Queen of Swords

by Queen of Swords (retail) (epub)

  Ah, and temptation to what? Bold as he might seem, Michael Bryennius was no man to ravish a lady unless she asked to be ravished. Wherever he was taking her, surely it was somewhere harmless – not back to the Tower of David, they were going in the wrong direction for that, nor to the Patriarch’s palace where everyone else was, but somewhere in the east and north of the city.

  It was a clear brisk day, with a strong wind blowing, snapping and straining the banners that ornamented every roof and balcony. Fusty old Jerusalem smelled almost young, almost clean. She was, she realized with a shock, giddily happy.

  Just as she decided to ask him again where they were going, and this time compel an answer, he drew his horse to a halt. They were on a street that she did not know, except that it was off – well off – the street called Jehoshaphat. It was a quieter street than some, lined with blank walls and locked gates, like any street in any eastern city. The degree of its cleanliness and the absence of beggars and pilgrims spoke of a greater prosperity than some. From the roofs of its houses, no doubt, one could see the golden dome of the Temple gleaming against heaven.

  From the street below there were only walls, and gates both shut and barred. Michael Bryennius had halted in front of one. Nothing distinguished it from any other. They all had worn stone carvings above their gates, marks of old wealthy houses, she supposed – Jews, in this quarter; though all the Jews were gone, driven out in the first Crusade. The one above her head depicted a Hebrew letter or word, she did not know which: she could recognize but not read the language of the Lord Christ’s betrayers.

  “It says Life,” Michael Bryennius said, as if he had known that she would want to ask. “Just the one word: Life.”

  “How strange,” said Richildis.

  He swung his leg over the high pommel of his saddle, slid down, turned and caught her just as she slid to join him. She stumbled against him for an instant too great a pleasure in the touch; she backed away. She was unreasonably annoyed that he let her.

  He let go one of her hands, but kept a grip on the other. It was not so tight that she could not escape if she chose, but she did not so choose. “Come,” he said.

  The gate was not locked after all. It gave to his touch, opening on darkness. She heard his mutter of annoyance, a rattling and scrabbling and the harsh sliding of a bolt.

  She blinked, dazzled. He had opened an inner door, revealing the place in which she stood to be a porter’s niche. On the other side of the door was bright sunlight and the murmur of water, pool and fountain such as were beloved of people in this country. They filled the center of a courtyard with a colonnade, and walls rising above that, pierced with latticed windows.

  It was all well kept, the pool and fountain clean, the vines that wound the columns cut close against the chill of winter. Yet no one came to greet them, no porter nor servant, nothing living but a cat that sat beside the fountain, upright and still as an image cast in copper. It was a red cat with a white breast, its eyes the clear gold of coins, regarding the interlopers with calm interest.

  Michael Bryennius drew Richildis forward, into the sun. “Come,” he said. “Come and see.”

  But this time she dug in her heels. “Whose house is this?” she demanded.

  “Why,” he said, “mine.”

  That did not surprise her. “Really? I hadn’t known you had a house in Jerusalem.”

  “I didn’t,” he said, “until yesterday. It was to be ready when I took possession. Come with me and see if Messire Moishe has done as he promised.”

  “Messire Moishe?” She seized on that rather than the rest, as simple to unravel. “Not a Jew, surely.”

  “A Jew,” he said, “surely, of a great and noble house that claims descent from a daughter of David. This was his father’s house before the Franks in their ignorance drove out the Jews. I’ve taken it until the Franks in their turn are driven out, on the understanding that if the next rulers of this city are less horrified by Jews than those who hold it now, it will revert to him or to his family. For a suitable compensation, of course.”

  “How Byzantine,” Richildis said. “I’m amazed that he was able to sell it to you. All properties were confiscated under Godfrey – that much I know.”

