Devil's Bargain (13 page)

The veil of snow parted. She looked through it into a room dim with lamplight. It was a beautiful room, with walls of many-colored tiles in patterns of leaves and flowering branches, and a floor heaped thick with carpets. A golden lamp hung from the ceiling, shedding soft light on the curtains of a bed. It was not an extravagant bed despite the beauty of the room; there were few cushions, and the coverlets were almost plain. They were wool and cotton, not silk; yet they seemed warm.

He was asleep within those coverlets. She had not seen him before without his turban; he looked more ordinary so, a slender man, fine-featured, with short-cropped black hair barely touched with grey, and a neat beard.

No one shared his bed, nor was there any memory of a woman in that room. If he did his duty by his wives, he did it elsewhere. This was his own place, his sanctuary. There was a great air of peace in it, and of warded protection.

She could feel the wards about her, sliding like water over her body, but they did not drive her away. Indeed they welcomed her; they guarded her as they did him, within walls of air and light.

She drifted down beside him. He smiled faintly in his sleep—not at her presence, surely, but at some pleasant dream. She remembered that she was angry, and she remembered why, but without the flesh to feed the anger, it seemed dim and rather distant. In this place she was simply glad to see his face, to know that he was well—and yes, to see him alone.

They had not spoken since Jaffa. She had no craving to hear his voice now, but neither was she in great haste to leave him. She sat at the foot of his bed and tucked up her feet, and watched over him for what was left of the night.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

T
he hope that roused Richard’s army to march away from Beit Nuba turned quickly to rancor. The roads were abominable and the weather worse. Storm after storm battered the land and the sea. There were no supply lines from the ports: the ships had to put far out to sea or be dashed to pieces on the shore.

One morning not far from Ascalon, after a grueling march through a morass of mud and icy water, the army woke to find itself reduced by half. Duke Hugh and the French had packed up in secret, gathered their belongings and the loot that they had won, and left in the night.

Some said they had gone to Acre, others to Tyre. “Either way,” Richard said with as much good cheer as anyone could muster, “that’s all the fewer mouths to feed. Up, and march! The sun’s out, for once; we’ll make good time today. Maybe we’ll even dry out by sundown.”

Mustafa heard that as he came back from scouting the road to Ascalon. The sun was a pleasant change, to be sure, though it was not what he would have called warm. If anything it was
colder than the storms had been before. There was a thin film of ice over the mud of the road, and his breath was a cloud of frost.

He was not eager to bring Richard the news that he had gone to fetch, but soonest done was soonest over. His little mare was a bony shadow of herself, but she had a spark in her yet. She consented to carry him along the columns as they dragged themselves into place, and to fall in behind Richard’s squires.

Richard would come when he came. He was seeing the sick and the wounded into the carts himself, and giving them such comfort as they would take.

The army lurched into motion with a now-familiar step and drag, accompanied by the sucking sound of feet or hooves in mud, and the groaning of wagon axles as the wheels strained to turn. The oxen lowed in protest, and the mules brayed harshly; the drovers cracked their whips and cursed. The men marched in grim silence. No one laughed or sang.

They would have even less occasion for mirth when they heard what Mustafa had to say to Richard. It was midmorning before the king came to the center. His golden stallion was as bony as the rest of the horses, and the beast’s winter coat was like a filthy fleece, but he had enough strength even yet to arch his neck and offer improprieties to Mustafa’s mare. She flattened her ears and snapped. He was barely chastened.

Richard slapped the woolly neck and grinned at Mustafa. “Good day, my friend! I’ve not seen you about. I was almost starting to fret.”

“That was kind of you, my lord,” said Mustafa.

“I’m never kind,” Richard said. “So, out with it. Where have you been?”

“Ascalon,” Mustafa answered him baldly. He had learned some good while since that Richard had no patience with indirection. When he wanted a report, he wanted it clean: short, sharp, and to the point.

Richard read most of it in his eyes. “Bad?”

“Worse,” said Mustafa. “It’s razed to the ground. There’s not one stone standing on another.”

