She would not back down. Let him think, or let him be too blind with rage to think. She hardly cared which.
When he spoke, his voice was barely to be heard. “You give no quarter.”
“I never did,” she said. “I want this man, Bertrand. I’ve wanted him since I saw him in your castle, destroying your armies in a chessboard. I never knew, nor knew that he wanted me. When he went away I thought myself cured of him. But he came back – and he came for me. He’s wanted no woman as I’ve wanted no man. For each of us there is only the other.”
“I would never have dreamed,” he said, “that you could think such things.”
“Nor I,” she said in a kind of wonder, “until I said them. Mind you, I won’t die if I can’t have him. But I will die to the world. I’ll take the veil.”
“You never wanted that,” he said.
“Nor do I want it now,” said Richildis. “But without this man I want the world even less. I could do very well. A scholarly order, a life of contemplation, no interruptions but the round of the holy offices: there’s much worse in the world in that.”
Bertrand shook his head. He seemed more awed than angry now, and more wry than either. “I can’t win against you, can I? You’ve prepared all your battles, even the ones I would never have thought of.”
She nodded, unsmiling. She was not here to revel in victory, or to be glad that she had prevailed over her brother. “If you won’t bless us, the queen will.”
“I’ll bless you!” He made it sound like a threat. “I am your kin. I have the right.”
“And I,” she said, “won’t petition the queen to overrule it.”
* * *
Bertrand was blessedly polite to Michael Bryennius. Polite – not cordial. He was in fact a little stiff.
Michael Bryennius was amused. When they had eaten one of Helena’s cook’s simple yet marvelous dinners, when Helena had ordered up a jar of the best wine from the cellar, he sat back in his chair, turning the silver cup in his hands. “My dear friend,” he said to Bertrand, “out with it. How dare I presume to ask for your sister?”
“And how dare she accept?” Bertrand sighed heavily. The tension in him eased – not altogether, but enough to notice. “She’s informed me that whether I will or no, she will marry you. I might resist her, but she invokes the queen, who surely will take her part. I can hardly challenge her majesty.”
“A very sensible conclusion,” Michael Bryennius said.
“You don’t have to sound so damned smug,” Bertrand said.
Michael Bryennius grinned. “I am, aren’t I? She’s the glory of the Franks, my friend. Small wonder you’re reluctant to give her up to a foreigner.”
“Don’t be silly,” snapped Bertrand. “She’s attractive but she’s not sublime. There are half a dozen prettier—”
“Not to me,” Michael Bryennius said, soft as a purr.
Bertrand blinked. A brother could forget, Richildis thought, what a lover would want to hear. No man’s sister should be beautiful to him.
He turned to look at her. She fought the urge to say something cutting. Apparently he saw something in her face that he had not seen before: his eyes widened; he blinked again, not in surprise, not exactly. More as if a sudden light had dazzled him.
Well. She was not a great beauty, but neither was she ugly. That might startle a brother whose perception of her face had blurred into familiarity when she was a gaptoothed child.
Bertrand shook his head slowly. “Now I’m amazed that no one’s asked for you before.”
“The queen could tell you otherwise,” Richildis said. “When I first came, there was one every month. Now it’s one or two each season. Some men prefer a widow of a certain age but young enough still to bear a child or two.”
“Why didn’t I know this? Those must be men I know. If one them has insulted you, or refused you, or—”
“The queen dealt with each according to his deserts,” Richildis said.
He ran his hand over his face as if it hurt him. “Do you women have any genuine need of men at all?”
“Not,” she said, “as a general rule. No.”
“You see,” Michael Bryennius said, “how she honors me by pretending that she needs a husband.”
“Need has nothing to do with it,” Richildis said tartly. “Now if you speak of wanting…”
He smiled at her, sweet enough to weaken her knees. Love was a disease, the ancients said. She knew it for truth. Such a disease as made one want more of it and not less, till one expired in a haze of bliss.