  “Not all,” said Michael Bryennius, “not in perpetuity. Jews are wise in the ways of persecution. They seek out agents, calculate contingencies, do whatever they can to preserve what their labor has earned. Think of me as Messire Moishe’s agent in this season of the world. Or if that makes you uncomfortable, simply think of me as owner of this house. It’s quite beautiful. Will you see it with me?”

  Richildis could hardly object to walking through a house that had belonged to a Jew. This whole city had been a house of Jewry, long ago. The Lord Christ himself…

  She drew herself up as if for a battle. “Show me,” she said.

  Michael Bryennius did not say anything, but she saw how his body eased, a tension that she had not been aware of till it was gone. And why should it matter to him that she would walk through a cold and empty house? Despite the name that it was given, house of Life, it had not even servants to bring it alive. Only the empty rooms, clean and swept, and a few furnishings, and carpets that looked as if they had been rolled for long and long and only recently spread again.

  “It will be a few days yet,” Michael Bryennius said, “before it’s fit to live in. But do you like it?”

  “It’s very handsome,” she said. And when that did not seem to be enough: “Beautiful. The way the rooms flow into one another; the tiles on the floor; the garden, though it’s wild yet – it will be lovely in spring.”

  He nodded. “Lovely, yes. I’ve hired a master gardener. He’ll be here tomorrow or the day after. The servants, too. I brought some of my best from the City; they’re looking into finding others here. By Candlemas, they’ve promised me, this will be a household both ample and complete.”

  Richildis turned slowly in place. They had come through the house to a room that must be meant for entertaining guests: larger than the rest, with a vaulted ceiling and a small fountain that, unlike that in the court, was dry and dead. It would come alive, she supposed, when the servants were in residence. Maybe it was meant to run with wine – though this seemed hardly a house for such ostentation. For all its beauty and its spaciousness, it was not a pretentious place. It was simply what it was, lovely and quiet.

  She liked it very much. As for what it meant, and what he had said – “You’re going to live in Jerusalem?”

  She must have sounded more incredulous than she meant. “Yes,” he said with a touch of sharpness. “I am.”

  “But,” she said, “your heart is in the City – in Byzantium. What possessed you to shift yourself here? Have you offended another chamberlain?”

  “No,” he said, still sharp, sharper than she might have expected. “May I not live where I please?”

  “Ah,” she said. “Your mother pressed you too hard to find a wife.”

  “She pressed me till I yielded,” he said.

  Richildis’ mind ran on past him; stopped abruptly; went still. “And… you bring her to Jerusalem? Is she a native of this city?”

  “No,” he said, “and no.”

  She was all confused. It must have shown in her face: he took her hand once more and led her to empty fountain, and urged her gently down on its rim. She looked up at him, at his expression that she could not read. “Your mother must be furious,” she said, “that you defy her so: agree to take a wife, but buy a house for her in Jerusalem.”

  “She doesn’t know it yet,” he said without evidence of guilt. “My brothers are managing the family’s affairs as well as can be expected. None of them knows that I may be… delayed in coming back.”

  “Surely your bride-to-be knows,” Richildis said. “You would have paid her that courtesy. Yes?”

  He looked down. Was he blushing? The light in here was less bright than under the sky; she could not tell.

  He took his time in answering.
When he did, it was less boldly than heretofore. “It could be,” he said, “that I bought this house as a favor to Messire Moishe, and because it gives my family a foothold in the Holy City. Need I have intended it for my putative intended?”

  “You did say—” she began, but stopped. He had not. Not really.

  He had never been so difficult to understand when he was in Outremer before. But he had been younger then, trammeled by his exile, with no certainty that he could return to his City or his kin. Far fewer years than this could change a man utterly.

  No, she thought. He had not changed. Her heart told her he was the same. It was a foolish thing, but it would not let her be; it would not yield to the cold light of reason.

  “I did,” he said, “tell my mother that I would take a wife, if she would have me. I never told her where I would go or what I would do when I came there, or how long it might take. In this I sinned, and will do repentance. But this…” His hand took in the room and the house in which it lay. “This is my choice, my exile if you will. I gave the City and my kin the years that I felt I owed them. Now that those years are given, I take a handful for my own.”

