The air was cool and bright, the sun just risen. The town was quiet and empty. She guessed that all the local people fled when the Crusader army swept in. Now the army itself was gone, chasing the Cypriot king into the hills, and in the whole town nothing seemed to stir.

She went up and down streets strewn with the garbage of the townspeople’s flight, broken jars, trampled food, on one corner a wagon with the wheel off, the harness lying in front like the hollow outline of a horse. She saw no sign of what she was looking for.

Surely they were all gone and she would find no one. But then, through the corner of her eye, she caught the motion of a window shut abruptly as she passed. An overturned bucket lay by the well, the spilled water drying on the stones. Flies buzzed everywhere. Beyond a high wall a cock crowed. There were still living souls here.

So she sauntered along, swinging her basket; walking by herself still delighted her. For years, living in Queen Eleanor’s court, she had been shut in, locked up, watched over day and night. Now going where she wished, as she pleased, was a joy.

She felt the strangeness of this town, white and quiet in the morning sun, and the airy freedom of being away from home. But then she missed Poitiers, the familiar place, the faces she knew. Where she knew how to live. Her mood sank. Suddenly she pitied the local people, forced to flee their homes. But we are Crusaders, she thought. We come on God’s cause, and everyone should help us.

She repeated that to herself, uneasy. I am a Crusader. She wasn’t sure it was true. She was only trying to see her place in this. But she hadn’t chosen to come, and maybe that made a difference.

Beyond the next street, past a row of beached ships, the sea muttered up and down the shore, and at the upper edge of the sand she went through a deserted marketplace. Her steps slowed, although there were no merchants here, no one buying. She served Queen Johanna now, and the Queen of Sicily and her women all loved the potions and philtres, for which Edythe needed honey, herbs, and vinegar. She had brought some from Sicily, but the storm had soaked in and ruined most of her store.

That same storm had blown them here to Cyprus, where, their ship wrecked, they had asked for help, and instead the king Isaac and his people had tried to capture Queen Johanna and hold her for ransom. So the Cypriots deserved what they got, the fury of the Crusaders.

She wondered if she deserved what she got.

Deserving should mean having a choice, and she had little enough to say about any of it. Eleanor never asked anyone’s leave. “I trust you, Edythe—watch over my children. And keep me informed. You can use the Jews for that; they have connections everywhere.” The children being Johanna and her brother King Richard, both actually older than Edythe, and now also the King’s bride, the Princess Berengaria of Navarre. Of course he had yet to marry the bride.

Having pronounced her will, the old Queen had gone back to sweet and lovely Poitiers, and King Richard announced he was taking them on the Crusade with him, sister and bride and all, and Edythe should pack and be ready at sunrise.

She told herself she should accept her place, that it was a good place, after all; most women would envy her. Widowed Queen of Sicily, Johanna was greathearted, truly Eleanor’s daughter, and she kept a fine court, even so far from home, in a conquered hall. Edythe should not resent being told to spy, but it felt low, and now this, the search for a Jew to convey the message, opened deep old wounds. Eleanor should have known better.

She felt guilty for thinking that. She loved Eleanor, who had saved her; she owed everything to the Queen Mother, and she could suffer a little for her sake. So she would obey.

The sun grew stronger. The day would be hot. She had walked all over the little city without finding what she looked for. She went along a narrowing path past the walls of houses, the ground paved but cracked and sandy. This way ended at a wall, only a few stones deep, tufted with grass; on her right, as she stood before it, the wall rose away, steadily higher, climbing toward the landward side of the town, but on her left it tapered away entirely, as if the builders had lost interest.

Just beyond it, a trail led up through low, dusty brush. Birds called, out there. She climbed over the low stones and followed the path.

The worn dirt trace wound up the green hillside toward the headland that stood over the bay. The air grew warmer as she rose. Swallows flew dipping over the brush ahead of her. A flock of goats browsed the steep slope inland of her, a bell jingling.

