Devil’s Bargain

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Saphadin was not in Tyre. Sioned would have been surprised if he had been, but her heart persisted in being disappointed.

She made do as best she could with the court that had gathered in opposition to Richard. They were making no secret of that hostility, nor of their search for an excuse to provoke a fight. They had had hopes of one while Hugh was still in Acre, but Eleanor had driven him out of the city before he could seize it and hold it against her son.

Eleanor was no one’s best-beloved queen here. Bitch goddess and queen of harlots were the kindest words that Sioned heard. Everyone undertook to remember that she had been Queen of France first, until she had run off with a young upstart a dozen years younger than she, who had battled and intrigued his way to the throne of England. It was conveniently forgotten that the King of France had annulled the marriage on grounds that his queen had given him only daughters—and therefore, in the reckoning of kings, no issue at all.

People did not hold their tongues where Sioned was. They all knew that she was no child of Eleanor, and no friend to her, either. Some even went so far as to think that she had come to join them, to make common cause against the queen and her arrogant lout of a son. To them she had not existed before she appeared in the guise of a princess; they knew nothing of the nobody in Turkish trousers, the physician in Richard’s army. Such a creature was as far beneath their notice as a mouse creeping across the floor.

It was better than she had hoped for, that people spoke freely; but she had come here to draw Conrad’s fangs. He was a dour and secret spirit, who trusted no one.

Yet insofar as he could trust a living soul, he trusted his wife. Sioned sought her out on the third day, requesting an audience after morning Mass. Slightly to her surprise, the request was granted.

Isabella received her in the hushed chill of the chapel. A young monk was clearing the altar of its furnishings, but except for him, and for a maid who never looked up while Sioned was there, she was alone.

Sioned had eluded her maids but brought Mustafa. He was as demure as Isabella’s companion, and more useful; the dagger he wore at his belt was only a fraction of his arsenal.

Sioned greeted Isabella with a bow, princess to princess. Isabella inclined her head in return. Sioned might be a king’s daughter, that nod said, but Isabella was a queen.

Not yet, thought Sioned. “Lady,” she said.

“Ah,” said Isabella. “So you do have a voice. There are wagers in the court that you may be mute.”

“I’ve become aware of the uses of silence,” Sioned said.

“Yet now you see a use in speech.”

“I would ask you something,” Sioned said.

“Ask,” said Isabella.

Sioned did not speak at once. She had had words marshaled and ready to ride, but under this level blue stare, they seemed feeble and overly transparent. Yet she could not think of any that would serve better. After a long moment she said, “It’s being said that I came to swear allegiance to your husband. Do you believe this?”

Isabella was as careful with her words as Sioned. “I believe,” she said, “that you will do whatever seems to you to be wisest.”

“You credit me with wisdom?”

“I credit you with more intelligence than you might like.” Isabella smiled faintly at Sioned’s expression. “I asked questions of those who would know. You trained as a physician. You speak Greek and Arabic. We can use you, if you throw in your lot with us.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You travel under an envoy’s banner. My husband is not above sending a messenger home with his head in a bag, but he has an eye for a beautiful woman. More likely he’ll give you a noble escort and order them to kill you if you set foot again within his borders.”

“That’s sensible,” Sioned said. “And you? Would you listen if I asked you to consider my brother’s cause?”

“I am married to Conrad,” Isabella said.

“You were married to Lord Humphrey,” said Sioned. “Now you are not. You’ve been passed back and forth like a sack of wool. You’ll be passed again if enough men in power decide there’s need.”

“To whom?” Isabella inquired. “Richard? Is his queen so easily disposed of?”

“No more or less than any other queen,” Sioned said.

“Conrad would object,” said Isabella. “He hates to let go of anything that he considers to be his.”

“Are you his?”

“He considers me so,” said Isabella.

Sioned shook her head slightly. “I asked if you were his—not if he laid claim to you.”

“It would hardly be wise for me to deny it.”

“What does he do,” asked Sioned, “to men on whom you cast your eye? Will he maim or kill them?”

“I make sure that he never observes my eye on any man but his noble self.”

“Wise,” said Sioned, “but is it true?”

“I see now why you make a habit of silence,” Isabella said without perceptible rancor. “Did you come to court me for your brother?”

“That,” said Sioned, “no. My brother is not looking for another queen. Nor—before you ask it—is his mother. They are both looking for an ally.”

“Of course they would be,” Isabella said. “Why do they think that I might throw in my lot with them? I do believe that my husband is a strong and capable ruler, whatever his faults.”

“Do you believe in the Crusade?” Sioned asked her. “Do you believe that Jerusalem should be in Christian hands?”

“I believe that Jerusalem should be well and competently ruled by a man who takes his right to rule from me.”

“If Conrad believed that,” Sioned said, “he would be allying himself with Richard. Nothing that he does is aimed at taking Jerusalem—only at seizing what power he can for himself. He’ll break the Crusade if it serves that cause, and sell Jerusalem to the highest bidder, provided that he wins and keeps the title of king.”

“Is it your purpose to antagonize me?” Isabella asked.

Sioned met her stare. “You have eyes to see the truth.”

“I see,” said Isabella, “that all of you who come from the West, all of you brave warriors of the Crusade, will fight a battle or two, congratulate yourselves for having saved the world, and then sail away, leaving us to face the consequences. If I could be sure that any of you would stay, I would consider an alliance.”

