“It’s not a just war!”
The Cardinal Legate regarded his secretary with lifted brow. He was, perhaps, amused. He was certainly not afraid, although Jehan’s white fury would have given most men pause.
“Certainly,” he agreed, “it is far from just.”
Jehan struggled to master himself. “Out there,” he said in a voice that was almost steady, “priests are saying Mass. They’re preaching sermons. They’re telling the men that God is with them. The Greeks are traitors, oathbreakers, worse than Infidels.”
“I know. I can hear them.”
“And you sit here? You read your breviary, say a prayer, meditate on the Infinite? You’re the ambassador of the Holy See!”
“So I am.” Pietro di Capua brushed a speck of dust from his scarlet sleeve. He was always immaculate, this prince of the Church; his fine white hands had never known greater labor than the raising of the chalice in the Mass. But the eyes that he fixed on the other were clear and sharp. “I know my rank and my station.”
“Then use it!” cried Jehan, unabashed by the open rebuke.
“You know what His Holiness thinks of all this. He excommunicated the Doge and all his followers with full and formal ritual after they took Zara. But those madmen from Francia have called them back to the sacraments and told them they’re forgiven. Is the Pope’s will worth nothing at all?”
The Cardinal shook his head slightly. “Have you been preaching that gospel to the army?”
Jehan drew in his breath with a sharp hiss. “I’m outraged, but I’m not insane. One of the bishops tried to get me to preach his lies, flattering me with foolishness about my famous way with words. I escaped before I said anything we’d all regret.”
“So,” His Eminence said. “As you have so bluntly reminded me, I am the vicar of the Vicar of Christ. Unfortunately I dwell in the midst of Gehenna. The army can escape this trap only by fighting; the priests are in like case. Should they preach what you would have them preach, and die for it, and drive the army in turn to its death?”
“I fight because I swore an oath, and because I can’t bear not to. That doesn’t mean I have to proclaim a lie from the very altar.” Jehan leaned across the Cardinal’s worktable. “My lord! Are you going to allow it?”
“I have no choice.”
Jehan spun on his heel and stood with his back to the Cardinal, fists clenched at his sides.
“The Pope has no choice,” His Eminence continued quietly. “The Church has a head, but that head is far away. The members are here, and strong, and accept no guidance. They will do what they will do, whether His Holiness wills it or no.”
“He could condemn them from every pulpit in Christendom.”
“Could he? Would you, Father Jehan?”
The title stiffened his shoulders and brought his head up. He swallowed hard. Slowly he turned to face the Cardinal. “My lord, I... forgive me. I presumed far too much.”
The other did not quite smile. He was a small man, dark and inclined to plumpness, but in that instant he made Jehan think of Alf. “My son, you are forgiven.” He made a quick sign of the cross over the bent head. “Go now. I need to meditate.” His eyes glinted. “Upon, of course, the Infinite.”
o0o
Jehan prowled the camp, restless and ill-tempered. It did his mood no good to see the men, knight and common soldier alike, laboring with new and firm purpose, preparing for the morrow. There were no idlers; the few who were not at work gathered around the priests, deeply and devoutly absorbed in prayer.
A commotion drew him toward the shore. Women’s voices, shrieks and sobs, and the occasional sharp cry of a child. Under the hard eyes of a troop of monks, all the whores and camp followers crowded aboard a waiting ship. The army would sail to battle with all stain of sin washed away, all temptation banished as far as wind and oar would carry it.
Great temptation, some of it, languishing against the guards, pleading to be left behind. Not one man yielded.
The last buxom harlot flounced onto the deck. Mariners sprang to draw up the plank; others weighed anchor. The ship slid slowly out into the Horn.
He watched it go, scowling so terribly that no one ventured to approach him. Women he could face. They only tempted his body, a hard battle but one he could win; for though he was young and his blood was hot, both his will and his vocation were strong. But there were worse temptations.
He had his sword with him; he had been meaning to try a round or two at the pells to work off his temper. Slowly he drew the bright blade. It was Henry’s best, the winnings of his wager, the edges honed to razor keenness, the steel polished until it shone like a mirror. It could cleave a hair or a body with ease, needing only a firm hand on the hilt. Chanteuse, he had named it, for it sang when he wielded it.