Not that bliss was her common lot in this man’s vicinity. Annoyance rather, and startlement at whatever he took it into his head to say next, and a marvelous deep warmth whenever he looked at her. She had not tried to imagine what it would be like to be his wife. She would do it, that was all. God would help her if He would; if not, not.
Her poor brother was completely baffled. Well; and he should not be. He had chosen the lady of his heart long ago, though he had never married her.
This would be a grand jest in Provence, or in Aquitaine where such a thing was called fin amor and much prized and sung. But then people in the south of France were all famously hot-blooded, or so they professed themselves to be. Northerners made less noise about it.
She schooled herself to serenity, drank the rest of her wine though she barely tasted it, and did her best not to stare too often at Michael Bryennius. He was wearing what must be his courtier’s face, amiable and rather empty, and not turning his eyes toward her at all. What, shy? Or merely and belatedly circumspect?
Bertrand put an end to the discomfort abruptly, rising and saying to Arslan, “Come, sir. It’s time we went home.”
Since home to Arslan was the palace, and home to Bertrand was his house in the city, Arslan looked rather understandably startled. He did not, Richildis noted, utter a protest. Wise child. He was taking very well to the late advent of a father – better perhaps than the father was taking to the late discovery that his son had been living under his nose for all these years. Arslan had enough of his mother in him to be undismayed by shocks that would flatten a lesser spirit.
Michael Bryennius waited till they were both on their feet and turned toward the door, with a servant coming with their cloaks, before he said, “I gather we don’t have your blessing, then.”
“You have it,” Bertrand said, biting off the words. “What, do you want a kiss on both cheeks, too, and a brother’s welcome?”
“Such would be pleasant,” Michael Bryennius said. “Eventually. I’ll give you time to accustom yourself to the prospect.”
Bertrand growled wordlessly. “God’s teeth! You two deserve each other.”
Michael Bryennius smiled and bowed where he sat, as if he had been paid a compliment. Richildis laughed. Bertrand snarled again, but with a catch in it – he was trying not to laugh, she could tell. He did not want to laugh. And there was Arslan, hopelessly confused. She hoped that Bertrand could explain to him later just why, after all the growling and snapping, everyone was suddenly helpless with mirth.
The young would never understand. For that one needed years and scars and no little recent pain. Laughter was born of these; and if it ended in tears, those tears washed the heart clean.
“You,” Bertrand said when he could speak again, “will do what you damned well please. Rather than look like an idiot, I’ll play the game with you. But don’t expect any brotherly love until I’m good and ready.”
“Oh, we would never expect that,” Michael Bryennius said gravely. “Never at all. No.”
Bertrand coughed: laughter again, with perhaps a roar of rage buried in it. But he said nothing. He bowed to them all, kissed Helena on both cheeks – making a point of it, surely – and left, taking his son with him.
* * *
After he had gone, it was as if a storm had passed, leaving them all a little weak. Helena sent the winejar round again. Richildis was minded to refuse, but Helena had filled the cup before she could object. The wine
was sweet and strong, barely watered. She drank deep, deeper than she was used to, till she was dizzy.
Michael Bryennius spoke for them all. “Victory,” he said, “but at a price. Who would believe so affable a man could be so terrible in battle?”
“The lion is a lazy beast,” Helena observed, “except when he’s pricked to anger.”
“That’s not lion-anger,” Richildis said irritably. “That’s a boy’s tantrum. How dare his sister do a thing without begging his leave? And if he were my liege lord, maybe I would have.”
“Did you ask the queen’s leave?” Michael Bryennius asked.
She glared at him. “Of course I didn’t. I will when she’s done with all this festival.”
“And if she says no?”
Richildis rebuked her heart for stopping. “Then we’ll try the Emperor of the Byzantines. And if he refuses… well then. We’ll find someone who won’t. The lord of the spice countries, maybe. The man who rules the silk country. Even a Caliph or two, or the King of France. His queen is young, they say, and a little wild. Maybe she’d find us amusing enough to indulge us.”
