A Murderous Procession

Some lay on divans, but most were playing games or dancing or wheeling in acrobatics. Their guide stopped; he was going no farther. He put out an arm to halt Ulf, whose mouth had sagged open as he looked in. “Not you,” he said.

  Mansur patted Ulf on the head. “This is a harem,” he said, “and you are a whole man. Enter, and these guards will have to kill you.”

  Ulf was drooling. “Be bloody worth it,” he said.

  He was left behind, and the doors closed on him as Mansur and Adelia stepped in.

  The room stilled for a moment at the sight of Mansur, as did the chatter, but then the kaleidoscope came to life again, reassured by the presence of one who’d been instantly identified as another eunuch.

  In one corner of the room, some of the young women were working at silk looms; it looked an incongruous activity amongst all this recreation, though the owners of the slim hands shuttling back and forth seemed happily engrossed in what they were doing.

  A tall eunuch, who’d been strumming a long-necked lute, put the instrument down and came toward them, touching his forehead and breast. “As-salaam aleikum.”

  “Wa aleikum salaam,” returned Mansur.

  The man relapsed into perfect Norman French. “Lord, Lady, I am Sabir, most humbly at your service. And now, Gracious Ones, if you would be good enough to follow me ...” He gestured to one of the harem’s older women. “Rashidah shall chaperone the Lady Adelia.”

  Adelia had begun to wonder whether the king was going to receive them in the chamber to which selected ladies from the harem were summoned for his sexual pleasure, but the room they entered had no samite drapes, no couches, no erotic pictures. A magnificent, claw-footed desk stood in its center. Books and scrolls lined three of the walls, and a superb tapestry depicting hunters in full cry through a forest in which peacocks wandered covered the fourth.

  This was the office of a Norman king, not an Arabian sultan.

  But it wasn’t a king sitting behind the desk; it was a frog. The hood of a burnous framed features with the smooth, greenish pallor of an amphibian. Either the princess’s kiss to her king had reversed the fairy story, or this was not the king.

  The man stood up, showing that he was squat. He salaamed, gesturing for them to take the two chairs on the opposite side of the desk, and greeted them in Norman French that had a lisp to it.

  “May I present myself? I am Jibril, emir secretary to the Musta’íz, the Gracious One, who will join us in a minute. Lord Mansur, you honor us. As for the Lady Adelia, you have been much missed from this kingdom. The King of England’s gain was our loss; it was with deep regret that seven years ago I signed the permission to send you to him, knowing we were losing a most accomplished doctor and that our esteemed Doctor Gershom would be losing a daughter.”

  He bowed. His eyes were the only things about him that weren’t froglike. They directed themselves from beneath the pouched skin like skewers.

  Adelia bowed back. It was you, was it?

  “May I hope that your return to us is permanent?”

  “I’m afraid not. I have to go back, I have left my child behind.” She had a sudden fear that they weren’t going to let her leave.

  But Jibril said: “So we understand. May you be happily and safely reunited with her.”

  “Thank you.” They have spies everywhere, she thought, they even know Allie’s sex. Still, she’d almost forgotten the relief of being in a country where a female doctor was not an abhorrence.

  “We fear the journey from England has been a difficult one. We learn from the Lord O’Donnell that you have been pursued by a malevolence that wishes you harm. The Glorious One wishes me to tell you that, should he be discovered here in Palermo, that being shall be hunted down and killed like the dog he is.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t think that’s what this meeting is about, is it? You want to discuss the Princess Joanna.” Let’s get it over with.

  Jibril’s lips made a horizontal stretch; presumably he was smiling. “You have adopted English directness, lady Allow me to do the same. The Lady Blanche tells us the princess was taken ill as she boarded ship at Saint Gilles and that drastic measures had to be taken by you to save her life. Would you be good enough to inform us of what they were?”

  She took a deep breath. “I was forced to operate.” She went into the explanation of the appendix, its putrefaction, etc.

