by Judith Tarr
Indeed the king’s banners advanced in processional, claiming the victory and claiming Jerusalem. He entered the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and found it dim and hushed and redolent of old stone. The infidels had not defiled it, except to take down every cross and crucifix. The vigil lamp above the Sepulcher was burning—miraculously, men would say later, but Richard saw the monk who lit it.
His heart was full. Some of those behind him advanced on their knees, weeping and beating their breasts in an extravagance of devotion. He was not so saintly. He walked toward the tomb that had inspired so much passion, that he had won back for Christendom.
It was a low, dark, unprepossessing place, seeming small to hold so much sanctity. Its emptiness was its holiness: the absence of the body, the memory of the one who had risen from it. He could think of no words to say to it or the God who had lain in it. He laid his sword on it, wordlessly; knelt for a while in contemplation; then rose.
The crowds in the shrine drew back. He barely noticed. He walked out as he had walked in, alone within himself.
It was near dark when he emerged. That surprised him. He could not have been in the shrine for as long as that—but the sun was gone, set in blood, and the stars were coming out.
A flock of people waited for him. He only took notice of the squire who knew where he could find a bath, dinner, and a bed for an hour or two before he went back to securing the city.
Those were in the Tower of David, in what must have been the royal lodgings before the fall of the kingdom: rooms wide and airy for a castle, fastidiously clean, and about them still a hint of eastern perfumes. Maybe Saladin’s ghost would walk those halls tonight. And maybe not. Richard cared only that the basin for the bath was full and the water hot, and dinner was waiting, and the bed was ready, clean and fresh with herbs.
The bath was bliss on his aching bones, his bruises and the few small wounds. The servants were deft and quiet; one of them was adept at soothing away aches and the raw strain of exhaustion. He sighed and closed his eyes.
“So, king of Franks,” said a soft voice in his ear, speaking Latin with an eastern accent, “are you satisfied with your victory?”
Richard was abruptly and completely awake. The Seal on its chain, which he had all but forgotten, weighed leaden heavy. He knew who knelt behind him—knew as if the man had come before him in the hall of audience, with heralds announcing his name. The Old Man of the Mountain had wielded his magic yet again, passing walls and guards as if they had been shadows.
Richard kept his eyes shut, his body slack. He was thoroughly vulnerable here, naked in the bronze tub, and no weapon in the room, not even a knife for cutting meat.
Sinan went on bathing him with a servant’s skill. He shuddered in his skin, but he would never, for his life’s sake, let the man see him flinch.
“Did I not do well?” the Old Man asked, still in quite good Latin. “Have you complaints of the gift I gave you?”
“I have no complaints,” Richard said, deep and slow, as if half in a dream.
“Now you will do your part,” the Old Man said.
“My . . .” It was hard not to open his eyes and glare. “Surely you mean my mother’s?”
“Yours,” said the Old Man, “as she promised me.”
Richard kept his hands at his sides, although they had clenched into fists. He would not, as he yearned to do, clutch at the Seal on his breast.
The Old Man did not touch or attempt to take it, though his hands had been wielding the sponge within a hair’s breadth of it. Could it be that he could not see it?
He must know that it was there. It had been his until Sioned stole it, and even Richard in his willful ignorance knew that magic called to its master.
The natural outgrowth of that thought, that the one who wore the Seal was its master, was more than he could face. Yet it might save his life.
He felt a cold soft kiss at his throat, and the faintest, barely perceptible sting of the dagger’s edge. “Remember,” Sinan said. “I can follow you wherever you go, find you wherever you hide. Keep the bargain and your life is sacred to me. Break it, and you die.”
“I made no bargain with you,” Richard said.
“It was made for you.”
“What—who—”
Sinan’s voice had a smile in it, a flicker of cold amusement. “What! You never knew? Or did you choose not to know?”
“Your words are wind,” Richard said. “Wind and emptiness.”
“So that is how you do it,” said Sinan. “Your mother treats with Iblis. You preserve your Christian purity by blinding yourself to her machinations—even as you profit from them. She pays the price. You reap the rewards. How fortunate for you—and how convenient.”
