by Judith Tarr
“We have somewhat in common, sire,” Amalric said. “Did you know that? The Lusignans are as proud of their descent from the fay Melusine as the Rhiyanan kings are of theirs from the goddess Rhiannon. And of course you are the son of the enchantress from Broceliande.”
He paused, hoping clearly for her name. Gwydion did not give it, nor would Aidan offer it. When she was queen she was called Elen, but the name she lived by was older than that by far. She said that she was no goddess; but she was, indubitably, Rhiannon.
Amalric went on after a moment, little deterred by the king’s silence. “And of course you know that the kings of Anglia, through their Angevin forebears, are known as the devil’s brood, because of their foremother who was a demon’s daughter.” He drank deep from his cup and smiled at Gwydion, well pleased with himself. “We demonseed are a breed apart, wouldn’t you agree?”
“There is more than one kind of demon,” Gwydion said.
“Yes,” said Amalric. “Not many of us have the fortune to take after our foremothers. Is a demon’s child a demon himself if he inherits his mother’s powers?”
“That is a question for the philosophers, is it not?”
“They call you a philosopher king, sire,” Amalric said.
“They call me many things. Some of them are true. Many of them are not. That is a king’s lot, to be talked of endlessly.”
“You more than some, maybe, sire. I’ve heard you called the Elvenking.”
Gwydion raised a brow.
“I may choose to believe what it implies,” Amalric said. “I’m less likely to join the mob that calls you witch and hellspawn. Fifty years of ruling as well as any king in Christendom surely counts for something. Or have you been preparing some last, awful stroke against us all?”
“Would I tell you if I were?”
Amalric laughed. “Of course you wouldn’t. No more than I would speak of it if I suspected you of dark designs. You haven’t even laid claim to the throne of Jerusalem.”
“There’s time yet.”
“Which you won’t use,” Amalric said. “You’re much admired in certain circles, you know. Interesting circles. The Temple; the Hospital. Certain factions of the papal curia, and certain connections of the royal houses of the west. You have strong allies in a number of highly useful places.”
“I call them friends,” said Gwydion.
“Then you’re fortunate,” Amalric said. His cup was empty. There was no servant to refill it. He set it down on the table and leaned forward. “I should like, sire, to number myself among those allies. Would you consider it?”
“I give every man a fair hearing,” said the king.
Amalric could not but notice the transformation from quiet, rather diffident, young-seeming man to royal judge. He did not flinch before it. “Our family is not in itself of great note, but it is an old one, and it has its share of honor; and it’s rising in the world. My brother is proof of it. His line will last, I think. I’d like to hope that mine will do the same.”
“May God grant you good fortune,” Gwydion said.
“God well may, sire,” said Amalric. “Your niece is widowed, I understand, and dowered well. I can offer a royal connection, ample lands and more to be gained, and the splendor that is on this kingdom of Jerusalem. My position in it is hardly to be scorned: lord commander of its armies, Constable of the kingdom, and regent by right should my lord brother be indisposed, which God forfend. Our line tends toward sons, and plenty of them. We have the blood of Melusine to make us stronger than the run of young cubs, and maybe a little magic in it, too. I have no objection to a lady from the line of Rhiannon.”
Gwydion steepled his fingers, regarding Amalric over them, cool and steady. “Do you not, my lord Constable?”
“Not at all, majesty.” Amalric smiled. “I admit, I’m smitten with her. She has her family’s beauty; and she’s quite as bewitching as one would expect of the kin of the Elvenking. I don’t either ask or expect that you accept my suit all at once. She’ll be riding to Acre with you, my lady the queen tells me. Would you allow me to ride with you and keep her company?”
If it had been Aidan’s lot to choose, he would have refused. But Gwydion was king, and wise with all the years of it. “Have you no duties?” he inquired.
Amalric’s smile widened slightly. “They’re well in hand, sire; and shall be better when we come to Acre.”
Gwydion inclined his head. “You may ride with us, messire. You will understand if I grant you no more than that. If after the war is ended you wish still to sue for her hand, then you may come to me and we shall speak again.” Gwydion rose and inclined his head. “Good day, messire.”
Amalric had no choice but to accept the dismissal. He was not greatly pleased, but he suffered it calmly enough. It was a beginning, his expression said. There was time yet, and he would make good use of it.
o0o
“Elen can’t abide him,” Aidan said when the man was gone.
“I know.” Gwydion stretched and yawned. His teeth gleamed, the long pointed canines looking as sharp as a panther’s. His mouth shut with a snap; he faced his brother. “Messire Amalric doesn’t need to know quite yet what we think of his suit. There’s something in him that raises my hackles; it intrigues me that I can’t name it. He may be telling the truth when he speaks of Melusine. I should like to know.”
“I’d think our catling’s peace would be a high price to pay for your curiosity.”
“Our catling is as fragile as pressed steel. And,” said Gwydion, “she can take care of herself better than you might imagine.”
“I can imagine. I know her grandmother.” Aidan frowned at his feet. “We should warn her. If she can get him to talk...”
“I’ll warn her,” Gwydion said.
