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She was losing something. She wasn’t even sure what it was. She would have to be happy with it. She said, again, “Thank you, my lady,” and heard her own voice croak out like a raven.
    Behind her, Gracia coughed again. Glad of the distraction, Edythe turned and frowned at the other woman, and the plump face creased in a smile.
    “Don’t worry,” Gracia said. “It’s only the same old thing.”

    Johanna, with Edythe at her side, went swiftly across the beach; the great galleys were already drawing up in the shallows. The resounding crash of a ramp falling made Johanna start and look around. On the ships men shouted to the shore, and the others there answered. The neighing of horses mixed with the frantic trampling beats of their hoofs on the ramps. She urged Edythe up the beach ahead of her, toward safety.
    On their left, on its rock in the sea, the great walled city of Tyre stood, black against the fading sunset. Pennants flapped from its peaked towers. It seemed a single impenetrable mass, a dark hulk in the gloom.
    Shouting, a man at a dead run led a string of horses by, and Johanna stopped, one hand on Edythe’s arm, waiting until the way was clear. The porters were hauling baggage off a beached skiff and piling it in the stalky grass above the tide line.
    Beyond the windblown sand, palm trees sprouted up in their elegant arcs, a dozen square stone houses around them. Out of these houses several women were hurrying, bundles over their shoulders. Johanna saw her brother standing under the closest palm tree and turned that way, and then Rouquin strode up to her, trailing some other lords.
    “We’ve ordered a tent for you, Jo, you and the rest of your gaggle. Stay here, Richard’s busy.”
    “A tent,” she said, startled, and turned her gaze on the city with its jagged spires looming on its rock at the end of the beach. “Aren’t we going into Tyre?”
    “They won’t let us in,” Rouquin said, and behind him, among the other men, there was a chatter of rage.
    “What?” she said.
    “Conrad of Montferrat and King Philip have refused to let us enter Tyre.”
    The Grand Master of the Templars pushed forward. “It’s an insult, to us—to the King especially.” He gripped Rouquin’s arm and bawled into his ear. “You must call for an attack. He’ll heed you.” Rouquin shook him off with a hard look.
    “Attack?” Johanna said, alarmed.
    “We can storm the city,” said another of the men behind Rouquin. “Conrad is unlikely to have more than his personal guard. We’ll crush him like a worm.”
    Johanna said, “I won’t hear this. Rouquin, show me our tent.”
    He gave the barest glance at the other men. “The King will hold a council tonight, talk there.” He led the women off down the beach.
    Johanna glanced at him; she could see he was angry. She said, “They would attack Christians! It’s all mad.”
    He gave her a hard look. “Stay out of this, Jo. Don’t make trouble.”
    “I’m not making trouble, I’m telling the truth. Wait.” Her eye caught on the row of village women who had spread out their bundles under the next palm tree, offering fruit and bread, cheese and fish for sale. “Let’s get food first.”

    Berengaria said, “I want good place, bed, room, city. Up there. Why we have no hall?”
    Busy with the work of making the room ready, Edythe pretended not to hear her. Berengaria was sitting on a fringed cushion at the back of the tent; when Edythe made no response, she looked away and her hand clenched into a fist. Edythe stacked the linen on Johanna’s bed. Outside, nearby, a yell went up from the crowd of men around the King, down by the palm trees; they were holding their council. In here, the pages were going around the space lighting lamps, and in a moment the tent would be hot and smoky.
    But the warm light sweetened everything. The work done, for the moment, Edythe went back to the corner, where Gracia was sitting on a cot, and said, “Are you all