Richard nodded slowly, without surprise. “Did he take the stones away?”

“No, my lord. They’re scattered everywhere.”

“Good,” said Richard. “Good. We’ve got something to work with, then.” He paused. “There’s something else. What is it?”

Mustafa could not take his eyes off that windburned face. It was raw and red; the cheeks were peeling. Small dags of ice hung from the mustache. There was nothing beautiful about it at all, except the bright blue eyes. And yet Mustafa would not have traded this man for the loveliest boy in Baghdad.

He blinked and reined himself in, and said, stammering a little, “I—I saw—The ships, my lord. Half the fleet is wrecked. There are ships’ timbers and broken spars clear up the coast.”

“And the cargoes?”

“Lost or ruined. The crews that survived are salvaging what they can. But, my lord, it’s an ill sight to come to after a march like this.”

“We’ll have to come to it,” Richard said, drawing himself up. “And now we have warning. I thank you for that. Are you hungry? Tired? Take a place on one of the wagons—say I sent you. See if one of the cooks can find you something to eat.”

“I’m well, my lord,” Mustafa said, though his stomach was a tight knot of hunger. He had water enough, melted from snow, and he had eaten yesterday. He would last for a while.

Richard eyed him narrowly but let him be. There was a council to call now, and decisions to make. He had already forgotten Mustafa.

That was as it should be. A king should rule. This king ruled well, mostly; even his failures had a certain splendor to them.

They were all forewarned, but the sight of Ascalon struck them dumb. They came to it near the end of a cold and windy day. Under a scud of clouds and a sinking sun, they looked out
across a wasteland. Waste behind and waste before, and the heave and crash of the sea beyond. The very emptiness was a mockery, the sultan’s backhanded gift after his defeat at Arsuf.

Richard held them together by sheer force of will. They burrowed into the ruins and dug out dens and caves, living like wild dogs in the wreck of the city. Some, when day came again, he sent to gather the flotsam from the shore, the broken bits of ships that could be cut and shaped into newer, smaller, handier craft for these uncertain seas. The rest began the by now familiar labor of rebuilding the fallen fortress, raising walls and building barracks. It was backbreaking labor, sometimes for a literal fact; but once the boats were built and sent to Cyprus for provisions, they had food to eat, and their dens and lairs were the best shelter they had had since Jaffa.

In the midst of this, Richard summoned Sioned. That was a rare enough occurrence, and she was busy enough with her doctoring, that she almost refused to go. But the squire was one of the adoring puppies who followed her about whenever they could. She would not have liked to expose him to the king’s wrath.

Richard was at the wall, overseeing the raising of the stones and putting his hand to a few himself. It was warm work. Even in the winter chill, he had stripped to his shirt; the back and armpits were dark with sweat.

It was a while before he noticed Sioned. She occupied the time in reckoning how far the wall had come since yesterday and calculating how far it would go before tomorrow. It was an impressive calculation, for so few men, and so few of them masons or laborers. There were even knights among them, rank and arrogance laid aside, soiling their hands with common labor.

At length Richard turned from the setting of a stone as big as a destrier, to find her standing behind him, watching with interest. He started slightly, but then he grinned. “Little sister! What do you think? Are we great builders of cities?”

“As great as Alexander,” she said. “What will you call this? Ricardia?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Ascalon will do. I’ll leave the great vaunts to the Greeks and Romans.”

“I’d never have taken you for a humble man,” she said.

“Did I say I was humble? This is a fine and handsome city, and when it’s done, it will be mine.” He pulled out the tail of his shirt and mopped his brow with it. “I’ve a task for you, sister. Will you do it?”

“What is it?”

He grinned. “You’re wary. That’s good. It’s not anything to endanger your immortal soul. I’m sending a deputation to Acre. I’d like you to go with it.”

“What, are you sending me away after all?”

“Not in the way you mean,” he said. “I’m making you an envoy. I’ve had a message from the French; I need someone trustworthy to bring back a reply.”

She was not mollified at all. “Why are you asking me? There are a good half-hundred men in this army who can carry a confidential message.”

