by Judith Tarr
She did not go to see Ahmad. He was safe, she heard; his wounds had been slight, and the blow to the head was healing well. Richard was treating him with every courtesy, as a friend who happened to have been on the opposite side of a war.
By the time the queens came to Jerusalem, Sioned had settled into a life that she could live, she thought, indefinitely: days in the hospital, nights in a pleasant room that opened on a stair, and that stair led to a garden on the roof. She slept on the roof more often than in the room, lulled by the scents of rose and jasmine. There was a nightingale in a larger garden nearby, which sang her to sleep.
Sometimes during the day she had leisure to walk through the city, to visit the markets that had come alive with the conquest and were full of wonderful things, or to look on the many shrines and watch the pilgrims come and go. She had not been to Gethsemane yet, or Golgotha, but she had spent a long afternoon in the court of the Temple, now cleansed of the wrack of battle, and gone down to the old wall, the wall of the Temple of the Jews, so heavy with grief and old anger that she could not bear it.
Preparations for Richard’s crowning were proceeding with frantic speed. He had taken Jerusalem on the remembrance day of Hattin. He announced his desire to be crowned on the feast of Mary Magdalene: the day on which the first King of Jerusalem was given his crown and his title—eighteen days to cleanse the city, settle the armies, convene the High Council, and prepare a magnificent feast and festival. The king’s chamberlain was beside himself, and the servants were in a frenzy.
Sioned would have happily remained anonymous among the crowds at the coronation, but Richard had time amid all the rest of his duties to remember that he had a sister other than Joanna. She came in from the market, the week before the crowning, to find a company of Joanna’s ladies waiting with bolts of silk and chests of jewels. The king’s sister, they said, was to appear in her proper rank and station, and they were entrusted with the achieving of it.
This would not be as desperate a case as her expedition to Tyre. They went so far as to agree to less extremely fashionable attire; the wimple and veil were almost plain and the cotte cut less than strangling-tight. They did not remark on the soft curve of her belly—it was barely visible yet.
When they were done, even she could confess herself satisfied. Wimple, veil, and chemise were of fine muslin the color of cream. The cotte was of silk the same luminous blue-violet as her eyes, subtly brocaded, laced with silver cords. Joanna’s ladies had sewn strings of sapphires round the bodice and down the sleeves, interwoven with pearls. She hardly needed the heavy collar of silver and sapphire, or the girdle that matched it, weighing her down with royal wealth. Even the shoes were of violet silk embroidered with pearls.
She looked well in it. Very well, for a fact. It was almost enough to make her vain.
The day of Richard’s coronation dawned bright and preternaturally clear, with a promise of blistering heat. He would be feeling it: he rode in procession from the Templum Domini to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in the hour of terce, halfway between sunrise and noon. He rode under a golden canopy, which at least kept the sun off his head, but the crowds along the thoroughfare and the bulk of the procession suffered the brunt of the light and heat.
The ladies, like the king, had the blessing of a canopy. Berengaria elected to ride in a litter, but Eleanor and Joanna scorned such a thing. Fine horses carried them, and fine mules their ladies.
Eleanor was not at all perturbed by the demise of her most useful ally. It had been a service—and a reprieve. Sinan had held to his part of the bargain; his death removed the need for payment.
Richard still had the Seal. It was quiescent, biding its time. Eleanor had chosen not to ask for it—not yet. Not until the crown was safe on his head and Jerusalem was safe in his hand. Then she would demand that he keep his promise.
The procession was lengthy and moved slowly. Richard was at the end of it, with his ladies just ahead. The front of it was an army of priests and monks led by the Knights Templar and the Knights of the Hospital, escorting the Patriarch and all the bishops and archbishops of Syria and the Crusade. Behind them rode the barons of the High Court, then the lords and knights from the west, then at last the royal ladies and the king and a rear guard of chosen knights in gold-washed mail and surcoats of cream-white silk.
As they marched, they crushed sweetness: flowers and garlands flung from the rooftops, and drifts of rose petals scattered thickly underfoot. Women called out to them and dropped veils and sleeves on them, while their husbands and brothers and sons brandished banners blazoned with the golden crosses of Jerusalem.
There were no infidels in the procession. This was a day for Christians, for the victors of the Crusade. Some of the more illustrious captives would be at the feast after, but as guests, not prisoners. Richard could be both gracious and generous in victory.
Sioned let herself be glad for him. Tomorrow the world would come back with all its wars and quarrels. This difficult realm, this house of war, would need a great deal of ruling, even with the House of Islam thrown into disarray by the death of its sultan and the captivity of his kin. Richard would have to decide whether to march on Damascus or drive toward Egypt—while keeping his own army intact, which was an undertaking in its own right. Far too many of them, of all nations, were firmly convinced that now the Holy Sepulcher was won, they were free to go home. It mattered little to them that the tomb could not stay won if men were not there to protect it. That was for others to do, they said. Their duty was done.
But today there was only joy, and the glory of victory. The procession ended at last in the cool dimness of the Holy Sepulcher, where the Patriarch waited in front of the tomb. Richard’s sword still lay there, its golden hilt gleaming.