“A vast plan,” Michael Bryennius said, “and ingenious. I salute you.”
She bared her teeth at his mockery. “I am not going to surrender to the rest of the world, now that I’ve surrendered to you.”
“But it was I,” he said, “who surrendered to you. What is it the knights say in the lists? Yield! I yield! And all power to the Queen of Beauty.”
“They don’t say that,” Richildis said.
“Then they should,” said Michael Bryennius.
Thirty-Three
Melisende had much less to say of Richildis’ folly than Bertrand had, and rather more to the point. “You will do this?” she asked.
“Will you forbid me?” Richildis asked in return.
She watched the queen consider it. For all her bold words to her brother, she was not greatly enamored of wandering the world around in search of a ruler who would bless her union with a Byzantine.
But if she must do it, then she must.
Melisende sighed at last, bowing her head under Richildis’ hands that ran the ivory comb through her hair. “No, I won’t forbid you. The man is a schismatic and a Greek, yes?”
“He reckons himself a Roman.”
“That might be worse.” Melisende shook her head. “No, no. Marry him. The Patriarch will see to a dispensation, if one is needed.”
“As easy as that?”
Richildis had not known she spoke aloud until Melisende said, “Which? The Patriarch, or your marrying the man at all?”
“All of it,” Richildis said. “You don’t even know him.”
“On the contrary,” said Melisende. “He applied to me for audience the day after I was crowned. I granted it finally yesterday. He’s an interesting man.”
“Yes,” said Richildis.
Melisende looked over her shoulder. “When you go flat like that, I know you’re thinking rage at me.”
“No,” Richildis said – flat; she could not help it. “Lady, neither of you said a word to me.”
“We judged it best,” thought Melisende, “to spare you any vexation. As it happens, I like him very much. He’s less slippery than most of his kind. Where ever did you find him?”
Richildis did not know that she was prepared for a comfortable gossip with the Queen of Jerusalem; but Melisende was in an amiable mood. Richildis struggled to meet her at least without sharpness. “My brother found him. He was in Beausoleil for three whole years and more, and would never come to Jerusalem.”
“His exile, yes,” said Melisende. “He told me of that. He would be an unfortunate courtier, particularly in that court. What does he expect to do in this kingdom?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
Melisende’s eyes flickered. Richildis had presumed; but she refused to flinch.
“He told me,” said Melisende, “that he expects to live quietly, to administer such of his family’s affairs as can be done at this distance, and to make you deliriously happy.”
Richildis blushed furiously. “He did not say that!”
“Those are his very words.” Melisende let a smile escape, one far less fitting a queen than a hoyden princess. “I told you that I liked him. He’s wealthy, I gather, but his family may not be so pleased when he fails to return from his embassy. There’s a charter waiting for you, title to an estate that’s in my bestowal. It’s small but profitable, with an olive press and a sugar-mill and the beginning of a vineyard – and what may suit you well, it’s within a day’s ride of Jerusalem.”
That was more than generous. It was a gesture of friendship. Richildis felt her throat go tight. “I… thank you,” she said.
“You may not when you see what needs to be done at Mount Ghazal.”
“Mount Ghazal? Is that what it’s called?”
“Indeed,” said Melisende. “It’s a village of devout Muslims, a few Frankish pilgrims scraping a living beside them, and a castle that was barely finished before its lord was killed in a Bedu raid. He had no wife and no heir. There will be servants, a steward, a knight I think, unless he transferred his service elsewhere. You will owe one knight in fee; or provide twenty men-at-arms to the levy of the kingdom.”
Richildis bent her head. This was labor on labor – worse perhaps than what she had done to help prepare the coronation. And she was glad. High, bright, singing glad. To serve a queen, that was honor, and by now most familiar. But to be lady of a holding, a barony with even – God help her – a vineyard: that she could do from her youth.
She reined herself in. “My… husband” – her tongue stumbled; so did her heart – “might be otherwise inclined. He does insist that his wealth is enough for us both.”