“Because,” he said, “I need you. Come to me after dinner. I’ll explain then.”

“Why not now?”

He snorted in exasperation. “After dinner. Be sure you come.”

“Serve you right if I don’t,” she muttered.

Of course she went. She was curious, and she would wager that he was desperate. She gave him ample time to finish his dinner, and then a little more to dismiss the usual crowd that hung about until he went to bed.

His lair was larger than most. It had actual walls, and a roof that had been repaired with ship’s timbers. Part was curtained off for a bedchamber; the rest held a table with a mended leg, an assortment of stools and chairs, and a rack of bronze lamps that must have come from some ancient Roman hoard. They were all lit, and a pair of braziers held back the cold.

Everyone on the Crusade had learned that winter why the infidels were in the habit of heaping carpets on their floors. Carpets were warm; the more of them there were, the farther one’s
feet were from the chill of stone or tile. Richard had amassed a fair treasure of carpets, and most of them had gone down on this floor. They made a handsome lair, brilliant with color, ornate with the intricate patterns of the east.

Richard was pacing that carpeted floor. He was not alone. A clerk attended him, and a squire waited on his guest.

She knew the young man who sat by one of the braziers, drinking mulled wine from a steaming cup. He was Richard’s kinsman, his sister’s son: the young lord Henry from Champagne. He was a little older than she was herself; he had acquitted himself well on the Crusade. He was a thoroughly sensible person, and seldom inclined toward the silliness of youth. He was also, and entirely incidentally, as pretty a young man as any in the kingdom of France.

He smiled at sight of her, then leaped up and bowed, brushing her hand with a kiss. She could not help but smile back. Henry was a charming creature, and very good company, when his duties left him time for it.

Richard beamed at them both. “Well, children? Do you think you can keep each other out of mischief on the way to Acre?”

Sioned’s smile died. “You’re sending him? Why do you need me?”

“Why, lady,” Henry said with a face of tragic grief. “Am I so unbearable?”

“You know you are not,” said Sioned. She fixed her glare on Richard. “Well?”

Richard shrugged, a roll of heavy shoulders. “You’re not going to let me say I’m thinking of your pleasure on the road, are you? I didn’t think so. I am, in point of fact, sister. Apart from the fact that I need something.”

He was having a great deal of trouble coming round to it, which was not like him at all. She made no effort to come to his rescue, but let him flounder about until he stumbled into silence. With a hiss of frustration, he began again. “You’re going to Acre with messages for my mother and the Duke of Burgundy—but yes, those could go with anyone. When they’re delivered, you’ll go on much more quietly to Tyre.”

That caught her interest. She glanced at Henry. He knew already: there was no surprise in his face, although he listened closely.

“Milord of Tyre is up to something,” Richard said. “We think he’s treating secretly with Saladin. We also think he’s going to make a bid for the throne of Jerusalem—which will require him to get rid of the man who currently claims it. There’s a pretty little war brewing.”

“Very pretty,” she said. “That still doesn’t explain why you need me.”

“I need you,” said Richard through gritted teeth, “because I’m told on all too good authority that milord Conrad is up to something more than simple treachery. He’s made . . . alliances. The kind that you know how to recognize—and maybe how to break.”

“Magic?” She spoke the word to see him flinch. “You don’t think your mother has powers enough to flatten anything he can bring to bear?”

Richard was squirming beautifully. “Mother isn’t here. You are.”

“Your mother is in Acre, where you’re sending me. Are you asking me to ally myself with her?”

“No!” Richard said too quickly.

“You don’t trust her,” said Sioned with slow relish.

“I trust her with my life,” he snapped.

“That’s not what I said,” she said. “You think I’ll do as I’m told, whereas she will do nothing of the sort. Have you forgotten everything you ever knew about me?”

“I remember that you can keep your mouth shut when it suits you, and that you clean up very nicely. Conrad has an eye for the ladies. Mother would put him completely on his guard. But a beautiful young sister, curious to see the sights of Tyre, might lull him into letting something slip.”