form an effective defense and was being quickly overwhelmed. Guibert had bivouacked miles away from the guarded supply routes, because his delicate mission had demanded both secrecy and haste. Out here in the desert, there was no help and no retreat.

Apulia! Guibert yelled the war cry of his house and waded into his enemies, sword in one hand and dagger in the other. His prodigious fighting talents, which had earned him the nickname Guibert the Two-Handed, allowed him to drop four of the enemy as he slashed his way toward Adhemar. But, with blows falling from all sides, his light chain-mail shirt, which he had worn because it was less cumbersome than a full set of armour, was rent by several determined thrusts. He saw his sergeant and the last of his men fall, and then Guibert himself was struck down by a blow to the neck.

As he crumpled to the ground, his last thought was that he should not have braved the dangers of the Saracen-infested desert wearing only a mail shirt and leather leggings. Such light protection enabled him to ride with far greater speed, but what use was haste when he would not live to see his mission accomplished? And then the pale light of dawn was blocked by the Saracens who fell upon him, and he knew no more.

CHAPTER ONE

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JERUSALEM, JULY 1100

The small band of soldiers glanced around uneasily as the scream rent the air a second time, clear and piercing. One or two fingered the hilts of their swords as they marched, and all were tense and wary. Although the street was deserted in the blazing midday sun, whispered voices and flickers of movement came from the huddle of houses that stood in an unruly line along the side of the road. Further ahead, a babble of hysterical voices exploded into the silence, and a dog began to bark furiously. Sir Geoffrey Mappestone exchanged a glance with Will Helbye, his sergeant at arms, and raised his hand to bring the soldiers to a halt. Nervously, the men shuffled to a standstill behind him, and Geoffrey heard the discreet rasp of steel on leather as weapons were drawn.

I suppose we should investigate, muttered Helbye, not looking at Geoffrey, but scanning the street with eyes alert for the signs of an ambush, although I would sooner head straight back to the citadel. The men are exhausted after two weeks of desert patrol, and so am I.

Geoffrey nodded in agreement, but led the way toward the cacophony of voices, his men falling in behind him. Their feet kicked up small clouds of dust as they walked, adding to the layers of yellow-white powder on their boots and powdering their faces and hands with a familiar grittiness. Geoffrey reached the end of the road and stopped a second time.

To the left, a small alley ran downhill, disappearing into the deep shadow of shabby buildings that had been built so close together that they almost met to form an arch overhead. To the right was a wider street, where larger, grander houses suggested that this area had once been home to some of Jerusalem’s more wealthy citizens. In the middle of the road, a woman stood, swathed in black from head to toe and clutching a long curved dagger in both hands. The dagger, Geoffrey noticed immediately, was bloodstained. Other people had formed a circle around her and were chattering in loud, excited voices.

Gesturing for his men to remain where they were, Geoffrey strode forward, with Helbye at his heels. Seeing heavily armed soldiers bearing down on them, the crowd parted quickly to allow them through, and the babble of voices died away.

What has happened? asked Geoffrey in Norman French, addressing his question to the woman, since she was obviously the cause of the incident.

She gazed at him with frightened eyes until someone in the crowd translated the question into Greek. She glanced at the interpreter and forced herself to look at Geoffrey again.

There is a dead knight in my house, she said, her voice low and unsteady. She looked down at the knife in her hands, as if seeing it for the first time, and flung it away from her in horror. It clattered at Geoffrey’s feet. Someone relayed her response to the onlookers, and a thrill of excitement rippled through them. All eyes turned expectantly to Geoffrey.

Oh Lord! breathed Helbye in Geoffrey’s ear. The woman has done away with a knight, Sir Geoffrey. Now what do we do? After two weeks of chasing infidel robbers in that hell they call the desert, you would think we could go home quietly to rest and drink cool wine. But no! We are confronted with a killer of knights. Is it a trick? If we arrest her, will we be attacked?

Geoffrey did not answer, but looked beyond the crowd to see whether he could detect any telltale signs of activity that might forewarn him of an ambush. Helbye was right to be suspicious and reluctant to become involved. It was only a year since Jerusalem had fallen to the Crusaders, and thousands of its people had been massacred in a way that still made Geoffrey—a hardened and experienced soldier—sick with disgust. The city, despite so few of its inhabitants having survived the sack—or perhaps because of it—was uneasy, and there were pockets of resistance to Crusader occupation everywhere.

