When Sybilla at length returned to the stiff responsibilities of court, it was with a resolute face and a readiness that took everyone aback. The new stoical Sybilla who entered court was a sober creature with a ready eye and a brisk manner of approaching what needed to be done. For a time she was almost strait-laced. Prudish. Sombre. The flash of subtle mischief dampened and extinguished. As though Sybilla – fluttering, laughing butterfly Sybilla- had regressed into a hard carapace of ceremony and duty in order to do what must be done.

Sybilla had wrested with her demons during her silent sojourn in the Lord of Ibelin's house. The Sybilla-Wraith that whispered terror from her reflection had been fought in every pool of water, every idle wine-cup, and finally, amidst a taut atmosphere drawn tight as a wire, Sybilla had conquered - and moulded herself into an effigy of a queen-mother ; capable, jealously assertive of her son's rights, and of irreproachable virtue. What matter if she trampled on herself in the process? Sacrifice must be made. Sybilla could hardly deny, after all, that the burnt offering had not cost her dear.

In protecting her son, she had taken to the sacrificial altar her love for the Lord of Ibelin. The wreath of dreams was shrivelled to ash. The dizzy intoxication was a bitter wine. And in their last goodbye – one of muted tenderness, for they had both known it would be the last – there had been no reproach. He knew, and he accepted it. His understanding made Sybilla despise herself for the sacrifice politics demanded of her – but she did it, nonetheless. She had need of it.

So it was in this grey and clouded atmosphere that Sybilla rode to Court. And, after two weeks of serious schooling with her little son, announced plans for her entire household to swiftly decamp to the softer air and kindly winds of Galilee.

'Lord Tiberias will offer me the use of his estates,' she declared, almost as though daring anyone to dispute the matter. 'The air is healthier in Galilee. My son has need of a little peace while I school him in the great matters ahead. I will not stay in Jerusalem.' Sybilla almost snapped the words out – although the clustered throng of silent servants had not breathed a word of dissent. 'I will not.'

'You will not.' Tiberias said flatly. 'You will not take one pace from the gates of Jerusalem while your brother lies thus, lady, and be you Queen regent or no in the future – yes, you may well look at me like that –' Sybilla's dark eyes snapped more than defiance. 'Any base-born woman would have the patience to wait, lady. Out of compassion.'

'Many see my waiting as rank ambition.' Sybilla said tonelessly. 'As they all dance attendance like so many vultures? Guy, and Gerard de Richfort, and the rest of them? Picking the-the carcase...' Sybilla's voice snagged in her throat. 'I feel myself a vulture, Tiberias. The Court look at me and see a crown I do not wear. And all they do is wait... wait...' Sybilla bit her lip, hard, and then glanced sideways at the Lord Marshal, her gaze steady.

'I will not be a vulture. I will not array myself with my husband.'

Tiberias looked at her stilled fingers. 'Nor should you.' He said, more mildly. It was not often that he felt a twinge of respect for Lady Sybilla – she was still too rash, too prone to flee what troubled her to make a steadfast queen. But there were moments when her father's temerity looked out at him – and reminded him that Amalric's girl-child had kingly qualities nonetheless. It drew a note of honest deference from him that her coy fascinations never could.

'I would not for worlds see an avaricious queen 'picking the carcase', as you call it.' He said, quietly. 'But – neither would I see a frightened queen fleeing through mistaken fright from her brother's deathbed.'

Sybilla said nothing. She hugged herself within her mantle, rocking slightly to and fro – but she said nothing. Tiberias pressed on.

'Lady... come now, none of your caprices here,' he said gently. 'I have known you these many years – as well as any, better than most. And I say you would repent it at the end if you had no chance to say farewell. You would torment yourself with it as a goad to sting yourself. And you need no spurs, lady.' Tiberias shifted in his seat and bent his gaze casually towards the scattered scraps of parchment scattered across his scribe's table, already abruptly changing the topic. 'There, enough. On another matter, lady – your waiting-woman...'

'Mirrum?' Sybilla looked surprised – and perhaps not a little glad that the conversation was removed from herself. 'What of Mirrum?'

'She is a good servant to you? You would agree on that?'

'She serves me well - and well you know it, on many things,' Sybilla snapped. 'What worm stirs within your head, Tiberias? I do not see –'

'You would say, then, that she has shown her loyalty to the Royal House of Jerusalem surpassing the bounds of duty.' Tiberias spoke matter-of-factly. 'That is passing good. It will be a pleasing report...'

