Devil's Bargain (11 page)

Mustafa ignored him. The next hill would bring them in sight of Jaffa; then it would be a mere hour’s walk to the edge of the Frankish camp.

It was too much to hope that he could complete that walk in silence. “God knows what he sees in you,” Blondel said. “He’s not a man for your kind at all.”

That so perfectly mirrored Mustafa’s thoughts before the Turks attacked that he laughed. Blondel took a very dim view of such levity. Mustafa had no hope of redeeming himself, but
he did feel obligated to say, “I’m useful. I can think in two languages at once.”

“Braggart,” Blondel muttered.

Mustafa made no effort to suppress the smile.

“You are pretty enough,” Blondel said, “for a desert rat. What are you, Bedouin?”

“Berber,” Mustafa said. He was careful to keep the edge out of his voice. Bedouin, indeed. That was worse than a rat, and he did not doubt that Blondel knew it.

They were not going to be friends. Mustafa had never expected that they would. He shut out the rest of Blondel’s chatter, until it faded and eventually stopped. He wished the singer would sing; that would at least have been pleasant to hear. But Blondel saved that aspect of his voice for his art. Silence was a relief, even with the barbed edges that Blondel put in it.

Blondel was pale again and clinging blindly to the saddle when Mustafa brought him to the king’s sister. She had heard of the king’s hunt; both camp and city were buzzing with it. It was a grim tale in itself—so many dead for so little cause—but William’s capture had struck a nerve.

When she saw Mustafa, the flash of relief warmed his heart. Her brow rose at sight of his companion, but she wisely refrained from comment. Blondel was ill as men sometimes were after a blow to the head; they could die of it. “Not this one,” she said, seeing clearly into his heart as mages—and women and physicians—could.

He was glad, not for Blondel’s sake but for the king’s. Richard had not forgotten his singer—he had thought the man safe with the falconers, and only discovered his absence when all the rest were back in Jaffa. After Mustafa had left Blondel in Sioned’s care, he found the king in a dangerous mood, ready to ride out again and find Blondel, then win back the captive knight with the whole might of his army.

Mustafa passed a delegation of French nobles as he came into the citadel. The Duke of Burgundy led them; his face was
thunderous. Whatever had passed between them and the king, it had not ended well. The air in the hall was still thrumming.

Mustafa judged it wise to hang back and wait until the audience should end and he could speak to Richard alone. But the king had seen him. “Mustafa! Thank God! I’d given you up for dead.”

“Not quite, sire,” Mustafa said, sliding out from behind two hulking Englishmen. He suppressed a sigh. Now they were all staring, whispering among themselves, waiting for the next turn of the entertainment.

Richard fed their hunger for gossip by calling Mustafa to him and pulling him into a tight embrace. Mustafa seized the opportunity to murmur rapidly in the king’s ear. “Blondel is well. He’s with the Lady Sioned—he had a knock on the head; he won’t die of it.”

“Good,” Richard said. “Good indeed. You have my thanks.” He let Mustafa go. “I’m trapped here for now. Go to my rooms and wait. Ask the squire to give you what you need—a bath and food, I’ll wager, and a bed, too, from the look of you. Are you wounded?”

Mustafa shook his head. “Allah was kind to me. And you?”

“The Devil looks after his own,” Richard said without levity. “Wait for me. Sleep if you can.”

Mustafa would not have thought that he could sleep. But a thorough cleansing in a proper Muslim bath, then a meal of cheese and bread and dates washed down with sherbet, left him loosed in every muscle and blissfully replete. He lay down at the servants’ urging, closed his eyes for a moment, and opened them on Richard’s face.

Lamplight limned it. Night had fallen. Richard was wrapped in a scent of wine, but he was steady on his feet, his cheeks only slightly flushed.

Mustafa tensed inside of himself. But the king did not touch him. He sat on a stool beside the bed and said, “They say you walked back to Jaffa.”

“My mare won’t carry two,” Mustafa said, struggling against a yawn. “He needed her more than I did.”

