The King's Witch (5 page)

“Oh. Well, excellent. There’s a library? These Greeks. Come, now, take all this away, I must open my court again.”

Edythe bowed in the doorway. “My lady, you sent for me?”

Berengaria stood up, dumping a heap of cloth off her lap. She had cast off her shawls, at least, and wore a plain, light gown. She chewed at her lower lip, her eyes fretful. “Yes. Lady Edyt’. Come in.”

Edythe hovered in the doorway. “My lady, I—”

“Please.” The girl put out her hands toward her. “Help me. Help me.”

Edythe went to her and took her hands. “Tell me, my lady.”

“I hear—someone say when all here is well—” Berengaria blinked at the effort of finding the words. “We go again on the ship. I—I—”

Edythe took the small, damp, fine-boned hands. “My lady, it’s true. When the King has taken Cyprus, we will all sail to the Holy Land. But—”

“No ship. I stay here. No ship.” The sleek, terrified eyes searched her face. “Please.”

Edythe wanted suddenly to gather her into her arms, to shelter her like a child. Instead she led her back to the chair. She said, “My lady, it will only take one day. Just across the sea to Tyre. There won’t be a storm this time. We will spend the night on land.”

Berengaria clung to her forearms. Her blinking lashes were full of tears. “I hate Johanna. She hate me. I alone. All alone.”

Gently Edythe pressed the little Queen down into the chair. She understood this, after the terrible sea journey here; sometimes the idea of getting on a ship again made her heart gallop. But there was no use for it. They would take Berengaria along like baggage, if she wanted or not. Some anger stirred in Edythe at this, but she forced it away. The thing was to help Berengaria.

Berengaria said, “Help me.”

“My lady, you aren’t alone. And Johanna doesn’t hate you, she’s only high-spirited. I—I will find a potion.” The herbal she had found here was full of recipes.

The little Queen chewed her lip; the tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Something against seasickness. And—and—to make you easier of mind.” She knew nothing that did that, not without terrible consequences.

“Please,” Berengaria said. Her hands still lay on Edythe’s forearms.

“I will,” Edythe said. “I promise. I will.”

The market stretched under its awnings all along the top of the beach, rows of open stalls stacked with bread and jars of oil and heaps of onions, chickens squawking helplessly from cages, folded stacks of cloth. Edythe had brought the herbal; she trailed after Johanna, looking for the right vendor.

Johanna was buying something everywhere she stopped, and the merchants crowded toward her; the two men-at-arms with her stood forward with their pikes to hold them away. Johanna lifted an embroidered shawl from a pile on a little crowded counter. The man behind it bobbed and bowed to her, grinning.

“Lady—” He spoke some French; they all spoke a little French now. “Lady like? More here. Many many.”

Johanna haggled with him, using her fingers, her hands, nods and wags of her head more than words. Edythe found a little stall heaped with bunches and sprigs of herbs and turned and beckoned to Gracia, with the basket.

Gracia came over; Edythe bought a jar of honey, some green maid’s-apron, thyme leaves. When she had put these in the basket, she held out the herbal to the vendor.

“Zingiber? Where can I find this?”

His brown finger poked at the drawing, the leaves and stems. “Zingiber.”

“Yes! Where can I find some?”

He shrugged, his whole body seeming to rise up and then down, shoulders, eyebrows, hairline. She paid him and went on after Johanna.

Beside her, Gracia nudged her and nodded toward Lilia, who was dawdling along, trying to catch the eye of one of the men-at-arms. Edythe laughed and exchanged a look with Gracia, who shook her head, her lips pursed.

Onward, at a stall selling scents and unguents, the Queen had found someone who spoke better French; he uncorked a bottle and held it under her nose and said, “King Richard glorious. Make—” He swept his hand into the air. “All Cyprus him.”

“Good. Then we will be leaving soon. Have you heard anything about Isaac?”

“Isaac,” the man said. He was offering her another bottle, withdrawing the glass stopper with flourish. “Isaac noplaces.” He spoke with force. “Richard glorious. Richard lord now. No Isaac. No matter Isaac.” His voice was edged. “All taxes Richard.”

Johanna said, “Good.” She pointed to the bottle in his hand. “I want that.” She opened her purse and began to count out the silver.

Edythe leaned across the counter with the herbal. “Zingiber? Where can I find this?”

The man stared at the drawing, looked at her, and rubbed his belly. “Zingiber.”

“Yes! Yes. For stomach ills.”

He pointed, not into the market, but up to the town. “
Iatros.
Sick house.
Hospil.
”

“A hospital,” she said, relieved, and straightened. Johanna gave her new bottle to Gracia to tuck into the basket.

Beside them, Lilia said, with a sigh, “I can’t wait for the men to come back.”

Johanna snorted at her. “Yes, my dear, we know that.”

The King of England, now master also of Cyprus, sat on a balcony in Famagusta; the sun had just set. He had taken Cyprus with no trouble, and he expected to have Acre and then Jerusalem soon as well. That would require some planning and force, but he foresaw nothing that would stop him. He looked at the man on the other couch, who was part of the planning.