On entering the shrine, Richard was divested of his massive golden mantle and his golden mail. In a simple linen shirt like a penitent, he advanced on his knees down the length of the church and prostrated himself before the Sepulcher. All the while the choir sang the Te Deum, he lay there, abject in humility.
As the great Amen died away, the Patriarch raised him to his knees, anointed and blessed him, and held the crown above his head. It was a simple thing, wrought of iron, with little adornment: more helmet than royal coronet. The Patriarch said, “On this day nigh a hundred years ago, the good knight Godfrey was persuaded to take this crown. He was greatly unwilling; his electors resorted to force, until at last he gave way. He was a humble man, a great warrior of God, who lived for nothing but to serve his faith and to defend the Holy Sepulcher. Even after he had accepted the crown, he begged not to be called king. He was a guardian, he said, a protector: the Defender of the Holy Sepulcher.
“These are lesser days and we are lesser men, but God has seen fit to restore to us the tomb in which His son was laid before his Resurrection. Once again we are given the charge of protecting His own. Once more we have chosen a king to command our armies, to oversee our court and kingdom, and to defend the Holy Sepulcher.”
The Patriarch paused for breath. The crown was heavy: even with his acolyte supporting them, his arms trembled. Yet he would not shorten the rite for mere fleshly frailty. He gathered himself and began again. “Richard, King of the English, Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou, manifold lord of the realms of the west, do you accept this crown and this kingdom, and all that attends it?”
Richard knelt motionless. The light of lamps and candles turned his hair to copper. His eyes were on the crown, but only the Patriarch could read what was in them.
After a long pause he said, slowly at first and then with greater clarity, “I accept it. I accept it all.”
That was truth, Sioned thought. He did accept it. For all his faults and for all his failings, Richard did not shrink from either duty or obligation, if they came attached to the things that he truly wanted. And he did want this. With all his heart he wanted it.
The crown settled on his head. He, accustomed to the weight of kingship, barely bowed beneath it. Aco
lytes laid on his shoulders a massive mantle of Tyrian purple. He rose in it, as true an image of a king as had ever stood in this place.
The roar of acclamation was deafening. It went on and on, strong enough to rock the pillars, until it rose to a crescendo and slowly died.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Richard carried his exaltation back to the Tower of David and the feast of his coronation. Sioned had caught a little of it, a singing gladness that made her laugh at the feeblest jests—and that before she had taken a sip of wine.
She was at the high table with the rest of her kin, and Henry had managed to have himself seated beside her. It was not exactly his proper place—that should have been at Richard’s right hand—but he had argued persuasively that Queen Eleanor should hold that place of honor. Then there was the Patriarch, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, and Hugh of Burgundy who must at all costs be placated while he led a substantial portion of the army, not to mention the queens Berengaria and Joanna. Henry’s place, as he pointed out, was well down the table, and he was glad to take it.
“Someday,” Sioned said, “your tongue is going to talk you out of your rank and station.”
“Not likely,” Henry said. “I’m going to marry Isabella, did you know? Now the crown’s safe on my uncle’s head, dear Grandmother has decided that it’s time to trundle out the royal bride.”
“You don’t sound unduly cast down after all,” Sioned observed.
He shrugged. “I’ve had time to think, and to stop being a silly child. I don’t like her much. I certainly don’t love her. But that’s a noble’s lot.”
Certainly it was, Sioned thought, and very likely Eleanor had exerted something more than earthly persuasion—though Henry did not seem spellbound. He was the same bright presence as always, and still yearning after her, too. He kept sliding eyes at her as if he could not help himself.
It made her a little sad. If she had been as legitimate as Joanna, with a crown and a royal title, Isabella might not have been preparing for her wedding.
Foolishness. Of course she would have. She was the heiress of Jerusalem; Richard’s interception of the crown did not change that. Any heir that he might sire, supposing he could be brought to do such a thing, would be intended for England and Normandy and Anjou. Jerusalem belonged to Isabella’s children, whoever their father might be.
In the meantime Henry was highly amusing, and Sioned was in a mood to be amused. She almost let herself forget the other side of the table, down toward the end, where a few men in turbans ate food prepared for them by cooks versed in the laws of their faith.
She could feel Ahmad’s presence like sunlight on her skin. He seemed oblivious to her, carrying on a conversation with a youth who resembled him closely, who must be the sultan’s heir, and exchanging occasional banter with one or another of the lords who sat nearest. His French had improved greatly; he had a strong accent still, but he was quite decently fluent.
He mourned his brother—of that there was no question. But he did not hold Richard to account for that. He was gracious in defeat as Richard was in victory; he conducted himself like a guest and not a sullen prisoner. His young nephew, Sioned was interested to note, was following his uncle’s example. He was young enough to sulk mightily if given occasion, but he had his pride. He would let these Franks see how little their conquest troubled him.
He was very like his uncle. He even—her eyes sharpened. Yes, he had magic. It was young and raw and still discovering itself, but there could be no doubt of it.
That could be interesting. What if—
“Sioned?”
She blinked. She had forgotten where she was, or that Henry was speaking to her. He smiled at her, but his eyes were just a little sharp. “You should go to him,” he said. “Truly, you should.”