“He loves you less than he ever did, now.”

“I didn’t do it to make him love me.”

“No,” Richard said. “That’s not something you would do.”

“I didn’t do it to make you love me, either.”

Richard’s mouth fell open. It was a moment before he laughed, a light, startled sound. “I hope you’re not asking me to understand you.”

“Franks can understand us,” Mustafa said, “but once that understanding comes, they’re no longer Franks.”

“They’re what?
Pullani
?”

“Easterners,” said Mustafa.

“With all due respect,” Richard said, “I’d rather stay a Frank.”

“I also would rather you did,” Mustafa said.

“Why? Would I make such a terrible easterner?”

“You are a glorious great brawler of a Frank,” Mustafa said.

“Out there they’re calling me a fool,” Richard said. “I lost too many men; there’s a good knight taken prisoner, and God knows what will become of him once they find out he’s not the infamous Malik Ric.” His fists clenched. “God damn their hides! He’d be back here with us, roaring over the jest, if even one of them had been willing to follow me.”

“I was willing,” Mustafa said quietly.

Richard did not choose to hear. “We’ll get him back. They’ll pay the blood price and the thieves’ price. I’ll give them good reason to regret their day’s work.”

Mustafa refrained from asking if Richard intended to be wiser in his pastimes after this. Wisdom was not in Richard’s philosophy.

He would not have wished the king to be otherwise. If that made him a fool, too, then so be it. Like Richard, he could not be other than he was.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

W
illiam came back at the lord Saphadin’s order and as his gift, alive and more or less unharmed. Saphadin asked no ransom in return, and nothing but the king’s goodwill. There were many who whispered that he had conceived the whole of it, both the abduction and the return, but Richard closed ears and mind to them. The rumblings swelled to a low roar, then dropped away again as summer gave way to the relative cool of autumn—cooling tempers with it, somewhat, and turning men’s minds toward newer scandals.

William’s return altered the relation between Richard and Saphadin. What had been a game before, a pastime of princes, shifted and changed until, almost inadvertently, Richard found himself seeking a means other than battle to win this Crusade.

Eleanor was remarkably, almost ominously quiet. She sat in the councils, but she spoke little. She made no move to oppose anything that her son took into his head to do. One might have thought that the old she-eagle was weary at last and ready to surrender to the weakness of age, but Sioned was not that great a fool. Eleanor was waiting for something; her patience, when
she had need of it, was infinite. When the time came, she would flash into motion, as swift as an arrow piercing its target.

Sioned’s lessons continued, but they had shifted from the grove to a house in the city. It was not far from the market, where she made occasion to go every day; it was always deserted except for the room of blue and white tiles in which Safiyah received her.

Sometimes Saphadin came there as well, and conversed with her of anything and everything. He was learning, he said, and she was a splendid teacher, although she had no sense of delivering instruction. She answered questions, that was all, and told stories, and taught him a little of her mother’s language. In its beauty and complexity, it was rather like Arabic, although otherwise they bore no relation to one another at all.

“It sounds like you,” he said one afternoon when, for the first time in longer than she could reckon, the sun had veiled itself in cloud and a thin rain was falling.

It was surprisingly chill, that rain. A brazier warmed the room, but the day’s lesson had been in summoning fire. Sioned was as warm as she would ever need to be. Even so, the brazier was pleasant, the coals glowing brightly in the grey light. For amusement, and as a test of her skill, she had kindled sparks of witch-light that drifted round the room.

Safiyah seemed to have slid into a dream or a magical trance. It was as if Sioned had been alone with the lord of Islam. He had bidden her call him Ahmad; although it still came uneasily to her tongue, she liked the sound of it. It was not as harmonious to the ear as Saphadin, but it defined him somehow. It was his name as the other was not. That was a title, a mark of office; it did not touch his innermost self.

“Your mother’s tongue and you,” he said. “They fit one another. Strong, but with hints of sudden softness. Intricate and rather mysterious.”

