Hello again! Apologies for the three-year hiatus there - it took me a while to get my creative juices flowing. But I have only a little more to go before Tu Salus Fidelium is finally finished. It's going to finally end in 2015, after nearly eight years in the updating. As an apology for being absent so long, the ever-lovely Mercury Grey (who graciously lent me her character Lady Audemande de Vinceaux) has also lent me some of her prose, and guest-wrote part of the chapter with me. I hope you enjoy - she's a very creative writer who I've been privileged to know for over 7 years now.

The small dead hours, known only to thieves and lovers, had stolen in with the chill grey darkness just before dawn. Too early for even the most alert of servants to have risen yet; and too late for even the most hardened of late revellers. Gentle silence reigned supreme over the court of Jerusalem in the dead hours. It might have been a court under enchantment in a Breton lai.

Perhaps it was, Mirrum thought drowsily, as her eyelids slowly fluttered open, staring dreamily at the faded fresco over the stone mantel. She hadn't noticed it last night, in the dim embers of dying firelight, but there was a discoloured fresco of warriors waging an eternal siege in faded paint made almost invisible by years of sunlight. Their battle, whatever it was, had all but vanished.

Somewhere overhead, a bird chirruped in the rafters, beneath the cracked tiles. Mirrum stretched, dimly aware of the comfortable mattress beneath her and the blissful knowledge that today – joy of joys! There was no officious Alix to dress her, no tasks to make her rise too soon. She could do as she liked, and-

She stretched, still barely conscious, enjoying the feel of pillows beneath her head…

Until her outstretched arm, quite by accident, brushed a length of naked bare back, beside her in the bed. It stirred gently beneath her fingertips.

With a flush of heated recollection, Mirrum remembered. She instinctively pulled the coverlet close about her chin, staring about the room in panic.

The orange mantle – and yes, the linen shift, lay tangled in a crumpled mess on the stone floor, knotted with the heavy velvet of a man's loose robe.

And Mirrum, bare as a bone beneath the sheets.

She bit her lip, distracted.

Last night… last night had felt like a strange fit of delirium that had scarcely melted with the approach of dawn. Mirrum had understood the crude mechanics of love well enough, but she had not expected the emotional disrobing that had come so quickly in the panting darkness. The agonised ardent lover in Tiberias, after so many years of loneliness, had had full reign, and Mirrum was still a little overwhelmed by how much of the true man beneath the cynical exterior of the courtier that she had seen, stripped bare to the soul without the old armour of distance and power.

It had been a mad flood of choking, half-smothered ecstasy. She was still tired from the bittersweet loving that had ended her girlhood - but they had quickened again half- fainting afterwards, entwined helplessly in each others arms. And still again, after that, somewhere between sleep and death.

And I'm not sorry for it, Mirrum thought, with dreamy detachment. I thought I would be, somehow. Where was the shame and searing guilt a deflowered maiden should feel? she wondered.

But then again, she thought charitably, perhaps all monks were not like the Patriarch. Perhaps whoever had written that particular scroll had taken his vows of chastity seriously, and consequently had no idea what love was.

She turned towards Tiberias' sleeping form in the bed again, tracing the line of his back with her fingers. There was an old puckered pink scar on one shoulder blade. A hunting accident? The mark of a close encounter with a curved Damascene scimitar?

I will find out, Mirrum thought triumphantly. I have all the time in the world to find out the nature of the man I love. His joys, his sorrows, old memories, hopes for the future…Everything. And nothing – nothing - will take him away from me…

Like the Physician? An unpleasant, truthful voice inside her head whispered. Because the Physician left you alone?

Mirrum half-flinched as the thought surfaced – as though someone had brandished a whip at her. Her sudden movement must have roused Tiberias from his slumber, for he sighed, and turned towards her a little, one arm pulling her close to his chest.

'T'is barely light yet…' he said, in a voice still half-drowned in sleep, burying his face in the hollow of Mirrum's neck so her bright fair hair curled over his cheek. He half-clung possessively to her, as though frightened she might melt away with the morning.

Something half-true, Mirrum thought, listening to the distant splash of water from the fountain outside. The first kitchen hands had already risen, were already drawing water. No doubt soon there would be other servants; and then the squires, bustling with officiousness. Miriam of Montferrand had better return to her rooms, and soon, before some gaping noble boy stumbled upon them both still abed.

