The Dagger and the Cross (17 page)

Mass-books were worth nothing to a trader in spices. Seco
glanced at it with mild interest, but the brunt of his attention fell on
Thomas. Thomas met his smile with a cold stare. He smiled on, oblivious. “Success!”
he said, almost crowing it. “A complete success.”

“Was it?” Thomas asked none of them to sit, though there
were chairs in the alcove where the book-press was.

“Utterly,” Seco said. “I was there, and able to hear every word.
It went exactly as we planned. The legate produced the coffer, they all
inspected the seals, the legate’s secretary read the document. Our document.
The expressions on their faces—not one of them suspected.”

“One of them did,” Thomas said. “The King of Rhiyana came to
the legate and the Patriarch, some days ago. He had suspicions, but no
certainty. He bade them be on guard. It was unfortunate for his cause that the
deed was already done.”

That quelled Seco, for the moment. Thomas let him ponder the
thin edge on which they walked, which clearly he had not believed in; then
said, “You were not wise to come here. While we are separate, we present no
clear target. Together, we blaze like a beacon.”

“Did you lie to us, then?” Seco demanded, falling back on bluster
as such men did when caught in the wrong. “I did all that you taught me. I kept
out of their sight, I did nothing to attract their attention, I thought the
nonsense you bade me think until my head was like to burst.”

“I taught you truly. But these are witches of great power,
and you are a simple man, with a mere few days’ teaching in arts that, for true
mastery, require years of training and discipline.”

“Such as you have?”

Thomas ignored the suggestion of a sneer. “Such as I have.
You know how I learned it: the stranger in Naples with his arts that came, he
said, from the land of Prester John. I began my study of them when I was a very
young man. I am still no more than a journeyman; and I am not at all assured
that I can elude such a hunt as these creatures have raised, now that they are
pricked to anger.”

“You said they would not know where to look.”

“Then they will look everywhere; and if the devil is minded
to aid them, they will chance upon the truth. Your coming to gloat over their
discomfiture is just such folly as the Adversary loves to exploit.”

Seco flushed darkly. “I have business in the city, and a
rich trade in the offing. Would you have me lose it for your fears?”

“Would you prefer to lose your soul for your folly?”

“It may not be as bad as that,” Amalric said. He perched on
a stool with his elbow perilously close to a page and its newly applied gold
leaf. He shifted away from it; Thomas breathed again. “I’ve not only been in
the city, I’ve been in their company, and none of them has stripped me of my
secret. They know I’m their enemy; they expect me to thwart them; but they
haven’t the slightest suspicion that I’m part of this.”

“No doubt they believe it too subtle a plot for a plain man
of war,” said Brother Richard. “But for the one cord which you would not alter
for fear of betraying the ruse too soon, the forgery is flawless. The pope’s
legate himself has said so.”

“That is the truth,” Thomas said. “I am, after all, one of
the scribes in the chancery, when I am not sent on embassies with the Holy
Father’s legates.”

“Or studying the arts of Prester John.” Richard raised a
brow as a thought struck him. “Is he one of them, do you think?”

Thomas did not like to dwell on that. “We have what we
sought: the wedding is delayed, the witches are discomfited. We—”

“Delayed?” Seco scowled. “Why only delayed? If this forgery
is perfect, why can it not stand?”

“There are copies in the chancery,” Thomas said, not quite
as if he instructed a child. “I expect that they will send there for a new
dispensation while they pursue their hunt here.”

“Delayed, then, but for a goodly while.” Seco paused. “You
did destroy the document. Didn’t you?”

“No,” Thomas said.

Only Seco seemed appalled. Amalric looked simply interested.
“Why?” he asked.

“Several reasons. We may need it in bargaining, if they
discover who we are. If they do not, it may suit us to produce it; it may even
behoove us to pretend that we are allies and not enemies.”

“Subtle,” said Amalric. “Collect a ransom and persuade them
that it’s a reward. I like that. If we could find another target for their
anger, produce him as the forger, let them do with him as they will...”

“I will not be party to the destruction of an innocent soul,”
Thomas said tightly.

“Not innocent,” Amalric said. “Not of anything but this.”