“I’m no mystery,” she said. “Whatever I’m thinking is written large on my face.”

“Ah, but can every man read it?” He smiled at her. That smile melted her knees.

Well for her, then, that she was sitting on a heap of cushions, half-reclining in the manner of the east. She need have no fear of falling, or even of betraying that waft of weakness.

It passed soon enough. They were sipping kaffé, she by now with as much relish as he. He bent forward over his cup and brushed her lips with his—lightly, quickly, and altogether without warning.

She astounded herself with her own response. She should have been furious. And yet there was none of that in her at all. There was only heat like the fire she had learned to wake within her, but most intensely and potently centered. She wanted to leap across the space between them, cast aside the low table with its silver kaffé service, and take him by storm.

Of course she did not. He had returned to his place. But for the torrent of heat spreading inward and downward from her lips, she might have thought that he had never kissed her at all.

But the fire in her found its image in his eyes. Was he as startled as she? She could have sworn that he was, even in his age and experience—and in front of his wife besides.

That mattered remarkably little. Safiyah’s presence was a blessing. If she was either jealous or offended, she concealed it masterfully. Sioned might almost have thought that she approved.

They were foreign—how much so, she had been tending to forget, because so much about them rang in harmony with her own heart. Their world was not hers. They did not see as she saw.

And yet as she looked into those steady dark eyes, it made no difference at all. Her magic knew his, perfectly. Her heart had found its place.

She took his hands in hers. They were narrow but strong, with a warrior’s calluses and a tracery of fine white scars; their touch was light, a horseman’s touch, attuned to the nuance of bit and rein. Her magic uncoiled through the medium of that touch, weaving softly with his, shaping a pattern that partook of both.

It was a deeply intimate thing, and almost unbearably sweet.
Part of her wanted to take flight, to run all the way back to Gwynedd and hide in a hermit’s cell. But that was folly; even her most cowardly self could see it.

He was not as strong as she might have thought, or as steady, either. “Have you ever . . . ?”

The words were out before she knew she had spoken them.

He shook his head. “Never. Not like this. Though I’ve heard—there are stories, legends—”

“No stories,” she said. “Nothing like this, not in my part of the world.”

“Plato,” he said. “The two halves of the soul. The Greeks knew, though if any of them was a mage, he never admitted to it.”

Words were a veil, a defense against truth. She silenced him with a finger to his lips. “Don’t talk,” she said. “Be.”

His eyes were wide. He looked young then, younger than she. Great master, great lord of mages—had he never learned to silence his heart, to hear what was beyond mortal hearing, to open himself to the currents of the world?

It seemed he had not. His magic was an art, and not a sense of the body.

She rode with him on the tides of power, in a sea of light. Its beauty was familiar and yet never tedious. His presence altered it, made it more beautiful.

It was almost physically painful to return to the world of the living. Safiyah was asleep, sitting upright, lost in a dream. The sun had only shifted a fraction, although Sioned would not have been surprised if days had passed. Her fingers were locked with Ahmad’s.

They drew apart in the same instant, with the same tearing reluctance. He drew a shuddering breath.

She spoke before he could begin. “Will you forgive me if I go? I promised Master Judah that I would take his place for an afternoon.”

“By all means you must keep your promise,” he said.

“I will come back,” she said. “Will you be here?”

“Call me by my name,” he said, “in your heart where I am. I will come.”

Her hand went to her breast. “Always? You promise?”

“I promise,” he said.

She barely remembered the rest of that day. People did not seem to notice her abstraction: no one said anything, even Master Judah, who could not abide that sort of silliness. Her mind was a perfect blank. He was in her heart, cultivating stillness.

Was she in love? It seemed too commonplace a word for so ineffable a sensation. Did her body want him? Very much. But the desire of the body had never been the greater part of what she felt for him. It was everything—all of him; all of them both.

She was aware of the passage of days. She had duties, obligations. There were lessons—Safiyah had become more exacting and the lessons more complex. She never spoke of her husband, nor did Sioned ask after him. He was engrossed in his embassy, but his heart was hers. She felt it beating warmly under her breastbone, matching pace with her own.

