01 - Murder in the Holy City by Simon Beaufort Page B

Geoffrey looked searchingly at him. Tancred had said exactly the same. Perhaps they were right. Courrances met his eyes briefly, and then turned his attention to a futile attempt to pare the gristle from his portion of goat. After a while, he gave up in disgust, and flung it from him toward Geoffrey’s ever-watchful dog. It was neatly intercepted by Roger, whose powerful jaws were not averse to gristle. The dog’s expression changed from gluttonous anticipation, to astonishment, and then to outrage within the space of a moment.
    Courrances leaned across the table toward Geoffrey. “The Advocate is also concerned about these murders. If Bohemond and Tancred are half the statesmen I believe them to be, they will be concerned too.”
    “Your point?” enquired Geoffrey, as Courrances paused.
    “My point,” said Courrances, turning his strange pale eyes on the Englishman, “is that these deaths are a threat to us all, whether Norman or Lorrainer, English or French, knight or monk. We should work together to solve them. I believe they are the work of Moslem fanatics who are aiming to bring us down by devious means, because their armies cannot defeat ours in battle. The Advocate himself thinks that the Patriarch may know more than he is telling, while the Advocate’s brother thinks that the Jews are responsible.”
    “The Jews?” exclaimed Geoffrey. “They are only interested in maintaining as great a distance as possible from us, and who can blame them? They have neither the motive nor the inclination to become involved.”
    “Oh but they do,” said Courrances smoothly. “Few can deny that they were happier, more free, and more prosperous under the control of the Moslems than they are under us. They would be only too pleased to see us ousted and the Moslems back.”
    “That is probably true,” said Geoffrey, “but it does not mean that they would be so foolish as to attempt to bring it about. Their position is far too vulnerable. If they are in any doubt about what our armies are capable of, they only need to think back to the massacre when the city fell.”
    “Ah yes,” said Courrances, “the massacre. Tancred was misguided in trying to offer protection to the infidel. If he had succeeded in his policy of mercy, there would have been more than the occasional knight or priest murdered in the streets by now.”
    Geoffrey said nothing. At Geoffrey’s insistence, Tancred had attempted to save some of Jerusalem’s citizens by gathering them together in a building that flew his standard. But knights and soldiers alike had ignored his orders, and the people who had thrown themselves on Tancred’s mercy had been slaughtered like everyone else. Geoffrey had only realised what had happened when he saw the flames rising from the roof as the bodies were incinerated. Tancred had shrugged stoically when Geoffrey, almost speechless with rage and horror, told him what had happened, and promptly put the matter out of his mind in order to concentrate on the more interesting problem of where to loot first. Geoffrey had argued many times with Courrances about this incident, and neither was prepared to concede the other’s point of view. Discussing it yet again would only serve to make them loathe each other more than they did already, if that were possible.
    “You are something of a scholar, Sir Geoffrey,” Courrances went on. “You know Arabic, I am told, and you have made yourself familiar with some of the customs of the Saracens. I approve.”
    Geoffrey regarded him suspiciously. In the past, Courrances had made no pretence at the scorn with which he held Geoffrey’s predilection for learning about Arab culture.
    “The point is,” said Courrances, leaning so far over the table that the expensive black cloth of his tabard became stained in a pool of spilled grease, “the point is that there are few men here who are suitably equipped to investigate the deaths of these unfortunate men—and John was a friend of yours,