Sybilla had not stayed for table, as she had originally intended. She had meant to stay behind, as a dutiful mother. And she was a future queen mother – a creator of destiny. There were a thousand preparations to make; she should appear at the Royal table as a gracious figurehead of impending change – a symbol of benevolent new rule. She should already be instructing her son in the rhythms of the ceremony, the ponderous weight of responsibility...

Destiny. Yes. But if that were so, then Sybilla could not , as yet, shape it between her fingers. And the very thought of trying to mould so stern a material frightened her so much she had scurried to the stables with scarce a thought of anything but escape...

Virgin forgive me, Sybilla prayed silently within her head, I am not my mother. I hardly know how to be a mother. How am I to be a queen and a regent? How am I to wait for... the - the end of one thing and then begin anew?

And Virgin forgive me for where I go now, instead of to my duty as a mother...

It is interesting to note that even in thought, Sybilla sprang back as though repulsed from the word 'wife.'

Her favourite mount was still fatigued from the long road back from Kerak – but that suited Sybilla's mood well. She felt in need of blissful anonymity tonight, and to take a different horse and merely to ride, in the twilight, towards self-abandonment... What better cure could there be?

I want life, Sybilla thought fiercely. I don't want the long sorrow and the weary waiting. I want life, while I can still seize it. Life, and love, and how to forget...

How to forget...

There was no silvered glass in Balian's house in Jerusalem. There had never yet been a mistress of Ibelin. The thought of such things would never have entered Godfrey's head whilst he lived, and certainly had not passed through his progeny's mind, either. Sybilla had to use the soft, vague outline of herself she could find in a settled bowl of water, like a sorceress anxiously scrying the future in the half-light. It was not yet dawn.

Sybilla looked.

A wraith stared back. Not a colourless, harmless wisp, like Mirrum, a drifting cloud of submissive insubstantiality. No, it was a drained creature, chalk-white, with huge concentric rings of purple swelling her eyelids. The eyes were holes through which a thousand reproaches needled, the hair a shadow against the sunlit wall...

Sybilla dragged her eyes away, frightened, and then cast a quick glance over the motionless shape of Balian beneath the sheets. She couldn't tell whether he was awake or no. Probably not. Balian was a calming presence. His own steadiness gave Sybilla the space to find herself again. Abstractedly, she moved away, and then, wandering back again, splashed the thing out of existence, laughing (a little too much?) at her own folly. Folly! That was all it was. The old ghosts

were dead, the conventions of Court mocking shadow puppets on a blank wall. Sybilla could wallow in utter freedom for two, maybe three days more.

But what happens, Sybilla wondered bleakly, looking at the shower of crumpled linen, the discarded clothes on the floor, when the dream ends? When I return?

Life within the court of Jerusalem had become a hushed affair; a place of softened voices and muffled footsteps, guarded within a shell of almost preternatural quiet. Straw was laid down in the courtyards close to the royal apartments, so that the continuous jangle of horse bridles and armour should not jar the peace accorded a dying king. Servants walked with eyes cast down, and whispered together anxiously in corners – like night insects. Fatally fascinated.

Tiberias was disgusted by it all, and showed as much in the involuntary flaring of his patrician nostrils whenever he caught sight of the squires in a buzz of unhealthy interest. It had been much, he remarked, as it was now –back when Almaric had gone to his final reward. It had been of short duration then. Almaric had gone in haste. This was different.

Mirrum's life was one of uneasy inactivity. She could not serve Sybilla until Sybilla – well, presented herself to be served – and not even God knew where Sybilla was now. No. Actually, God probably did know where Sybilla was, because Mirrum spent most of her nights fervently praying her mistress would return from Balian of Ibelin's Jerusalem house. Anything. Anything for something to do, some mind-numbing task to put off the dreadful air of waiting. As the days dragged by Mirrum found herself creating small fantasies for herself – fancying a linen shift needed washing (for Sybilla would return today), a perfume bottle that needed filling (For her mistress would return tomorrow!)

Well. It kept the suspicions of the Court at bay, at least, Mirrum told herself pathetically. They might think Sybilla still here, close-shuttered in her room and idly whiling away the hours in lazy solitude. And it kept her hands occupied.

Sometimes Mirrum tried to scribe, just so her fingers would remember the feel of a reed pen between them. Nothing truly arduous - a little copying, at best. But the words skittered away from her. Catullus was meaningless, the French lays made her eyes sting and her heart ache - and the old tales of her grandfather seemed weighty and stiff with the dull syllables of the old tongue. Mirrum had thought in nothing but Norman-French for so long she had almost forgotten how to think in her native language...

It kept her hands occupied, yes. Just not her mind.