Against the sky up there, she made out a confusion of shapes, walls, branchless tree trunks in among a scrubby overgrowth that constantly shivered in the wind. She passed a block of white stone, and on it was strange writing, graven into the surface. She slowed, looking around her, understanding.

This was the ruin of an ancient town, half-buried in the searunneled brush; the branchless trunks, all in lines, were columns of marble, some fallen into round drums jumbled on the ground. Ahead of her the brush yielded to a stone floor, vines crisscrossing the white steps leading up.

She climbed onto it and from its height looked out over the broad sea, a glinting surface pleated with little waves, unbroken to the misty horizon. When she turned her gaze downward, the lower town spread out at the foot of the hill like a jumble of boxes.

Once the town had been up here. And there were still people living up here. Another trail led inland, past more broken walls. Footprints and hoofprints muddled the dust. She passed an old empty building and came to a street of houses.

The four houses stood in a line, each sharing a wall with the next, and as soon as she saw them she knew this was what she sought. Beside the right-hand post of the doorway was the little box that said these were Jews. She gathered words in the old language and went up to the first doorway and knocked.

No one answered the door, and she went to the next. She was full of nameless dread; her heart was pounding and she hoped no one answered and she could go back, shrug, say it was no use. Then the door opened slightly.

She said the few words she had memorized. “Peace to us all. I have a message to send to a friend of the Jews.” She reached into the basket for the letter.

The door opened slightly wider, and the servant who had first answered backed away. Behind him was a man in a dark unadorned gown, a small cap on his gray hair, which hung down in curls past his bearded jaw. He said, “Very well,” and put his hand out. He said more, asking in the old tongue who she was.

She stammered. With the letter given into his hand she was already backing away, but the urge broke on her to go to him, to walk inside, to be home again. This was impossible. She had no home here. She could not remember that language anyway. She shook her head at him. His gaze was keen, as if he understood, but he closed the door.

She hurried down the path back to the town, and like a swarm of wasps the memories rushed after her. She remembered her mother’s voice, singing, and her father, who had worn a small cap over his dark hair, who had been a doctor, as she was. A better doctor than she would ever be. She broke into a run, pursued. A little girl in someone else’s clothes. The cold, lonely flight, afraid. Hungry. No one wanted her. Standing on the doorstep of the captive Queen of England, clutching the letter, shivering, crying.

The light of the lamp, and the kind hand that drew her in.

The gentle voice: “Forget. Forget everything. You are mine now. We’ll say you are Saxon. You fled from a nunnery. This is your new name.” This alien, old woman’s name, like a misshapen mask.

Ahead lay the little town and the court where she could bury all this, wall out the memories, and she slowed, and settled herself. She would forget. She would bear the name, she would be Edythe. She would go forward, forward, and leave the past behind forever.

A great throng of men was pouring in through the gate at the top of the main street, cheering and galloping their tired horses. Many of them were waving long pieces of cloth, banners and robes. She went by a lane toward the Queen’s compound, but when she came out onto the main street the screaming horsemen cut her off; she dodged into a gateway to keep from being trampled.

Now she was trapped. The army flooded past her, stirrup to stirrup, brandishing their trophies overhead. She groped behind her for the gate handle, but it was locked. The men crowding by were beginning to notice her. One grabbed at her. Then suddenly a horse stopped in front of her.

She recoiled into the corner of the gateway. From the saddle a big man in mail looked down at her. With a leap of hope she realized she had seen him before, at court: Johanna’s cousin, whom they all called Rouquin for his bristling red hair.

He looked down at her and said, loud over the uproar, “Aren’t you that woman of Eleanor’s—the doctor? What are you doing out here alone?” He reached his arm down to her. When she didn’t immediately seize his hand, he said, “Hurry the hell up, will you? I’m rescuing you.”

She realized she had no choice; she gripped his forearm, and he hoisted her effortlessly up behind him on the horse. She sat sideways, as women were supposed to do, and took hold of the high square cantle of the saddle with one hand and the horse’s crupper strap with the other. Rouquin nudged the big horse out across the push and shuffle of the passing crowd.