  “How very free,” she said.

  “By which you mean libertine,” said Michael Bryennius with a flash of teeth in the black beard. “Yes, I am, aren’t I? I was careful that all the family’s affairs should be well and fully seen to. I left nothing that could not be left in others’ hands. No one suffers for my absence. No one loses by it.”

  “But why?” she asked. “You never loved this place so much before you left it.”

  “Then I was exiled by another’s will,” he answered. “Now I exile myself.”

  “Why?”

  He met her eyes. “I am going to marry you,” he said.

  Richildis blinked. She said the first thing that came into her head. “Whatever for?”

  “Because,” he said, “I will have no one else.”

  “That’s foolish,” she said. “Wouldn’t it have been simpler to insist on a monastery?”

  “I have no calling to the monastic life,” he said.

  “Nor I,” she said before she thought. She caught herself, but too late: it was tumbling out in spite of her. “This is impossible. We come from different worlds. You could never live in Anjou – you would loathe it. I could never live in Byzantium: I’d tangle myself in knots.”

  “Hence,” he said, “this house in Jerusalem, where we can both be happy.” He paused. Gathering courage, perhaps; if he had any need of such a thing. “I don’t ask you to answer now, or even soon. Simply to consider it.”

  “Consider…” Her eyes were fixed on his face. She could not look away. She never had been able to, not without great effort. It was a handsome face, there was no denying it, but there were others as pleasant to the eyes, and some even pleasanter. That was not what fascinated her. The light that shone out of him, the spirit, whatever it was – he could have been the ugliest of men, and it would not matter. He was always and unmistakably himself.

  Consider, she thought. What was there to consider? She did not want to marry again. She did not need to marry again. This man knew it – better than any, after the letters she had written.

  Or had he never read them?

  He had read them.

  “I—” she said. Her voice died. She should refuse him now. To linger was cruel.

  She could not say the words. What came at length was nothing that she had meant to say. “I should not,” she said. “I should never even think of it. What we are – what our nations make us – it doesn’t matter, does it? After all.”

  She could not tell if he held his breath, if he cherished hope. His eyes were dark. His face was still. Fortunate man, with such a beard to hide behind. No grey in it, either, though he must be past forty.

  Her mind wandered. Almost she let it escape; but she lacked the will for any such thing.

  “I… think I want to marry you,” she said. “Does that make me as mad as you are?”

  “Madder, most like,” he said.

  “Then I’ll do it,” she said. She was dizzy with daring. She had never done such a thing in her life. God in heaven, she should be excoriating him for going away for ten years and more, and coming back, and demanding almost the moment he saw her, that she bind herself to him. He had even bought this house to keep her in. The gall, the sheer and brazen gall—

  It was glorious.

  Which of them moved first, she never knew. He was as tall as she, solid and warm, sleek in fur and silk. She in her plain go-to-market gown had no such splendor, except in her heart.

  Dull brown autumn, had she been? She was as gaudy as the Kalends of May. She had not felt so youthful when she was young – oh, not she, who had gone from the convent to Lord Thierry’s bed. This would not be the same, at all, at all.

  He was staring at her, arched back a little within the circle of their embrace, so startled that she laughed. “I never knew you could sing,” he said.

  “I can’t,” she said. “That’s my heart you hear, warbling like a lark as it rises.”

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Wonderful.”

  “Preposterous,” said Richildis.,”

  Thirty-Two

  “Impossible,” Bertrand said.

  Richildis could not say that she was taken aback. She rather agreed. She faced him in Helena’s receiving room, with Helena silent and – she thought – somewhat amused, and Arslan trying to make himself small beside his mother. Michael Bryennius had not yet arrived for the dinner that was being prepared in a waft of savory scents, nor would he appear for yet a while.

