Pillars of Light Read online

  ALSO BY JANE JOHNSON

  The Tenth Gift

  The Salt Road

  The Sultan’s Wife

  Copyright © 2016 Jane Johnson

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher—or in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Doubleday Canada and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House Canada Limited.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Johnson, Jane, 1960-, author

  Pillars of light / Jane Johnson.

  ISBN 978-0-385-68262-6 (pbk.) ISBN 978-0-385-68263-3 (epub)

  I. Title.

  PR6060.O357P54 2016 823’.914 C2015-901989-3

  C2015-901990-7

  This is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover images: (floral pattern) © Rchicano | Dreamstime.com;

  (woman) © Hugh Sitton/Stocksy United

  Map by Kelly Hill

  Published in Canada by Doubleday Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  v3.1

  For Abdel

  Lovers find secret places within this violent world wherein they may make transactions with beauty.

  RUMI

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Epigraph

  Dramatis Personae

  City of Akka, known by the Christians as Acre, Syria

  Part One - The Miracle Men Chapter 1: Priory of St. Michael on the Mount, Cornwall, England

  Chapter 2: Glastonbury

  Chapter 3: City of Akka

  Chapter 4: John Savage, cell in Bath Gaol

  Chapter 5

  Part Two - Taking the Cross Chapter 6: On the road England

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part Three - Love Behind Walls Chapter 10: City of Akka

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part Four - Besieged Chapter 13: The Syrian hills

  Chapter 14: London

  Chapter 15: City of Akka

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part Five - Fire from Heaven Chapter 19: John Savage, Bay of Biscay

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part Six - Warriors of God Chapter 24: John Savage, Holy Land

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Part Seven - The True Cross Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Somerset, England

  Author’s Note

  Source Material

  Acknowledgments

  Dramatis Personae

  IN ENGLAND

  The Moor, traveller (origins unknown)

  John Savage, foundling

  Enoch Pilchard, also known as Quickfinger

  Mary White, also known as Plaguey Mary

  William of Worcester, also known as Red Will

  Michael and Saul Dyer, twins going by the name of Hammer and Saw

  Edward Little, also known as Little Ned

  Rosamund, also known as Ezra

  Reginald de Bohun, the Bishop of Bath and founder of Wells Cathedral

  Savaric de Bohun, also known as Fitzgoldwin: cousin to Reginald

  Abbess of Wilton, presides over the shrine of St. Edith and the Nail of Treves

  Eleanor of Aquitaine, wife to King Henry II of England and mother to his sons, including Richard, known as the Lionheart

  IN ACRE (also called Akka)

  Emir Beha ad-Din Karakush, Governor of Akka

  Baltasar Najib

  Nima, his wife

  Sorgan, their eldest son

  Malek, their second son, serving Sultan Salah ad-Din

  Zohra, their daughter

  Aisa and Kamal, youngest twin sons

  Yacub of Nablus, a doctor

  Sara, his wife

  Nathanael, their son

  Various aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbours, soldiers.

  THE ARMY OF THE FAITHFUL

  Salah ad-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub, Commander of the Faithful and Sultan of Egypt, known by the Christians as Saladin

  Imad ad-Din, the Lord of Sinjar, brother to the sultan

  Al-Adil, the sultan’s younger brother

  Al-Afdal, Salah ad-Din’s older son

  Al-Malik az-Zahir, Salah ad-Din’s younger son

  Baha ad-Din, the Qadi (judge and senior officer) of the Army

  Imad al-Din, the sultan’s scribe

  Taki ad-Din, Prince of Hama, the sultan’s nephew

  Saïf ad-Din Ali al-Mashtub, a warlike Kurdish chieftain

  Keukburi, known as the Blue Wolf, an emir from east of the Euphrates

  Various messengers, commanders, soldiers.

  THE CHRISTIAN ARMY IN SYRIA

  King Philip Augustus of France

  Guy de Lusignan, deposed King of Jerusalem and the Latin Kingdom

  Conrad of Montferrat, Lord of Tyre, an Italian nobleman: his rival

  Count Henry of Champagne

  Gerard de Ridefort, Master of the Temple

  Robert de Sable, knight of Anjou

  Archbishop of Auxerre

  Bishop of Bayonne

  King Richard I, known as The Lionheart and by the Muslims as Malik al-Inkitar

  Ranulf de Glanvill, Chief Justiciar of England, also known as the King’s Eye

  Geoffrey de Glanvill, his brother

  Baldwin of Forde, Archbishop of Canterbury

  IN THE MOUNTAINS OF SYRIA

  Sidi ad-Din Sinan, known as the Old Man of the Mountain, Grand Headmaster of the Hashshashin, a sect of Nizari fundamentalists, often called the Assassins

  City of Akka, known by the Christians as Acre, Syria

  SUMMER 1187

  So much temptation, and never enough money. Over the ordure of the livestock and the acrid stench of too many sweating people in the marketplace, Zohra Najib could just make out the first nose-twitching delights of Sayedi Efraim’s perfume stall. She felt her heart beat faster as her brother Sorgan forged a passage through the crowd. He made a useful battering ram, at least, on busy souq days.