“You forget that they read souls. They will know that he is
not the forger.”

“Ah,” said Amalric, “but if your arts are all that you
proclaim, then surely you can take care of that.”

Thomas’ mouth set in a line. This man was much more
dangerous than he seemed. He had taken to the eastern art as though born to it,
mastered in hours what had taken Thomas months to learn. He did not, as yet,
show signs of wishing to know more than the concealment of secrets. Thomas
hoped that he never would.

“By God’s grace,” Thomas said, crossing himself, “there will
be no need for such a sin as you speak of. For sin it is, to trap the innocent.”

“No doubt,” said Amalric blandly. “I don’t suppose you’ll
want to tell us where you’ve hidden the dispensation. In case of accidents, of
course.”

Thomas understood him too well. “In case of accidents, yes.
My lord.”

“Well then,” said Seco, deaf to the undertones or judging it
wise to disregard them. “Now that we have what we planned for, we had best
consider what to do hereafter.”

“For the moment, nothing.” Amalric rubbed his shaven jaw
idly, almost caressingly, eyes narrowed in reflection. “We’ve thrown a cat
among the rats; they’ll provide us with sport enough for a while. Later...I do
like your proposal, Brother. One of us, out of concern for truth and justice if
not for friendship, finds and reveals the missing document. He is, of course,
most careful what he thinks of when he does it. For reward he takes—whatever he
pleases. The king has wealth and power. The prince has more wealth than he and,
in this country, rather more power. Both might be pleased to share some of each
with the one who gives the prince his heart’s desire.”

Seco’s eyes gleamed with greed. Thomas, watching Amalric,
saw satisfaction, quickly masked.

“There is somewhat that we can do,” Richard said, “while we
wait for the proper time. Rumors are easy to plant; they grow like no other
crop. It is no secret that these our adversaries are witchfolk, but no one has
come out and said it. Until now. If it can be spread abroad, and kept abroad,
that the Holy Father himself condemns the Assassin and all who traffic with
her, as sorcerers and black enchanters...”

Thomas’ heart leaped. Yes. Yes, that was what he had hoped
to hear. If Richard had not said it, he would have been obliged to do so
himself. He would pay dearly to see Gwydion of Rhiyana revealed for what he
was, and punished for it. To create a false anathema, to forge the pope’s
signature and his seal—those were sins, yes, but sins in the cause of a greater
good. It burned his soul to see such creatures as those in the bosom of holy
Church, kneeling before her altars, accepting the bread of the Eucharist and
turning straight from it to their sorceries. Gwydion was a canny beast: he had
taken a commoner for a queen, but she professed to be a Christian, and played
as cleverly at devotion as her husband himself. Aidan was the wilder, and the
less prudent. He betrayed himself utterly in this that he would do, allying not
only with an infidel but with an Assassin. They would burn for it. And it would
be Thomas who brought them to the stake.

His brow was damp, his breath coming hard. No one seemed to
mark his loss of composure. Amalric was speaking, and the others were
listening. “A witch-hunt might be useful, at that: it will distract them from
their own hunt. But we have to be careful that it doesn’t get out of hand. We
need the king and the prince for the men they command. Once the army is
mustered, it might be possible to dispose of them. They don’t grow old and they
don’t catch fever, but they can be killed.”

“You know that?” Seco asked.

“I saw the prince wounded in a fight once. It was bad enough
to put him out of action for a while; and I heard his woman railing at him. I
know little enough Arabic, but I could piece together what she said. They’re
devilish hard to kill, but it can be done.”

“How—” Seco said faintly.

“Burn it to ash. Sever its head. Stop its heart. Anything
that would kill a man instantly, will kill one of them.”

“Bleeding takes a while,” Richard said, “but a man bled dry
is a dead man. As no doubt she told him. She has none of her race’s reluctance
to call a spade a spade.”

“Her race is the race of witches,” said Thomas, “and they
are seldom circumspect.”

“Except when they need to be.” Amalric slid from the stool. “You
underestimate their cunning, I think. There’s more to them than mind-reading
and looking a fraction as old as they are. They know how to use the latter. I
have to keep reminding myself that I’m not talking to a raw boy.”