Her breath came easier. He was only trying to help her, after all.

Around them the other Crusaders were whooping and waving their trophies, and his horse snorted and shouldered its way through them. She said, “Did you fight?”

His back was to her, his body massive in his mail. The hood was down; his shield and helmet hung on his saddlebows. His dark red hair stood up in spikes. He said, “Not that much. We ran them right into the ground in one charge. Lots of prisoners, lots of loot. Nobody beats us. Isaac got away, the little King. You’re stupid coming out here alone. You think this is Poitiers?”

“I wanted to see the city,” she said. The horse banged into something and half-reared, and she slid sidewise on the wide back; she clutched tight with both hands to stay on.

“There’s nothing to see. Stay where you belong.”

She gritted her teeth together. He was rough as tree bark. She began to dislike him. She said, to turn this aside, “Was anybody hurt?”

“No, it happened too fast. Johanna should take better care of you. Does she know you’re out here alone?” He stabbed a look at her over his shoulder. His face was dirty and a scar creased his cheek above his scruff of beard. His eyes were slate gray. “Eleanor sent you, didn’t she? To spy?”

She met his eyes, thinking he was one of the family, and so well versed in family ways. She said, in stately tones, “The Queen saved my life. I do as she bids me.”

He turned straight forward again. Finally they were out of the crowd, going down a side way between a wall and an orchard. He said, “The Queen Mother’s against the Crusade. All the world knows it.”

She said, “Eleanor may be against the Crusade, but she would do nothing to hurt Richard, would she?” Ahead was the hall, its front gate bustling with people waiting to get in. “I can go alone from here.” She slid down from the horse.

He said, “That’s what I’m telling you; you can’t go around by yourself.”

On the ground, she turned toward him and said, “Thank you.”

“Do what I say. Stay inside.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you.” She turned and started off. Behind her she heard him growl, and he cantered away down the lane.

“He ran as soon as he saw us.” Richard kicked at the treasure chest, which stood in the middle of the floor. “He doesn’t deserve Cyprus. I think I’ll take it away from him.” He walked up and down, a cup in his hand. Fighting always made him restless, and he had come back spitting orders. He needed this hall, now, he wanted a throne, now; the treasure chest would sit under the throne, which was to be raised up on blocks. “Before I’m done with Isaac, I’ll have money to pay for the whole Crusade.”

“And I talked to the Bishop about marrying you and Berengaria; we can do it tomorrow, in the little church here.” She gave him a narrow look. “You can’t get out of this, you know. Lent’s over, no more excuses.”

“Oh,” he said, and turned to face her, a head taller than she, who was tall, brawny as a lion, her splendid, bewildering brother. The door was shut, but they could both hear the people outside pressing loudly to get in. “I mean to marry her. Her father’s the King of Navarre; he has a large army with no wars to fight in a good position to help me fight mine. But there will be no wedding night. Tell her that.”

“What? Then you won’t even be married.”

“I’ll do enough. I’ll lie down on a bed with her. But I am chaste—the Crusade requires me to be chaste.”

Johanna lifted her cup; she realized she was a little drunk. But the first part of her mother’s orders looked easier to fulfill than she had expected: Richard would marry the girl after all. “Chastity. I suppose it has to start somewhere. As Saint Augustine said.”

“Don’t try to distract me,” he said. He walked toward her, put the cup on the table, and put his booted foot up on the treasure chest. “That wasn’t half what Augustine said.”

“So you’ll be chaste for the Crusade? How long will that last?”

He gave a bark of startled laughter. His eyes were so intense, even the irises seemed blue. “This is the Crusade. We’re bringing in the Kingdom of Jesus. What higher calling is there? It lasts until we win. Maybe it lasts all our lives.”

She hoped not. She said, “This new chastity of yours. Is that why you made that confession in Messina? All but naked in the public square in front of most of Sicily? Do you know what Mother said about that?”

