The Dagger and the Cross (23 page)

“Your mother can wield a sword if she has to.”

“So can I.” Ysabel took his hand. “Why can’t I go to Acre
with Lady Elen? She’s coming back here afterward, isn’t she? She said she
would. She doesn’t like the queen much; she thinks she’s too empty-headed. She’d
rather be friends with Mother.”

“What if you get killed trying to come back, or killed in
the city’s fall? What do you think that will do to your mother?”

“I’m a trial to her soul. She’ll be glad to get rid of me.”

Aidan let her know the full force of his disapproval. She
lowered her eyes, sullen. “You care more about my mother than you do about me,”
she muttered.

“She needs more caring,” Aidan said coldly. “And deserves
more.”

Ysabel looked up. She was hurt. He hardened his heart
against her. “Don’t you love me?”

“Not when you act like this.” He relented a little. “Yes, I
love you. That’s why I want you to stay. And...you might be able to do
something. Being what you are, and knowing what you know.”

“You mean, witchery?”

He set a finger to his lips. “Hush the word, catling. I mean
the power you and Akiva share, that can be a defense, if it’s needed. But it
should be the two of you together, learning from one another and making one
another stronger. You can’t do that if you’re in Acre and he’s in Jerusalem.”

She understood a fine manipulating hand when she saw one,
but he tempted her sorely. Power was a greater adventure even than riding with
the army.

He waited, not pressing, lest he lose her. She frowned at
him. “What will you do if I say no?”

“Put a binding on you,” he answered. “I don’t want to. I’d
rather you stayed of your own free will.”

That he could bind her, she knew very well. He had done it
to her once; she had hated it. She chewed her lip, remembering that, and
hunting for an escape, and finding none. “If I stay here, will you let me stay
in your house until you go?”

“What do you think you can do there?”

“Keep you company,” she said.

“That’s for your mother to say.”

She knew the taste of capitulation. She grinned at him. “May
we have roast capon for dinner tonight?”

He shook his head at her impudence, but he had to laugh. “Roast
capon with dates and nuts and cinnamon? Is that what you’re asking for?”

“And rice,” she said, “and honey sweets, and oranges from
your tree.”

“You shall have them. If,” he said, “your mother gives you
leave.”

She pulled him down to kiss him, and danced away. “She will.
You’ll see. May I borrow Conrad to take me back? Mother likes Conrad. She’ll
let me do anything if she knows he’ll be there.”

“You may borrow Conrad,” Aidan said, resigned. “Tyrant.”

Her grin was the last he saw of her, seeming to hang in the
air after she was gone.

o0o

She meant to work on Elen. Aidan wished her luck of it. Elen
had the queen’s command behind her, and something else in train that was not as
well hidden as she hoped it was. She would not be wanting a bright-eyed small
witchling about while she pursued it.

Elen and Raihan. They were a handsome pairing, whatever else
was wrong with it. Aidan could not find it in himself to object, as long as
nothing came of it but an exchange of glances and perhaps now and then a
touching of hands. If it went beyond that, then Aidan would have to consider
what he would do; unless Gwydion did it first.

Gwydion, as a man, might be indulgent. As a king, and as her
grandmother’s brother, he would have to disapprove. A princess of Rhiyana
should not take as lover an infidel, still less an infidel who had been a
slave.

Aidan’s heart twisted. And what of a prince of Rhiyana?

That was settled. He had done it himself, with his own
flapping tongue.

o0o

When he came to his house by the Dome of the Rock, Ysabel
was not there yet. She had her mother’s leave—she had made sure he knew it the
instant it was given—but its price was an hour’s lesson in Latin, and after
that the careful setting in order of her possessions. She was not happy to pay
so high, but she did it, and well, as she could do when she was minded to.

Ysabel was not in the house, but another guest was, and one
far less welcome. Messire Amalric had just arrived, he gave Aidan to know; he
was still paying his respects to Gwydion, whose face wore its royal expression:
blandly unreadable. Gwydion had received him in the solar rather than in one of
the gardens, a double-edged courtesy. It was cool within, but dim, and there
was ample evidence of duties interrupted and preparations deferred.

Aidan was glad of the sherbet that was waiting for him: it
was hot in the city. He took a chair near his brother, but just far enough away
that Amalric must turn his head in order to see both at once. Amalric,
unperturbed, greeted Aidan with brusque courtesy, then returned his focus to
Gwydion.

Aidan minded not at all. It gave him time to settle in, to
drink his sherbet, to test the currents that ran beneath the surface. It was a
courtesy of his kin that they did not read thoughts unless invited, or unless
there was need; but Amalric’s were not easy to make sense of even then. He
thought around corners. Not as a Byzantine would, with serpentine subtlety. It
was more that he could not, or would not, think in a straight line. He leaped
from thought to thought even more than most humans did, and even within each
single thought he buzzed and shifted like a fly on a carcass. It was easier to
avoid him altogether, and to winnow truth and falsehood from his words and his
body’s signals, as any mortal could do.

“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.

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.