Aidan paused. Was there more in that than there seemed to be?
He held his tongue, not easily, but with late-dawning wisdom. If there was, there was little he could do about it, except start a quarrel. Then he would lose his brother; and there would be nothing at all between himself and the dark.
17.
Elen paced restlessly, swirling her skirts with each sharp, abrupt turn. There were many of them: the room was small, and she was moving quickly. Her maid had long since retreated. She could hear the woman chattering in the garden just outside, and now and then a deep voice that was Raihan’s.
It made her shiver, but it also made her growl to herself. The ride to Acre had never been the idyll she had hoped for: out on the open road, free to ride up and down the column or to spur off on a whim or a fancy. Even if the road had not been choked with pilgrims and with soldiers riding or marching to the muster, it was not safe to ride in the hills. There were Bedouin, she was told, and perhaps even true Saracens, raiders from the sultan’s armies, creeping like worms into the kingdom’s heart.
She could have endured that. Raihan was with her, and nothing should have kept them from talking, or even, under cover of various ruses, from touching hand to hand or knee to knee. But Messire Amalric had attached himself to their party as Gwydion had warned, and what he wanted was transparent. He haunted her shadow. She could not, would not, seem to favor one of her uncle’s mamluks under those sharp snake-eyes. She had to speak to him, be civil, not drive him off, because her king had asked it. “He has a secret,” Gwydion said, “which he is not unveiling to the likes of us. He may betray it to a lovely woman.”
If he had a secret, he had not given it away to her. He had merely driven her half mad with hours of pointless chatter. Now they were in Acre, and Amalric had perforce to forsake her for the duties of his office.
And so, inevitably, had Raihan. The mamluk was away more often than he was with her, readying himself and his people for the war. Sometimes he let her come with him. Always it was to a place that was thronged to bursting—smith’s forge, armorer’s stall, saddler’s shop—and the way to it was always inescapably public. She was tempted more than once to seize him right in front of all the staring
eyes, and kiss him till he gasped.
She never did it. She was her king’s loyal kinswoman, in body if not in heart, and he was his prince’s faithful servant.
Tomorrow he would go away, and he might well be killed. Then she would not merely have lost him, she would never have had him at all.
She slowed her pacing by a fraction. She had eluded the farewell feast on the pretext of her courses. Her uncles, alas for their comfort, had no such escape. But for a guard or two and her maid, the house was empty. Everyone else was at the king’s table.
All of which she knew very well, and had planned for. But she had not reckoned on Raihan’s choosing rather to play the rake with her maid than to help her elude the woman. She had not even been able to exchange a whispered word with him. He was evading her.
“Damn him,” she said. He was being honorable in the only way he knew, which was to drive her to distraction with wanting him. He would be her knight, all carefully circumspect, but he would not give her more than that. It was not fitting, he would say. That was how well she knew him. She knew why he would not touch her. Because they could never be more than lovers, and he wanted more, and he would not dishonor her with less.
She could do with a little more dishonor and a little less frustration.
She swept up a cushion and flung it with all her force.
He caught it neatly and held it like a shield. She saw his smile over the edge of it. “What would you, my lady? Target practice?”
She glared at him. “Don’t I wish. With your grinning face for a bull’s-eye.”
“Why, my lady,” he said, “what have I done to offend you?”
“You know,” she said.
He sobered. “My lady, you know that that is mad.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.” He let the cushion fall. “No, not for me. For you. Your king treasures you. He’ll never let you sully yourself with an infidel.”
“He won’t touch me. He might give me a royal tongue-lashing, but that’s well worth the cost. And I won’t let him touch a hair of your head.”
“It’s not my head I’m worried about,” he said.
Her mouth was open. She shut it. “He wouldn’t!”
“Maybe not that, either. But he could take you away from me and never let me see you again. I don’t think I could bear it.”
“What, you won’t be going to the war?”
“Oh,” he said. “The war. That’s what I was born and trained for; it’s in my blood. But to come back and not find you there...that would break my heart.”
“Is that what you want, then? Chaste sighs and a touch of the hand now and then, and never anything more? Do you think I’m made of iron?”
“Ivory,” he said, “and ebony, and grey glass. And warm heart. I’m not iron, either, but my honor is. I can’t cause you grief.”
“You don’t call it grief that you’re causing me now?”
“It will pass once I’m gone, and you find another who makes your heart sing.”
She tossed her head, furious. “So that’s all I am. A weathercock. Going all giddy whenever I see a handsome face.” She had all she could do not to spit in his. “What do you take me for?”
She had wiped the smug self-sacrifice off his face, at least. He held out a hand. “Lady—”
She seized it. He stiffened, but he did not pull away. She pressed it to her breast over the beating heart. “Now tell me I’ll trip daintily off into another man’s arms. Tell me straightly, as if you believe it.”
He shook his head, once, twice. “You shouldn’t do this, my lady.”
“What, love you? It is that, you know, and not just wanting. I’m no silly girl, that I can’t tell the difference.”