He smiled at her. He seemed pleased. He loved to shock their mother. “Mother told me, although I don’t remember she got so worked up when Papa had himself whipped for killing the Archbishop. And I told her, I did it to cleanse my soul for the task to come. And since—”

“As if everybody didn’t already know you have the morals of a billy goat.”

Richard sat down beside her on the couch. “And since then I have not touched a single white buttock, nor pressed my lips to soft sweet lips—” He began to sing a little, on the last words, part of an old song, his hands holding an invisible lute.

Johanna said, “Female or male?”

“Man, woman, boy, girl, or goat.” Abruptly he stopped smiling. “This is my offering to God, Jo. Myself, free of sin, to do His greatest, most glorious work.”

Johanna realized that he meant this, that it was no mere proper face that he put on when it served him. She saw the second of her mother’s orders becoming even harder than she had expected.

Get him married. Get him home, where his real duty was.

He said to her, “Christ will come when we are worthy.”

Johanna said, “Yes, but you must have an heir. What if something happened to you? What if you do spend the rest of your life out here?” She ran out of wind; even she could see that against the lure of King Jesus a baby was nothing.

“I’ll attend to that in good time. And there’s an heir. There’s John. The family will go on. The Crusade is more important than anything else, even us.”

“John is not good. Even I don’t like John.”

They were quiet a moment. Johanna thought they were thinking of the same man, and what was never said about him. Richard broke the silence.

“Who will marry us?”

“Evreux, of course. Nothing fancy.”

“Good. Just get it done. I can lie down on the bed with her.” He got up. His foot nudged the treasure chest again. “You need to get busy. Make this room over so I can hold court here. Put this where it belongs.” He raised his hand and the two guards by the doors leaped to open them. The men gushed in, shouting, cheering Richard, who went in among them, his arms out. They all massed together, smacking and banging together as men usually did on meeting, especially after a good fight.

Johanna turned, her temper bridling up. This was why he had brought her along, to keep his household for him. She wished she were a man; she would show him how to rule. Her women were waiting, over at the other side of the hall, and the new girl, Edythe, had come in among them, which pleased her. She liked Edythe, who was sensible and capable and did instantly as she was told. She was good with potions and tonics, and Johanna’s mother had said she had healing hands. If she was a spy for Johanna’s mother, at least they were all working to the same end. Johanna went to collect them and go and tell the Princess Berengaria she would soon be the Queen of England, although with a difference.

Noble, Edythe thought. From what she had seen, Richard cared no more about her than a chair to sit on, or a horse to ride, and everybody knew why he did not want to bed with her. The little princess’s chamber was stuffy with the heat, but the girl still sat bundled into her gowns and shawls. Johanna said, “Then you shall be married tomorrow, and made Queen. Will you like that?”

“Oh, yes, much.” The girl smiled at her. “I then have my own palace, and my own court. I then do much good, I hope.” Her voice grew silky, and her head tipped, so she watched Johanna through the corner of her eye. “Do I precede over my lady Sicily?”

Johanna grunted in surprise. “We will have to find a herald, and see.”

“I ask my lord,” Berengaria said. “But I have to make ready.”

“We will do that,” Johanna said. “Only heed your maids. The wedding is tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lady.”

As they went off, Johanna said, “Well, the little priss. He will never love her.” Her voice was salty with anger.

Edythe said, “She doesn’t much care about him.” There was a merciless balance in all this. She followed Johanna out the door.

“You look very fine.”

Berengaria’s lips moved without sound. Her eyes were wide with terror. The women moved around her, brushing and plucking and straightening, and the girl lifted her gaze to Johanna. “Please.”

Johanna kept on smiling. She began to see this as a fit revenge. “Please what? Come, your bridegroom awaits you.”

She thought for a second the girl would need to be carried, but then she moved woodenly toward the door. The other women fell in around her and they went to the chapel. The day before, a fleet from the Holy Land had brought some of the Christian lords to see Richard, and so the place was jammed with witnesses. When they saw the women they began to cry out and wave their arms, and as Berengaria trudged by them, they threw flowers at her, so that she seemed to wade through a river of rose petals.