She woke from that long half-dream with a shock like a dash of icy water to the face. Richard, insofar as she could notice him—and he was more noticeable than most things in the world, these days—had been nursing some great and cherished secret. Even Eleanor could not get it out of him, which had caused a rare ripple in her cultivated calm.

On the day after the feast of St. Frideswide, which some of the English had celebrated with suitable ecclesiastical pomp, Sioned happened to be in the citadel when the sultan’s envoy arrived for his daily conversation with the king. It was another day of raw rain; rather than brave the weeping sky for a hunt or a ride about the gardens of the city, they met in the solar of the castle.

Their meeting was not open to any who happened by, but neither Sioned nor Eleanor was a casual stranger. Eleanor was received with grace and given a chair by the fire. Sioned was a
shadow, and shadows on this dark day were so common as to be invisible.

The chill of Eleanor’s presence lingered, but Richard was too full of his grand plan to let it trouble him for long. The lord Saphadin and his emirs waited politely for him to finish pacing and gathering his thoughts. Mustafa, seated at the foot of the chair in which Richard must have been sitting, was perfectly still.

At length Richard stopped and turned. “Suppose that we could solve this without continuing the war. Suppose,” he said, “that we can agree on a division of lands and treasures. What if we seal it in the best way of all? I have a sister, my lord, who is widowed and wealthy—and a beauty, too. You have dispensation in your religion to marry as many wives as you can support. Why not take her, my lord, and make her your wife, and make an alliance of the two worlds? West and east, Christendom and Islam, queen and prince: you’ll bring the two together and make them one.”

He ended his speech with a flourish and stood beaming at them all. It was a splendid, a glorious solution, his expression said. Was he not brilliant for having conceived it?

The silence was enormous. Even Saphadin’s eyes were on Eleanor. She wore no expression at all. When she spoke, it was only to inquire, “Have you spoken to Joanna about this?”

Richard’s face fell, but only slightly. “I’ll talk to her. She’ll be glad, I’m sure. She’ll have a knight and a gentleman, a prince of renown, who admires and respects us of the west.”

Eleanor arched a brow. “Indeed,” was all she said.

Sioned did not stay to hear what the prospective bridegroom thought of Richard’s offer. He had voiced no objection. Why should he? Joanna was a queen, and the dowry that Richard would give her would be wondrously rich. The impediment of religion could be dealt with; even as she fled, she heard Richard say, “We’ll send to the Pope by the next boat, and get a dispensation. He’ll give it to us if it wins us back the Holy Sepulcher. Unless of course, my lord, you would consider converting to our faith . . . ?”

Not in this lifetime, she thought. It was not wishful thinking. Wishful thinking had been her dreams of the past days, her moping and mooning about, sighing like a silly girl.

Certainly he found her pleasant to the eye. He was much intrigued by the nature and strength of her magic. The rest she had built into a palace of air, and peopled it with dreams.

This was cold reality: the policies of kings. In that world, a queen of legitimate birth was infinitely preferable to a king’s by-blow. Sioned had no wealth, no rank but what her brother gave her, no place that was her own by grace of birth and breeding. What she had had in Gwynedd, she had left to follow her father’s will and ways. She was of some use for her healing skills; if she left to make her way in the world, those would provide her with a living. Quite a good one, if she chose.

That was all very cool and practical, just as anyone would have expected of her. Yet her heart refused to listen. It had gone from shock to anger, a flare of temper as fierce as it was unreasonable. She did not want it to be reasonable. She wanted to indulge in a good and proper fit. Then she could rage at her idiot brother, and not at her idiot self for dreams that had never been more than empty fancies.

“I will not.”

Joanna measured each word in drops of ice. Her shock at first had been as great as Sioned’s, and her anger if anything was stronger; but not for the same reasons at all. So great was that anger and so deep the shock that it turned her cold. “I will not be sold in slavery to an unbeliever.”