Wind, thought Richard with every scrap of control that he could muster. Emptiness. He would not be provoked into rage, not now, not by this of all his enemies. He must be strong; he must be cold. He must—yes, he must turn away yet again from the truth of what his mother was, for her sake as much as for his. When the time came he would face it. But not now. Not in the midst of so deadly a battle.
His skin prickled with more than the cooling water of the bath, or even the touch of the knife. Something had changed. Someone—there was a new presence in the room. He opened his eyes at last, but there was nothing to see. The newcomer was behind them both.
“My dear young spy,” Sinan said. “Come round where we can see you. But slowly, and no daggers, please. I should not like to be startled and cause my blade to slip.”
Mustafa did as he was bidden, although his demeanor was hardly obedient. Blessed fool: he had been trying to creep up on the Master of Assassins.
It was brave of him, and could be deadly—and it distracted Sinan. Richard felt the momentary waver, the slightest slackening of the pressure at his throat. He surged up and round, in a whirl of water.
The dagger flew wide. The Old Man smiled up at Richard. His eyes were dark, full of dreams. Maybe Richard wore the heart of his fabled power, but he was still a sorcerer of great strength and guile.
Richard dared not take his eyes off the man, even to warn Mustafa against taking rash action. He had to trust the boy’s good sense.
Sinan’s eyes were a sky full of stars. They beckoned him, beguiled him. They tempted him to fall into them, mind and will, heart and soul.
This must be how he ensorcelled his Assassins. Was that what he would make of Richard? An Assassin king—a royal slave. What beauty; what irony.
What insanity. Richard wrenched his eyes away, keeping Sinan on the edge of vision, on guard against further treachery.
Sinan’s breath hissed. “You,” he said. “You . . .”
The Seal flared into sudden, searing heat. Richard cursed and clapped his hand to it. It was cold under his palm, white-hot on his breast—weird dissonance, yet it helped him focus. He felt Sinan’s will like a blast of wind outside of a tent: buffeting the walls, teasing him with fits and gusts, but he was spared the worst of it. The Seal was his protection.
Sinan mastered himself with an effort that contorted his face for a moment into a demon’s mask. “You have something of mine,” he said. “It was stolen from me: a thing of little value, but very dear to me.”
“I know what it is,” Richard said bluntly.
The Old Man’s eyes narrowed and began to glitter. “Indeed, king of Franks? But do you know how to master it?”
“Odd,” mused Richard. “My mother asked the same question. She wanted it, too. What can you give me that she can’t?”
“Your life,” Sinan said.
Richard laughed. “Why, messire! She gave me that life—which gives her a prior claim. Try harder.”
“I gave you Jerusalem,” Sinan said. “I opened its gates. I lured its defenders into the Temple, ripe for the slaughter. Surely that is worth the seal of a king who died two thousand years ago? If it is a seal you wish for, I can give you one far newer and more beautiful, and well endowed with power and glory.”
“Well then,” said Richard, “why not make yourself one, if it’s as easy as that?”
“Because,” said Sinan, “it has certain capabilities of which I can well and thoroughly avail myself, but which are of little use to you.”
“Ah,” Richard said. “You need it to hold your realm together. It’s your key to the garden, isn’t it? And it’s much easier to keep all your slaves in thrall, if you have help. Still, messire, you are a powerful sorcerer, even I can see that. Surely you can make do.”
“I can do that,” Sinan said, “but I would prefer not. What price would you like from me? Another conquest? Damascus, perhaps? Cairo?”
“That is tempting,” Richard said. “Can you give me the whole house of Saladin, with all his kin and kind?”
“It can be done,” said Sinan.
Richard nodded, rubbing his beard as if in reflection. He kept his eyes on Sinan. Mustafa, apparently forgotten, was easing slowly round, out of the Old Man’s sight. His hand was empty, but it hovered near where, Richard happened to know, he concealed one of several sharp and deadly knives.
