Devil's Bargain (17 page)

There was significance in the choice of the horse. She suspected as she mounted in the courtyard of the citadel, but as she rode through the city, she knew: this was his mistress’ mare. People took her for that lady, seeing her so mounted and accompanied. Many bowed; a few spat as she passed by.

She wondered if she was supposed to notice and be outraged. In fact she was amused. When they came through the
gate onto the causeway, she found the road almost open, and room enough to let the mare run.

Cries of dismay rose up behind her. Idiots: they thought the horse was running away with her. But Conrad, close behind, loosed a bark of laughter. She glanced over her shoulder. He was grinning like a wolf.

She let the mare run beyond the causeway, reining her in at last where traffic thickened on the road, wagons and carts trundling to the market in Tyre. The mare danced and fretted, hating to plod earthbound after the exhilaration of speed.

The rest of the company caught her there, the guards and knights crimson with embarrassment, but Conrad was still grinning in delight—the first honest expression she had seen on that face. He offered no flattery, but simply said, “Marco. Let her fly the peregrine.”

Marco, the chief of the falconers, had obvious doubts, but Conrad was master of his servants. He surrendered the princely bird, with a faint tightening of the nostrils as she took it on her fist. She held out her free hand; the falconer stared at it, until, with very slightly less reluctance, he surrendered the feather with which he had gentled the falcon.

She spoke to it softly in Arabic, because it seemed to her the language most suited for speaking to falcons. The grip of its talons was strong but not crushingly so. The wind ruffled the soft feathers of its breast. She smoothed them with the falconer’s feather, and stroked it down the blue-grey back. The falcon eased into the pleasure of the touch.

She would never win Marco’s respect, but he was less scornful than he had been. They rode up and away from the shore, departing from the road and its press of people and riding out through that rough and windswept country. Their falcons were eager, the game not too sparse—but it was not the hunt that Sioned had come for. Simply to be riding in the open air, feeling the wind on her face, with a good horse under her and a good falcon above her, was worth whatever it might cost.

Conrad had not come simply to hunt, either. When they
were out of sight of the city, they abandoned the pretext of hunting and took what appeared to be a goat track, but horses had traveled that way more than once since the last rain. It was steep and stony, and slippery in places. Sioned was glad of the surefooted mare.

The track led up to the summit of a hill, then down again to a circle of tumbled stones. It dawned on Sioned that these had been wrought by hands; it was a ruin, though what it had been, she could not tell. A village, maybe. A fortress long ago. It provided a little shelter from the wind, and a corner of a wall made a middling fair hearth.

The squires had brought charcoal to burn, and provisions that made a small feast. While it was being prepared, the horses threw up their heads; one of the stallions snorted explosively.

None of the men seemed alarmed. Sioned, who had been poised to leap up with dagger in hand, subsided with a faint sigh. Mustafa was as alert as the horses, but although his hand was resting on the hilt of his sword, he had not drawn it.

Horsemen rode down the hill from the east. They were dark men in turbans, all of them, and their number was precisely that of Conrad’s company. That was meant, she thought, and it meant something.

Her hackles had risen, and not simply those of the body. Sparks crackled along the edges of her wards.

It was not the shudder of evil drawing near, but the tingle of magic at least as great as her own—trained magic, powerful magic, magic that she knew well. He rode in the midst of the infidels, distinguished from the rest by no mark of rank, but she would have known him if she had been blind.

Her own gust of anger startled her. So did the sudden, powerful urge to fling herself into his arms. She held herself still and kept her face expressionless, watching as Conrad welcomed his guests. They were not strangers to him; he knew most of them by name, the soldiers as well as the emirs, and of course the prince who led them.

They had brought bread and fruit and cheese and a freshly killed gazelle, which turned a small feast into a rather substantial
one. The infidels set up a pavilion for it, with rugs to soften the stony ground, and braziers for warmth. In a very little while, this was a camp fit for a prince, or for a princely council.

Sioned did not move or speak through all of it. When the pavilion was up and the odor of roasting gazelle had set her mouth to watering, Conrad came and bowed in front of her. “Lady,” he said, holding out his hand.