What is your name? Geoffrey asked the woman in Greek. She looked startled to hear him speak to her in her own tongue, and it was some moments before she replied.

Melisende Mikelos, she replied in a low voice.

Show me this dead knight, Mistress Mikelos, he said, fixing her with a hard stare. He gestured with his hand that she was to precede him back into the house. Her eyes opened wider still, and she backed away from him in terror.

No! Please! she cried. Please don’t make me go back in there! She looked as though she might run away, but the spectators hemmed in close and allowed her no escape.

Do you live here? asked Geoffrey, watching her closely. Warily, she nodded. Then you will have to go back inside at some point. Unless you wish to abandon your house to looters.

She gazed at him pleadingly. I would rather wait here until you have removed the … body from my home, she said. I will enter again when it is gone.

You must enter now, with me, said Geoffrey, his patience beginning to fray. The longer he stood negotiating in the street with this woman—who may well have committed murder—the longer he put his men in unnecessary danger. When she did not move, he stepped forward and took her firmly by the arm. She struggled automatically, but he was strong, and she desisted as soon as she realised she could no more escape from him than fly.

Helbye motioned for three of the soldiers to enter the house with Geoffrey, while he stayed outside with the remainder, arranging them in two groups to make an ambush more difficult. Geoffrey’s fat, black-and-white dog found a patch of shade and flopped down in it, its sides heaving vigorously and its long pink tongue dangling out of the side of its mouth.

It was cool inside the house after the intense heat of the sun, and dark, too. Geoffrey paused to give his eyes time to adjust, and looked around him. The house was no different from many he had visited since arriving in Jerusalem, where the luxury of even the poorest houses provided a stark contrast to the hovels on his father’s manor in England. The floor was paved in stone of attractively contrasting colours, and furniture was sparse, but elegant: a narrow couch, some stools, a large table. A large jug of water stood near the door, and a shelf revealed cooking utensils of pewter and pottery, all spotlessly clean. But there was no dead knight. He turned to Melisende Mikelos with raised eyebrows.

Upstairs, she said in a whisper.

Still maintaining his grip on her arm, Geoffrey propelled her toward the stairs and pushed her in front of him. Slowly, after throwing a tortured glance at him, she began to ascend. The house was simple: just one room below, and a second, for sleeping, above. The upper room had wide arched windows, draped with patterned cotton to allow a cooling breeze in and keep the burning sun out. The floor was of pale wood, and the only items of furniture were a bed, strewn with brightly coloured covers, and shelves on which various items of clothing were neatly stacked. Like the lower room, it was perfectly tidy—except for one thing.

The dead knight lay on his stomach, and the back of his grimy grey shirt was red with the clotting blood that had trickled to form a dark, irregular circle on the wood beneath him. Melisende inhaled sharply and turned away. Geoffrey saw her begin to cry. He looked back to the body, recognising with dismay the fair hair and delicate features of Sir John of Sourdeval. Geoffrey’s stomach knotted painfully, and he found himself unable to move. Then the moment of shock passed, and Geoffrey rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger and looked away. John, a soft-spoken, thoughtful Norman, had been a good friend; Geoffrey had often sought out his company when the other knights had become too rowdy and debauched.

How did he come to be here? Geoffrey asked, taking a deep breath and hoping Melisende Mikelos was too wrapped up in her horror at the body to be aware of his own. He went to the window to see whether it was possible to climb up from the outside. It was not.

She shrugged, her back still turned to him. I do not know. I went out to visit my uncle, who lives near the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and came back a few moments ago, intending to rest until the heat of the day was past. I drank some wine downstairs, bathed my feet, and then came up here to lie down. He was there … Her explanation was concluded with a sob.

Do you know him?

She shook her head, turning slightly so she could look at Geoffrey without seeing the dead man. I have never seen him before, she whispered. And I do not know how he came to be here. The door was locked, and my neighbours have just told me they saw no one enter. She gazed at him with enormous gold-brown eyes. You must believe me! What reason could I have for a knight to be in my sleeping chamber?