“Conrad did hold Tyre against Saladin, after Hattin, when everywhere else in the kingdom went down. He must have some wits.”

“A child could hold Tyre,” Humphrey de Toron said. He lounged on the divan, his legs stretched out, his long hands still. “It’s on a rock just off the coast, with a connecting mole no wider than a wagon axle. After Hattin, the kingdom was in chaos. Conrad took the opportunity to make himself great. He cares nothing for the Crusade; he works always in his own interest. He refused to let Queen Sibylla and King Guy into the city, back when Sibylla was certainly the rightful Queen, and he would not help them against Acre. It’s said he treats with Saladin.”

Richard had a lute in his lap, his legs propped on a stool in front of him. He plucked a run of notes from it. “Yet he’s got some powerful support, those northern barons, the Church. You’ve known Saladin awhile.”

“Some years. He’s a man of broad tastes. He loves poetry and music as much as war. I’ve always enjoyed talking to him. He’s a Kurd, also, not an Arab, not a Turk. These are important distinctions.”

“Then how did he become Sultan?”

“Quick thinking, loyalty in the right places, and a few wellchosen murders. A point of some interest to you: He prefers to fight on Fridays.”

“You were his hostage?”

“Briefly. It was not unpleasant.”

“You speak to him in Arabic.”

“Yes. He doesn’t speak French.”

A page stepped just inside the curtain and bowed. “My lord Philip de Rançun.”

Humphrey stood and backed to the wall, deferring to the King’s cousin. Rouquin walked in, glanced once at Humphrey, and faced Richard. He had obviously just gotten off his horse. He still wore his mail, but the hood hung down his back and his short hair stood on end. Richard laid the lute down beside him and put his feet on the floor. They had not talked much since Richard forced him into the army with Guy de Lusignan, and the King was a little unsure of Rouquin’s temper.

His cousin did not bow. “I’ve got Isaac trapped in a monastery out on the northeastern cape. He was trying to run to the mainland, but now he’s asking to talk. If you want Guy to do that, you’ll have to send to him; he’s in the west somewhere chasing his tail.”

“Good work,” Richard said, mildly. He sat down again, set one foot on the stool, and picked up the lute. “I knew you’d get him.”

“It wasn’t easy.”

Richard smiled wider and thumbed a laughing note out of the lute. His left hand moved on the frets. “That’s why I sent you.”

Rouquin grunted at him. Richard flicked a glance at Humphrey and back to his cousin. He said, “Guy was useless?”

“Worse,” Rouquin said. “He cannot make his mind up. I rode out on him.”

Richard shrugged. There was another rumor, but this sounded more like the truth. “Still. We need him to have some respect again, when we get to the Holy Land. Where there will be honor enough even for you, Rouq’. Be patient. You are my right arm; I can’t do anything without you.”

“God, you talk,” Rouquin said. He scratched in his beard; he was frowning, but Richard could see that he understood the purpose now. He had used up his fury on Isaac anyway. He said, “ What do you want me to do now?”

“Go down to Akrotiri and fetch the women back here. We sail as soon as Isaac’s secured.”

“Why do you have me herding women?”

“Maybe they’ll teach you better manners,” Richard said.

Rouquin snorted at him again and left, brushing through the curtain. Richard studied the empty doorway a moment. “But probably not,” he said.

Humphrey de Toron came back to the divan across from his. “No, I think he is rough by trade.”

Richard laughed. His vow of chastity was already wearing on him. But he meant it, even with the familiar lust rising in him, and he lowered his gaze from the young man opposite him and studied his hands on the lute. A vow was something serious, and God would not yield if he broke his. He could keep his hands off Humphrey. Meanwhile it was pleasant enough to talk, and useful besides. He watched his fingers move on the throat of the lute, up and down.

“Tell me more about Saladin.”

SAILING TO TYRE

Edythe bit off a little of the pale brown root she had bought from the Greek hospital, and it burned her tongue. From that and the strong taste she guessed its power, but she knew Berengaria would never take it plain. Finally she mashed it up and steeped it in a flask of oxymel, the tonic of honey and vinegar she gave Johanna when she felt gloomy, and Gracia for her cough. That tasted awful, and Berengaria would only swallow a few sips.

But it was enough. Now they were gliding over the sea, halfway to Tyre. Under the awning by the mainmast, Berengaria sat placidly in the midst of her women; being married, she could wear her hair in a different way, and she had her servants combing and braiding it and arranging it in loops around her head, pinned in place with ebony combs and big silver clips.

Edythe and Johanna and Johanna’s other women sat on the foredeck, where there was a little breeze. The wide triangular sails of the galley spread above them, billowing and shaking in the light wind, and the oars swung on either side with their steady creak. Edythe loved the sway of all the oars together, the power and grace that seemed to lift the long ship across the tops of the waves.

Johanna said, “Whatever you gave her, it seems to have worked.”