Her presence here was no accident. She let him draw her to her feet, though his touch made her shiver, and not pleasantly. As soon as she was upright, she slipped her fingers free of his. He seemed unperturbed; he led her to the pavilion, bowing at the entrance, inviting her to precede him within.

There was no fear inside that tent, and no danger but what stood at her back. Her heart was hammering even so. She paused to let her eyes adjust, opening the rest of her senses to the curtained and carpeted space.

He had been reclining against the far wall, but at her coming he rose. She meant to bow, but she found that she could not. She looked straight into his face.

He smiled at her, a smile so unaffected that she had returned it before she stopped to think. The nonexistent quarrel that had parted them, the grudge she bore him for considering that idiocy of marriage to Joanna, seemed ridiculous here and now, in his living presence. He had been her friend, though in war they must be enemies. He was still her friend; that, for him, had never changed.

The world faded but for the two of them: a moment out of time, where no other could hear or understand. It was a strong magic, and yet as simple as breathing—or as loving him.

“You still cherish a friendship,” she said. “Yet you went away and never spoke a word.”

“Would you have heard it?” he asked her.

“You should have said it,” she said.

He looked down—he, the great prince, abashed. “So Safiyah said. But I thought I knew better.”

“Men always do,” said Sioned.

It was not an apology, or much of a peace offering, either,
but he accepted it as if it had been a much greater gift than it was. She did not know why that pricked her eyes to tears. Foolish heart; it knew no sense or reason. It only cared that he was there again, and the quarrel was gone, with only a faint reek of anger in its wake.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

S
aphadin and Conrad talked of alliances, pacts of peace between Tyre and the House of Islam. Richard was not to be a part of them. Conrad wanted the title of king; if Saladin would help him win it, he would give Saladin Richard’s head, and the heads of his whole army besides.

Sioned listened without surprise. The meal she had eaten lay in her belly like a stone. Her joy in Saphadin’s presence was much darkened. She was here for a reason, and that was not to delight herself with the end of a quarrel. Conrad had brought her, knowing who she was, and knowing surely where her allegiances lay. He wanted Richard to learn of these negotiations.

But why? Richard was all too likely to muster a force of Franks and fall on Conrad with fire and sword. That would weaken and even break the Crusade, which would serve Saladin’s cause admirably—but what was in it for Conrad?

Richard’s death—supposing that that could be accomplished? Without Richard, Guy would have no hope of taking back the throne of Jerusalem. And if Richard’s army was defeated, Conrad would own whatever wealth it had
accumulated, which though depleted by the winter’s miseries, must still be considerable. With that in addition to the treasure of Tyre, he could keep the French army with him for a substantial while.

It was complicated, but Conrad was a complicated man. So was Saphadin, but not in the same way at all. And Richard . . . Conrad might find that he had underestimated the Lionheart. Clever men often mistook Richard’s warrior bluntness for stupidity.

Her head had begun to ache. She hated politics. The complexities of a text in an obscure language, the elaborate structure of a great spell, the mending of a broken body, all of those she could encompass. But this web of intrigue wearied her intolerably.

She forced herself to listen and remember, since it suited Richard’s plan as well as Conrad’s that she do just that. The words impressed themselves as if written on a page, bound into a book and laid away in her mind until she should have need to recover it.

To rest her eyes, and to relieve the ache somewhat, she watched Saphadin. Him she could not fault; he was only doing his duty to his sultan. He would negotiate with all sides and none, and win what concessions he could, then expect that his brother would take the rest by force. If he had done anything else, he would have betrayed his people.

Conrad spoke Arabic—not well enough for delicate negotiations, but he had no objection to using Saphadin’s interpreter. If the man altered the sense of a phrase, Sioned saw how Conrad’s eyelids flickered. That quick mind would be recording every slip and shift.

Sioned detected no deception. Conrad wanted Saladin’s aid too badly, and Saphadin had too much of the advantage; they had no reason to lie to one another. Prevaricate, yes—conceal certain details, by all means. But nothing worse.