“He did,” said Melisende. “He eventually agreed that you would be happier with somewhat to do, and a place of your own in which to do it. A fortress in the chain of castles, a house in Jerusalem: that’s very proper for a baroness in this kingdom over the sea.”
“And how did he take to the thought that he would be a baron of the High Court of the Kingdom of Jerusalem?”
“Why, not at all,” Melisende said. “He’ll be no baron. He continues to be a nobleman of Byzantium, kinsman of the emperor. You are a baroness of the High Court.”
“You can’t do that,” Richildis said.
“The queen may dispose as she pleases of the lands in her bestowal,” said Melisende. She took great pleasure in saying it: her eyes were as bright as they had been when she was crowned. “Do you offer further objection?”
“I don’t object,” Richildis said. “I’m… taken by surprise.”
“You shouldn’t be,” said Melisende.
Richildis bowed to that.
* * *
Richildis was married to Michael Bryennius on the feast of Epiphany, before the chapel door of the Tower of David, by the queen’s own chaplain. The Patriarch would not do it, though he had given dispensation. Father Walter was more willing, perhaps in hope of converting a schismatic to the true faith.
Except for a slight flaring of the nostrils in the mass that came after their vows, when they had been admitted to the chapel, Michael Bryennius preserved his peace. He had not let Richildis’ hand go since it was placed in his during the taking of vows. Their fingers were twined as if they would never be divided.
He was warm beside her in winter’s chill, with the faint sweet scent of spices that he favored over the heavy perfumes of his countrymen. His coat was new, brocaded silk the color of ripe Damascus plums, so deep a blue it was almost black. It made her remember the clothes he had worn in Beausoleil, somber and always elegant.
She had somewhat unwittingly matched him, choosing a gown appropriate to a widow who married again, a blue nigh as deep and nigh as rich as his. Pearls were sewn upon it like stars in a midnight sky. Her camise was fine linen the color of ivory, her veil deep blue over ivory, her hair plaited beneath it and bound with a fillet of silver. The f
illet pressed on her brows, not quite heavy enough to ache. She was ridiculously happy.
It was a small wedding, no more than kin; no press of the court, no crowd of hangers-on. Bad enough that people were whispering, telling tales of a Frankish lady who would not choose from among her own kind but must go seeking among the treacherous Byzantines. So they had been married in quiet, in an hour of the day when most sat to their daymeal. The queen was there with those of her ladies who were most well disposed toward Richildis, having eluded the feast in the court; Baldwin the young king and Arslan his friend and Amaury the young prince in his page’s livery, Bertrand and Helena and, outside the door where infidels must stay, Helena’s Turks with their turbans and their wonderful wicked faces.
The wedding banquet was laid in Helena’s house, that being closest and Helena being most strong-willed about the excellence of her cook. Richildis rode to it in a litter, the others as suited them best, laughing and singing and brandishing torches in the grey sleet-lashed evening. It could have been high spring and bright day for all they recked of the weather.
Helena’s cook had outdone himself. He refused to roast an ox whole: vulgar ostentation without finesse, he called that. Instead he had prepared a round of dishes: lamb in dates and spices, gazelle rubbed with herbs and roasted on a spit, geese stuffed with apples, pies and pasties and sweets in delirious profusion. Richildis could have her fill of oranges if she wanted them, and wine from Italy, wine from France, wine from La Forêt itself.
She could eat none of it, could drink only a little. She made herself nibble, or seem to. Everyone else, even Michael Bryennius, seemed happily ravenous. She could only feign interest in the feast, beautiful as it was.
She had been much less dismayed at her first wedding – and much less willing, too. Then food and wine had dulled the edge of her dislike for the man whom her father had chosen. She had calculated that if she drank enough, ate enough, nothing that happened after would matter.
It had been unpleasant, but not as unpleasant as she had feared. Thierry could be gentle enough when he wished.
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