The Dagger and the Cross Page 13

  She felt the tug of sleep. Akiva was wide awake as far as she could see, but his mind was on Jerusalem again, thinking in Hebrew, half praying, half running over his lessons. He was thinking that if he died here he would be spared a great deal of trouble, since this was where all his people were supposed to come on Judgment Day. She almost laughed at the picture in his mind, everybody tunneling like busy rabbits, hurrying to come to Olivet before the Trump stopped sounding.

  He spared a little thought for what would happen much nearer to home when they came up missing; but not too much. No more than she did. That would happen when it happened. Inshallah, as Morgiana would say. Ysabel could be that much a Muslim.

  11.

  Brother Thomas was not pleased to discover that he had guests. Brother Richard he might have expected, since the man was one of the Patriarch’s following, and always about, whether by accident or design. The Constable of the Kingdom was no surprise, under the circumstances. But the other—

  Guillermo Seco looked about at the meticulous order of the scriptorium. It was empty at this hour, with the monks at recreation, and none minded to linger over his work. The desks stood in their rows with the tall stools drawn up to them and the array of inks and paints, brushes and pens, rulers and scrapers, set as each man preferred to have them. The desk nearest had the makings of a mass-book on it, half a yard high, the letters inked in, each large enough even for dim old eyes to read. The task which the limner had left was an initial woven with vines and flowers and fantastical creatures, sketched in delicately in black ink, with the first touches of color: blue, a speck or two of scarlet.

  Mass-books were worth nothing to a trader in spices. Seco glanced at it with mild interest, but the brunt of his attention fell on Thomas. Thomas met his smile with a cold stare. He smiled on, oblivious. “Success!” he said, almost crowing it. “A complete success.”

  “Was it?” Thomas asked none of them to sit, though there were chairs in the alcove where the book-press was.

  “Utterly,” Seco said. “I was there, and able to hear every word. It went exactly as we planned. The legate produced the coffer, they all inspected the seals, the legate’s secretary read the document. Our document. The expressions on their faces—not one of them suspected.”

  “One of them did,” Thomas said. “The King of Rhiyana came to the legate and the Patriarch, some days ago. He had suspicions, but no certainty. He bade them be on guard. It was unfortunate for his cause that the deed was already done.”

  That quelled Seco, for the moment. Thomas let him ponder the thin edge on which they walked, which clearly he had not believed in; then said, “You were not wise to come here. While we are separate, we present no clear target. Together, we blaze like a beacon.”

  “Did you lie to us, then?” Seco demanded, falling back on bluster as such men did when caught in the wrong. “I did all that you taught me. I kept out of their sight, I did nothing to attract their attention, I thought the nonsense you bade me think until my head was like to burst.”

  “I taught you truly. But these are witches of great power, and you are a simple man, with a mere few days’ teaching in arts that, for true mastery, require years of training and discipline.”

  “Such as you have?”

  Thomas ignored the suggestion of a sneer. “Such as I have. You know how I learned it: the stranger in Naples with his arts that came, he said, from the land of Prester John. I began my study of them when I was a very young man. I am still no more than a journeyman; and I am not at all assured that I can elude such a hunt as these creatures have raised, now that they are pricked to anger.”

  “You said they would not know where to look.”

  “Then they will look everywhere; and if the devil is minded to aid them, they will chance upon the truth. Your coming to gloat over their discomfiture is just such folly as the Adversary loves to exploit.”

  Seco flushed darkly. “I have business in the city, and a rich trade in the offing. Would you have me lose it for your fears?”

  “Would you prefer to lose your soul for your folly?”

  “It may not be as bad as that,” Amalric said. He perched on a stool with his elbow perilously close to a page and its newly applied gold leaf. He shifted away from it; Thomas breathed again. “I’ve not only been in the city, I’ve been in their company, and none of them has stripped me of my secret. They know I’m their enemy; they expect me to thwart them; but they haven’t the slightest suspicion that I’m part of this.”