'What is this, Tiberias? What conspiracy...?' Sybilla's brow creased. 'You report of my serving maid to my brother? Why?'

It can hardly be said amongst the politicians of the world that a lie ever sat ill with their consciences – and Raymond of Tiberias had played his game in affairs of state with a sure hand for over twenty years. But he was a little dissatisfied that the lie he now told was such a -a belittling affair. It made Mirrum a pawn again; and Tiberias was not entirely at ease with her place as a playing piece. Perhaps he had learned his young liege lord's lesson a little too well; perhaps he recognised it as unworthy. But some vague indignation curdled in the back of his throat at what he was about to do. It was a sorry falsehood. But it was the best he could conjure.

'Faith, no reason,' he said dismissively, leaning back as though bored, one arm swinging idly over the carved back of his chair. 'Only your little northern waiting woman should deserve some reward for the aha -hazards of service to the Lady Sybilla. What other waiting woman would remain with her lady nigh on two years without even a sign of gratitude?'

Ah. That sparked a flare of irritation from the Lady. She half-rose to her feet, hands balled in her sleeves with outrage.

'She does not go unrewarded!' Sybilla said indignantly. 'I am no mean mistress. And she has served me well, and with discretion. Save for that ridiculous little clandestine affair with some mumbling prentice apothecary –'

Tiberias' lips thinned.

'Well! I mistook that,' Sybilla declared, tossing her head in uneasy fashion. She was not comfortable with the business – and there was a faint glare in Tiberias' eye that spoke volumes about "clandestine affairs." Hastily she sought to turn the subject in her favour, 'I shall make amends. I thought fair dower and an honest husband would be ample reward and recompense.'

'Mm. And you have found these ample rewards for her?'

'I thought no need of it,' Sybilla said waspishly 'After all, I supposed her to have found a more powerful protector...'

Tiberias' note of easy banter suddenly became a good deal frostier – as though a chill winter wind had blown away all pretence. Sybilla was still wallowing in self-contempt, and she struck thoughtlessly at another in her dissatisfaction.

Still, the blow had gone home.

'Whatever the maid earns is won on her own merit, not through any influence of mine,' he said slowly, pushing himself from his chair to outmatch Sybilla's height. 'And having served you well with Guy's affairs, she deserves somewhat more than slights. What dower did you have in mind?'

'Silver –'

'How much, lady?'

'Seventy-five silver zecchins.'

Raymond of Tripoli laughed sardonically – for reasons best known to himself. It was a generous sum for a waiting-woman, certainly over-generous for the landless. Perhaps it was merely another manifestation of the restless dissatisfaction he felt for the whole tawdry affair.

'And for husband?'

Sybilla looked more than faintly abashed. She clasped her hands convulsively in the lap of her gown, fingers twitching restlessly.

'She deserves a good man.' she said earnestly. 'An honest man to take to husband – and a kindly one. I have vowed to seek out such a one for her. A husband who has not too stout an arm, or too violent a temper. I thought perhaps an esquire – some young one serving amongst the knights. Or even a steward – if there be such a creature as an honest steward, which I doubt.' A thin flicker of humour passed over Sybilla's face. 'Finding even ten good men in Jerusalem is more difficult than I first thought, Tiberias.' She stared at him. 'Do not attempt to deceive me, my lord. You spoke of my brother...'

'Ay.' Tiberias stared sightlessly into the heat of the candle. 'I did, lady.' He paused. 'I have spoken with the King, lady, of this little matter, and of the many tokens of loyalty and affection your waiting woman shows you. That you have placed great trust in her regarding matters-'

'Tiberias!'

'- Of state.' Tiberias finished, pointedly. 'The King has an interest in this matter, lady. It may surprise you to know of it, but she diverted him in some small instances on the road to Jerusalem. He is of my mind - that she deserves some recompense more than a handful of silver and a gawping groomsman.'

Tiberias spoke with more savagery than he had intended. Sybilla watched him, warily, and then shrugged her shoulders, rising with a (somewhat resentful) flick of her sleeve.

'I do not pretend to understand your intentions in this.' She said over her shoulder, as a parting shot. 'Where does this lead, my lord?'