  As they neared the stall, she pressed a coin into his hand. “For sugared almonds.” He knew where the dainties were sold and would linger there, unable to make up his mind, until she came for him. She saw him bring his palm up to gaze at the silver piece, watched his face break into a slow grin. Then his hand formed a greedy fist around the coin. He could hardly get away from her fast enough. More than one shout of protest went up as shoppers were shouldered aside in his headlong rush for sugar.

  She slipped between a pair of women bent almost double under the weight of overfilled baskets, the carry-straps biting into their foreheads, and almost cannoned into two big Templar knights patrolling the crowds. Her second oldest brother, Malek, an officer in the Syrian ar
my, had warned her about the Christian warrior-monks. “They take vows of chastity, but they do not always stick to them,” he’d said, his handsome face stern. “Be sure to keep out of their way.”

  But the knights were not interested in her: their wolf-like gazes roamed the crowds.

  At the perfume-seller’s stall Zohra let her eyes run hungrily over the wares. Some of the incense—frankincense, white benzoin, myrrh—was beyond her purse, but there were other, less expensive options. She loved spending time here, rubbing the patchouli leaves till they gave up their scent, sniffing the crystals and resins, rolling the shards of aromatic wood and dried rose petals between her palms, losing herself for a while in a world of gorgeous possibility before the dullness of her life swallowed her once more.

  Sayedi Efraim, the stallholder, was a tiny man in a crumpled brown robe and a crocheted skullcap. He had one good eye and one closed and withered socket, but that single eye was beady and astute: it was often said it could see money wherever it was hidden. He beamed at his customer, radiating back at her the joy he felt at the presence of her silver. “Take your time, little bird. Take all the time you need.”

  Zohra knew it was good for business for him to have a pretty girl at the stall: it attracted other clients. She smiled back at him. “Show me something less expensive, sayedi.”

  He spread his hands. “How to place a price on a house that smells like a palace, or a girl who smells like a princess? Expense is all in the mind, little bird.”

  She fixed him with what her mother would have called “a straight look.” “Expense is in the pocket, sayedi. I have a single dinar and a great deal more than perfume to buy.” She opened her palm and the silver coin glinted seductively in the sunlight.

  The coin had a cross impressed into its centre: it had been minted in the Latin Kingdom, as the Franj called their embattled realm. Not that it mattered: Zohra knew the trader was happy to take any coin—Christian bezants from Cyprus and Tripoli; silver dirhams from Aleppo, Sinjar and Baghdad; deniers minted in Antioch and Jerusalem … Akka was a city that had always prided itself on its cosmopolitan nature. Situated as it was on the edge of the Middle Sea, it was a trade crossroads: merchants came here to sell gold and spices, silk and saffron, fish eggs and resin, glass and songbirds. From north and east and west they came, from Venice and Marseille, India and China, Trebizond and Sarai.

  The Bay of Haifa offered respite during the notorious winter storms, and its deep, safe anchorage gave shelter to a fleet of ships. To the north lay the fortified city of Tyre; to the east the road to Nazareth and Jerusalem and the rich lands between. Akka was a strategic gem, and so the city changed hands often, but business went on much the same as usual, no matter who was in charge. Goods were traded, money circulated—everyone was happy. Well, maybe “happy” was an exaggeration, she thought, remembering the Franj knights pushing through the markets with their swords at the ready and their surcoats emblazoned with huge crosses, an affront to every good Muslim. If you listened, you could hear the squeal of pigs in the livestock market, and every day the bells that the Christians had sacrilegiously hung in the minaret of the Friday Mosque rang their hideous summons to Shaitan. Every day she prayed that Salah ad-Din would one day retake the city and melt down those wretched bells.

  The stallholder selected a piece of frankincense—an opalescent, crystalline bulb—and held it beneath Zohra’s nose. The initial strong, musky scent was followed by the much prized balsamic undertone. She inhaled in a sort of daze.

  “This is my best hojari,” Sayedi Efraim said. “The first cut of the resin, all the way from the sacred trees of Dhofar, brought through the Empty Quarter and then the Great Desert by caravan. Just think of the dangers those brave cameleers endured to bring this frankincense all that way so that an old man could make a pretty girl very happy. Is their courage and enterprise not worth the small price I ask?”

  “Stop your song and dance, Efraim! Can’t you see she doesn’t want to buy your expensive frankincense?”

  Zohra turned and found a young man standing there. He was tall and lanky, with a long, mobile face and a mass of black hair that his small, precarious skullcap did nothing to confine. He had a determined set to his chin, eyes of a deep, mysterious brown, and his grin was lopsided and mocking. “Wait till some fat merchant’s wife comes by with her husband’s purse. Besides, frankincense is too heavy for such a beauty—maybe orris root or cassia?”