  “No doubt they believe it too subtle a plot for a plain man of war,” said Brother Richard. “But for the one cord which you would not alter for fear of betraying the ruse too soon, the forgery is flawless. The pope’s legate himself has said so.”

  “That is the truth,” Thomas said. “I am, after all, one of the scribes in the chancery, when I am not sent on embassies with the Holy Father’s legates.”

  “Or studying the arts of Prester John.” Richard raised a brow as a thought struck him. “Is he one of them, do you think?”

  Thomas did not like to dwell on that. “We have what we sought: the wedding is delayed, the witches are discomfited. We—”

  “Delayed?” Seco scowled. “Why only delayed? If this forgery is perfect, why can it not stand?”

  “There are copies in the chancery,” Thomas said, not quite as if he instructed a child. “I expect that they will send there for a new dispensation while they pursue their hunt here.”

  “Delayed, then, but for a goodly while.” Seco paused. “You did destroy the document. Didn’t you?”

  “No,” Thomas said.

  Only Seco seemed appalled. Amalric looked simply interested. “Why?” he asked.

  “Several reasons. We may need it in bargaining, if they discover who we are. If they do not, it may suit us to produce it; it may even behoove us to pretend that we are allies and not enemies.”

  “Subtle,” said Amalric. “Collect a ransom and persuade them that it’s a reward. I like that. If we could find another target for their anger, produce him as the forger, let them do with him as they will...”

  “I will not be party to the destruction of an innocent soul,” Thomas said tightly.

  “Not innocent,” Amalric said. “Not of anything but this.”

  “You forget that they read souls. They will know that he is not the forger.”

  “Ah,” said Amalric, “but if your arts are all that you proclaim, then surely you can take care of that.”

  Thomas’ mouth set in a line. This man was much more dangerous than he seemed. He had taken to the eastern art as though born to it, mastered in hours what had taken Thomas months to learn. He did not, as yet, show signs of wishing to know more than the concealment of secrets. Thomas hoped that he never would.

  “By God’s grace,” Thomas said, crossing himself, “there will be no need for such a sin as you speak of. For sin it is, to trap the innocent.”

  “No doubt,” said Amalric blandly. “I don’t suppose you’ll want to tell us where you’ve hidden the dispensation. In case of accidents, of course.”

  Thomas understood him too well. “In case of accidents, yes. My lord.”

  “Well then,” said Seco, deaf to the undertones or judging it wise to disregard them. “Now that we have what we planned for, we had best consider what to do hereafter.”

  “For the moment, nothing.” Amalric rubbed his shaven jaw idly, almost caressingly, eyes narrowed in reflection. “We’ve thrown a cat among the rats; they’ll provide us with sport enough for a while. Later...I do like your proposal, Brother. One of us, out of concern for truth and justice if not for friendship, finds and reveals the missing document. He is, of course, most careful what he thinks of when he does it. For reward he takes—whatever he pleases. The king has wealth and power. The prince has more wealth than he and, in this country, rather more power. Both might be pleased to share some of each with the one who gives the prince his heart’s desire.”

  Seco’s eyes gleamed wi
th greed. Thomas, watching Amalric, saw satisfaction, quickly masked.

  “There is somewhat that we can do,” Richard said, “while we wait for the proper time. Rumors are easy to plant; they grow like no other crop. It is no secret that these our adversaries are witchfolk, but no one has come out and said it. Until now. If it can be spread abroad, and kept abroad, that the Holy Father himself condemns the Assassin and all who traffic with her, as sorcerers and black enchanters...”

  Thomas’ heart leaped. Yes. Yes, that was what he had hoped to hear. If Richard had not said it, he would have been obliged to do so himself. He would pay dearly to see Gwydion of Rhiyana revealed for what he was, and punished for it. To create a false anathema, to forge the pope’s signature and his seal—those were sins, yes, but sins in the cause of a greater good. It burned his soul to see such creatures as those in the bosom of holy Church, kneeling before her altars, accepting the bread of the Eucharist and turning straight from it to their sorceries. Gwydion was a canny beast: he had taken a commoner for a queen, but she professed to be a Christian, and played as cleverly at devotion as her husband himself. Aidan was the wilder, and the less prudent. He betrayed himself utterly in this that he would do, allying not only with an infidel but with an Assassin. They would burn for it. And it would be Thomas who brought them to the stake.