'I have news.'

Sybilla had arranged matters in her chambers so that Mirrum stood in sunlight, her face glaringly exposed to her mistress' scrutiny. Sybilla, watching from a corner of her silvered glass, had thought it an excellent plan for divining any subtlety behind the business. It disconcerted her to be proved wrong. She might as well have sought uncertainty in the carved face of Saint Cecilia the martyr than seek it in Mirrum. The girl stood quiet, one foot turned slightly inwards to trace the pattern of light and shadow on the stone tiles. Her face was utterly blank.

Sybilla deftly applied rose and sandalwood cream to her face, examining Mirrum's reddened fingertips.

'My Lord Tiberias thinks it fitting,' she said tautly, 'that you needs must have an audience with my brother. I do not pretend to understand it, but then again–'

Mirrum's fingers gently closed in on themselves.

'...Tiberias has always been a mystery to me.' Sybilla finished coldly – and then suddenly turned in her chair, curiosity overcoming her fit of caprice. 'Mirrum, why? I don't understand it.' There was a note of perplexed pleading entwined in her voice. You leave me giddy with your humours. First you both make a very pretty pretence of blushing innocence – and as soon as I believe it truth that you are no more than you say, Tiberias jostles you towards my brother as though you were a profligate baron's whore...'

A painful flush entered Mirrum's cheek. But that was far less painful than Sybilla's gaze. Sybilla was agitated – and, in her own way, concerned.

'I know you have no hand in schemes of furtherance, Mirrum. But ambition is a dangerous game for any noble to play – let alone...' Sybilla's voice trailed away. Let alone a little gosling dizzily following her elders and betters' folly.

Mirrum saw the words as though they had been scribed upon Sybilla's doubtful forehead.

'Tiberias fought for you against me, know you that.' Sybilla said at last, looking away. 'He said you had caught my brother's interest as a creature of discretion. Is that true?'

'It is, my lady.'

'On your oath as you hope to be saved?'

'Yes, my lady.' Mirrum said in a small voice. 'It is. My lady, you wrong the Lord Marshal.'

'Do I?'

'Indeed you do.' Mirrum said firmly – and somewhat hotly. 'Lord Tiberias is not a man for mistresses.'

'You are very certain.' Sybilla eyed her, dubiously. 'How so?'

'He told me so, lady!' Mirrum looked back through her memory, casting her mind out like the thin thread of a fisherman's line. Finally, it snagged. 'He said - he has no patience for harems of squabbling chickens who drink gold like rainwater.'

Sybilla's eyes smiled, if her stoic expression of disapproval did not change. 'That has a true ring of my lord Tiberias. But interest...' Sybilla looked at her half-pityingly. 'What interest could my poor brother have in you?'

'I... I was... I –' Mirrum's voice had shrunk again, small as the sigh of a mouse. 'I had some little speech with the King, my lady. I gave him tidings of you.'

'And that is all?' Sybilla seemed relieved – to her credit, more for her brother's sake than her own. She had not wanted to believe that Tiberias could, in his own way, play the part of a carrion crow. 'Then all is well.' She glanced over her shoulder at Mirrum. 'You are a kind child. I don't believe you would do any harm, even if you were...' She examined her face broodingly in the mirror. 'But I do wish that-'

'My lady?'

'That it had never begun. Any of it. All of it. I wish you and I and Ammet –' Sybilla's lips tightened momentarily at the thought of her errant woman-in-waiting. 'I wish we were all as we used to be.'

'But...I do have your leave to have audience with the King, lady?' Mirrum said tentatively. Her pale half-moon face briefly showed the strain of the cross-examination – she looked exhausted, hollow-cheeked and red-eyed. Waiting for her mistress seemed to have told upon her constitution.

'You don't need my leave, Mirrum.' Sybilla examined her face in the silvered glass of the mirror. 'I am pleased ...' She turned slightly. 'Tell him soon. Tell him Sybilla will see him soon.'

The meeting came sooner than Mirrum supposed.

It came after the courtiers had supped. It had been a dismal affair of cold fowl and wine that reeked of funeral meats and suppressed uncertainty. The Court of Jerusalem had never been able to match the extravagant pageantry of the courts of France and Burgundy, but what little gaiety it had kept was now entirely stripped away. Courtiers were waiting for the turn. It was a shuffling of the gaming board.