Geoffrey could think of one, but said nothing. He studied her intently. Younger than he had first thought, she was wearing the black that indicated she had been widowed, probably in the carnage of July 1099, he thought, when so many had been killed—Christian and Moslem alike—as the Crusaders took Jerusalem.

Nodding to one of his men to ensure Melisende did not run away, Geoffrey bent to examine John’s body. The young knight was most assuredly dead, and his stiffened limbs and the dryness of the blood around the wound in his back indicated that he had been so for some hours. Geoffrey made a slit in the shirt, and looked at the single puncture mark that had killed him. It was a wide wound, and it could very well have been made by the curved Arab-style dagger Melisende had been clutching in the street.

Geoffrey sat back on his heels and reflected. Knights were not popular among the citizens of Jerusalem: it had been the knights who had led the slaughter that followed the city’s fall. But while there were many knights who bragged about the number of people they had butchered, John was not among them. And besides, that was a year ago—if the motive were revenge, why should a killer decide to strike now?

Geoffrey glanced up to where Melisende regarded him with huge eyes that brimmed with tears. Her hands were stained with John’s blood—either from the dagger she had been holding in the street, or from when she had murdered him.

I did not kill this man, she whispered. Please believe me.

What I believe is irrelevant, said Geoffrey, trying to ascertain whether she was lying. I am merely a knight. It is the Advocate you will need to convince. John was a favourite of his. And of mine too, he added silently, looking down at the lifeless body in front of him.

I see, said Melisende, her voice suddenly hard. You are yet another Norman incapable of independent thought, unless it is for repressing the local population. You are undoubtedly a nobody, some penniless younger son of an equally insignificant knight, who thinks to make his fortune from our land.

Geoffrey met her eyes, but did not answer—her accusation was true, at least in part. He was the youngest son of Sir Godric Mappestone, a knight who had followed William the Conqueror to England in 1066, and who had been rewarded for his bravery at the Battle of Hastings with a manor on the Welsh border. But, unlike most men in his position, Geoffrey cared little for making his fortune—indeed, he was generally indifferent to amassing wealth, and he usually found looting was more trouble than it was worth. Geoffrey’s motive for joining the Crusade had been that it afforded him an excellent opportunity to travel. He had set out in high spirits, dreaming of the great libraries of the Arab world, and of an entire new culture of philosophy and literature about which he might learn. It was not a motive approved of or understood by his fellow knights, however, and Geoffrey had been regarded as something of an oddity from the outset.

John de Sourdeval had understood, though and had spent many hours discussing Arab writings with the scholarly English knight. Geoffrey’s glance slid down to Melisende’s bloodstained hands. Was she telling him the truth? Or had she murdered his gentle, honourable friend?

He shook his head impatiently. Now was not the time for speculation, not with his men travel-weary and a potentially hostile crowd gathering around. He grabbed a blanket from a neatly folded pile near the window, wrapped John in it, and told his men to carry the body downstairs. He glanced around quickly, but there was nothing else in the sparsely furnished chamber to give him any further clues. There was only one way into the room—up the stairs the way he had come—and if John had had any belongings with him when he was dispatched to meet his maker, they were not with him now.

Geoffrey took Melisende’s arm again and led her out of her house into the street. His first thought was to find the knife she had hurled away from her, but there was no sign of it. He glanced at the crowd and was not surprised. The dagger had been a fine weapon with a jewelled hilt that looked valuable. It would doubtless fetch a good price at the market.

Sergeant Helbye was haggling with a scruffy-looking fig seller for the loan of his cart to transport John’s body back to the citadel on the other side of the city. The citadel was where the Advocate, Jerusalem’s military leader, had his headquarters, and where many of the knights, including Geoffrey, chose to live.

The crowd in the street was becoming larger with each passing moment, despite the searing heat of the early afternoon sun. Geoffrey saw his soldiers’ increasing alarm: two had unslung their bows and had arrows at the ready. He overrode the indignant protestations of the fig seller and heaved John’s blanketed body onto the cart. Seizing Melisende by the wrist, he shouted orders to his men and set off, the disconsolate fig seller trotting along beside them, bewailing the fact that his fruit was being crushed.

