“Indeed, sire,” murmured Raymond of Tripoli. “That is the wish of us all and may God grant that it be so, but we pray that you recover as you have done before.”
“Indeed, may God grant such mercy, but if he does not, then I must make provision,” Baldwin said. “We hear no news from the patriarch and the grand master of the Hospitallers, and we cannot depend on any arriving for weeks or even months to come, and therefore, we must act now.” He lay back against the pillows, exhausted, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The physician leaned over him and Baldwin waved him aside. “We shall summon the high court to meet in four days’ time and the matter shall be decided. Let the scribes send out letters now.”
“Sire, I shall see that it is arranged immediately.” Raymond bowed and turned away to begin issuing commands.
The future king of Jerusalem galloped past William on his wooden hobbyhorse, golden hair flopping over his brow. Not looking where he was going, he tripped over his feet and landed hard on the tiled floor. Being nearest, William hastened to pick him up.
“Sire, let me assist you. You were riding so fast that your horse could not sustain the pace.”
The little boy gazed at William from round blue eyes. Even though he screwed up his face and his knees must have been smarting, there were no tears. “My horse is the fastest in the kingdom, faster even than my papa’s.”
By his “papa” he meant Guy de Lusignan.
“I am sure that is so, sire,” William replied neutrally.
“Mama says he is coming to Jerusalem because my uncle the king is unwell and wants to see him.”
“Indeed.” William suppressed a grimace. The pigeons would be flying to Ascalon, and Guy would be here on his own fast horse, for the king was clearly dying. A proxy would have to be appointed, because Baldwin’s named successor was this little boy. Raymond of Tripoli was acting regent, but it was clear from Sybilla’s presence in the chamber and the child’s comment that his stepfather was on his way and there might be a challenge.
“Mama wants to see him too, but I don’t know why because they are always fighting under the bedclothes.”
William almost choked. At that moment, Paschia arrived, her hand held out to take the young king and lead him back to his mother. “Come,” she said, “you must not run around in your uncle’s council chamber; it is unseemly.” She looked at William. “Messire Marshal, thank you for coming to the king’s rescue; I am glad we can count on you.” Her eyes were filled with amusement, speculation, and a glint of lust.
“You can always count on me, my lady,” William said with a bow.
“I am glad to hear it. I shall no doubt speak to you later.” She touched the plain gold ring on her finger and William placed his hand on his heart.
Paschia returned the boy to his mother, and William departed the royal palace for his lodging, feeling unsettled and disturbed.
* * *
William gazed up at the light pouring down through the apex of the dome while he recovered his breath. There had been no talking when he and Paschia came together, only frantic divesting of clothes and a white-hot, all-consuming need for each other’s bodies.
“Where did you go?” she asked him, one thigh curled over his and her hand across his chest. “None of your men could tell me or wanted to tell me. You did not take your horse.”
“I had duties,” he answered with a shrug. “To do with protecting the roads.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Duties you are not going to tell me about.”
William smiled. “I do not think you tell me all of your business, my lady.”
She made a face at him. “I will find out, you know.”
“Perhaps, and perhaps not.”
She pinched him hard enough to make him flinch and then rose to pour them each a cup of wine. He admired the heavy silk of her blue-black hair, her narrow waist, and the curve of her buttocks.
“You know the king is dying,” she said as she returned to bed.
William took a swallow of wine and sighed. “Yes. It seems to me that there is no balance in the world when the king of Jerusalem is soon to pass away and be succeeded by a child of six years who runs about the chamber on a pretend horse, while in England, King Henry has three grown sons all fighting each other for the crown.” He looked at Paschia. “That little boy is going to be a minor for a very long time. He has much growing to do and his education has barely started. It will be ten years before he is capable of taking the reins. The kingdom of Jerusalem has a sick king and a very small child to succeed him, and that is a powerless position, indeed.”
“Yes,” Paschia agreed somberly. “All will depend on the regent whoever is chosen.”
He arched his brows. “I would hope Raymond of Tripoli prevails. He has the most experience and the barons will follow him.”
“But he is not the only one, and not everyone trusts him, including Countess Sybilla, and she is the mother of the heir. Her say is paramount.”
“Not if she speaks for her husband, surely,” William said. “No one will accept Guy de Lusignan. You know that.”
“No, I do not,” Paschia answered, her eyes flashing. “He has supporters too, and he is young Baldwin’s stepfather. The Templars back him. Gerard de Ridefort will never stand shoulder to shoulder with Raymond of Tripoli. If you have any sense, you will cultivate Guy, because sooner or later, he is going to become king of Jerusalem. That is the truth of the matter, whether you like it or not.”
They had gone from the ecstasy of a shared intense physical experience to a different tension, bordering on argument, like the charged edge of a thunderstorm.
“If King Henry agrees to come to Outremer, there will be no place for Guy de Lusignan. He was banished from court for my uncle’s murder.”
“And if your King Henry does not come?” Paschia retorted. “What is there to lose in being amenable?”
William shook his head. “You do not understand.”
