The dome of Holy Wisdom hung weightless in the air, held to earth by columns of light. Beneath the dome and among the pillars swirled a sea of people, overlaid with a manifold mist of incense, perfume, and humanity, eddying here and there as a priest or a potentate swept by.
At this hour between services, most of those in Hagia Sophia were pilgrims and sightseers. Hawkers of relics moved brazenly among them, offering for sale splinters of the True Cross, threads from the Virgin’s robe, and bits of bone and hair from the bodies of innumerable saints. The few Latins in the throng were fair prey for these, wide-eyed barbarians that they were, and ignorant of Greek besides.
One walked alone, a clear target: a burly young man, cleaner and better kempt than most, gazing about with a child’s pure wonder. Under the great dome where Christ the King sat on his throne, he stood with his head thrown back in rapture.
“Twigs from Saint Bacchus’ vine, Saint Andrew’s fingernails, a lock of the Magdalene’s hair—cheap, holy Father, cheap at the price!”
The man was like a buzzing fly, barely noticed at first but maddening in his persistence. His victim tumbled headlong from heaven into the world’s mire, and crouched there stunned.
“Relics, holy relics, more precious than gold. Filings from Saint Peter’s chains—a chip from Simon Stylites’ column—”
The lion in repose is a great, slow-seeming, indolent beast. But aroused, he is terrible. The young Latin woke all at once to a roar of Greek, both fluent and scathing.
When his tormentor had fled, taking his wares and his ragged langue d’oeil, the young man stood a moment, shaking with fury. Slowly his tension eased. His face regained its amiable, slightly foolish expression; he sighed and shrugged. The house of light had turned to mere stone, and no force of will could change it back again.
That was the way of the world. And since heaven was denied him, he focused upon earth: the ebb and flow of people through the wide space, the flow of light and line about and above them.
He began to walk slowly, aimlessly, as a sightseer will. His size won him easy passage; his race and his priestly tonsure won him hard looks and hostile gestures and once a muttered curse.
Beneath one of the four lesser domes, under a haloed angel, he paused again. These easterners were small people; he, tall even for a Norman, could see easily over their heads. But not far from him stood a Greek quite as tall as himself though considerably less broad. He could see no face, only a long body robed in silver-grey, and a grey hat beneath which he glimpsed long white-fair hair.
The Greek shifted slightly, tilting his head back as if to gaze at the ornamented ceiling. Even from behind he seemed rapt yet not solemn, glowing with awe and wonder and heartfelt delight.
The watcher drew a slow breath. That turn of the head—that lift of the shoulder—surely he was dreaming or wishing, as he had dreamed and wished for so long, and seen what he longed to see in every tall pale stranger. And yet—
“Alf?” he wondered aloud. “Brother Alfred?”
The other turned with swift, feline grace. A fair face, a flash of silver eyes, a sudden brilliant smile. “Jehan de Sevigny!” Even the voice was the same, and the touch, the hands much stronger than they looked, holding him fast.
He knew he was grinning like an idiot; paradoxically, his eyes had blurred with tears. “Brother Alf. I never thought—how did you—I thought you were in Jerusalem!”
“I was.” Alf drew him away from the jostling crowd into the quiet of a side chapel. Jehan’s eyes cleared; he looked hard, drinking him in, incredulous still. But— “God in heaven! What ever did you do to your face?”
Alf raised a hand to it. “I did battle with the sun,” he replied, “and he won.”
“I’ll wager he did.” Jehan scowled formidably at his old friend and teacher. “Have you been in agony ever since you left Anglia?”
“Only this once,” Alf said.
“But—”
“l have my defenses, as you well know. A few days ago I forgot them. Foolish, and dangerous besides, but in the end it led to good fortune. I’m a guest now in the City, and I’m most well tended.”
“You look it,” Jehan admitted. “Except for your face.”
“Another day or two and you’d never have noticed anything at all.”
“Oh, I would have.” Jehan took him in again and felt his grin return, wider than ever. “Brother Alf. Brother Alf. It’s so good to see you!”