Richard hated haggling, and he had little love for diplomacy—it was only haggling for princes. But if it would engage Sinan until Mustafa could sink a dagger in his back, Richard would do it and gladly.
“I still cannot be killed,” Sinan said with his serpent’s smile. “That much power I have, and keep.”
Mustafa paused, but only briefly. He would test that assertion, his expression said. This after all was a master of lies.
“That is truth,” said Sinan.
“What is truth?” Richard asked: a very old question, which had been asked in this very city, by the one who had lain in the Sepulcher.
Mustafa was still in motion. The Old Man whipped about. Richard saw the flash of metal, and a darker, stranger thing, a blood-red gleam.
Sorcery. The Seal stirred on Richard’s breast. He started violently, perilously close to casting it off—God, he hated magic! But when his hand tightened on it, he found himself clutching it closer than ever. All the hairs of his body stood on end. The deep part of him, the part he would not acknowledge, quivered and began to wake.
Mustafa twisted away from the Old Man’s blade, but the bolt of sorcery caught him a glancing blow. His gasp was more eloquent of agony than any shriek.
Richard did a blind thing, a mad thing, a thing completely without thought: he ripped the Seal from about his neck and flung it at Mustafa.
Dagger and sorcery dropped alike. Sinan leaped up as lithely as a boy, reaching to pluck the Seal from the air.
The Seal twisted—curving away from him, settling like a tamed bird into Mustafa’s outstretched hand. Mustafa hissed and recoiled, but the chain caught in his fingers. Sinan fell on him with a hawk’s cry.
Mustafa struck him with the Seal. The blow was ill aimed, with little force; it should barely have stung.
Sinan made no sound at all. He shrank in upon himself, withering and shriveling, dwindling to the image of utmost age. All the power, all the life and youth and strength, drained out of him, until he crumpled mewling to the floor.
Mustafa’s face twisted. He dropped to his knees beside the drooling thing, set hands to the raddled neck, and snapped it as if it had been a dry stick. Then he cut the head from that broken neck, working with great concentration, all the while with the Seal dangling from his hand.
There was no blood. It was all gone, all shrunk to dust.
When Mustafa began blindly to hack at the headless body, Richard caught his hand. Somewhat surprisingly, he stopped; he looked up. His eyes were perfectly clear. “You should cut out his heart,” he said, “and bury him in holy ground. Or he’ll come back.”
“I think you’ve killed him dead enough,” Richard said.
Gingerly he set hand to the chain from which hung the Seal. Mustafa’s fingers tightened briefly, but when Richard tugged, he let go.
Richard had been thinking that he would grind that monstrous thing under his heel, and so the world would be shut of it. But once he had it, he could not bring himself to destroy it. It had shielded him; it had destroyed the enemy of Christendom and Islam alike. In a way, he owed it something.
The chain found its way about his neck. The Seal settled in its accustomed place beside his heart. He pulled Mustafa to his feet.
The boy rolled his eyes at the Seal, but he was a wise child—he did not speak of it. Richard brushed a finger across his chin where the beard was beginning to thicken, and said, “You did it, boy. You destroyed the Old Man of the Mountain.”
Mustafa shook his head. “It wasn’t I. I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie,” Richard said. “If I thought you’d take a kingdom, I’d give you one. It’s the least I can do, after what you’ve done.”
“I don’t want anything,” Mustafa said. “Just let me stay near you. Let me serve you. It’s all I ever wanted.”
“Gold, then,” said Richard. “A place of your own. Good weapons. Horses—you must have horses.”
Mustafa shook his head, as stubborn in his way as Richard. “I only need enough to keep me fed and clothed, and a mount and a remount, and a place at your back. I don’t want any more.”
Richard glowered at him. “Damn it, boy. Can’t you make it easy to be in your debt?”
Mustafa lowered his eyes. “No, my lord,” he said. “I’m sorry, my lord.”
“You are not,” said Richard, but without anger. “Take what you will take, then, and be sure I’ll give as much again and again—for without you I would be that man’s thrall, and God help the Crusade.”