He swung it about his head, rousing its sweet deadly voice. But it would drink no blood this day. It flashed home to its scabbard and fell silent. He was on his knees, sword upright before him, fists clenched upon the guards.
The carbuncle on the pommel blazed at him like a great fiery eye. Alf’s eye set in a rim of silver, piercing him to the soul.
“I swore an oath,” he whispered. “I took the cross. I promised...”
To slaughter Christians? The voice was like Alf’s, remote and clear, and not quite human.
“Schismatics,” Jehan said. “Heretics. They deny the procession of the Holy Spirit from the Father and the Son, and ignore the supremacy of the Chair of Peter, and—”
Quibbles, said the other.
Jehan’s jaw tensed; his mouth set in a thin line. He was closer to handsome when he was smiling, a lady had told him once. When he was angry he was frankly ugly.
Vain youth. The voice sounded both amused and impatient. Do you intend to join in this final spasm of the war? Swordplay in plenty, great deeds of daring, and a place in a song at the end of it.
“Aye,” muttered Jehan, “the Requiem aeternam. Not that I care. I like to fight. It’s simple, and it keeps me from thinking.”
Yes. One must never think. That one’s best-loved friend is there among the enemy; that all one’s conscience cries out against this murder of Christian by Christian; that—
“Enough!” Jehan’s ears rang with the power of his own cry. He bent his head on his fists. The sword’s hilt was cold against his brow. More softly he said, “I’ve fought till now. I’ll see it through to the end. Whatever that end may be.”
Valhalla, most likely. You’ve earned it. All those battles against your soul’s protests: Zara, and the conquest of the City before Alf ever came there. You’ve fought well and valiantly and gained the admiration of even the staunchest priest-haters. There’s not a man in the army who can call you a shaveling coward or mock your long skirts. Ah yes; you’re a man among these mighty men, and well you’ve proved it.
Jehan bit his lip until he tasted blood. That was not Alf’s firm and gentle guidance. It was more like Thea, who could prick a man into madness with the barbs of her wit.
O bold brave Norman, earl’s son, knight of Anglia, the world will marvel that you challenged the power of Byzantium. And perhaps, by God’s will, won.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Warm though the sun was, he shivered convulsively; cold sweat trickled down his sides. Fight—he would fight, though it damned him. He was not afraid to die.
Truly he was not. No more than he was afraid of the women on the ship now far down the Golden Horn, riding the current into the open sea.
His trembling stilled. He opened his eyes. It came all at once, as they always said it did. Light; revelation. For a moment he was back in the West with a long anguished day behind him, driving himself to distraction with some complex question of logic or of philosophy, and then, without warning or transition, he knew. So clear and so simple; so beautifully obvious.
He rose slowly, cradling Chanteuse in his arms as if it had been a child or a woman. He was smiling. If his coy lady had seen him then, she would have conceded that indeed he was not ugly at all.
o0o
On this last Lord’s Day before Palm Sunday, the City kept festival. The enemy was driven back, the Emperor’s words echoing from Blachernae to Hagia Sophia and from the Golden Gate to the Golden Horn: “Never have you had so splendid an Emperor. All your enemies shall bow before me, and I shall see them hanged upon the walls they would have taken.”
As the day wore toward evening, Alf left his labors and went up to the roof. The air was soft, the garden coming into bloom; birds sang there, piercingly sweet above the manifold sounds of the City.
Nikki had followed him. After a little, Anna came to settle on his other side. He laid an arm about each and held them close. From his vantage he could see the imperial tents on their hill. Thea lay in one of them, stretched out at her ease, half asleep, half watching the dice game in front of the open flap.
That is no place for a woman, Alf said sternly.
She laughed and rolled onto her back. A man’s back and a man’s body, with no hint in it of the truth.
He shuddered inwardly, unable to help himself. Witchery he was learning to accept, even to take delight in. But this went against nature.
Thea stretched luxuriously. One day, my saintly love, you must try the shape of a woman. It would teach you a few valuable lessons.
Thank you, he said, but no. Do you insist on pursuing this devil’s work?
I’m defending the City. Rather well, I might add. We’ll drive the Latins off yet.
He drew a sharp breath. A sudden chill had struck him, like a cloud passing over the sun. But the sky was clear. Thea, I command you. Come back to Saint Basil’s and put an end to this game of yours before it kills you.