  His brow was damp, his breath coming hard. No one seemed to mark his loss of composure. Amalric was speaking, and the others were listening. “A witch-hunt might be useful, at that: it will distract them from their own hunt. But we have to be careful that it doesn’t get out of hand. We need the king and the prince for the men they command. Once the army is mustered, it might be possible to dispose of them. They don’t grow old and they don’t catch fever, but they can be killed.”

  “You know that?” Seco asked.

  “I saw the prince wounded in a fight once. It was bad enough to put him out of action for a while; and I heard his woman railing at him. I know little enough Arabic, but I could piece together what she said. They’re devilish hard to kill, but it can be done.”

  “How—” Seco said faintly.

  “Burn it to ash. Sever its head. Stop its heart. Anything that would kill a man instantly, will kill one of them.”

  “Bleeding takes a while,” Richard said, “but a man bled dry is a dead man. As no doubt she told him. She has none of her race’s reluctance to call a spade a spade.”

  “Her race is the race of witches,” said Thomas, “and they are seldom circumspect.”

  “Except when they need to be.” Amalric slid from the stool. “You underestimate their cunning, I think. There’s more to them than mind-reading and looking a fraction as old as they are. They know how to use the latter. I have to keep reminding myself that I’m not talking to a raw boy.”

  “I never forget,” Thomas said. “And I know what they are. I have had years to learn.” He met the knight’s steady, colorless stare, and suppressed a shiver; but he spoke to Seco. “Messer Seco, you might consider the wisdom of returning to Acre for a little while, until the king comes to it and raises the levies. Then you were best advised to take yourself elsewhere. Perhaps, if you deferred your business in Jerusalem...?”

  “Yes, I am your weak link,” said Seco with surprising perception and even more surprising equanimity. “I can delay my negotiations for a week. Would that be adequate?”

  “Ample,” said Thomas.

  Seco nodded briskly. A little too much so, perhaps: his only indication of temper. “Then I had best go about it. Brothers, my lord.”

  “That one will need watching,” said Richard lazily when he was gone.

  “He did give in too easily, didn’t he?” Amalric sounded amused. “He won’t turn on us, I don’t think. Not as long as he sees a chance at the prince’s gold.”

  “Or his highness’ life?” Richard inquired.

  “Maybe. If it doesn’t endanger his profits. And meanwhile he is useful. He brought us together, didn’t he? He’s good at spreading rumors; he can afford to pay for the best.”

  Thomas eyed him warily. It was, in the beginning, Seco’s conspiracy. Or perhaps it was not. Thomas did not need witchcraft to perceive that Amalric was playing more sides than he chose to admit. The merchant had conceived the plot to dispose of the prince whom he envied so bitterly, but Thomas did not think that the method was his. Richard would have known how to go about it; but who had brought in Richard?

  Amalric stood in the Patriarch’s scriptorium in his plain and rather rumpled cotte, with mail showing under it, and a razor-nick on his chin. He looked like any knight in Outremer: a rough soldier, out to win his fortune and not caring overmuch how he went about it. The cross over his heart and the vow that went with it were but the means to his end.

  Which was always and inescapably his own advantage.

  Thomas did this for God and for holy Church. It was unfortunate that his allies must be a merchant greedy for gold and a monk with a bent for intrigue and a knight who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted; but they were what God had given him. He would have to make the best of it.

  A bell rang, faint but clear. He swallowed a sigh of relief. “That, my lord, is the summons to chapel. Will you come with us to hear the office?”

  For an instant Thomas feared that Amalric would accept. But he shook his head with no pretense of regret. “I’m wanted at the palace. Good day to you, then, and good hiding.”