Mirrum had not seen the Phys - the King since the night after his return. He was shut up in his rooms, lords busily scurrying in and out like ants clutching papers and carved chests. It was as he had said so wryly – whilst The Lord of Bones had enough respect for a king's office to stay his hand a little while, it would take much arranging to see that the kingship continued seamlessly on – a smooth river of authority, and all falling to a little boy who ate bread and milk with a spoon and built imaginary worlds in a tuft of grass.

Mirrum hadn't gone to the garden since then. He would summon her when he wished to see her now there was no need for the pretence of the apothecary-who-never-was, and Mirrum did not like to press him. Too many people must be pressing him for time. And time was something that-

Mirrum fitfully threw down the gown which she was darning with a cry of impatience. It was thrice mended, twice let-out at the seams, and in her abstraction, Mirrum had been darning a perfectly sound stretch of fabric. The actual tear sagged emptily near the hem. She couldn't have been in a worse temper that day.

I shall walk, Mirrum decided. I shall walk, and think of other things, and when I come back my head will have cleared. The change of air would do her good – there was beginning to be a staleness about Sybilla's chambers. The cold smell of absence.

Straying from the familiar beaten track of her duties made Mirrum realise how long it had been since she had little to do but wander. Outside the familiar round of Sybilla's apartments, the garden, the chambers of my Lord Tiberias, it was as though she had stepped into a different world...

The ritual of banquet had been disrupted in the light of the King's convalescence. Nobles dined late – if they dined at all. Often it was left to the squires to pillage a quick meal from the kitchens, and the echoing courtyard of painted tiles and fragrant pavilions had been left empty. Neglected. As Mirrum peered gingerly through the doorway, it bore a horrible resemblance to the forgotten garden...

Mirrum turned to go, but as she did, a faint thread of plaintive chant caught her ear. A slender loop of sound, the cadences lifting and falling in the familiar call of a French chanson. It sounded a little like the great Chanson de Roland... but was it? It sounded like it, true – but the words flowed differently, in stops and starts – as though the words were being tested hesitantly on the air, rather than rote-learned.

Mirrum couldn't help it. She walked towards the voice.

It was the Dove.

Mirrum had distantly glimpsed her at table; a girl of middle height, slender as a dryad, and with a cloud of soft brown hair. The Court Poet. She often had close speech with Sybilla. That was when Sybilla still smiled her light smile, before the single-minded fever of love had overtaken her. She used to coax the Dove into the sad Breton laments of Tristan and Yseult, sometimes even urging her into fresh songs. New ones.

Mirrum had never seen the Dove close to – Mirrum's position at court was a very humble one in relation to a chanteuse. Besides, she was a titled gentlewoman. She was the Lady...Audemande, wasn't it? Yes. Audemande. Lady Audemande de Vinceaux. Mirrum had momentarily forgotten any name for her but the Dove.

The Dove was seated, a few sheets of bound manuscript held loosely in her lap. She was frowning a little, occasionally pausing to call out a few notes of song. Something about it did not please her – it showed in her face, the taut way she hesitated before looking down at the manuscript.

Mirrum thought it beautiful. She envied anyone the ability to make shining ropes of tales; to be able to look at a sea of expectant faces and let the notes of love and strife wash over them. The closest Mirrum had ever come to that was in a bastard mix of French tales told to a little boy who didn't understand something she was trying to explain to herself.

But then again, it would be unpardonable rudeness for Mirrum to be caught eavesdropping, no matter how lovely the song was. She coughed, and walked forward a few paces – as though she were merely passing through on another errand.

The Little Dove's head snapped up in sudden consternation, hugging the manuscript close. 'Why – oh! It's you...'

'I'm sorry if I startled you, madam –' Mirrum began, dutifully, only to see that the dark brown eyes were smiling warmth at her, even in her obvious abstraction at being disturbed. And she had not said 'Oh! It's you' as a courtier might had said it. She had said it as though she considered Mirrum an equal...

'No matter.' The Little Dove leant forward, tucking a sheet of paper away within the loose boards of the manuscript. 'I come here for privacy. It is often quiet, and I cannot always stay still when I...write. I need to pace out the words...' She broke off. 'It is often quiet here... now, that is.' She said quietly. 'It would not be like this unless –'

'The King, milady,' Mirrum said, bobbing into a shuffling curtsey, her voice unnaturally high. 'Yes, milady. I should be attending to my mistress –'

'That might be a little difficult,' The Lady Audemande said simply. Not with any sarcasm, or irony. Merely stating the case. 'I believe Sybilla has spent her time elsewhere for the past four nights.'

'I-' God's bones. This was ten times worse than Amalric's hearty Teutonic double entendres, because there was no wriggling out of it. Outright denial would show she was a hypocrite. You couldn't evade the statement; silence meant compliance.