Mustafa looked up. “There is one thing, sire.” And when Richard raised his brows: “The Old Man’s heart. Give me that.”
“If he has one,” Richard said, “you’re welcome to it. Though what you want with it—”
He broke off. Better not to ask. He was in the world of spirits and sorcery: that was all too obvious. Mustafa was comfortable there. Richard, by God, was not.
He would keep the Seal. It was too dangerous to give away. But he was damned if he was going to let it rule him. He was a king of men, a commander of armies. Sorcery was no part of what he was.
“God’s feet,” he said. “I need another bath. Fetch someone to get rid of this.”
He jabbed his chin at the body beside the tub. Even as he opened his mouth to say more, it fell in upon itself, collapsing into dust. Mustafa sprang too late, snatching at the heart; but even as his fingers closed about it, it puffed into nothingness. Not even a smudge remained.
The Old Man of the Mountain was destroyed. Richard was victorious in Jerusalem. There was still a great deal to do and settle, and Richard had best be getting to it. He called for his servants, for a new bath for himself and another for his savior, and never mind Mustafa’s objections to such royal pampering. Mustafa had done a glorious, a heroic thing. He would simply have to live with the consequences.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The High Court and the council of the kingdom elected Richard King of Jerusalem, but the truest acclamation and the most sincere election was that of the army and the people of the city. The barons and the bishops did what was politic. The people followed their hearts.
Richard did not pretend to be surprised. Nor—and on that, there had been numerous wagers—did he refuse the crown when it was offered. The one likely contender for it, the young lord Henry, was the first to propose that Richard be given the kingship, and the first to offer him fealty.
No one spoke of the lady in whom supposedly resided the right to the throne. She had not been seen since Conrad was laid in his tomb in Tyre. She was alive—there was no rumor of her death—but immured in a convent.
That queen was out of play. But Eleanor was very much in evidence. She arrived in Jerusalem on the day after Richard was named king, entering in full and royal state, escorted by the Queen of England and the Queen of Sicily, amid a flock of noble ladies and daughters of high houses in Outremer and in the west. They were ado
rned with the spoils of the East, glorious in gold and silk.
Richard met his mother at David’s Gate and rode with her to the Holy Sepulcher, where, as he had done before her, she lingered a long while in silent prayer. The shrine was more nearly itself again, the crosses restored and all the lamps and candles lit. There had been a great rite of reconsecration after the city was taken, in which the Patriarch of Jerusalem and the Archbishop of Canterbury and a phalanx of lesser clerics scoured out the dust of Islam and restored the blessing of Christian sanctity.
Sioned had come to Jerusalem two days after it was taken. Master Judah made no secret of his disapproval—she had lain near death for days and was still weak from it—but she could not lie useless at Beit Nuba. Once she was up and about and in the sunlight, strength poured into her with miraculous speed.
Unlike the queens, she entered without fanfare, coming in with some of the baggage from the now mostly dismantled camp. Master Judah had established himself in one of the old hospitals near the Tower of David, and settled quickly to the task of tending the wounded and looking after the sick. He maintained an air of studious calm, but there was a luster on him that had not been there before. He was in the greatest of all holy cities, the city of his own people. He had, in a way that was very real and very immediate, come home.
Sioned astonished herself with the same sense of having come where she belonged. This was not the city of her belief, but as she walked those streets that had borne so much worship and so much contention for so long, she felt herself settling into it as into a well-worn garment. It was right that she was here.
Some of the Muslim captives were kept in Master Judah’s hospital: the wounded, and those who had some skill in the arts of medicine and surgery, whom the master could put to use while their kin negotiated their ransom. Sioned was put to work among them, because she spoke Arabic and because she harbored no hostility toward them. From them she learned of the royal prisoners in the Tower of David: several of the sultan’s sons including his heir, and a handful of his brothers, the chief of whom was the lord Saphadin. Richard had set no ransom on him or on the prince Al-Adil; he was debating what he should do, people said, and considering that it might be wise to keep those two as bargaining counters.