“I never forget,” Thomas said. “And I know what they are. I
have had years to learn.” He met the knight’s steady, colorless stare, and
suppressed a shiver; but he spoke to Seco. “Messer Seco, you might consider the
wisdom of returning to Acre for a little while, until the king comes to it and
raises the levies. Then you were best advised to take yourself elsewhere.
Perhaps, if you deferred your business in Jerusalem...?”

“Yes, I am your weak link,” said Seco with surprising
perception and even more surprising equanimity. “I can delay my negotiations
for a week. Would that be adequate?”

“Ample,” said Thomas.

Seco nodded briskly. A little too much so, perhaps: his only
indication of temper. “Then I had best go about it. Brothers, my lord.”

“That one will need watching,” said Richard lazily when he
was gone.

“He did give in too easily, didn’t he?” Amalric sounded
amused. “He won’t turn on us, I don’t think. Not as long as he sees a chance at
the prince’s gold.”

“Or his highness’ life?” Richard inquired.

“Maybe. If it doesn’t endanger his profits. And meanwhile he
is useful. He brought us together, didn’t he? He’s good at spreading rumors; he
can afford to pay for the best.”

Thomas eyed him warily. It was, in the beginning, Seco’s
conspiracy. Or perhaps it was not. Thomas did not need witchcraft to perceive
that Amalric was playing more sides than he chose to admit. The merchant had
conceived the plot to dispose of the prince whom he envied so bitterly, but
Thomas did not think that the method was his. Richard would have known how to
go about it; but who had brought in Richard?

Amalric stood in the Patriarch’s scriptorium in his plain
and rather rumpled cotte, with mail showing under it, and a razor-nick on his
chin. He looked like any knight in Outremer: a rough soldier, out to win his
fortune and not caring overmuch how he went about it. The cross over his heart
and the vow that went with it were but the means to his end.

Which was always and inescapably his own advantage.

Thomas did this for God and for holy Church. It was unfortunate
that his allies must be a merchant greedy for gold and a monk with a bent for
intrigue and a knight who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted; but they
were what God had given him. He would have to make the best of it.

A bell rang, faint but clear. He swallowed a sigh of relief.
“That, my lord, is the summons to chapel. Will you come with us to hear the
office?”

For an instant Thomas feared that Amalric would accept. But
he shook his head with no pretense of regret. “I’m wanted at the palace. Good
day to you, then, and good hiding.”

“To you also,” said Thomas. He could not quite bring himself
to raise his hand in blessing. It was for Richard to do that; and he did it
with devotion that bordered on parody.

Thomas suppressed a second sigh. Such allies, he had. But
the game was worth the candle. Oh, yes. By God and His angels and all His
saints, it was worth the price.

By evening there could be no doubt of it. Ysabel was
missing. The children’s nurse, long inured to the vagaries of her most fractious
charge, did not trouble Joanna until she had searched the house and the garden
and questioned anyone who might know where the child had gone. Joanna greeted
the news with hard-won calm, and no fear, not quite yet. Anger, yes; and when
she found Ysabel, she would indulge it.

She sent out the hunters in a pattern that was all too
familiar. A party to the house by the Dome of the Rock, another to her mother’s
house, a third with torches to traverse the city. Then, perforce, she waited.
Sleep was beyond her. Ranulf led the searchers in the city; but for the burden
in her belly, she would have gone with him. Forbidden that, she sat in the
solar and glared at a bit of needlework, and rehearsed the greeting she would
give the truant.

Ysabel was not in Aidan’s house; but then, neither was he.
The men-at-arms who had gone to ask, brought news, and a companion. Simeon the
Jew had little of his usual wry composure. He looked as if he had been tearing
out his hair. He had, it seemed, misplaced his son.

Joanna kept calm by an effort of will. She sat him down,
coaxed wine into him, extracted as much as he knew. “We came back to the prince’s
house,” he said between gulps of wine, “somewhat after midday, with tasks to do
that were not well put off. My son was restless and could not settle to his
work. He asked leave to go into the city; I was distracted, I must have given
it, though I meant to bid him keep to the house and its garden. He left. He has
not come back.”