The thunderous chanting faded. Richard was sitting back on his throne. Rouquin saw him glance over his shoulder toward him and stepped forward and sank down on his haunches at his cousin’s elbow.

“What do you make of this?” Richard said. He drained his cup and handed it off to a page. “Why did all these high lords come to Cyprus? We’ll reach Acre in a few weeks. They’re that excited at seeing us?”

Rouquin let his gaze wander along the rows of drinking, shouting men. “Getting to us first. Making sure we line up with them and not somebody else.”

“As usual, you see my mind,” Richard said. “This doesn’t argue well for the general condition of the kingdom, does it? Now look.”

Rouquin stood; the man approaching them clearly outranked him, older, anyway, draped in creamy velvet figured with gold thread, many jewels about him, a crown on his graying tawny hair. The herald bawled, “Guy de Lusignan, King of Jerusalem!”

Rouquin looked keenly at him, all the stories coming to mind. Guy bowed, and Richard inclined his head. “My lord, I welcome you.”

The King of Jerusalem’s voice boomed, meant for everybody to hear. “I welcome you, my lord, who will help me recover what is rightfully mine, and bring us all revenge for the evil of Hattin and Saladin.” He went on like that for a while. Rouquin noticed he avoided mentioning that the disaster at Hattin had been entirely his fault. Richard reached down into the treasure chest beside the throne and produced a ring, said some proper words, and thanked the King of Jerusalem for taking the gift. Guy bowed himself away.

Rouquin said, “So that’s the King.”

“Maybe,” Richard said. “Maybe not. But Guy is one of us; he’s Poitevin. That should count for something.”

Rouquin scrubbed his hand over his face. He thought in the Holy Land they would need the best men they could find, and Guy was famously hapless. Son of a great family in Poitou, he had gotten in trouble there as a boy and been exiled. Coming out here to the east he had managed to marry a princess and become king when the Leper died. Then at one toss he lost the whole Crusader kingdom to Saladin in the stupid battle at Hattin.

“He sounds like a fool to me. He led his men to their deaths.”

Richard said, “Here come the Templars.”

Two of the black and white knights had arrived from Acre, and now Robert de Sablé, who had sailed with Richard, was approaching the throne; Richard introduced them. De Sablé was the new Grand Master of the Order, elected in Paris. The knights shook hands and bowed and said some pieties. De Sablé blessed them, which everybody took with a straight face. Richard made no move to give them anything, and eventually they sat down.

“They dress very well for monks.” Rouquin watched de Sablé walk away, one hand on the heavy silver hilt of his sword.

“Poverty, chastity, and obedience,” Richard said.

“Besides,” Rouquin said, remembering something else. He sank down on his heels again by Richard’s throne. “How can Guy even still be the King? I thought his wife had died.”

Richard gave a dry chuckle. “She did die, and their children with her, but first she hounded him into laying siege to Acre. She saw it clear enough: Recovering the kingdom starts with recovering Acre. She and Guy led the way. Which is why we’re here, to help him finish the job of taking Acre. So he’d better still be King.”

The herald said, “My lord Humphrey de Toron.”

This was a slight man in neat plum-colored brocade, a silver belt, a single amethyst at his throat, fine silk slippers. He wore no sword. His hands were long and white, and he seemed never to have shaved. After their greetings he said, “My lord, you alone can save Jerusalem. Whatever I may do in our cause, command me. Like King Guy, I depend on you to help me get my honor back.”

Richard mouthed some compliments and gave him another ring. Rouquin said, “De Toron. There was a de Toron who was constable.”

“This one’s father. This Humphrey’s another man who could have been King. He was married to the sister of Guy’s princess, but he refused the crown. So they took his princess away and gave her to somebody else.”

Rouquin watched Humphrey go, wondering how he could have let that happen—how he could still keep his head up after that had happened. How he could expect ever to get his honor back. “Who married her?”

Richard said, “That would be Conrad of Montferrat.”

“Oh. The Italian.”

“Yes, a small prince in a big world, who is not here, you’ll note, but at Tyre, where we are supposed to go next. And I’m afraid he has a better claim to be King than our friend Guy, since his princess is still alive and seems to be the rightful queen. This is a difficulty, maybe. Go find out what you can, while I gild our way down.”

Rouquin straightened. Another gaudy jewel-encrusted man was appearing to receive presents and make his promises and vows and pledges. Rouquin shrugged it all off. He would be on the march soon, the true work, and better. He drifted away across the room, looking the other men over.

From the midst of her maids Johanna smiled at him. The woman he had seen out in the street, the doctor, sat beside her, looking toward Richard. He had heard her name, but forgotten it. Some lispy Saxon name. He paced around the room, watching Richard take homages and give out rewards, gold and silk and swords and cups. At the far corner Rouquin came upon Humphrey de Toron.

He spoke his name and bowed, and Humphrey bowed, and they said the usual things when first meeting. The young man made Rouquin deeply confused; he did not know how to speak to a boy who should have been a girl. The look on the young lord’s face said this was not new to him. His father had been a Crusader legend who had saved the King’s life in battle. The son had never even been dubbed a knight.