“And you.” Alf measured him with an admiring eye. “You’ve grown.”
“I’m as tall as you now.”
“But wide enough for three of me. I see they knighted you.”
“Last year. Bishop Aylmer did it before I left for the Crusade. He made me a priest, too. Might as well get it all done at once, he said.”
Alf smiled, remembering the dark grim-faced bishop who had accepted an elf-priest with no reservations at all. “Is he well?”
“Well enough, though he’s gone a bit grey. Grief, I think. We were with my lord Richard when he died.” Jehan spoke quietly, but his eyes were dark with old sorrow. “Magnificent fool that he was, to take an arrow in the vitals fighting for a treasure that wasn’t there. As soon as he realized that he wasn’t going to get up from his bed, he told us to stay well out of brother John’s way and sent us to Rome to bring Anglia’s greetings to the new Pope. We’ve been serving Innocent ever since. A great man, that. Young too, for a Pope, and a bit more of a politician than a priest ought to be. Though l should talk, when I’ve been squire to Anglia’s infamous Chancellor.”
“Infamous only in the new King’s eyes. Is it true that John has weeded out all of Richard’s old friends?”
“Most of them. The last I heard, Father was in Rhiyana visiting Mother’s family. Purely for courtesy, you understand. But it’s been a long visit. Years long.”
“Like yours in Rome.”
Jehan nodded. “We were in Rhiyana ourselves for a while. The King sent you his love. Now how did he know I’d be seeing you?”
“Witchery, of course.”
“Of course,” Jehan said with a crooked smile. “His court is even more wonderful than legend makes it. All those Fair Folk…there’s magic everywhere and a wonder at every turning, and Gwydion on his throne above it all, looking not a day over twenty-two. He told me he’d been cured of errantries, at least until he could think of a better one than peacemaking between Gwynedd and Anglia.”
“And, l trust, until he was cured of the wounds he took on that venture.”
“Well. His leg had knit by then, and he’d lost his limp. His hand was taking longer. He could use it, but only just; it was stiff, and twisted a little. So, he’d say when people looked at it, at least he still had it, thanks to a witch-priest from Anglia; and he was learning to be a right-handed man. His brother would scowl whenever he said that, and thunder would rumble away somewhere. They’re twins, you know, as like to look at as two peas. But Prince Aidan is as wild as his brother is quiet. Only Gwydion and that splendid Ifrit princess Aidan brought out of Alamut can even begin to control him.”
“Is he as wonderful a warrior as you thought he was?”
“Wonderful? More than wonderful! I followed him about like an overgrown pup; he condescended to teach me a little now and then. I’ve never seen a better swordsman. But do you know what he said? He was nothing; I should have seen his brother. Imagine; modesty, in the Flame-bearer.”
Alf smiled.
Jehan smote his hands together. “What are we doing, talking about somebody you don’t even know? Tell me about yourself!”
“Tell me first how you came to be here.”
“They were preaching a Crusade; my head was full of grand ideas; I begged and I threatened, and Bishop Aylmer sent me to the Pope, and the Pope let me go with his legate.” Jehan paused for breath. “Now, Brother Alf, stop evading and tell me. Why did you come here? How did you manage to get yourself up as a Greek gentleman? Where’s Thea?”
“I came to see the City,” Alf answered. “I’m dressed as a Greek because it was a Greek who took me in after my clash with the sun, and the servants burned my old clothes. They weren’t even fit for rags, it seemed, although they covered me well enough.”
He was keeping a tight rein on his vanity, Jehan could see. But he knew how very well he looked. “And Thea? Is she here?”
“No,” Alf said, “she isn’t here.”
Something in his voice brought Jehan about sharply. “What’s wrong? She hasn’t—she’s not dead, is she?”
Alf laughed more in pain than in mirth. “Thea? Dear God, no! She was with me until a few days ago. She was the best of companions, too, whatever shape she chose. A hound most often. In Jerusalem when I worked in the hospital, she used to sit at my feet and laugh in her mind when people petted her and admired her beauty. Sometimes she’d put on a gown and be herself and walk about the city. She marveled at it, though she pretended to be cool and worldly-wise, that she was there in the holiest place in the world.”