Now you see why I won’t marry you. “Wives,” intones the great but misguided saint, “obey your husbands.” Though, she mused, I probably wouldn’t pay him any heed even if I were decently and lawfully wedded. I never met a man yet who had sense enough to command himself, let alone anyone else. Now a woman…
Eve, having been created in Paradise, can be regarded as infinitely more blessed than Adam who was shaped outside of it. Alf’s mind-voice softened although his will did not. Thea, for once will you listen to this poor lump of clay? It’s driving me mad to have you out there so far from me, so perilously close to death.
I can take care of myself, she snapped.
Then, he said, I’m coming to join you.
She sat up appalled. You are not!
I can fight. I have a gift for it. I only need gear and weapons. Surely you can arrange that?
No!
Well then, I’ll do it myself.
She struck him with a lash of power that staggered him where he sat.
He shook his head to clear it, and confronted her, determined as ever. I promise I won’t shame you, in battle or out if it.
You never have and you never will. It’s not shame I’m thinking of. It’s plain good sense. There are enough and to spare of fighters. We don’t need another, not even one whose skill is pure witchery. But true and talented healers are few and far between. You belong where you are. Stop your foolishness and stay there.
She had the right of it, as usual. But the shadow lingered. He cursed his power that granted no clear foreseeing when he needed it most.
You’re seeing the general slaughter, she said without the slightest sign of doubt. That’s all. And I don’t intend to be part of it. I’m too fond of this handsome hide to let anyone spoil it.
She would not yield. Nor could he force her, short of entering the camp and carrying her off bodily, a feat which he suspected was somewhat beyond him.
And, she added with a touch of smugness, being what I am, I can simply witch myself back again. Be gracious, Alf. Grant me the victory.
He never knew for certain what he would have done, for a student burst upon him crying, “Master Theo! It’s one of the women, the one who’s been so ill—she’s birthing too soon with too much blood and the child too large, and Master Dionysios says the law be damned, with Mistress Maria gone we need you.”
She pursued him with the last of it, finding herself entrusted with the care of the two children. Their rebellion gave her more than enough to think of; she gave up her effort to catch him and settled to the task he had left her.
o0o
Night had long since fallen when Alf straightened from his task. The woman was dead. Her daughter lay weak but alive in the arms of a wet-nurse.
The woman surrendered her when he asked, with some surprise; he cradled the small body tenderly, looking down into her clouded eyes. “Ah, child,” he murmured, “what a place and a time you chose to be born in—and no mother to ease your way for you.”
They were staring at him, all the women there, most in wonder, a few in disapproval. He regarded the last with weary amusement. “Our Lord healed women, did he not? and he himself neither woman nor eunuch. Then why not I?”
He left them to ponder that, walking slowly, weary to the bone. And battle tomorrow, with such darkness in the thought of it that his mind shied away. He had to sleep, or he could not endure what must be.
But there was no mercy in Heaven tonight. Thomas met him at the door of the sleeping-room, his face for once utterly serious. Over his head Alf could see empty beds, and Nikki huddled with Anna. They looked both miserable and furious, their eyes red with crying. There was no sign of Irene or of Corinna.
“Gone,” Thomas was saying. “Both of them gone. Irene first, and Corinna went after her.”
Anna stood up, breathing hard. “They went home. Irene swore she would. She said one of us should stay with Mother. It was going to be me. It was supposed to be me!”
“Corinna will bring her back,” said Thomas with confidence he did not feel.
“Corinna won’t! Corinna thought Irene was right. I could tell. Now they’re home and I’m here, and I’ll hit you if you try to keep me in.”
Alf breathed deep to calm himself, to gather what strength he had left. “I’ll go and get them. Anna, if you try to follow me, I’ll lock you up and set a guard over you.”
As he turned, he swayed. Thomas caught him. “You’re not going anywhere either, my young friend, except to bed.”
He shook his head, resisting. “I have to go. It’s deadly for them there.”
“It will be worse for you if you fall over before you get there. Now, lad. In with you. In the morning you can fetch them, if the Lady Sophia hasn’t already sent them packing.”
“Not tomorrow. No time. I must—” Darkness swooped close; he struggled to banish it. It retreated; he was lying down and Thomas bending over him, undressing him with plump deft hands. He resisted, but his body would not heed him.
“Thea,” he breathed. “Witch! Let me go. Let me...”
His voice faded. The darkness covered him.