The Golden Horn (24 page)

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.

Once again Jehan beheld the dawn from a crowded deck. Yet it
was a new dawn, and he had slept well and deeply, without fear or foreboding.

He yawned and stretched. The wide sleeves of his habit slid back
to reveal the glint of mail beneath. He turned from his post and picked his way
to the cabin.

Henry emerged from the reeking gloom, rumpled with sleep,
stifling a yawn. “How goes the morning?”

“Bright and clear and a good wind blowing,” Jehan
answered, bowing to Count Baudouin, who stepped past his brother to peer at the
sky.

The Count turned his narrowed eyes on Jehan, taking him in in
the pale light. “What, priest! You’re in the wrong uniform this
morning.”

Jehan smiled. “No, my lord, it’s my proper one.”

“Mail under it,” said Henry, gripping his arm
and finding it steel-hard. “No sword, man? What foolishness is this?”

“Not foolishness. A vow.”

“To die under the walls of Constantinople?”

Jehan shook his head, still smiling. “I’ll be
with you in the battle. I promised you that. I didn’t promise to carry a
weapon.”

‘*You’ve gone mad.” Henry looked a little
wild himself, holding hard to Jehan’s arm, glaring at his brown habit.

“I’m wearing mail,” Jehan said. “I’ll
carry my shield. I won’t burden any man with fear for my safety. But I’ll
carry no weapon against a Christian in battle.”

Baudouin seized him and spun him about, tearing him from Henry’s
grasp.

So like they were, those brothers, and so different.
Baudouin was clever, Jehan decided, and ambitious, and reckless when it served
his purposes. Henry was wise, which was a far rarer virtue.

The Count’s eyes on Jehan were both cold and burning. “Why?”
he demanded. “Why now?”

“I’ll help you take the City, my lord,” Jehan
said, “but I’ll kill no Greek doing it.”

Baudouin bared his teeth in a mirthless smile. “Ah,”
he said. “So. What did he say to you, that white-faced witch, when he crept
like a thief into our camp?”

“Witch, my lord?” Jehan asked. “Thief? I’ve
had no dealings with any such creature.”

“Don’t lie to me, priest. What did he say? How
much did he give you to betray us?”

In spite of Jehan’s control, his lips tightened and
his eyes began to glitter. “My lord,” he said, cold and still, “I
never gave you cause to insult me. If by your words you mean that you saw me
with Master Alfred a fortnight past, neither he nor I made any secret of his
presence here.”

“All the more clever of him to lull our suspicions
while he spied on our army.”