  Which was exactly as Richildis had intended. She had presented the facts baldly, with few preliminaries – struck him with it, she admitted, nigh as soon as he came in the door. “I’m going to marry Michael Bryennius,” she said.

  And of course he said, “Impossible.”

  “No, it’s quite possible,” she said. “He’s in Jerusalem with the delegation from his emperor. The Patriarch may not agree to marry us – there is the little matter of schism – but I may become a devotee of the Armenian rite, and so avoid the conflict.”

  Bertrand looked ready to spit. “I know he’s in the city! I went tavern-crawling with him the night before last. That devious, low-minded, damned impudent son of a—”

  “I beg your pardon,” Richildis said stiffly, which stopped him; but not for long.

  It was Helena who brought him to a halt. “Don’t tell me you let yourself be entertained by ladies of tarnished reputation.”

  Bertrand flushed bright scarlet: glorious to see. Poor fool, he had never considered the reflection on himself. “We did not!” he cried. “We most certainly did not. I am a man of faithful heart, and he—”

  “He is going to marry me.” Richildis met his glare with calm that she knew would drive him wild. “My dear and beloved brother,” she said, “you may be my eldest and only legitimate male kin, but I am a widow of many years’ standing, with rank and position of my own. I never swore fealty to you as my liege lord, since you refused to take the demesne to which you are heir. You have no authority over me, nor right to forbid me.”

  “I have every right,” he said. “I am your male kin.”

  “Then I shall disown you,” she said.

  “A woman can’t disown her own brother.”

  “May she not?” Richildis asked with lifted brow.

  “She may not,” he said firmly. “Nor will the queen be of any use to you. She can’t pass a law that would allow a woman to refuse such authority. It would look too much as if she wanted it for herself.”

  “That is manifestly true,” Richildis said, unshaken. “But the queen is my liege lady – and yours. It requires no alteration in the law. She may simply, upon petition, overrule any objection. I will petition her, Bertrand. Don’t doubt it for a moment.”

  His jaw had set hard, but he was not altogether a fool. “He should,” he said, “have asked my leave.”

  “So he w
ill,” said Richildis. “He’s coming to do just that.”

  “And if I deny him?”

  “I go to the queen.”

  Bertrand struck the winetable with his fist. The jar rocked. Cups wobbled. Helena caught one before it fell, staining her sky-blue gown with crimson. He looked only faintly guilty. “I can’t let you marry that—”

  “That old and much-loved friend of yours, with whom you went tavern-crawling just the other night?”

  “That Byzantine!”

  “Oh,” Helena mildly, sweet as birdsong amid the roaring of a storm. “Of course one must have nothing to do with a foreigner, a person of blood far removed from good Frankish stock.”

  Bertrand reared back. Helena smiled.

  “My love,” she said, “you’re being absurd. Your objections are all very proper – if you were a proper Angevin lordling with a proper wife and a castleful of proper heirs. If you had gone to Anjou when your sister first came to fetch you, you would be all of that. And she would never have met so unsuitable a suitor.”

  “But—” said Bertrand.

  “Father, don’t you like him?” Arslan looked startled at himself, as if he had not meant to say anything but could not help it. “You always seemed fond of him. When I heard you talking of him – when Mother told me—”

  He gave up in confusion. Bertrand had shied a little at the title of father, but had rallied admirably. He spoke to Arslan with gentleness that he had not shown the women – though not so gentle that it was an insult. “Yes, messire, I am fond of him. As a friend. As a drinking companion. As a brother-in-law – how can I be? That’s my sister he’s daring to touch, as if he had a right to her.”

  Richildis burst out laughing. She should not have, and she knew that, but there was no help for it. He was simply too ridiculous.

  As he rounded on her, furious, she swallowed the last of her laughter and said, “Oh, Bertrand, listen to yourself! You’re being a perfect monster of rectitude. When did you grow up so straitly? When did you become our father?”

  Bertrand went white. She had gone too far – perhaps.