'I am sorry,' Audemande said, looking at Mirrum. 'I have offended you. That was indiscreet. You name is Mirrum, isn't it?'

'Y's, m'lady,' Mirrum murmured pinkly. 'That is, I-'she sagged. 'I haven't fooled anyone, have I? Pretending to run errands for her...'

Audemande's brown eyes gazed kindly at Mirrum. 'It was an action of loyalty and friendship to her,' she said. 'Like the maid in Guigemar, who shielded her mistress in her amours from her cruel husband, even in discovery...' The poet's voice had fallen into the gentle rhythms of the song. She broke off and hummed a snatch of it, smiling at Mirrum. 'These things inevitably come out, Mirrum. Sybilla ought to be glad her servants are so kind.'

Mirrum was taken aback. 'Th-thank you...' she stammered. 'I... I –I think Sybilla ought to be glad that the Court has a chanteuse like you,' she said, in a sudden rush to return the compliment. 'The song you were singing, milady...'

'Oh!' A faintly self-conscious look crossed Audemande's face. 'That. That isn't anything so very great or wonderful, Mirrum. It's one of my own efforts – a battle, fought long ago. I can't do it justice but –'

'I'm sure you can, milady!' Mirrum spoke fervently, enthused by this talk of songs and poetry. 'It was like the Chanson de Roland and Yvain all rolled into one!' Mirrum's eye caught a stray word on the uppermost sheet of paper in the Little Dove's arms, and stopped, intrigued. 'Is it... Montgisard?'

'Mirrum!' A deep flush entered Audemande de Vinceaux's cheeks. 'How did you -?'

Oh. Too far. Too dangerous. Mirrum was a servant girl. Her literacy was a close-guarded secret to all but Sybilla and Tiberias.

Think.

'My Lord Tripoli... he showed me the word once.' Mirrum said hastily. 'In a book of words. There was a letter like a Turkish bow...' Mirrum traced an M on the air with a finger, before wondering if she went too far even there. The Lady Audemande was intelligent, and from the look she cast at Mirrum, she had seen through the hurried pretence as though it were a wisp of gauze.

'Perhaps. That is my affair.' The cover of the manuscript fell back with a dull thud, sealing off the words from Mirrum. 'I should attend to whatever business you were about "for Lady Sybilla," Mirrum. It grows late, and I compose no more today.'

Mirrum was sorry for that. She had pried most abominably, in a way that would have been unforgivable for a courtier. She curtsied, grateful that the Lady Audemande had the grace to let the transgression pass.

'Hold a little, Mirrum!' Audemande called after her. 'There is something you can do as a service to Sybilla.'

'My lady?'

'Rescue the prince from his tutors.' Audemande said, with a tight-lipped look that expressed hearty contempt for the 'tutors.' 'My lord Heraclius is already preparing the coronation, and they press him too hard in their haste. They seem to forget he is a child...'

Poor Prince Perseus. Mirrum's face glowed with guilt. She had quite overlooked Baldwin over the past few days. 'Yes, my lady,' she said hastily. 'Thank you-'

She broke into an undignified run as soon as she thought the Little Dove was out of sight. Heraclius could barely muster respect for his King. How would he behave towards a child prince left without the protection of his mother?

'No! Ten steps, ten! Exactly ten! You must reach the top of the steps, here! Asinine boy!' Heraclius smacked the place with his staff. 'No dawdling, no skip-skip-skipping... and no yawning!'

Baldwin hastily suppressed the yawn, eying the long stick with some wariness. Heraclius had already demonstrated a propensity to make his future king smart with the use of a stout birch rod should he forget the slightest detail of the ceremonies he would have to undergo. His head was already tired with the amount of things he had to remember. His head ached with all the things he had to remember. Why wasn't Maman here? He could have gone to sleep in the afternoon - instead of practicing walking through the stifling heat of the cathedral again and again, whilst the flies buzzed angrily against the windowpanes. It was too hot. Baldwin was tired and headachy and increasingly slow in walking through the direct path of sunlight.

'Maman said she would teach me.' he said plaintively, rubbing one grubby sweat-streaked palm fiercely into his eyes. 'Why can't we wait until then?'

Smack. Heraclius had struck the flagstones again. 'You good lady mother is not here, is she, boy? She is idling her time elsewhere, and with such little time left to us I have no time to waste on the Lady Sybilla's good graces. A dribbling idiot could walk the length of this hall! And yet another lisping brat inherits the throne who can scarcely walk three steps together...'

Baldwin bristled at this, his small face knotted up in a scowl. 'I can walk!'

'Then do it, boy! From the beginning – again!'

