Alamut (55 page)

And that, she knew surely, she could not bear.

She prayed. Maybe she should not; maybe she only damned herself more blackly. Yet she shut her eyes tight and made of her whole self a prayer. For the child that would be; for Aimery; for Ranulf; for Aidan. And for herself. To keep them all safe; to protect them from one another.

38.

Aidan stood on the Mount of Olives, just where Tancred had stood, a hundred years ago, with his army of soldiers and saints and outrageous sinners, under the banner of the first Crusade. Tancred had wept to see Jerusalem; to know that it lay under the sway of the infidel. He had won it, he and his brother princes: Raymond, Robert, Bohemond, Godfrey of Lorraine. The names rang in the silence of Aidan's skull, like the song of steel on steel.

He turned slowly about. On the summit where he stood was the ruined chapel, the shrine where Christ had left the mark of his foot. Eastward shone the lake of Sodom beyond the march of blue-hazed hills, and the long ridge of Moab like a dragon's back above the silver ribbon of the Jordan. Westward was the deep valley of Kidron, and the walls of Jerusalem.

His mamluks, for once, were both mute and still. One or two of them seemed close to weeping.

He did not know what he felt. Joy, yes; awe of the high and holy city; eagerness to enter it, to pay fealty to its king. But sadness, too, and something very like regret. He had no lover to share this moment with him. Joanna was gone. Morgiana had not come to claim him, though over and over on the long road, he caught himself riding with his chin on his shoulder, starting at every sound or shadow, calling her name. She never answered. The air, like his heart, was empty.

His gelding stamped, and snapped at a fly. He gathered the reins. He had paid no heed to the pilgrims who flocked upon the Mount; now they burst upon his consciousness: a babble of voices, a mutter of prayer, a glitter of eyes at the outrage of Saracens in this most Christian of places. He crossed himself with conspicuous devotion, and vaulted into the saddle. The shocked stares lightened his mood miraculously. He wheeled his gelding on its haunches and sent the whole troop of them thundering down the hill.

Jerusalem spread wide before him. He found that he was singing as he had on that first morning on the road to Aqua Bella; but without that giddy lightness which should have warned him of disaster. His victory was won, whatever its price. He had come home.

The cousins and the caravan had gone their own ways even before Aidan turned off to climb the Mount of Olives, promising to deliver his baggage to Lady Margaret's house. The mamluks had not let him send them away then, and would not now. They crowded about Aidan, jostled together in the narrow streets, bristling like hounds in a strange kennel. He welcomed the labor of keeping them in hand. It kept the city from overwhelming him.

Near the crossing of the roads, where they should turn off toward David's Tower, they came to a halt. A baron was passing with retinue enough for a king and clamor enough for an emperor. Aidan's hellions would have pressed on regardless, for their prince's honor; the baron's guardsmen were not inclined to indulge them. Aidan extricated Timur by the scruff of his neck and hauled Conrad back by the belt, before they could begin a war. Timur was frothing with rage. “Did you hear what he said? Did you hear? Filthy Saracen, he called you.
You
, my lord!”

“So he did,” said Aidan. “In atrocious Arabic, too.”

“And you'll
allow
it?” cried Ilkhan.

Aidan grinned at him. “Why not? He thinks he's telling the truth.”

By now they were used to his outrageousness. The Kipchaks subsided. Conrad stopped cursing and blinked at him. The others settled in to watch the procession, since their lord seemed minded to do the same. It did not go on much longer, though it seemed to, as crowded as the street was, and growing more crowded as the side ways added their streams of people to it. Even when the stream began to move again, it advanced sluggishly, with many halts and entanglements.

Aidan, seeking a clearer path, got down and led his horse. His mamluks followed in file, with Arslan last, riding herd on the twins. The horses were uneasy, unused to the press and the tumult. Timur's mare squealed; Aidan heard the boy's curse, and a child's sudden, full-throated howl.

He flung the reins into Conrad's hands and bolted back down the line. It was like swimming upstream in a flood. He thrust through it without mercy. He might have bowled someone over; he hoped that it was one of his own.