Inside, by the altar, Richard waited, the candlelight glinting on his golden crown, his long pale hair. The Bishop of Evreux stood beyond him. Johanna stepped aside, and Berengaria plodded into the blaze of the candles; Johanna could see her shaking, the little fool.

The Queen of Sicily glanced around the chapel, its walls and square columns plastered with icons in the Greek way. Arrayed around her were her own women, and Richard’s court, but behind them stood the crowd of newly come strangers. She looked them over curiously; the King of Jerusalem was supposed to be among them, and she wondered which of these elegant men he was. She had heard a lot of gossip about the King of Jerusalem, even as far away as Sicily. Then Evreux was speaking, and she turned forward.

Berengaria stood there rigid, her face white as salt. When Richard took her hand to put the ring on, she started all over as if he had struck her. Richard did not seem to notice, all his attention on fitting the ring to her finger.

He never lifted his eyes to the girl’s face. She mattered nothing to him. Johanna found herself smiling. The priest said words, and the whole crowd made the response and crossed themselves.

Then Berengaria knelt before her new husband, her hands together as if in prayer, and he put a gold crown on her head and said something in French, and she was Queen of England.

Her lips moved. She shut her eyes, Richard moved back, and for a moment she knelt there, crouched forward, as if the weight of the crown forced her down. Then she shivered and straightened, her head rising, and her eyes opened.

Johanna felt a sudden pang of sympathy for her. She herself had married a man she had met first at the altar. She reminded herself that that had worked out well enough. She thought she should be kinder to Berengaria. With the rest, she knelt and prayed for the long life and many children of the King and Queen of England.

Berengaria came in almost at once. With the other women, Edythe helped the girl into a long white gown, sat her in the big open bed, and brushed her hair all around her. The girl was rigid, her eyes staring, her lips pressed together, as if she faced some ordeal. They scattered flowers around her, so Edythe put a white rosebud in her hair. The new Queen had wispy pale hair, so Edythe went out to the garden and got a red rose instead.

The King walked in with fifteen people on his heels. Edythe drew off to one side, out of their notice, but where she could watch. Richard greeted Berengaria with a proper bow and the right words, and sat down on the bed to let a squire take his boots off. After that, he lay down on his back next to his new bride and touched his bare foot to hers. Immediately after that he got up, bowed to her, and left.

Edythe let her breath out. Everybody else followed Richard away, except the Queen and the two old Navarrese women who waited on her. Berengaria sat up straight; the rosebud fell unnoticed in the sheets; her women closed around her. Edythe came and kissed her. The Navarrese women would care for the little Queen, and she wanted to go back to the feast. She said, “God bless you, my lady.”

Berengaria looked at her, her face slack with relief, the pure white froth of lace and silk all around her. “When will I have the baby?”

Edythe choked a little, and glanced at the other women, barricaded behind their own language, who only stared back. “After the Crusade,” she said, and patted Berengaria’s hand and left.

She went across the open space to the hall, where Johanna and the other women sat chewing up the good meats. The great room was splendid. Johanna had hung it with the silken banners and rugs looted from Isaac’s camp, so it seemed like a tent, the silks fluttering softly, continually, in the drafts. All around, the fading sunlight spilled in through the opening in the center of the roof to glow on the floor. Around the walls, on the hollow square of the stone couches, newly softened with Isaac’s cushions and scarves, sat Richard’s lords and the great men of the Holy Land who had just arrived. Edythe went in and stood behind Johanna, who was seated on a bench with the curved paws of a lion, and the Queen smiled and got her wrist.

“Sit. You’ve done well with all this, I’m pleased with you.”

A flush warmed Edythe’s throat; she sank down, her hands in her lap. She had her place here and she would be glad of it. Yet this ate at her. She lifted her eyes to the court, a broad loud splash of silks and jewels all around her, wishing she belonged here.