“I suppose now there will be a wild dash to get Isaac Comnenus,” Humphrey said.

Rouquin saw no reason to tell him. “Richard has some plan.”

They were of the same rank: Humphrey was a baron of Jerusalem as Rouquin was of Aquitaine. Thinking that, Rouquin felt himself move onto solid understanding again. Humphrey went on, musing.

“Cyprus is ready for a good king. Isaac had a very tenuous grip here in the first place. I don’t know what the Emperor will think of it, but Constantinople hasn’t had much to say about Cyprus for thirty years.” A servant came forward and poured Humphrey’s cup full, and then another took the cup and sipped from it, nodded, and put it on the table before the Lord of Toron. Rouquin watched this, absorbed.

He said, “I think my cousin is already talking to the Templars about buying Cyprus. He needs the money.” Richard always needed money. He glanced at the two black-cloaked knights sitting down the table. Robert de Sablé sat among them, more a smiler and a nodder than a fighting man. A banker, a merchant in power. People like that complicated everything. He turned back to Humphrey, so knowing and so willing to talk.

“The Templars will be hard masters,” Humphrey said. “They have not been the same since Hattin. The best of them were slaughtered at Hattin. And even the Master de Ridford is gone now.”

“Who are the captains at Acre?”

“There are many noble fighting men at Acre; I can hardly list them. Crusaders have been coming to join Guy since he went down there. It was a noble act, a kingly act, he and Sibylla, with a few hundred men, riding against a huge city like Acre.”

“But the other King. Conrad. He’s in Tyre.”

At the mention of Conrad of Montferrat, Humphrey’s eyes gleamed and he smiled, not pleasantly. “Yes. He has the French King’s support. You should know that the King of France, Philip Augustus, has few good things to say about your cousin Richard.”

Rouquin scratched his beard. Richard and King Philip had been friends once, when it suited them, but now they hated each other, which suited them better. Richard called Philip the Gnome. “He’s at Acre,” he said.

“Yes. But he cannot win it by himself. I promise you this eats him like a canker, and King Conrad, too. They need Richard, even as they hate him.” He smiled at Rouquin and lifted his cup. “To the Crusade,” he said, and drank.

They spoke a little longer, about the wealth and condition of Cyprus, and Rouquin wandered away, his mind full. He saw the purpose in Humphrey’s chatter. He thought, That’s why he’s here. Not just to get us behind Guy. To make sure we know that the Gnome is on Conrad’s side, and so to pit us against Conrad.

He turned, looking for Richard, and saw him all the way across the room on his throne, one foot up on the treasure chest, laughing.

Rouquin got a cup of wine from one of the army of servants. Everything had seemed much simpler back in France: the prize, the glory, what they would have to do, who would be their friends, who their enemy. The closer they got to the Holy Land, the more it all opened up like a nest of snakes. Now already he saw two sides among the Crusaders, and they hadn’t even gotten there yet. Likely by the time they reached Acre, there would be more sides than two. All of these men were honing their own swords. In his mind his thoughts shifted. He scanned the room and found Humphrey, now standing by the table, talking to a gaunt old man in blue silk.

As he watched, Humphrey’s head turned, and he looked across the room toward Richard, and just for an instant, over by the throne, Richard raised his head and looked back.

That’s why, too, Rouquin thought, and drank the wine down in a few gulps.

Richard said, “Listen, Rouq’, I want you to take Guy de Lusignan along when you go after Isaac.”

Rouquin jerked up his head in a surge of temper. “He outranks me.”

“Yes, well, I need to do something with him. You take care of the work and let him—”

“You promised me this command.”

“That was before he came.”

“He’s a fool! He admits it!”

Richard shrugged, undisturbed. “You aren’t. You’ll catch Isaac. Just—”

“And he’ll get all the glory.”

“Rouquin.” The King’s voice slapped across his angry outburst; he stared him in the eyes. “I want you to do this. That’s all.” Turning on his heel, he walked away.

Rouquin bit his teeth together, a baffled fury roiling in his belly; when they were boys, he would have knocked Richard down and rubbed his face in the dirt for something like this. Instead his face was in the dirt, because now Richard was King, and he was nobody. He stood for a moment, as if he had no will, as if he meant nothing and was nothing. He went off to find something to hit.

Gracia was a round little woman with a baggy face, always smiling. The other maid, Lilia, who was younger and slim and very pretty, leaned out over the wagon’s side to look up the street.

Already a crowd was gathering along it, more people pushing up every moment; these must be the Cypriots, come back into the town. Of course they could not stay away long. Edythe wondered what this looked like to them, what she and Johanna looked like to them.

Lilia cried, “Where are they? Oh! I can’t wait.”

Gracia gave a little cough. “Get yourself busy, that will help. Bring me the basket there. Yes, that one, Lilia, don’t be a giddygadder, please.”

Lilia brought her the basket, full of food and wine. “Gracia, you are such an old woman.” She fished out a cup. “My lady, may I give you to drink?”

