Read Online Alamut by Judith Tarr - Free Book Online Page B

him at first as sheerest sloth, but he was learning to see the use in it. Here, in a cool tiled room, with a servant snoring softly as he swayed a great water-dampened fan, and a scent of roses drifting from the window on the courtyard, it was utter luxury. He who seldom slept had slid into a doze, until Thibaut’s voice startled him awake.
    The boy perched on the end of the couch, clasping his knees. His brows were knit. “She’s run away from Ranulf, I can tell. I’m surprised she didn’t do it sooner.”
    â€œYour sister doesn’t look to me like a coward,” Aidan said.
    â€œDid I say she was? She doesn’t run away because she’s afraid. She runs away because she’s angry. She’d kill, else.”
    Aidan raised a brow.
    â€œShe would,” said Thibaut. “She should have been a man. She has too much temper for a woman.”
    â€œOr too much spirit?”
    Thibaut nodded. “Mother says she’s the purest Norman in Outremer. She should have been born a hundred years ago; she’d have come on Crusade and carved herself a kingdom.”
    Aidan could imagine it. She was nothing like her mother or her brother: head and shoulders taller than Thibaut, and robust with it, her brown hair doing its best to curl out of its braids, her eyes more grey than blue, a color that made him think of thunder. Or perhaps that was only their expression. Angry, yes, and hurt. The world was not going as she would have it; and she was not one to forgive.
    â€œWhat is her husband like?” Aidan asked, giving up sleep for lost, and rising to prowl. He was aware of Thibaut’s amusement; he flashed teeth, at which the boy laughed.
    But Thibaut’s answer was sober enough. “His name is Ranulf; he comes from Normandy. He’s a younger son, as most of them are, but he’s done well here. He holds a fief near Acre; he’s rich in spoils from the wars. He’s not bad to look at, either. Women like him.”
    â€œYour sister doesn’t.”
    â€œShe was happy enough when she married him. He’s not much for airs and graces, but he’s never minded that her blood isn’t pure. She’s strong, he says, and she’ll give him strong sons; and her property is quite enough to satisfy him.”
    â€œI see,” said Aidan. It was all very good sense. He doubted that that would matter to the sullen child who had greeted them with such a mingling of joy and defiance. Who was, he realized, ill in body as in mind. He was no healer; that was his brother’s gift. But he could see a body gone awry. She had given her lord a son, it seemed, but she was not as strong as he had hoped. Or as she had expected to be. She would not forgive herself that, either.
    â€œI think,” said Thibaut, not easily, but as if he could not keep from saying it, “I think it wasn’t good for her — what Mother and Gereint had. That, and listening to songs, and dreaming about love. Love isn’t something a woman should be thinking of when she marries.”
    â€œMaybe not the first time,” Aidan said.
    â€œThat’s what Mother always told her. She said she believed it. But Joanna always wants to have everything all at once.”
    Aidan paused by the window. In the courtyard below, a fountain played, cooling the air. He breathed in roses, water, sunlight. If he willed it, he could stretch out more than hands, and see with more than eyes, hear with more than ears.
    They were all here, the three whom Gereint had taken for wife and children. Whom the Master of the Assassins had marked, and whom he meant to have, whether in life or in death.
    Therefore Aidan was here, and not on the road to Masyaf. Sinan would surely strike again, and surely it would be soon: too soon for Aidan to dare to leave the house unguarded. The High Court was gathering for the Feast of the Conquest, that high and holy day on which Jerusalem had fallen to the armies of