They ended amicably, if without reaching a firm conclusion. “There are things I must settle with my council,” Conrad said.

“And I with my sultan,” said Saphadin, bowing where he sat.

Conrad rose first, Saphadin an instant after him. They bowed to one another, gracious as almost-allies could be.

Sioned did not want him to go. The not-wanting was so strong that she gasped. Fortunately neither of them heard her—or so for a moment she thought. As Saphadin’s servant assisted her to her feet, the man murmured, barely to be heard, “My lord says, tomorrow morning, go to the market in Tyre. Someone will find you.”

There was no time for questions. Conrad had taken her arm in a light but unbreakable grip. She let him lead her out into the sun and the wind.

Conrad expected her to send word to Richard of what he had done. She would do that, but not yet. She did, when she came back to the city, send one of the maids to fetch Henry.

He took his time in coming. When at last he deigned to appear, it was nearly time for the daymeal; Blanche was busily undoing the damage that sun, wind, and freedom had wrought to the careful edifice of Sioned’s beauty. Blanche, Sioned had already observed, was completely unflustered by that same windblown ride; her cheeks were as alabaster-pale as ever, her wimple still perfectly in place. Sioned did not even remember losing her wimple, though she had been aware of the moment when her hair escaped its pins and plaits and streamed loose in the wind.

It was nearly subdued again. Paint had done what it could to dim the flush of color in her cheeks. She sat perfectly still for Blanche to complete her handiwork, as her youngest maid brought Henry into the chamber.

“Princess Isabella sends her regards,” Marguerite said innocently, “and will be pleased to see you in hall in a little while.”

“So,” Sioned said to Henry, “her highness is well?”

“Very well,” Henry said. His voice was steady; he was not flushed as a man might be who had been caught doing something improper. “I do ask your pardon for not coming sooner.
She was insistent that we hear a singer who has just arrived from Paris, and I couldn’t in politeness excuse myself until the song was over.”

“It must have been a very long song,” Sioned said.

“Endless,” said Henry. “Did you have a pleasant hunt?”

“It was pleasant,” said Sioned. “And illuminating. Has the court crowned me his new mistress yet?”

“Not . . . quite yet,” Henry said. “Though some are close to it. They say the fair Elissa has shut herself in her house and will speak to no one.”

“She has no cause for jealousy,” Sioned said.

“Of course not,” said Henry. “Nor does milord of Tyre, whatever anyone may be saying of me.”

“That’s rather a pity,” Sioned said.

“You think so?”

“I think,” she said, “that there is one who could be won over. The marquis is too deeply in love with himself. She looks for a man to love her as her beauty deserves.”

“She is very beautiful,” said Henry, “and well fit to be a queen.”

“His queen?”

Henry shrugged. “He’s competent. Men don’t love him, but they serve him. He’d rule well enough, if he had Jerusalem.”

“Better than my brother?”

“Lady,” he said, “forgive me for honesty, but your brother is a general. He fights wars. He has no talent and no patience for the arts of peace.”

She could hardly deny that; she knew Richard too well. “Can Conrad truly wage peace? Or will he simply feed his own power?”

“It will be to his advantage to hold what he wins,” said Henry.

“And Conrad always serves that advantage.” She sighed. “He’s using me, you know. We weren’t hunting birds. We hunted Saracens, and he stalked an alliance against my brother.”

Henry nodded slowly. “He would do that. Did he win it?”

“Not quite,” she said, “but close enough. He’ll let the sultan keep Jerusalem, if he can be lord of the coast. Free access for pilgrims to the Holy Sepulcher, and no Muslim interference with the crossings of Jordan. Title of king to be given to Conrad, and a royal ransom in lieu of the keys to Jerusalem. It will be a rich and advantageous settlement, if the sultan agrees to it.”

“It seems they didn’t take our king into account at all,” Henry observed.

“They didn’t, did they?” she said. “I’m sure that was for my benefit.”

“What do you think they’ll do with him, then?”

“I think,” she said, “that they’ll wear him down with dissension and force him into battle with a broken army, then drive him out in defeat. They’ll eat away at him, break his courage, belittle his strength, make his great gifts useless, until he has no choice but to run back to the West.