She shook her head. “That’s past,” she said. “It’s done.”
He arched a brow. “Oh? Is it? Come now, cousin. You can’t lie to me.”
“Am I lying? What use can there be in pining after him?”
“Maybe a great deal,” Henry said. He took her hand. “You should stop and think, cousin. You’re not usually this dense.”
“What—”
“Think,” said Henry.
Sioned did not see what there was to think about. There was Ahmad, Richard’s prisoner until Richard saw fit to let him go. There was she, Richard’s bastard-born sister, deeply and richly content in Master Judah’s hospital.
And there was their child, waxing in her womb, and she still had not told anyone of it—though Master Judah must know; he had tended her for days in her sickness. That could not continue. Even if she could hide her swelling middle until the child was born, she had no intention of spiriting it away to be raised by strangers. This was her child—her daughter. She would raise it as her mother had raised her: with no need of a father, unless the child herself chose.
She left the feast early. She was tired; that was not a pretense. She had lost her taste for wine, and she was not, after all, in the mood for carousal. Henry insisted that one of his guardsmen escort her back to the hospital, but he stopped that when she reminded him that she had her own troop of protective spirits. The great jinni himself took the form of a squire in mail, looming formidably at her back as she made her way out of the hall.
Ahmad was waiting near the gate. She had not seen him leave the feast; indeed she could have sworn that when she left, he was deep in conversation with Richard.
At the sight of him her heart stopped. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded, conspicuously at ease.
“You look very comfortable,” she said, “for a captive.”
The corner of his mouth curved upward. “And you look very uncomfortable, for a conqueror,” he said.
She glowered at him. “You know I had nothing to do with—”
“Beloved,” he said. “Are you forgetting? I was there. I know what you did. That was a great theft, as great as any in a story.”
The flush began in her middle, quite near the child, and flowed rapidly upward. “I only did what was necessary.”
“Of course you did,” he said. “I’m to ask if you will come. Your brother wishes to see you.”
“He does?” Sioned made no secret of her disbelief. “With you as his messenger?”
He bowed slightly, regally, but with that same beguiling flicker of a smile. “I am your servant, lady.”
She snorted inelegantly, but her curiosity had roused. A wise woman would have thrust firmly past him and gone back to the hospital to take refuge in her solitary bed. Sioned, who was only intermittently wise, said, “Take me to him.”
Ahmad said nothing as they walked back through the passages of the castle. Sioned’s guard was silent, treading like a cat behind them. She did not venture to guess what Richard wanted. Conversation, probably; she had seen as little of him as of Ahmad, although she had not been avoiding him.
Richard must have slipped out of the hall shortly after Ahmad had. He was in the solar behind it, flushed with wine but clear enough of mind. A page was with him, and Eleanor.
At sight of the queen, Sioned nearly turned on her heel and ran, but she had come too far to turn back now. This was more than a brother desiring a moment of his sister’s company. There was an air of seriousness in them, but there was nothing particularly dark about it.
“Sister!” Richard cried as she hovered in the doorway, leaping up from his chair and pulling her into the room. He insisted that she sit where he had been sitting, and plied her with sherbet made with sugar and citron. She was glad of that, although there was hardly time to savor it.
Richard had welcomed Ahmad, too, although with somewhat less enthusiasm. When they were both seated, Richard stood grinning at them. “Sister,” he said, “this lord of Islam has presented a rather remarkable solution to a dilemma or two of mine: what to do with him, and how to manage relations with the infidels. Mind you I proposed it once, but the lady was anything but willing. It seems I offered the wrong
lady.”
Sioned was not quite a hopeless idiot. She knew what Richard was getting at. “He asked to marry me,” she said. Her voice was flat.
Richard’s grin vanished. “Don’t tell me the prospect revolts you, too.”
She ignored him. She fixed Ahmad with her most merciless glare. “Why?”
“It is rather logical,” he said. “Our realm is in massive disarray. Jerusalem is a Frankish kingdom again, under a king who might actually have the wit and the capability to rule it. It’s a time for forging alliances—and for drawing claws, too, if truth be told.”
“Indeed,” said Eleanor, dry as dust on Golgotha. But for her and her spells, Ahmad could have flown out of this place, free as a falcon. He was captive in more than the body, a fact that appeared to dismay him little, but it was inescapable.
He smiled sweetly at his jailer. “Ah yes, my claws are most assuredly drawn. Yet still I am a danger to this fledgling kingship—unless I can be sealed to it with bonds that I have no desire to break.”
“So I’m to be your shackles,” Sioned said. “How long will it take you to resent me?”
“Rather a long time,” he said. “I would say never, but what is certain in this world?”
“Suppose I do this,” she said. “What do I gain from it? I have no dowry, unless you’d count a box of medicines, a gown or two, and an army of the jinn.”
“A rather significant dowry, that last,” he said with a glint of laughter.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Richard said. “I’m giving you more than enough riches to take to a noble husband. Lands, titles, gold, shares in trading ventures—”
“A house,” she said, “in Jerusalem. And a demesne outside of it, with income, and the wherewithal to pay the knight’s fee.”