  “The procedure has left a scar, of course. Lady Blanche worries that it may displease the king but I am certain that, as a man of sense, he would prefer a scarred bride to a dead one. I can assure you that it makes no difference to the princess’s beauty or disposition, which is of the sweetest.”

  The secretary’s lips stretched wider. “Already, so much is obvious. We are all charmed by this jewel of England. The scarring is of no moment if it saved the dear one’s life; a diamond with a flaw can be more beautiful than one without. That is not our concern....”

  It isn’t? Thank God, thank God. Then what are you worried about?

  “What we would wish to know is whether this operation has had any other ill effect? On her future and that of her marriage?”

  It was Mansur who caught on. He said in English: “He wants to know if Joanna can still have children.”

  Adelia blew an “oh” of relief. Was that it? Of course that was it. She and Blanche had been worrying over the wrong cause. Scarred or not, Joanna’s function was to give William sons. An heir was vital if Sicily was to remain in the hands of the Hautevilles. Childlessness in a king was not just a personal tragedy, it meant the sweeping away of his entire administration; possibly civil war as differing claimants jostled to take his throne.

  “I assure you, my lord, that as far as I know, Joanna is capable of having as many babies as God and the king give her.”

  The little skewers that were Jibril’s eyes had become mercilessly sharp, like his voice: “And that is the truth?”

  “The woman is incapable of speaking anything else,” Mansur told him.

  “The cecum is nowhere near the womb,” Adelia said. “I can draw you a diagram, if you like.”

  For the first time the secretary’s smile was genuine. “Spare me that. And forgive me.” He was a different man. “We need a son and heir, you see. We are surrounded by enemies who will take Sicily over the brink if there is no succession.”

  “Aha.” Here was an opportunity

  Adelia said: “My lord, the King of England entrusted us with bringing King William a gift; next to his daughter it is the greatest he could bestow. To be used against a mutual enemy, he said. He’s sent him Excalibur.”

  Excalibur. The beacon of light that sprang into every eye at the mention of the name was lit even in this Arab’s. The Normans had brought the story of Arthur with them when they came, and it had taken root; there was a strong Sicilian legend that Arthur roamed Mount Etna.

  Jibril leaned forward; he knew the sword’s value to whoever owned it. For the first time, he was abrupt. “Where is it?”

  If Richard had it, and Adelia was almost certain that he did—Henry had as good as warned her—then now was the time to betray him. Though carefully.

  She explained how the sword had been hidden in a cross and given to Ulf to carry “It was lost when my companions and I ... fell into some difficulty that separated us from Princess Joanna and her company for a while, but we have a hope that Duke Richard may have found it. It—or certainly the cross that contained it—was seen being carried aboard the Nostre Dame, just before she set sail from Saint Gilles.”

  She looked into Jibril’s eyes and knew they saw everything; this man would have spies scattered through every country in the known world; was probably more aware than she was of Richard’s ambition.

  “If Duke Richard has taken it into his keeping,” she went on, “it may be that he wishes to give it to King William himself and, I am sure, will present it when he feels the moment has come.”

  “I am sure he will,” Jibril said.

  That was enough; the word was
out. Subtly, it would be made known to Richard that William was aware of Henry’s intention to give him the sword and had every expectation of receiving it.

  She could do no more.

  “‘To be used against a mutual enemy.’ That is King Henry’s message?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Which one, I wonder; we have so many” But Jibril was a happier man. “Name your reward, my dears.”

  The reward was to have the advantage of being direct. “About the babies, my lord. The princess is not ready for them yet.”

  “My dear Lady Adelia.” It was said with reproach. “Is our Gracious One a barbarian? He is not. Princess Joanna shall enjoy her childhood until such time as ... ah, here he is now.”

  A man came into the room. He was as beautiful as his palace and, despite the long, fair hair of his Viking ancestors, almost as eastern. Slippers of engraved red leather ending in a point were visible under his tasseledburnous of soft wool. He trailed servants, scent, and Oriental courtesy, touching his forehead and breast in a salaam as they were introduced to him. It was disconcerting to hear him speak in Norman French and invoke the Virgin rather than Allah as he expressed his gratitude for “this pure pearl of England whose life and safety is so dear to me and for whom I am eternally in your debt.”