Johanna sat straight on her bench, her hands in her lap and her cheeks red with excitement. “Yes. I think the men are coming.”

Edythe, in the corner, craned her neck to see down the street. A noisy pack of horsemen was striding toward her, in the lead a knight in a helmet with a tall red plume and a crown, a yellow banner floating above. Lilia was trying to pour wine and see the oncoming parade at the same time, and Johanna took the cup from her.

She did not drink of it but leaned forward, her brows pulled down over her nose. “That is Guy de Lusignan,” she said. “Where is my cousin? I know Richard sent Rouquin on this quest.”

Edythe went to her and took the cup before she spilled it; the other women were also canted forward to see the men pass. As he rode by them, the red-plumed knight raised his arm and shouted, “God wills it!” and all the women cheered and the people on either side whooped and yelled, happy enough to see them leave.

Johanna said, “He had better have Rouquin with him, or he’ll get tossed in a bramble.” Now ranks of men on foot tramped by, irontipped sticks tilted against their shoulders, bows strapped to their backs. Edythe sat next to the Queen with the cup, her eyes following the marching men; did any of them think he might die? Many of them would likely die. She reminded herself this was the Crusade; they would go straight to heaven.

Lilia cried, “There he is!” She lifted her scarf and waved it. “Rouquin! My lord Rouquin!”

In a loud clopping of hooves more knights were passing, among them the Queen’s cousin, his head turned to talk to the swarthy man riding beside him. Johanna sipped from the cup, gave it back to Edythe, and pointed. “That’s his officer, Mercadier.” Rouquin paid no heed to the women, although Lilia screamed his name again and fluttered her scarf above her head.

Johanna said, amused, “She shouldn’t set her lures for him; he’s light with women, he’ll give her nothing but a lot of trouble.” She took the cup and drained it. “Well, I think we’re done here. Let’s go back to the palace.”

Lilia said, “These people have such lovely clothes.”

Johanna had been thinking much the same thing, that the ordinary merchants of this little island were more richly arrayed than even she, the Queen of Sicily. “It’s all the fabrics, which are very fine. I hear the Emperor himself oversees the weaving of it in Constantinople.”

Berengaria came in with her women, and they made room so she could sit beside Johanna. They had not yet decided the issue of precedence, but Johanna meant to keep a strong hand on this and watched for her chance. Gracia said, “My lady, I have heard there is a market now, in the town, down by the beach.”

“Oh,” Johanna said, clapping her hands, “we should go.” She turned to Edythe; the doctor had found a book somewhere and was reading it in her lap. “You’ll come. You said you needed honey.”

Edythe straightened up, her eyes wide. “Yes. I will. Thank you, my lady.” She closed the book, but Johanna marked that she kept a finger between the pages, holding her place.

Johanna turned toward her brother’s wife. “Will you join us, my lady Berengaria?”

The little Queen straightened, blinking. The blue veins showed at her temples; she seemed frail enough to break. She said, “Go out, to street?” as if Johanna were proposing she fly.

“To the market,” Johanna said. “We’ll buy everything they have. Hear all the news.”

Berengaria lowered her eyes. “I stay, lady. My place here.”

Johanna glanced meaningfully at her own women. “Very well.” They all turned pitying looks on Berengaria, except Edythe, who was staring down at the book in her lap. Johanna laughed, and when the woman twitched upright, looking guilty, she nudged her.

“Oh, read it, my dear, go on. I shall see you happy.” She clapped her hands together. “We shall be a merry band in the Holy Land, I promise you.” She turned her gaze on Lilia. “You know, King Philip Augustus is there.” She put much into her voice as she said the name.

Even without looking at her, she felt Edythe startle at that. But when she glanced over, Edythe was looking down at her book again.

Gracia said, “Yes, he is supposed to be.” Lilia giggled, her hand to her mouth.

Johanna turned to Berengaria. “The King of France was in Palermo before we left, and he wooed me so ardently my brother sent me away.” She and Lilia traded another meaningful look; Lilia had been much involved in that trysting.

Berengaria tipped her head to one side. “My King want not you Queen of France?”

“You don’t understand.” Johanna gave her a sideways, disdainful look. “They are enemies, Philip and my brother. Philip wants my brother’s lands. Richard wouldn’t take the cross at all unless Philip did, too, so he couldn’t meddle behind his back.” She wagged her head. Let Berengaria know how little she understood, and how much Johanna herself was part of it.

Berengaria seemed not to be noticing that. Her pale eyes were thoughtful. “You did not be Queen of France.”

Johanna said, “When you see him, you’ll know why I’m not.”

Berengaria murmured. She had brought in some handwork and turned to it now, one maid holding out a threaded needle, the other a band of cloth. Johanna felt that this had slipped away from her, but she couldn’t say how. She turned back to Edythe.

“What is that, some scripture?”

Edythe straightened, lifting the book so that Johanna could see it: a plain board-bound book with a Latin name. “It’s an herbal, my lady. I found it in the chapel library.”

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

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.”

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.”

“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.”