“Would you convince Conrad to do the same?”

“I make promises for no one but myself.”

Sioned bowed to that.

“And you?” Isabella asked her. “What are you empowered to do? Can you speak with your brother’s voice?”

“Within reason,” Sioned said, “yes.”

“If he will undertake to remain in Jerusalem for three years after he takes it,” Isabella said, “and swear to it on holy relics, then I will consider what he has to say.”

“Only consider it?”

“I will accept him as an ally,” Isabella said. “Whether my husband will . . . that I can’t promise.”

“Can you keep him from interfering in the taking of Jerusalem?”

“I can try,” said Isabella.

“Will you allow me to try as well?”

Isabella’s brow lifted. “How far would you go to gain what you wish for?”

“Not as far as his bed,” Sioned said bluntly.

Isabella bit her lip, perhaps to suppress a smile. “Try, then. But do nothing to harm him, or I will be forced to declare war on you all.”

“If he is harmed,” Sioned said, “it will be none of my doing.”

Isabella accepted that. It seemed she heard no resonance beneath the words.

Sioned did not know why there should be. But this place affected her strangely. She took her leave without waiting for dismissal: a faux pas if there had been any courtier to see, but there was only Isabella and the silent maid, and Mustafa who cared for nothing but to keep his king’s sister safe.

Sioned had won nothing tangible—only a promise of a promise. And, which was more immediately useful, the freedom to work such wiles as she had on Conrad.

She had not asked Isabella to keep secret what had passed between them. It was not her place to ask such a thing, and she had to trust Isabella to do what was wise. Alliances were built on trust. Mistrust only bred enmity.

Conrad was a notoriously mistrustful man. He slept not only with a dagger under his pillow but with a sword at his side. Wherever he went, he went surrounded by guardsmen. Rumor had it that they were sworn to him by blood oath. Certainly something bound them; Sioned could see it like a thread running from each man to his lord’s hand.

He was not a sorcerer, nor did he keep one in his court. Like Richard, he was a practical man. He dealt in the things of the flesh, and left matters of magic to those who believed in it. In that he was very like Richard.

Sioned used none of her own magic to gain his attention. She relied on the arts of her maids with silks and paints, and on an art of her own that, although she had come to it late, was proving to be remarkably easy to practice. A glance, a smile, a tilt of the head—it was like a spell cast on any man she aimed at.

Conrad did not yield as easily as most, but yield he did. He who was mated to a golden beauty had a predilection for dark and round and small. They called his mistress the Damask Plum; not that Sioned ever saw her, for she was kept at a tactful distance in a house some distance from the citadel, but rumor had a great deal to say of her.

“You’re more beautiful than she is,” one of the French knights said. He was less given to flattery than some, and more given to gossip, which made him a useful companion. He was not flattering Sioned now, exactly; he was telling her about Conrad’s mistress, how she was descended from the old kings of Tyre. “She has a face from the old carvings: rather more nose than fashion calls for these days, and a great deal of black hair. She’s swarthy—not like you, your skin is cream—and her teeth are very white. She’s witty and reckoned wise. They say she speaks seven languages. I know she sings like a bird.”

“He likes a witty woman?” Sioned inquired. She was speaking a little these days in the low and dulcet tones that Blanche had enjoined on her—her natural voice, Blanche decreed, was much too crisp and practical to excite a man’s desire.

“He likes her wit,” Thierry said. “It’s said she’s a pagan—she still worships the old gods. Though I’ve seen her in church; not that I’ve ever seen her cross herself, but she does seem to worship the Lord God like the rest of us.”

Sioned did not cross herself in church, either. She was more than slightly intrigued by this woman who did not show her face at court. It might be a diversion—she was well aware of that. And yet there were powers here that did not come from any Christian source, nor did they have a flavor of Islam. They were older than either.

Had Richard known of this woman when he sent Sioned here? Sioned would wager that Eleanor had—and she would wager that Conrad suspected as much. Conrad saw webs within webs.

Suspicion could be its own worst enemy. She courted Conrad with her eyes and her smile, and with a little wit—not too much; she was saving it for a greater need.

He was waiting, the sixth morning after she had arrived, with horses and hounds and falcons. The page who had fetched her had bidden her to the hunt—and not in a way that offered her a choice. She might have attempted a refusal, to see what Conrad would do, but she was not ready yet to test his patience with contrariness. Today she would be obedient.

It was a small hunt. Isabella was not riding with it, nor was Henry. There were half a dozen knights of France and of Outremer, a company of guardsmen, and the falconers: perhaps two dozen all told. She was the only lady; the only woman at all, except for the redoubtable Blanche, who proved to have an excellent seat on a horse.

Between Blanche and Mustafa, Sioned felt rather well guarded. The riding clothes that had been inflicted upon her were somewhat more suited for looks than for use, but they would do. The same could be said of the mild-mannered little hawk which she was not even to carry on her own fist; a young falconer carried it for her.

She was not here for her own pleasure. This was Richard’s hunt; she was only the hawk in his jesses. She rode beside Conrad, taking note that the horse he had given her, at least, was one she might have chosen for herself: a mare of desert breeding, fiery yet tractable, with silken paces and a feather touch to leg and rein.

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.