  He gave a look toward Jibril, who nodded—business concluded satisfactorily—and then he was gently chiding them. “But why were you not with my princess when she arrived? You, who have done so much for her, should have been in the royal train. Where are you staying? No, you are to lodge at the Ziza during your time here; you and your household are my honored guests. Mansur, my friend, do you hunt? Lady Adelia, I was in debt to your esteemed father, and now to you ... And how is my cousin of England?”

  He was young, twenty-four, twenty-five perhaps, and, to judge from his charm, let alone his harem, experienced with women—as a nation expected its king to be, while at the same time expecting perfect fidelity from its queen. But there was none of the forceful-ness nor sign of the overweening intelligence possessed by his future father-in-law. Henry Plantagenet wouldn’t have left the questioning of Joanna’s fertility to a secretary; important decisions were his alone.

  With trepidation, Adelia suspected laziness. Undoubtedly Joanna would fall dutifully in love with him. It would probably be a happy marriage from that point of view, but whether William had the energy and acumen and kingship to maintain the balance on which his realm depended she was less sure.

  The room became full of servants bringing sherbet, cakes, and two little velvet cushions with leather cases on them. The Lord Mansur stood up to be invested with the Order of the Lion, the Lady Adelia to have a gold cross hung around her neck. Both received heavy purses that chinked.

  “Accept this from our grateful hands. We hear that yours were taken from you.”

  “Thank you, my lord, thank you.” Where do they get their information ? She fingered the cross, bending her head so that she could see it properly, and swallowed. It was studded with diamonds, enough to keep her and Allie in comfort for the rest of their lives.

  When William had gone, Jibril said: “And now, dear lady, there are covered carts waiting outside to take you and your household to the Ziza Palace. In return for the princess’s life, it is the Gracious One’s obligation and ours to safeguard your own, therefore the transfer will be done in secrecy. Nobody but ourselves shall know where you are.”

  It wasn’t a request, it was a command. The king was in Adelia’s debt; honor demanded that nothing should happen to her until it had been repaid.

  Le roi le veult, she thought.

  The Ziza, one of the palaces that ringed Palermo like a necklace, was rumored to be the loveliest of them all. Her father and mother had once taken her to stare at the great Arabic inscription round its entrance arch: This is the earthly paradise that opens to the view; this king is the Musta’iz; this palace is the Ziza (noble place).

  Well, a little bit of luxury wouldn’t come amiss for once.

  “That would be very nice,” she said.

  LATER THAT DAY, in a room of the Palazzo Reale, two men were having a discussion. A beautiful room, one of many designed for valued guests; a curved and painted ceiling met the arches of the walls in a frieze of sculptured, marble fruit while, in the resultant niches, real pomegranates and oranges were piled in boat-shaped porphyry dishes on silver-topped tables. In case the guest should be cold—for though Palermo weather begins to warm in February, it was still chilly—bowls of scented oil burned in the braziers.

  The discussion—it was taking place in English—was less civilized.

  In fact, the room might have been a ring in which two fighting dogs strained against their leashes in order to tear out each other’s throat.

  “And where is she now?” The Bishop of Saint Albans didn’t like the tale he’d been told of what had happened to his woman since he’d last seen her, and he didn’t like the man who’d told it—a man who didn’t like him either.

  “I don’t know.” The lightness with which Admiral O’Donnell said it, and the ease with which he lolled on a brocaded ottoman while saying it, was an affront in itself.

  “Of course you bloody know.”

  “Indeed, I do not. We parted at the boat. I came on with the princess; she went off—apparently, her family owns a house in the Jewish Quarter. But she’s gone from there, the others with her, and the neighbors don’t know where.”