Baldwin hopped nimbly to the back of the hall, for what must have been the ninth time that afternoon, and proceeded at a nodding, earnest stork-like gate from the doors, through the sunlight, again...It was too hot...

The headache throbbed louder than ever, an insistent knot of pain inside a very small boy's head. Whether it was that, or the tedium and the heat and the fact that he could do nothing right for the Patriarch of Jerusalem, no one would ever know. But just as Baldwin gained the steps that he had stumbled and tripped over and skipped up so many times, he sat down, hugging his spindly legs with his arms.

'I won't do it 'gain!' he said stoutly, raising a pair of mutinous eyes to the Bishop's face. 'I won't.'

'Your Majesty will...'

'No!' Baldwin was not Sybilla's son for nothing – he had a certain degree of childish guile. 'You can't make me. Not 'f I don't want to.'

'And the – the sin of violent insubordination towards your elders and betters...' Heraclius was spluttering, his face a mottled turkeycock red from the temperature – which was, in all fairness, more unkind to the Patriarch than to the little prince.

'But 'f I'm going to be king...' Baldwin said triumphantly. 'You have to do 's I say.'

And that would probably have been enough to win the ground. But little Prince Perseus was a child, and with a child's belief in the invincible, he tried to crush the impatient Bishop. And he added a fatal parting shot that lost all the respite he had gained.

'Like Thomas a Becket!'

'What?' The Patriarch turned a harsh shade of violet and strode forward, the birch rod swinging. 'Why, you insolent puppet –'

It was a little after this unfortunate moment that Mirrum appeared hurriedly in the doorway, only to find Prince Perseus screaming fit to crack the roof apart, and the Lord Bishop exercising a stern moral chastisement in the form of some sharp stinging strokes of the birch rod upon the the lord prince's legs.

Mirrum looked on aghast. 'Stop! Hold, my lord bishop!'

Heraclius did not even look up.

'My Lady Sybilla has returned, my LORD!!!' Mirrum screamed.

That caught his attention. He straightened up, hastily adjusting the swinging paternoster beads about his fat neck, wheezing fit to burst.

'Wha-'

'She wishes to see her son, your reverence,' Mirrum invented wildly, at breakneck speed, trying to mix a note of scandal in her voice. It wasn't hard. 'I am sure she would not wish to witness such...' Mirrum eyed the stinging pink weals on the chubby backs of Prince Perseus' legs and looked hard at the bishop, '...evident disobedience in the Prince.'

That worked. Heraclius' birch rod slowly descended. Without dignifying the servant (and probable illicit concubine) with a second glance, he puffed his way out of the room still snorting like an old warhorse.

But Prince Perseus still wailed and drummed his feet on the floor. Mirrum squatted beside him, wrapping her cotte about her feet, and waited.

Eventually the wails turned into plaintive sniffles, and Baldwin got miserably to his knees, eyes red-rimmed.

'He birched me!' he said indignantly. 'He's not allowed to do that! Only Maman does that, and she always says sorry afterwards!'

'He can do what he likes,' Mirrum said sharply. 'He's in power.'

'No he's not!' Prince Perseus scowled. 'I'm going to be king and then...'

'And then nothing.'

Baldwin stopped shocked in his tracks. Mirrum was never cross. But she had snarled at him...

'But I'm going to be-'

'If I had my way,' Mirrum said, rocking fiercely backwards and forwards on the bottom step, 'You wouldn't be going to be king at all. Haven't you thought about what it will be like? You won't have any power! You'll be knocked about between one place and another like a ball in a prentice's game - until you'll either be knocked silly, or you'll be able to play the game better than anyone else. You don't have a chance to grow into it.'

'But I want to be king,' Prince Perseus said piteously. 'I want to...'

He cocked his head on one side. 'Maman isn't back at all, is she?' he said accusingly. 'You lied.'

'That wasn't a lie, Prince. That was a sin of - of necessity. And didn't it save you a beating? The Patriarch has a stout arm.'

'It didn't hurt...' Baldwin speculatively eyed the stinging pink marks and gave them an exploratory poke, before grinning from ear to ear. 'I'm a man now,' he added grandly, brightly forgetting his scolding. 'I want some food, Mirrum. Can we eat now?'

Mirrum always cursed herself for taking Prince Perseus' bravado at its face value ...especially afterwards. But there. No one can know everything, and it would have been odd if Mirrum had felt a twinge of foreboding in that bright sunlight, whilst a little boy gambolled about her skirts like a playful puppy. Instead they walked away hand-in-hand to Sybilla's dusty apartments and dined on slightly stale bread and the baked meats of a palace shrouded in melancholy. Waiting is a lonely thing – even for a good thing.