Mirrum hated it. And, at a guess, so did Sybilla. It forced her to make a show of alliance with Guy at table. Guy was boastful, louder in his cups than used to be his wont, and apt to oafishly try to take Sybilla's hand in a flagrantly farcical show of nuptial harmony. Sybilla was as stiff as a wooden doll beneath her silks. Mirrum was a practised hand at the old demure custom of service now, and she stood composed enough – until the end, when a sudden twitch of her cotte drew her aside from her usual place and into the seclusion of a passageway.

It was one of the household; one of many blue-clad squires who flitted mysteriously throughout the palace. Mirrum dimly recognised his face.

'My Lord Tiberias bids me bring you to the King, madam.' He said quietly.

Mirrum flicked a small, startled glance back at table. Tiberias was still seated, examining the dregs of his wine cup with gloomy abstraction. But he caught her eye as she turned towards him. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

Yes. Go.

Mirrum found her feet falling unconsciously into a lolloping half-skip after her guide – hurried, quick, but occasionally trailing. A strange sort of rhythm.

Pit-pat, pit-pat.... pit. Pit-pat, pit-pat...pit.

How did the old song go, Mirrum wondered absently, her mind idly wandering into the paths of nostalgia. Lulli lullay, lulli lullay, the falcon has carried my mate away...

It was an old French rhyme, dimly linked to old tales from the chanteurs and closely intermingled with the aching melodies of the Breton balladeers. Mirrum had heard snatches of it sung by a street singer at a Lammas-tide fair once, and the rise and fall of the song almost matched the fall of her tread...

In that orchard there was a bed, hung with gold shining red...

There had been something about an orchard brown before that, but Mirrum's memory eluded her there. What she remembered clearly was what followed...

And in that bed there lies a knight, his wounds bleeding day and night. Beside that bed...

'Madam?' The squire had stopped so smartly in his tracks Mirrum almost walked into his back. 'We are here. If you will wait but a while...' The squire drew a breath and folded his hands behind his back. 'The Kings holds audience.'

'Yes.'

Mirrum stood shifting from foot to foot before the uncomfortable silence began to suffocate her.

'I feel at a disadvantage, sir squire,' she said awkwardly, 'in that I do not know who I should offer thanks –'

'Guimar de Bois-Gilbert,' the squire said abruptly. 'Think nothing of it, madam.'

'But-' Mirrum suddenly recognised the rather sullen jut of the chin. It was the arrogant squire. The officious, unpleasant squire who had chided her for sullying the palace with her awe that day she arrived. He was all deference now, but then –

Nothing could have made Mirrum's anxieties worse, but the presence of the wretched Guimar de Bois-Gilbert completely extinguished her feeble attempt at courtesy. She looked down at her feet, examining the pitted stone pavement beneath her feet.

Footsteps. The audience, whatever it was, was over.

And to Mirrum's great surprise, it was the Little Dove who emerged. Her eyelids were puffy and swollen, as though from weeping. But apart from that glaze, her carriage was as erect as ever.

'My lady Audemande...'

The Dove turned her head, but Mirrum's presence and hasty obeisance hardly seemed to register. She seemed almost - shocked.

'He pronouced me Court trobairitz.' She said tonelessly. 'To the Princess Sybilla. Or – the queen regent, as she will be.'

The Lady Audemande could not seem to bring herself to speak of the future, yet. Not whilst the past still drew breath. Mirrum felt a surge of affection for the bereft Dove, even whilst she marvelled at it.

A trobairitz was markedly different from a chanteuse, a mere singer of songs. To be trobairitz was a name of renown – it proclaimed Audemande a gifted composer as well as a singer; a poet of singular talents, to be treated with reverence. By declaring her a lady trobairitz to Sybilla as queen, it gave her protection -freed her, from the unpleasant position of being Court Poet to Guy de Lusignan. No one offered insult to such a superior singer of songs as a trobairitz.

It warmed Mirrum to the Physician's kindness as well as his sense of duty. But there was something numb in the Little Dove frozen shell of grief that made Mirrum stop short in congratulations. She didn't want it. Not at the cost of a new king. Her dragging footsteps as she walked away betrayed as much.

So there are two of us, at least, Mirrum thought. Not one, like in the rhyme.

...Beside that bed a maiden stays,

And she sobs by night and day.