The other gripped his arm. “What happened? Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. We…disagreed. She went away. I’ve searched, but I can’t find her. She doesn’t want me to.”
Jehan was young and a priest, but he was neither a child nor an innocent; and he had been as close to Alf as a brother. He read the quiet voice and the expressionless face, yet he offered no pity. “She’ll come back.”
“Will she?” Alf asked, but calmly. “In some things we were never well matched. I only wish…I would be more at ease if I knew where she was.”
“Is that what you’ve been telling yourself when you want to cry?”
“I never cry.”
“You should. It would do you good.”
Alf shook his head slightly. “Come, explore the City with me. And after, if there’s time, you can meet my hosts.” His smile was no more than half forced. “I wasn’t even to leave my room for a day or two yet. But I escaped this morning and left a message to assure my benefactors that I hadn’t abandoned them. Maybe, if I come back with a friend—a very old and very dear friend who also happens to be very large—they’ll be inclined to forgive me.”
“Will they welcome a Latin?”
“They’ll be mildly disappointed. Like me, you know what hot water is for, and you speak Greek. And you aren’t wearing your armor.”
“My squire’s cleaning it, poor lad. Should I go back and get it?”
Alf laughed and shook his head, and led the other away.
o0o
Jehan was not, after all, a disappointment. Pound for pound and inch for inch, he was as close a match for Corinna as any man could be; when he promised to show Anna his armor, she clapped her hands with delight.
But she was far from content. She watched him warily all the while he set himself to charm the household. Nikki, she noticed with satisfaction, eyed him in deep distrust. But everyone else was completely smitten.
“He’s not at all handsome,” Irene whispered to her, “but he has beautiful eyes. I love blue eyes. And his voice. I wonder if he can sing?”
Anna glared at her, but she was too far gone to notice. Could no one even see? He was sitting side by side with Alf. Every now and then he touched his friend lightly, familiarly; or Alf would lay an arm about his shoulders, holding him in a brief half-embrace. They were like brothers long parted, not quite believing yet that they had met again.
Her throat felt tight. This was a man from Alf’s own country. He talked about Anglia, and about a king named Richard whom people called Lionheart and whom they both had loved; he talked about Rome and Saint Mark’s citadel and the Latin princes camped across the Horn; and when he smiled, Alf would smile back, as proud as a cat with its lone kitten.
Then, when Jehan had begun to think of leaving, he said it. “Alf, why don’t you come with me? There’s always a place among us for a good man.”
“What would I do?” Alf asked, not in protest but as if he truly wanted to know. “I’m neither knight nor priest.”
“You’ve been a clerk and a healer and a king’s squire. Any of those, even the last, we’ve dire need of. And…” Jehan hesitated, suddenly shy. “I…I’d like it very much if you could be with me.”
Anna held her breath. Irene, she noticed, had caught on at last; she was looking stricken. Mother looked merely interested, watching their faces as they talked.
Alf was tempted. She could see it. He wanted to see his own people again and to live with his friend.
“I’ll come,” he said. Jehan began to grin; Anna gathered to fling herself at one of them, she was not sure which. But Alf was not done. “I’ll come,” he repeated, “to visit you. For a little while. But not today. I’m in trouble enough as it is for being out when I should have been in bed.”
Jehan’s face fell. Anna hurtled into Alf’s lap, though Nikki was there already, and hugged the breath out of him. He smiled. “You see why I have to stay.”
Slowly Jehan nodded, battling a sudden, fierce, and irrational jealousy. “I see,” he said a shade coldly. With an effort he returned Alf’s smile. “I’m singing Mass in camp on the Sabbath. Will you come and hear me?”
“Gladly,” Alf answered. Jehan had risen from his seat; he rose likewise, setting Anna on her feet. But Nikki’s arms had locked about his neck. He was still so the last Jehan saw of him, standing in the gateway with the dark-eyed child in his arms and the rest of the household a blur behind.