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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.”

Three
    SAILING TO TYRE
    Edythe bit off a little of the pale brown root she had bought from the Greek hospital, and it burned her tongue. From that and the strong taste she guessed its power, but she knew Berengaria would never take it plain. Finally she mashed it up and steeped it in a flask of oxymel, the tonic of honey and vinegar she gave Johanna when she felt gloomy, and Gracia for her cough. That tasted awful, and Berengaria would only swallow a few sips.
    But it was enough. Now they were gliding over the sea, halfway to Tyre. Under the awning by the mainmast, Berengaria sat placidly in the midst of her women; being married, she could wear her hair in a different way, and she had her servants combing and braiding it and arranging it in loops around her head, pinned in place with ebony combs and big silver clips.
    Edythe and Johanna and Johanna’s other women sat on the foredeck, where there was a little breeze. The wide triangular sails of the galley spread above them, billowing and shaking in the light wind, and the oars swung on either side with their steady creak. Edythe loved the sway of all the oars together, the power and grace that seemed to lift the long ship across the tops of the waves.
    Johanna said, “Whatever you gave her, it seems to have worked.”
    “It’s been calm, though,” Edythe said.
    In truth the sea around them was mild in the sunlight. The rest of the ships stroked along around them, scores of galleys big and small, stretching to the horizon. Richard’s fleet filled the sea; with all their prows aimed in the same direction, all the oars swinging at once, they seemed unstoppable, as if when they reached the land, they would just go on over it, striding on their wooden legs.
    Johanna said, “Edythe, I’ve meant to tell you this. You have been an excellent servant to me, to us all, and the Crusade hardly begun.”
    “My lady,” Edythe said. “The Queen Mother bade me do it.”
    “My mother is very wise.” Johanna lowered her voice. “Tell me—I want to know—there is a story of how you came to be with her.”
    Edythe went stiff all over, her mouth dry. She did not want to rehearse this; every time she said it, every new ear that heard it, made the story more real. Johanna watched her steadily. She could not look away. She said, “I—I was in a nunnery, in England. There was—there was a man—I ran away.” Her ears and throat felt red. She was blushing all over. She hated this. “The Queen took me in. So I—” Now at least she was climbing up again onto a solid shore of truth. “I owe the Queen my life.”
    Johanna nodded and put her hand on Edythe’s arm. “This agrees with what I have been told. I understand. A young girl can be misled. As I said, you have made yourself dear to me. So when this is over, when we are home again, I will find you a noble husband, and we will dower you. Whatever happened before, I shall make you a fine marriage. I promise you.”
    Edythe lifted Johanna’s hand and kissed it, more to hide her face than in homage. She struggled to school her expression. She should look happy. Grateful. “My lady, you are most kind, I hardly deserve . . .” That came out as a whisper. She looked out over the sea.
    She should want this. The weight was the weight of belonging. A well-born husband would bring her a title, a home of her own. Children, with names.
    But then the bad story was true. The wrong name became right.