“Then make me understand.”
He dug his hands through his hair in exasperation. “When I was at court, I answered to a king. It was my duty to say who came before him and who did not. It was my judgment to assess who was suitable and who should be turned away. I was on watch for any kind of threat. My service was my honor and my lords were men I could respect and feel that honor in serving. That is why I will not seek service with Guy de Lusignan, for I have neither of those things to sustain me. Now do you understand?”
She stared at him, and he stared back and saw something flicker in her expression. Respect—or perhaps a reassessment of her opponent. “I think you are being foolish.” She tossed her head. “You should think again.”
“If I do, it will only be to come to the same conclusion.” He finished his wine, set the goblet aside, and reached for her. “If Guy de Lusignan becomes the power behind the throne, I shall return home. I cannot remain here and serve under such a man.”
She resisted the pull of his arms.
“Have you thought any more about my offer? That you could come with me in honor as my wife?”
Her eyelashes flickered down. “I am still thinking,” she said. “I do not know if I can.”
“But why stay here in a dead kingdom when we could have the world at our feet? You would be free of all that.”
She sighed and shook her head. “I am the mistress of the Patriarch of Jerusalem—I have jewels and riches and a position, even if I am not his wife. How will I live if I am wed to an itinerant warrior, even if he is employed by kings? How will the people in England look on me? Can you protect me from their thoughts? When they know who I am, they will shun us both.”
William wrapped his arms around her. “That will not happen,” he soothed. “You shall want for nothing, I swear. I want our union to be honorable. I do not want you to go in fear of men such as your uncle or to be endangered by what is happening he
re. I want you to be safe, and I do not want to come creeping to your chamber like a thief in the night.”
Her resistance suddenly slackened, and she softened in his arms. “When we are lying together like this, I believe you could protect me from anything and that we could make a life together.”
“Then believe all the time and say yes.”
She raised herself on one elbow and looked down at him and, instead of giving him a spoken reply, kissed him tenderly on the eyelids, the points of his cheekbones, the end of his nose. “My English lion,” she said, and then claimed his lips.
The kiss was meltingly sweet. William considered pushing her to answer him, but he took her physical demonstration as her line of truth and kissed her in return. He made love to her as if she were a fragile, precious vessel, each touch as soft as a breath, and each breath a feather of air over sensitive skin. So often their lovemaking was wild and elemental—a battle to take each other to the point where the only way out was to agree an exhausted truce. But now, with the first lust burned off and dreams in the air, a wistful tenderness permeated their union. This could be forever, if only. Even when their bodies joined together, there was no urgency, no will to dominate, but rather a wish to move slowly and smoothly, like waves undulating to shore in ripples of sensation that built with a powerful, slow intensity.
When the final surge crested, she wrapped her legs around him and clung to him for dear life, gripping his shoulders, legs clasped high around his waist as his breath locked in his throat and he let go. After that, they slept, twined around each other like two swimmers washed up on an empty golden shore.
It was late when Paschia left. As she moved to the door, William swept her back into his arms like an undertow and kissed her again.
She responded with enthusiasm. “I do love you. Whatever happens, remember that,” she said. And then she was gone.
Standing alone, William wondered if there had been a note of regret, almost apology, in her tone. He was still drugged with lassitude and the sensations engendered by their lovemaking. He knew, in the moment and in the dome, she was his, but beyond that, it was a different reality, and on a whim, assent could change to denial.
He listened but heard nothing below. He went down the stairs and, having locked the door, entered the chapel. Fresh prayer candles burned to one side of the altar, and the painted frescoes were deeply shadowed as the light faded into dusk. As William crossed the room, his spine tingled, and he looked around, alert for danger, but saw nothing, although the shadows were deep and could have concealed half a dozen people. He quickened his pace and left the building, but then lingered awhile in the courtyard to see if anyone emerged behind him. No one did, and he decided that his heightened sense of danger was the result of an uneasy conscience. He retired to his chamber, flopped across his bed, and almost immediately fell into a deep slumber, his arm bent across his eyes.
* * *
William sat on a bench in the anteroom of King Baldwin’s chamber and watched the open doors that had been thrown wide to grant the king’s soul an easy departure. Although Baldwin still breathed, those breaths were measured in hours rather than days. The waiting had begun the previous night and it would be night again soon, and still the king clung to life and the court waited.
It had been three weeks since he had summoned the High Court of Jerusalem in order to nominate a regent and execute a plan to deal with the administration of the country in the immediate aftermath of his death before Heraclius’s mission returned from the French and English courts. Raymond of Tripoli, as expected, had been declared regent during little Baldwin’s minority, but restrictions had been placed on his rule. The major castles were to be put in the hands of the Templars and Hospitallers, and the little king was to be given into the custody of his great-uncle Joscelin de Courtenay, rather than being cared for by Raymond of Tripoli. However, that same ruling meant his stepfather would not be his guardian. If the child died before he attained his majority, then the matter of who wore the crown of Jerusalem was to be adjudicated by the rulers of France and England. It was a workable compromise.