The crowd parted to let them through, but Geoffrey sensed a resentment that had not been there earlier. A small child darted forward and tried to press a knife into Melisende’s hand. People became ominously silent, and Geoffrey was aware of his soldiers preparing themselves for a fight. Here and there, a flash of steel caught the sunlight as men in the crowd drew an odd assortment of concealed weapons from their clothing—kitchen knives, sticks, and even a discarded horseshoe. The silence of the crowd was now a tangible thing, sinister and menacing.

Let me go, said Melisende in a low voice to Geoffrey. It is because you are taking me that these people are angry. Let me go, and you will be allowed to leave unmolested with your men.

If you are innocent of this knight’s murder, as you claim, then you have nothing to fear, said Geoffrey, not slowing his pace.

The woman snorted in derision. Who at the citadel will believe me? she said. You do not.

This was true, Geoffrey reflected: he did not. One of his men gave a sharp yelp and put his hand to his head.

Keep moving, said Helbye in a calm voice to the jittery soldiers. They are only throwing stones. You are wearing mail; they cannot harm you.

Not much! muttered the soldier with the bleeding head, but he kept walking. Geoffrey handed Melisende to Ned Fletcher, a slow but reliable soldier in his forties, and drew his sword. The crowd was following them along the street, hurling a hail of stones and other missiles after them. As the soldiers rounded the corner, the throng broke into a trot, and Geoffrey yelled for his men to run. His dog, true to character, had sensed the menace in the onlookers and had long since fled. Several of the soldiers fumbled to fit arrows to their bows, but Geoffrey ordered them to stop. Such an incident could turn into a bloodbath within moments, and he had no wish to be responsible for a skirmish that would cause the deaths of the women and children he could see among the crowd, or of his men.

A stone struck him hard in the chest, and a roar of approval went up from those at the front of the advancing mob. His chain mail and padded surcoat protected him from injury, but the force of the throw made him stagger. He collided with Helbye, who was close behind him, and before he could right himself, his leather-soled boots had slipped in some of the figs that had fallen from the cart, and he was down. With a howl of delight, the mob rushed forward, and Geoffrey struggled in vain to clamber to his feet. He yelled to Helbye to run, but saw him stand firm with his weapon drawn, preparing to protect his fallen leader.

Geoffrey closed his eyes in despair. What a stupid way to end his life, after the trials and torments of the gruelling three-year journey to Jerusalem from England! He did not usually dwell on the manner of his death, but on the few occasions when it had come to mind, he imagined himself falling in battle or dying peacefully in bed in his dotage. That he would be ripped from limb to limb by a horde armed with sticks and stones after he had slipped on some figs had never occurred to him.

The sun was blocked out as the furious citizens converged on him, but just as quickly returned. Geoffrey felt, rather than heard, the thud of horses’ hooves on the beaten earth of the road, and the street erupted into chaos. Yells and screams combined with the terrified whinnies of war-horses as the crowd and the mounted monk-knights of the Order of St. John Hospitaller clashed. Geoffrey covered his head with his hands to protect it and tried to stand, but was knocked down again by a man racing to escape the Hospitallers’ whirling swords and maces.

As quickly as it had started, it was over, and the commotion faded away. Geoffrey felt someone take a firm hold on the back of his surcoat and haul him to his feet. Dusty, bedraggled, and deflated, he was not pleased to find himself face to face with Edouard de Courrances, a man Geoffrey detested above all others. Courrances was trusted adviser to the Advocate—the man who had been crowned as official ruler of Jerusalem the previous year.

My men? Geoffrey gasped, peering through the clouds of settling dust to try to see whether any were injured.

Running away, as ordered by their leader, replied Courrances nonchalantly, sheathing his sword. You were lucky we happened to be passing, or you would not now be alive to rally your motley gang together.

Geoffrey said nothing, irritated that it had been Courrances of all people who had witnessed the ignominious skirmish and who had effected his rescue. The monks of the Order of St. John Hospitaller ran the great hospital in Jerusalem for needy pilgrims, but recently, some of the monks had abandoned their policy of nonaggression and had taken up arms to protect themselves and their property. Over his monastic habit, Courrances wore a surcoat of black with a white cross emblazoned on the back, and Geoffrey had seldom seen him without the arsenal of weapons he carried. Ten or so similarly clad warrior-monks were with Courrances now, mounted on sturdy war-horses and armed to the teeth.