  “To you also,” said Thomas. He could not quite bring himself to raise his hand in blessing. It was for Richard to do that; and he did it with devotion that bordered on parody.

  Thomas suppressed a second sigh. Such allies, he had. But the game was worth the candle. Oh, yes. By God and His angels and all His saints, it was worth the price.

  12.

  By evening there could be no doubt of it. Ysabel was missing. The children’s nurse, long inured to the vagaries of her most fractious charge, did not trouble Joanna until she had searched the house and the garden and questioned anyone who might know where the child had gone. Joanna greeted the news with hard-won calm, and no fear, not quite yet. Anger, yes; and when she found Ysabel, she would indulge it.

  She sent out the hunters in a pattern that was all too familiar. A party to the house by the Dome of the Rock, another to her mother’s house, a third with torches to traverse the city. Then, perforce, she waited. Sleep was beyond her. Ranulf led the searchers in the city; but for the burden in her belly, she would have gone with him. Forbidden that, she sat in the solar and glared at a bit of needlework, and rehearsed the greeting she would give the truant.

  Ysabel was not in Aidan’s house; but then, neither was he. The men-at-arms who had gone to ask, brought news, and a companion. Simeon the Jew had little of his usual wry composure. He looked as if he had been tearing out his hair. He had, it seemed, misplaced his son.

  Joanna kept calm by an effort of will. She sat him down, coaxed wine into him, extracted as much as he knew. “We came back to the prince’s house,” he said between gulps of wine, “somewhat after midday, with tasks to do that were not well put off. My son was restless and could not settle to his work. He asked leave to go into the city; I was distracted, I must have given it, though I meant to bid him keep to the house and its garden. He left. He has not come back.”

  “They may be together,” she said. “They seem to have taken to one another.”

  Simeon set the cup down empty, but would not let her fill it again. He seemed to have mastered himself. “So they have,” he said. “I wish I could say that it comforts me.”

  “So do I.” She took the cup and filled it, and drank it herself. The wine was strong and sweet, sharpened with cinnamon. It cleared her head a little. “I’ve got searchers out. If they’re in the city, they’ll be found.” If it was not simply childish rebellion that had taken them; if they had not come to harm. Two children in a city on the edge of war, crowded with pilgrims from all over the world, and some who were not pilgrims, but folk who preyed on
pilgrims...

  She closed her eyes to that. Ysabel had vanished before. She had always come back, or been brought back, intact and unrepentant.

  She was with Aidan. That was all. Whenever she was in disgrace, she went to him for sympathy. She usually got it; even if he took her mother’s side, he broke down soon enough and let her have her way.

  “Little minx,” Joanna muttered.

  Simeon managed a dim smile. “Your aplomb is admirable, my lady. I, alas—I only have the one, and he drives me to distraction.”

  “You think she doesn’t?” Joanna shook her head. “She runs away whenever it pleases her. I’d take a whip to her if I thought it would do any good at all.”

  “I threaten my hellion with my lord king. That holds him for a while.”

  “I can’t threaten her with my lord prince. He aids and abets her.”

  “Then perhaps,” Simeon said, “she has gone to him.”

  But she had not. Nor had Akiva.

  Which left the searchers in the city and Joanna in the solar. Simeon took one or two of those who had come back, and went out with them. It was harder this time not to follow them. “Someone has to be home,” she told herself sternly. “In case she comes back by herself. Someone has to be ready to tan her hide.”

  o0o

  Aimery was not pleased to be scouring the city for his sister. The adventure was all very well, and the excitement of stalking the streets with torch in hand, startling the rats and the beggars asleep in doorways, passing the lights and clamor of the taverns, once surprising a pack of footpads about their business and driving them off. His father went about it as a good soldier should, not too fast, not too slow, with a minimum of fuss. Aimery was proud of him. That was what he wanted to be when he was a man. Strong. Looked up to. Worth something in the world.