“That is,” she said, “if they can. If he were alone, I think they’d have fair odds of doing it. With his mother here and his contentious kin under lock and key in Normandy, I’m not so certain.”

Henry was silent for a moment. She had not thought that she would shock him, but maybe she had given him somewhat to ponder. After a while he asked, “Do you think my grandmother knows?”

“I wouldn’t wager for or against it,” Sioned said.

“She should know,” said Henry. “So that she can think on it.”

Sioned was silent.

Henry took her hand suddenly and kissed it. “Brave and beautiful lady,” he said. “If we win this war, will your brother know how much you had to do with it?”

“I rather hope not,” she said. “I’m not a mover of worlds.”

“No?” Henry pressed her hand briefly to his heart, then let it go. “Shall we go down to dinner? They’re waiting for us.”

She let him escort her, but her mind was not on the feast to which they were going. It was transfixed with the beginnings of a thought, one that she did not like to think—not least because
she had been blind to it for so long. Henry did not care for Isabella because . . .

Because his eye had fallen on Sioned. She had not meant for it to happen. But there it was, as clear as a newly opened eye could see.

It need not matter. And yet, maddeningly, it did. She did not want this lovely man, except as a kinsman and a dear friend, nor was there any danger that she would be given to him in marriage. She had no lands or titles to offer him. He was safe from her.

She would have to see that he was aware of that. But not today. He could dream for yet a while.

It was not as easy to escape to the market the next morning as Sioned had hoped. Conrad was watching, and so, not surprisingly, was Isabella. They both wanted her attendance; then her maids pursued her, insisting that she must be made beautiful for the midmorning court.

She eluded them in the end by demanding a bath and, while they ran to prepare it, slipping into the plainest gown she had been allowed to bring with her, appropriating Blanche’s dour black mantle, and disappearing among the servants. They barely noticed her; without her armor of silk, she was simply another pretty dark-haired maid sent on an errand for her mistress.

It was still morning, though barely so, when she came to the market. She knew better than to expect that Saphadin’s messenger would have lingered, but she had to be certain.

She purchased a thing or two that she had been needing, and she listened to what people were saying. The French were not as hungry here as in Acre, but they felt the lack of their pay. Rumor was that Conrad would find means to recompense them at least in part; those who believed that were praising him and cursing their absent king.

“Have you heard?” one man asked another near the street of the dyers, where the reek of the purple dye was sharply distinct. “It’s said the king tried to move on Normandy at the New Year,
but found the borders guarded by an army he had never expected to see.”

“English?” his companion asked.

“You would suppose so, wouldn’t you? But the man who told me, who had it from a sailor off a ship from Marseille—he swore that it was an army of the dead. Romans and Franks, Vikings, Saxons—ghosts in ancient armor, with weapons that bit deep. But the fear of them was greater.”

“Do you believe it?”

“I believe that the English king has allies in unusual places. Isn’t he the Devil’s get?”

“Ah,” said the other, a gust of scorn. “They say the marquis is the Devil himself. If that’s so, then there’s no love lost between him and his descendant.”

Sioned was not the skeptic that this nameless Frenchman was. Richard’s lands were warded—how not? Eleanor would have known from the moment Philip set sail for France that once his own kingdom was secure, he would set his eye on Richard’s. It would strike him as wonderfully appropriate to relieve Richard of his western titles while Richard won a kingdom in the east.

Clearly Philip had reckoned without the powers that Richard’s subjects could bring to bear. Philip was a right royal and Christian monarch, but Richard was the son of a sorceress and of the Devil’s own.

She could not help but smile at the vision of Philip, surrounded by his monks and priests, confronting the armies of the dead. Crosses and prayers could not vanquish them, and a true Christian king regarded magic with holy horror.

She turned still smiling, aware of eyes upon her. Mustafa was frowning formidably. “You led me a merry chase,” he said.

“I’m sorry for that,” she said, and for the most part she was. “I had to elude you if I was to elude the rest. I knew you’d find me.”