Timur's mare had gone quite gleefully berserk, spinning about the center that was her white-faced master, lashing out with her heels. She had caught Ilkhan's gelding, who had since had the sense to stand still, out of her reach, ears flat to his head. The crowd eddied, with an occasional foray past her. Beyond her, flattened against a wall, was the trembling, wailing figure of a woman, clinging desperately to the baby, which had begun to scream in earnest.

The mare had cleared a goodly circle. Aidan walked through it, taking no particular care to elude the restless heels, and set hand to the bridle. The mare jibbed; her eye rolled; her heel trembled, paused, settled to the ground. “Wise,” Aidan said to her. “Most wise.” He ran a hand down her streaming neck. She settled slowly. He coaxed her toward the wall, into the illusion of safety. The crowd began to move again, tentatively at first, then more strongly.

The baby's howls subsided into hiccoughs. It seemed none the worse for its ordeal, a robust, fair-haired Frankish child in the arms of a nurse who was, all too evidently, indulging in a bout of hysterics. As it caught sight of Aidan, it stopped howling to stare. Its eyes were wide and thunder-colored, dark not with terror but with rage; though that was giving way to curiosity. It wanted to touch the wonderful, terrible animal with the flying heels. Its nurse had all but strangled it, and driven it wild with her crying and carrying on.

A woman thrust past Aidan to snatch the baby out of the nurse's arms. Her eyes were the same thunderous blue as the child's; her face had the same furious scowl. She shifted the baby to her hip and struck the nurse backhanded across the face.

It was brutal, but it was effective. The woman's blubbering stopped abruptly. The newcomer, having dealt with her, turned her glare on Aidan. “Can't you ever do anything quietly?”

He opened his mouth, closed it. It was never the greeting he would have expected. If he had expected one at all.

Joanna set her fist on her hip. The baby on the other hip had to be Aimery. It hurt to see him; to know what he meant. And yet it was sweet to bear even his mother's temper, to see her, to know that she was here, and whole, and utterly herself. “If that one” — her chin stabbed toward Arslan, who looked both bruised and cowed — ”had not manhandled me into a corner, I could have stopped this silly nit's hysterics, got the baby out of the way, and saved you no end of explanation. Now. Are you prepared to explain?”

Aidan drew himself up. “Madam, I regret that my servant failed so signally to control his horse, and thereby caused you grief. If you require further satisfaction — ”

“You might,” snapped Joanna, “explain why it took you so damnably long to come back.”

His teeth clicked together. He had forgotten how utterly, maddeningly unreasonable she could be. “Why in God's name should I have to — ”

“The king has been waiting for you. They found a husband for Sybilla; she likes him, and he's not displeased with her, or with what comes with her: the counties of Jaffa and Ascalon, and maybe the throne of Jerusalem. Baldwin was hoping that you could be here for the wedding. He was disappointed when you weren't. Do you realize it's past Martinmas? What kept you so long?”

“Assassins.”

That silenced her. She went red, and then white. When she spoke again, she spoke much more softly. “You won. We heard. Great-grandmother sent a message.”

“You've been living with your mother?”

Her eyes dropped. “No.” They came up, suddenly fierce. “What else could I do?”

Aidan could not answer. Dared not. He had expected to grieve that he had lost her. He had not expected to hate Ranulf for winning her back.

She saw, God help her. The color drained from her cheeks. She stood as still as a bird before a snake; she said nothing at all.

Aimery, neglected, began to fret. The nurse reached for him. Joanna clutched him to her.

Aidan almost cried aloud. She was afraid of him. That was why she had babbled so; that was why she held so tightly to her son, shielding with him the life that swelled in her womb.

“You never knew me at all,” he said.

She gasped.

“If you can think that I would touch a child...” He choked on it. Suddenly he could not bear it, not for one moment more. He spun away from her.

His mamluks had made themselves a wall against the thronging city. She caught him as he reached them. Aimery stared, big-eyed, from her hip.

Her hand was white-knuckled on his arm. She eyed it as if it did not belong to her; opened it, let him go. “I...” Her voice was a croak. “Don't go.”