Geoffrey glanced about him and saw that several of the mob lay dead or injured, and were being carried away by friends and relatives. One was the small boy who had tried to press the knife into Melisende’s hand. The Hospitallers sat astride their restless horses, their weapons still unsheathed, clearly itching to fight again. The crowd gathered their fallen comrades and slunk away, hatred and fear burning in their eyes.

These were unarmed people, protested Geoffrey, turning to Courrances angrily. We are under orders to maintain the peace, not massacre civilians!

Oh, well said, Sir Geoffrey, responded Courrances with maddening serenity. Would you rather I let them kill you? And let us be honest about this—you had antagonised them into rioting long before I arrived on the scene, so do not seek to blame me for the deaths of these people. If anyone was at fault, it was you.

Geoffrey scowled, aware that Courrances was right. He should have let Melisende go, and then sent soldiers for her later when there was no crowd to witness her arrest.

John of Sourdeval has been murdered, he said, changing the subject and squinting against the sun to look Courrances in the eye. He was gratified to see the soldier-monk blanch. Stabbed in the back. That is how Sir Guido of Rimini died three weeks ago, is it not?

A second knight murdered? asked Courrances in a low voice. He drummed his long, well-kept fingers on the pommel of his saddle. This is grave news indeed.

Did you see Guido’s body? asked Geoffrey, watching as his men, under Helbye’s direction, began to reassemble on the opposite side of the street. Fletcher still had Melisende in tow, and John was still wrapped in his blanket on the cart. The fig seller was nowhere to be seen, and Geoffrey felt sorry: the cart was probably all the man owned, and its loss would have serious consequences for him. Geoffrey’s fat, cowardly dog, back again now that the danger was over, began to gorge itself on the unattended fruit.

I saw it, said Courrances. And I am told that the weapon used was a great carved dagger with a jewelled hilt—you know the kind I mean? Wicked looking things, but cheap and gaudy. They can be bought in the marketplace.

Geoffrey rubbed his chin thoughtfully and looked at Courrances. Almost as if the murderer did not want to use his own weapon?

Courrances gazed back at him. Quite. As if he wanted to ensure that there was nothing that could connect him to his victims.

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I trust you were suitably grateful to Edouard de Courrances for his timely arrival, said Sir Hugh of Monreale, settling himself more comfortably by the small fire in Geoffrey’s quarters. It was not cold, even within the dank, thick walls of the citadel, but Geoffrey liked a fire when he was in his chamber: it provided him with light should he want to read, and it offered some degree of homeliness in a room devoid of most comforts.

Geoffrey snorted in disgust. He killed unarmed people.

There is no such thing as an unarmed person, mused Hugh. He flexed his fingers at his friend. Hands that can punch, twist, gouge, and scratch. He gestured to his legs. Feet that can kick and trample. He pointed to his mouth. And sharp teeth that can rip and puncture. There is no such thing as an unarmed person. You are a soldier, Geoffrey—you should know that. Anyway, from what you say, those unarmed people were going to kill you.

Geoffrey studied Hugh through half-closed eyes. They had met on the long, gruelling journey across the deserts outside Constantinople. Hugh, like Geoffrey, was a landless younger son of a Norman noble. He had been born in Sicily and had been in the service of Bohemond, one of the leaders of the Crusade, since childhood. Unlike Geoffrey, Hugh was still bitter at the twist of fate that gave his eldest brother more lands and wealth than he knew how to handle, but had left Hugh empty-handed. But Hugh was not a man to languish in self-pity, and like many Normans, he saw the Crusade to the Holy Land as an opportunity to take for himself what had been denied by his birth. And there had been plenty of opportunity to amass a fortune as the great Crusading armies had sacked and looted their way from the West into the Holy Land. Most knights had chests of booty in their possession, and Hugh, who was not given to drinking, whoring, or gambling, had a chest that was larger and fuller than most.

A letter arrived for you today, said Hugh languidly. He held it up. It is stained with grass, and the handwriting is appalling, so I draw the inevitable conclusion that it is from your father at his noble castle on the manor of Goodrich in England.

Geoffrey scowled at him and snatched the letter from his hand. The parchment bore signs of its long journey from the Welsh borders, and