  In fact, he had a good idea that she was in the safekeeping of Jibril, who’d questioned both himself and Blanche closely on the happenings during the princess’s journey, and shown a great interest in Adelia’s whereabouts. Yes, he was pretty sure the woman was somewhere in one of the royal palaces, in safety, thank God, but damned if he’d say so to this bishop who’d done nothing to ensure it. Let him sweat.

  “Why in hell didn’t you bring her here?”

  “Well now ...” If it was possible to lounge with even more annoying elegance, the Irishman did it. “I decided that rejoining a royal household where somebody wants her death was not perhaps the finest move she could make.”

  Did you, you bastard, Rowley thought, and what gave you the right to decide what she should do and shouldn’t? And then he thought: Saving her damned life, I suppose.

  Well, he could still regain the high ground. “I’ve found him,” he said.

  “Scarry?”

  That’s jolted the bugger. “Come over here.”

  The Irishman approached an exquisite three-legged table covered with papers and scrolls. “How did you do that, now?”

  “Look at this.” Rowley picked up one of the scrolls. In his triumph, he’d lost aggression. “We had to submit a list of the names of Joanna’s household to the majordomo here at the palace, everybody traveling with her and requiring accommodation.” He batted his fist against the side of his head. “God Almighty, I don’t know why I didn’t think of the names before ... it’s there as plain as bloody day”

  The bell for Vespers could be heard ringing close by from the nearby San Giovanni degli Eremeti, which, with its vermilion cupolas, looked more mosque than church. Rowley ignored it.

  It was a long scroll. It held not only names, but the person’s occupation and place of origin.

  Rowley pointed. “There.”

  The Irishman studied the name. “Him? It’s never him, surely Jesus, he was ... That doesn’t necessarily mean he’d be called Scarry.”

  “I know. But Scarry’s a nickname—his outlaw name, and the odds are it was adapted from this. It surprised me, too, but there’s no other on that list would lead to it—I’ve studied them all. And when you come to think about it, he’s the only one with the opportunity.”

  “But he’s ... I never even considered ... Where is he now?”

  “Nobody knows. Disappeared since the Nostre Dame landed. Which clinches the matter. Apparently, he was becoming more and more odd every day”

  “Odd? I can think of more fitting terms. So he’s r
oaming the city somewhere?”

  “I presume so. I’ve got men out looking for him—and her. In the name of God, why did you let her loose?”

  O’Donnell fingered his chin. “Well now, she’s promised Joanna she’d see her married, so she’ll be in the cathedral for the wedding the day after tomorrow. She’s a woman who keeps her word . . .”

  “I know that.”

  “... but I’ll find her before then.” He got up and began moving toward the door.

  Rowley stopped him. “I’ll find her. She’s my woman, O’Donnell.”

  There was a smile of apparent surprise. “Is she now? Is she? And you a bishop.” The smile went. “Should have taken more fokking care of her, then, shouldn’t you?”

  ULF REACHED FOR a honeyed date, a delicacy he’d not encountered before but found to his taste. “What’s funny about that? I don’t need any more silk. Go home dressed like this, and the lads’ll throw me in a pond for a clothes horse.”

  “You look very nice,” Adelia said. They all did. Her own bliaut fitted like a skin at bosom and waist while its sleeves and skirt trailed in wafts of exquisite silver-green. “Though perhaps violet was a mistake with your complexion.”

  “I like violet.”

  Mansur pursued the matter. “So the majordomo asked you if you wanted a silk worker sent up to your room, and you said no.”

  “I’m not saying it ain’t a nice room, but I don’t want it cluttered with looms and such, do I.”

  “It’s a euphemism,” Mansur told him.

  “Didn’t want it cluttered with euphemisms neither.” Then it dawned. “You mean ... ? Hell and sulfur. And I said no.”

  “Quite right, too,” Adelia said. “Think of the poor girl.”

  “She might have liked him in violet,” said Mansur.

  Adelia put her arms behind her head and listened to a bird singing on an almond tree branch that was beginning to bud.

  She remembered Homer: I was driven thence by foul winds for a space of nine days upon the sea, but on the tenth day we reached the land of the Lotus-eater.