“You can’t do that,” he said. “There are too many obstacles. Too much—”
“You talk too much.” That stopped him. She raised his hand from her breast to her cheek. It curved to fit, not meaning to, she could see that, but not able to help itself. His palm was hard, callused with fighting and with handling horses, a soldier’s palm, but its touch was wonderfully gentle. “You are going to war, and I must stay behind, because my birth and my sex and my fortune tell me I must. You could die. Men do, in battle. Then what would I have of you?”
“Memory,” he said. He made a warding gesture. “Which Allah avert. I don’t intend to die.”
“What soldier does? But it happens. And I want something more than remembrance. I want you. For this space only, these few hours until evening. How can you deny me that?”
Not easily; not at all. But he would, because he was what he was, great overgrown boy with a head full of songs and scripture.
“Your faith does not forbid you the body’s joy,” Elen said. “Why are you playing the Christian, and I the Saracen?”
“I am playing the soldier whose commander is your kin, and who will never allow what you are asking me to do.”
She stamped her foot. “I don’t care what my uncles think! I’m a grown woman. I’ll protect you from them; stop fretting over that. They won’t call what I do dishonor. How can they? They made love matches themselves, and far less suitably at that.”
“They are men,” Raihan said, as if that were an answer.
“So are you.” She wound her fists in his shirt and glared into his face. “Are you my knight?”
“Always,” he said.
“Then I command you.”
He looked as if he could not decide whether to laugh or to hit her. Since he could do neither, he settled for a flat stare. “That is hardly fair, my lady.”
“Love isn’t,” she said, unabashed. “My maid is going to go on an errand which will take her as long as it possibly can. You are going to stay here with me.”
His brows knit. Handsome brows, strongly marked over those splendid eyes. “What if we’re caught?”
Her heart leaped. That was assent, if not acceptance. She dazzled him with her smile. “If we are, then I’ll do the talking.”
“I—” He was caught. His eyes went wide as he realized it. “Witch!”
“I come by it honestly,” she said. “Wait here. If you’re gone when I come back, I’ll give you cause to rue it. In the middle of the market. At the top of my lungs.”
He blanched. She set a kiss on her fingertip and laid it lightly on his lips. “To hold you,” she said.
o0o
Aidan took another sip of the king’s wine. It was excellent. Whatever Guy’s shortcomings, he had chosen well in his cellarer.
They were all together at last, all the lords and many of the knights of Outremer, gathered in the great hall of the winter palace. None but the king and a baron or two of Acre had brought his women to the feast; this was war, and the women were at home, looking after their lords’ estates. The cities and the castles were stripped bare of fighting men. Guy was wagering all on this one great stroke, the full might of Outremer against the full might of Islam.
“We can’t fight them on a dozen fronts,” he had said in council that morning. “We can’t lie down and let them trample us underfoot. We have to be a fist, one single knot of force, striking the enemy again and again until he breaks or gives way.”
Aidan could not argue with the reasoning, whoever might have put it in Guy’s head. Outremer was not a kingdom as other kingdoms were. It was an armed camp, a thin line spread over the hills of Palestine, a few knights and men-at-arms holding their lands against half a world. Saladin had twice a hundred thousand men, it was said, from whom he could choose as many or as few as he would, to ride to the war. Guy had scarce a tithe of that, and less than a tithe of a tithe of knights.
He also had the cities, and the fortresses that were the greatest in the world, and faith that was, when it came to it, genuine. If he could drive the sultan and his unruly hordes to a ground of his own choosing, then force a battle, he could win his way far more easily, and at far less cost, than if he settled for a siege.
And he would win. His numbers were small besi
de the sultan’s, but they were veterans every one, to the sultan’s raw levies; they had the best arms and armor to be had, and means enough and to spare for aught that they might need. The King of Anglia had rid himself of a troublesome archbishop, and repented of it later. His repentance, being royal, took the form of gold, marked for the defense of the Holy Sepulcher.
Aidan, sitting at Guy’s feast, drinking Guy’s wine, reckoned that maybe, after all, Guy might be worth following. He could hardly go astray with Count Raymond sitting next to him in determined amity, telling him what to think. Master Gerard of the Temple, forced to a seat some distance down the table, scowled to see them together, but could say nothing while there were witnesses. He was wild to move, to fight, to kill Saracens. If it had been left to him, he would have ridden out long ago with whatever food and weapons he could snatch, and fallen on the infidels. And died promptly, as he almost had in his last mad foray against the Saracen.
Which would, Aidan reflected, have been a mercy. Gerard was a hothead as well as a fool. Guy, at least, was only a fool.
Gwydion, as Guy’s equal in rank, sat near him at the high table. He did his best to make it evident who was king in this country: he had left the state crown in his captain’s keeping on his flagship before he sent his fleet to harbor in Cyprus; all that he had now was a simple silver fillet with a sapphire set in it, and the signet which he did not relinquish even on his errantries. It was one certain way, if people only knew, to tell which of the brothers was the elder.
He had been quiet throughout the muster and silent in the councils, except when he was called on to speak. That was not often. For the most part he sat in a corner and listened, like the young knight people could be tricked into thinking him, even if they knew who he was. Aidan was the one they turned to if they needed wisdom from that quarter.