'Light enough,' she said sadly. Her last thought had shaken her back to some semblance of reality. 'I had better go…'

'Go?' Tiberias' one good eye stared back, dark and over-bright, into Mirrum's face. 'So soon? Nay, sweeting – stay a while…'

'And have your squires find us like this?' Mirrum protested, gesturing at the disordered clothes and crumpled linen. 'For shame, sir!'

'Umf…' Tiberias turned, with a groan, and sat up, pulling his shirt over his head. 'You are right there – ' he remarked over his shoulder, as he padded over to the door and shot the iron bolts home. 'I'll not have a gaggle of gaping fools besieging my chambers.'

Mirrum stared. This was something new.

' Do you think iron will keep them out?' he added, with a surprisingly amount of boyish glee for such a man as the Lord of Tripoli. 'Hmm – perhaps we should barricade ourselves in, to be sure? I hear I am now suddenly out of favour with our new Queen Regent.'

Mirrum laughed. 'You, sirrah,' she said half-accusingly, 'are giddy this morning.'

'Have I not cause to be?' The strange, smouldering tenderness lit up in Raymond of Tripoli's countenance again. He leant forward as he came back to the bed, to kiss Mirrum softly on the lips. 'Why, last night I stole away the Queen Regent of Jerusalem's handmaiden. Sybilla may yet declare war on me for such an affront.'

Mirrum pushed her troubled thoughts way – of Alix, and the court, and Sybilla, and duty. I am owed some little happiness after all, she thought fiercely to herself. Why shouldn't I find a little time to be myself again?

She leant deeply into the kiss; feeling Tiberias, surprised at her passion, sway and then fold her into his arms again, until they broke apart simply to draw breath.

'I…I love-' Mirrum coloured, a little amazed at her own daring, when she could speak again. 'I do indeed love you truly, Lord Raymond.'

'How now? Still lord?' Tiberias cradled her hand between his own as they settled back upon the pillows once more.

'You must be,' Mirrum said, with a becoming seriousness that made Tiberias laugh aloud. 'I am scarce used to being a gentlewoman yet.'

'You were a gentlewoman from the beginning,' he returned, firmly. 'Far more than that English pig dressed in a wimple… Lord, what was the name of your goodly dame? Did you ever hear what became of her?'

'Dame Juliana? ' Mirrum felt a sudden pang of fond nostalgia. Time had softened the memory of her old mistress' blind pride and her quick work with a sharp hazel switch. 'I had word from Sybilla she left Jerusalem well enough. She took ship to Venice, with letters of credit Sybilla gave herself…' She paused. How Sybilla must have desperately needed an ally, to do that for her. Mirrum couldn't think that the price of a scribe had ever come so high in any other court.

'She has been kind to me. Kinder than I -'

'Than you deserve? No.' Tiberias said sharply. 'Never that. You have deserved kindness well for your loyalty, child. It is a rare gift. And we creatures of court encounter so very little of it in a lifetime…'

He raised one hand, to stroke her cheek, eyes darkening again. 'I do believe that is the first time you have ever said my name,' he said quietly. 'Say it again. But - no 'Lord'. Just my name.'

'That will sound so strange-'

'Why, is that so hard to say?'

'I… Mirrum coloured, and then looked up, meeting the dark, hungry eyes that stared so intently at her face. 'No…it is not hard to say – Raymond.'

'Again, 'Tiberias said, still looking into her eyes as though trying to spy out her soul. 'It sounds very –' he swallowed, convulsively. 'It - it pleases me much to me to hear you call me by my name. Rarely, I think, have I ever liked my name so well…'

Mirrum smiled inwardly. She couldn't help but reflect that it was a curious thing; the outward masks that the brave courtiers of Jerusalem wore over their true faces. Sybilla and her dark-eyed Balian, Lady Aude and her knight – and now Tiberias.

She curled close against his body, enjoying the sensation of feeling his chest rise and fall against her own as the early sunlight glittered feebly through a crack in the shutters.

'So we can ignore the sunlight?' she said softly, throwing an errant lock of hair across her eyes to hide the dawn. 'Can we make a second night and forget the day?'