A great crown-wearing ceremony had been held in the church of the Holy Sepulchre and everyone had sworn to uphold the young king’s reign. He had been borne from the church on the shoulders of Balian, Lord of Ibelin. Men said it was because Balian was the tallest man there, and thus, the young king could be seen by all, but in truth, it was to satisfy the honor of all factions.
Messengers had already set out to Heraclius with the news of the court’s decision, which meant they would probably try to speed the embassy’s return. They were needed, and their reply was needed too, but William knew he must either leave with Paschia before Heraclius returned, which would take skillful and clandestine planning, or else make an end of it. Both options caused him turmoil, not least because he knew he would not be in this situation had he not embarked on the affair in the first place.
He rose to pace the room, no longer able to contain the energy of his thoughts.
Paschia joined him, standing formally apart from him as he made his obeisance.
“There is no change, my lady,” William said.
Her face wore a look of strain, and she fiddled with the plain gold ring that she used to summon him to the dome and that she had told him had belonged to her mother, and her mother before that. “It has reached the stage where it makes no difference. Whether we wait an hour or a day or two days, the outcome is the same.” She moved away from him, brushing his hand as if by accident, and went to sit on a bench on the other side of the room.
There was a sudden commotion in the chamber beyond, and Princess Sybilla emerged at a brisk walk, one hand clutching her midriff. Her pace quickened as she approached the turret stairs leading to her chamber. Paschia immediately hastened to her side, putting one arm solicitously around her waist. Moments later, Guy de Lusignan emerged, his expression set and grim as he followed his wife and Paschia.
The Bishop of Lydda came to the doorway to announce the death of the king to the gathered courtiers, but even before he spoke, everyone dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. William felt the rise and fall of breath in his own chest, the strength in his muscles. Another suffering young man gone too soon from the world, leaving a hole at the center of everything that could never be filled by a small boy backed by an uneasy coalition of barons, many of whom would not choose to associate with each other. For now, Raymond of Tripoli was regent, but everyone would be looking to the return of the envoys from their mission and praying that a new king was on his way.
* * *
“How is the Countess of Jaffa?” William asked Paschia.
He was visiting her apartments, to report on her horses and deal with other minor business. The doors were open to public scrutiny and servants moved about their duties in the background. Zoraya was busy folding some of Paschia’s clothes and putting them in a small coffer.
She stroked her cat. “I am going to sleep in her chamber for a while,” she replied. “She is deeply upset.”
“That is to be expected,” William said. “She had her differences with the king, but they were still brother and sister, and I know she loved him.”
“Yes, she did,” Paschia said, “and he betrayed her. That is what grieves her most of all.”
William was astonished. “How has he betrayed her?”
Paschia gave him a stony look, almost as though it was his fault. “By trying to have her marriage annulled. By undermining her and ensuring that the regency has gone to Raymond of Tripoli. Her son is a king, but she will be allowed no say in his life, in how he grows to manhood, because she and Guy have been cut out of the plans. That is why she was weeping; that is why she was distraught. She told me that when he died, she ran out of the room before she kicked his corpse.”
“Dear God.” William struggled to assimilate what she was saying.
Paschia’s
voice shook with passion and her eyes blazed with tears. “She is my friend. She has always accepted me and acknowledged me for who I truly am. She sees me—she has always seen me and valued my loyalty and my skills when others have dismissed me as nothing but the patriarch’s whore. And as she has been loyal to me, so I shall be loyal to her. You often speak of oaths and loyalty; well, that is mine—and if it means loyalty to Guy de Lusignan, then so be it. I am sorry that King Baldwin is dead, and doubtless my lady Sybilla will be too, but for the moment, her greatest sorrow is that she is not queen regent.”
William drew a breath and held it. Now he knew where he stood and why she was so keen to bring him into the Lusignan camp. He shot a glance at the maid.
“Zoraya will say nothing,” Paschia said with a dismissive wave. “She is loyal to me unto death, and I trust her more than anyone.” She gave him a pointed look and then covered her face with her hands. “You do not know,” she said through her fingers. “You will never understand.”
“But I do know; I understand very well!” he replied. “I have dwelt at the courts of kings and those who have agendas since I was the same age as the little king. Indeed, I have been a powerless hostage myself as a small boy. I was a squire in one of the greatest houses in Normandy and a hearth knight to queen Alienor.”
She lowered her hands and looked at him with blank composure. “Who is now her husband’s hostage for the good behavior of her sons, one of whom is now dead. Is that what you ‘understand,’ messire?”
“Yes,” he said tersely. “I know how dangerous it is. Perhaps it is you who does not have any idea.”
She sighed and rubbed the space between her brows with the tip of her index finger. “I am weary of this. I wish you to escort me to the palace. Zoraya, have you finished?”
“Yes, madam.” The maid curtseyed and picked up a large silk-wrapped bundle and a leather satchel. She sent William a quick glance from dark hazel eyes and then dropped her lids. He hoped Paschia was right about her loyalty.
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