“Why? So that you can flay me further? So that I can learn, in detail, exactly how you have taught yourself to despise me?”

“Why should I bother? You know it all already.”

“I can hardly help it, with you shouting it in my face.”

She flung up her head. “I never said a word!”

“You thought it.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

She hit him.

There was a long, stunned silence. He did not even think to hit her back. He raised his hand, slowly, to his stinging cheek.

She burst out laughing. “You look — ” she gasped. “You look — so — poleaxed!”

He could not move for outrage. He could barely speak. “If you are quite done, my lady,” he said, “may I have your leave to go?”

“No.” Her laughter was gone. “Will you — please — come with me, to somewhere less public? And start again?”

He tensed to resist, but her eyes held him. He inclined his head the merest fraction of a degree.

oOo

There was a church a little distance down the street, small and dim and forgotten by the crowds of pilgrims, with a startling bit of garden, and a trickle of fountain. The water was cool and sweet. Aidan drank a deep draught and laved his face.

Joanna sat on a bit of fallen column. The others had not followed them so far. Even the nurse was occupied without, giving suck to Aimery and telling her troubles shrilly to Aidan's mamluks. It was a fitting punishment, he reckoned, for the trouble they had caused.

Joanna spoke abruptly, rapidly, without preliminary. “I had to do it. For Aimery. For the one who will be born. I don't expect you to understand, or to forgive. I only ask, if there's any mercy in you, that you let us be.”

He laughed then, but in pain. “Is that what you've been telling yourself, to make it easier to bear? That after all you've known of me, I'm a mere and soulless monster? That I could ever harm anything that you love?”

“You can't be that perfect a knight.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she said, “if you are, I'm going to break down and howl.”

He rose and stalked the length of the garden and back. He stood over her; he knotted his fists behind his back, to keep from shaking her. “No. I'm not perfect. I'd like to throttle your husband. I'd like to thrash you until you howl for mercy. But I won't,” he said. “I won't stoop to it.”

“You hate me,” she said.

“Don't I wish I could?” He dropped beside the fountain again, laid his head in his hands. “Joanna, give it up. You won't make anything simpler by quarreling.”

He felt her battle to keep from touching him; to stand so close, and come no closer, nor take refuge in flight. Her voice came low and hard. “No. It doesn't work, does it? It will never work.”

“It never did. We pretended — sometimes, well enough to deceive ourselves.”

Her hand brushed his hair, light as a breath. He sat still. She backed out of his reach, arms clasped about herself, shivering. “I thought I could do it. When I saw you in the street, and that she-demon of Timur's started raising her particular kind of devilment, and Aimery was in the middle of it, and there was no escaping it, or you. Confront you. Catch you off guard. Drive you away. Put an end to it.” Her face twisted. “As if it could ever be that easy. Someone will guess. Someone will be able to count.”

“I was nigh a year in the womb.”

She opened her mouth, closed it. “That's not possible.”

“I'm not human.”

“Then — ”

“Then.”

He could forgive her the sudden, incredulous joy. She had been so terribly afraid, locked in her net of deception, knowing it necessary, hating it; and not even the certainty that it would come to anything. She might still have to explain a black-haired child; it would be of his kind. But humans — and Ranulf most of all — would count to nine and be, perforce, content.

“I can help you,” he said. “If you will let me.”

“Do I dare?”

“You don't dare not to. Witch-children are different. They need the touch of power to guide them, lest they guide themselves.”

She searched his face, as if she could see through to the mind behind it. “You want this baby, too.”

“I won't take it away from you.”

Her eyes filled. She rubbed them, angrily. “You are so damnably noble.”

“I'm not. I'm devious. I can cast a glamour, if you need one. I can rein in the little one's magic. I can help you where no one else can. I can be everything that a proper royal uncle should be. All to have my share in the only child I'm likely to get in this age of the world.”

“How do you know that?”

“I feel it in my bones.”

She made an indelicate noise. “We'll see what you feel when you lay eyes on another woman.”