There was a delicious, breathy silence as Mirrum's mouth was stopped with a kiss.

Both Mirrum and Tiberias would easily have let the day merge into another night without a second's regret –

At least, until the hesitant knock upon the door.

'Ah – milord?'

The worst had happened. The squires were stirring already.

A polite second knock echoed through the room. 'I have your water ready, my lord. And your morning posset…'

Raymond of Tripoli muttered a long stream of foul Norman-French that should have blistered the paint off the walls.

'It'll be the young Flemish one,' he groaned, under his breath. 'Sweet Jesu, of all days…'

He buried his head in the pillow, counting inwardly before replying.

'A pox on you and your damned fist, boy!' He roared at the door. 'What night-bird hours do you keep?'

'I…I…forgive me, sir, but you told me to wake-'

'Wake me, ay! At a decent hour!'

The Flemish squire sounded terrified. 'It's on the stroke of nine, milord…I – I can return later?'

Mirrum shook her head silently at Tiberias, whose gaze had slid over to her.

'Not his fault,' she mouthed, and began to reach for her clothes. Luckily, there was a small, private door into a small stone buttery; The Bachelors' corridor, as it was named, was kept amply supplied by a surfeit of ale and wine for groggy masters. The Lord of Tripoli, as the foremost man of court, treated it as a mere extension of his rooms.

She hastily shrugged herself into her crumpled orange robe and quietly slipped away, as Tiberias – cursing under his breath, and with a half-rolled eye of exasperation, begrudgingly drew back the bolt.

'Ay, well – if you must, you must,' she heard him say, through the thickness of the door. She hardly knew if it was meant for her or the poor young Fleming. But it served as a farewell.

Mirrum waited – a heart-beat's length, whilst the squire tottered in with his ewer and wine jug – and then stole her moment. The corridor, though already fenced with bright sunlight, was still empty. If she was fortunate, she might yet be able to steal back to her own quarters and Alix. She was, after all, still hopefully unnoticeable.

She hadn't seen the tell-tale flick of a train into a quiet corner as she passed by. Or the pair of intelligent, dark eyes who followed her fair head as she hurried swiftly toward the safety of the women's quarters.

Audemande de Vinceaux could boast this much; she had a soft voice, yes. That had earned her name of the "Dove". But she also had a keen gaze and quick wits, and there was something in Mirrum's anxious scuttling walk that made her turn, and consider.

Guest Writer: Mercury Gray

"I saw a strange sight this morning in the Bachelor's corridor," Audemande said, almost as an aside, an easily dismissed comment on something of more marked importance. "A little ghost."

Tiberius scowled and resumed his quill. "There are ghosts all over this city. I scarcely see how this one can be of any importance or what you think I will be able to do about it."

"Ah, but I think you and I may know this one personally," the trobaritz said lightly. "She was wearing an orange gown. Enchanting little thing, but rather bedraggled. Almost as if it had spent the night on someone else's floor." Her gaze searched the Marshal's, waiting for some reply.

Raymond didn't like the road this conversation was heading towards. Does she really know, or is this a ploy to confirm a mere suspicion? "And what has that to do with me?"

The poet's laughing manner disappeared. Evidently that had been the wrong answer. "If you allow any harm to come to that woman, Raymond, I will hurt you," Audemande hissed through clenched teeth, her eyes full of deadly earnestness. Tiberius opened his mouth, but the poet went on. "You and I both know where she was last night and it wasn't in her own bed."

She knows. Perhaps another tack, then. "You disapprove."

The Little Dove laughed. Does she mock me? It was so hard to tell sometimes with Audemande. "Hardly! She has good taste, little Mirrum of Montferrand. Though, perhaps, a better lover would have sent her away while the morning was not quite so far gone…"

Oh, circumspection, was it? Two could tilt in that yard. "A man might ask the Little Dove how she came to be walking in the Bachelor's Corridor herself," Raymond said coldly. "Tell me, Audemande, how was the Frank's bed this morning?"

"About as warm as yours, I think," Aude shot back, cutting his little jab of cruelty short. "Ridicule me all you like, Raymond - I am what you and Sybilla made me, and no less. Mirrum is not so spoiled. "

The count of Tripoli considered this. "I didn't know you had any interest in the girl."

"Baldwin would not see it done thusly. And neither will I."