  Zohra opened her mouth to speak, but the man leaned forward and placed a finger on her lips. Greatly affronted, she took a step back.

  The man caught Zohra by the arm. “No need to run away, pigeon. Here, this is what you need. Amber, like your eyes.” He chose a square of amber-musk from Efraim’s bins and rubbed it between his fingers. “Close your eyes,” he instructed, warming the wax in his hands to release the essential oils. “Blow all your breath out and then, when I tell you to, breathe in.”

  Zohra did as she was told, though she was not usually so biddable. At once, the sweet perfume flooded her senses. She put a hand out to steady herself, opened her eyes wide, found that she had clutched his arm. What was she doing, touching a man in public? She snatched her hand back. But the man smiled, a smile that lit his whole being; and at that moment the sun struck him full on, turning his pale skin almost as opalescent as the frankincense. The scent of amber enveloped them like a cloud: they might at that moment have been the only two people left on the face of the earth.

  “I’ll buy four pieces,” the man told the stallholder, and then he haggled furiously till he’d paid less for four than Zohra would have paid for two. “Wrap them separately,” he instructed, and when this was done, he took Zohra’s hands in his own and closed his fingers over two of the bits of amber. She stared down at their interlocking flesh, feeling the blood beating through his skin, pulsing against her own. Suddenly, it seemed impossible to breathe.

  Then, just as suddenly, he released her, and when she looked up, blinking, it was to see that his attention was no longer on her, for he was craning his neck, staring out across the crowd. She experienced a moment of disappointment before her ears registered the shouting. Angry voices, loud and insistent.

  Oh no, was her first thought. What has Sorgan done?

  But it was nothing to do with her brother. Words became distinct: “Hattin,” “defeat” and then “Saladin,” spoken the Franj way, a curt mangling of their sultan’s name. Her heart clenched. Had the Muslim army been defeated? The idea of her brother Malek hacked by enemy swords was for a moment so distressing she lost her breath again.

  “What are they shouting?” she asked at last.

  By way of response, the stranger picked up her basket and took her by the arm. “We must get you out of here. Right now.”

  “My brother is in the bazaar.”

  “Your brother can look after himself.”

  “No, you don’t understand!” She began to pull away. “I have to fetch him, I must …”

  But he didn’t let go. His eyes were shining, but she could not tell whether it was with anger, or fear or some other emotion. He hustled her on.

  Around the corner, out of sight, someone screamed and an angry buzz rose like bees. The stranger hauled her so hard it was as if her feet barely touched the ground. At last they were on the fringe of the market where the press of folk was less intense. He let her go.

  “I had to get you out of there quickly.”

  Zohra, angry at being manhandled, snapped, “I can take care of myself!”

  “It’s not some market brawl. There’s been a huge battle. The Christians have been routed. The Bishop of Akka is dead and the True Cross has been captured by Salah ad-Din.”

  Zohra stared at him. “Our sultan beat the Franj?”

  “At Hattin, yes, a great victory: twenty thousand dead and their king taken captive. There will be reprisals, bloodshed. It’s not safe. Where do you live? I will take you home.”

  “I can’t go without Sorgan.” Zohra willed her broth
er to come lumbering out of the bazaar. But there was no sign of him.

  “Your brother can find his own way home.”

  “Sorgan may look like a giant, but he’s barely got the wits of a child.”

  His air of control wavered. “I’m sorry, I did not realize. Look, stay here, keep out of sight and I’ll fetch him.” He ushered her into a doorway. Zohra described her brother, told him how he had gone to buy sugared almonds, then watched as the stranger in his dark robe became a shadow among shadows within the eaves of the covered market.

  Sorgan would never come away with a stranger: there would be a scene. He could spend hours at the sweets stall, devouring it with his eyes, before making his immense decision. He was as stubborn as a mule, and just as immovable once he had an idea in his head. Surely, it would be quicker if she went back in to fetch him …

  But now a stream of people was running out of the market, women clutching purchases and pulling small children, youths with bloodied clothing and wild eyes. From the street behind her a detachment of Franj militia appeared, swords glinting in the late-afternoon sun. Turning back, Zohra saw Sorgan emerging from the bazaar, looming over the stranger, who had him by the arm. Her big, simple brother was grinning and grinning, hugging an enormous bundle to his chest.

  Zohra’s relief turned at once to consternation. “What have you done? What have you taken?”

  Sorgan’s eyes darted. He said nothing.

  “He wouldn’t come away easily,” the stranger said, his eyes on the retreating militia. “So we bought half the stall, didn’t we, Sorgan?”

  Her brother gave his throaty, infectious laugh, but Zohra glared at him, appalled. Sorgan dug into the parcel. “Would you like one?” Between his giant fingers gleamed a single sugared almond, proffered not to his own sister but to the nice stranger. Zohra had never before seen him share his treats with anyone. This in itself was oddly disturbing; more so was that in the crevice of his palm she glimpsed the silver coin she had given him.