01 - Murder in the Holy City by Simon Beaufort Read Free Book Online Page B

hierarchy. John of Sourdeval, Geoffrey recalled with a pang, had often made a fourth, his gentleness and integrity repressing some of Roger’s and Hugh’s wilder acts.
    “I heard you had a heart delivered last night,” said Roger conversationally, pushing past Geoffrey to be the first to arrive at the meal in the hall. “Do you want it? I have not eaten a heart since I left Durham.”
    “You would be in competition with half the flies in Palestine for it,” drawled Hugh. “It stinks like a cesspool.”
    Roger grinned, showing strong brown teeth. “Picky Frenchman,” he said. Hugh smiled back, while Geoffrey wondered how they could be so complacent about such a breach in security.
    Geoffrey watched Roger clatter down the stairs in front of him. Roger was not a man Geoffrey would have imagined he would have forged a friendship with—he was coarse, loved fighting, and despised anything remotely intellectual. Yet English knights were a rarity on the Crusade, and Geoffrey found himself first drawn to Roger for the simple reason that they were countrymen. Later, however, he had come to respect other qualities in Roger: his honesty, a certain crude integrity, and an absolute loyalty to his friends—chiefly Geoffrey and Hugh. Although Geoffrey had more in common with the quick-witted, sardonic Hugh, Geoffrey admired Roger and felt himself fortunate to have two such friends, regardless of the difference in their personalities.
    The great hall was already heaving with men. The window shutters had been thrown wide open, but the air inside was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, Jerusalem dust, and oiled leather. Geoffrey immediately felt the prickle of sweat at his back, and pulled uncomfortably at his clothes. Even within the great walls of the citadel, the knights wore armour—mostly light mail tunics over their shirts. When they left the citadel, they wore heavy chain-mail shirts that reached their knees; over the shirts, they donned padded surcoats emblazoned with a Crusader’s cross on the back and their lord’s insignia on the front. Added to this were thick mail gauntlets, a metal helmet with a long nosepiece, and weighty boiled-leather trousers.
    The hall was a rectangle, so large that there were two—not one—hearths to warm it in the brief winter months. There were round-headed windows on the west wall, which looked out across the inner bailey, but none in the east wall, which faced the outside, to render it more secure against attack. The end nearest the kitchens was marked by a brightly painted screen that hid the movements of the servants preparing the food behind it, while a dais at the opposite end bore a table at which the Advocate sat with his younger brother, Baldwin. At right angles to the table on the dais were four massive trestle tables, set up at mealtime and then dismantled. The more senior knights sat at the ends nearest the Advocate, while the lesser ones sat farther away.
    Geoffrey, Roger, and Hugh found places near the head of the nearest table and helped themselves to watered wine, overripe figs, and hard bread. Two of the Advocate’s knights came and settled opposite them: Warner de Gray and Henri d’Aumale, both of whom Geoffrey loathed almost as much as he did the cunning Hospitaller Courrances. Geoffrey stifled a sigh and began to discuss the sword drill planned for that afternoon with Hugh. Meanwhile, Warner began to describe an encounter he had had the day before with a small group of Arabs who had ambushed his scouting party. Geoffrey tried to ignore him, but Warner’s voice was strident, and he and Hugh were eventually forced to abandon their own discussion.
    When Warner saw he had an audience, he began to elaborate. In many ways, he looked like his cousin the Advocate: both were tall, well-built, and fair-haired. But whereas the Advocate was a thoughtful man and, rumour had it, religious, Warner was brash and arrogant, and he encouraged a lawlessness among his knights that