Anyway, he’d known he must be at hand when the summons was delivered; she wouldn’t want to obey it.
“Dang bugger,” Adelia said in pure East Anglian—like Mansur’s, her English vocabulary was being enlarged by Gyltha. “What?”
The messenger was a skinny young fellow, and Adelia’s glare almost teetered him backward. Also, he was looking, openmouthed, to the prior for confirmation. “This is the lady Adelia, my lord?” It was, after all, a name that suggested nobility; he’d expected dignity—beauty, even—the sweep of a skirt on marble, not this dowdy thing with a dog and a baby.
Prior Geoffrey smiled. “The lady Adelia, indeed.”
Oh, well. The young man bowed, flinging back a cloak to show the arms embroidered on his tabard, two harts rampant and a golden saltire. “From my most reverend master, the lord Bishop of Saint Albans.”
A scroll was extended.
Adelia didn’t take it. The animation had leeched out of her. “What does he want?” It was said with a frigidity the messenger was unused to. He looked helplessly at the prior.
Prior Geoffrey intervened; he had received a similar scroll. Still using Latin, he said, “It appears that our lord bishop needs your expertise, Adelia. He’s summoned you to Cambridge—something about an attempted murder in Oxfordshire. I gather it is a matter heavy with political implications.”
The messenger went on proffering his scroll; Adelia went on not taking it. She appealed to her friend. “I’m not going, Geoffrey. I don’t want to go.”
“I know, my dear, but it is why I have come. I’m afraid you must.”
“I don’t want to see him. I’m happy here. Gyltha, Mansur, Ulf, and this one ...” She dandled the child at him. “I like the fens, I like the people. Don’t make me go.”
The plea lacerated him, but he hardened his heart. “My dear, I have no choice. Our lord bishop sends to say that it is a matter of the king’s business. The king’s. Therefore, you have no choice, either. You are the king’s secret weapon.”
TWO
C ambridge hadn’t expected to see its bishop again so soon. Eighteen months ago, after his appointment to the see of Saint Albans, the town had turned out for him with all the pomp due a man whose word ranked only a little below that of God, the Pope, and the Archbishop of Canterbury.
With equal pomp, it had seen him off on an inaugural circuit of his diocese that, because it was huge, like all England’s sees, would take him more than two years to complete.
Yet here he was, before his time, without the lumbering baggage train that had accompanied him when he left, and with gallopers coming only a few hours ahead to warn of his arrival.
Still, Cambridge turned out for him. In strength. Some people fell on their knees or held up their children to receive the great man’s blessing; others ran at his stirrup, babbling their grievances for him to mend. Most just enjoyed the spectacle.
A popular man, Bishop Rowley Picot. One of Cambridge’s own. Been on Crusade. A king’s appointee to the bishopric, too, not the Pope’s. Which was good, King Henry II being nearer and more immediately powerful than the Vatican.
Not one of your dry-as-a-stick bishops, either: known to have a taste for hunting, grub, and his drink, with an eye for the ladies, so they said, but given all that up since God tapped him on the shoulder. And hadn’t he brought to justice the child murderers who’d terrorized the town a while back?
Mansur and Adelia, followed disconsolately by the bishop’s messenger, had insisted on scouring Cambridge’s fair for Gyltha, and now, having found her, Mansur was holding her up so that she could peer over the heads of the crowd to watch the bishop go by. “Dressed like a Christmas beef, bless him,” Gyltha reported down to Adelia. “Ain’t you going to let little un look?”
“No,” Adelia said, pressing her child more closely to her.
“Got a crosier and ever’thing,” Gyltha persisted.
“Not sure that hat suits un, though.”
In her mind’s eye, Adelia saw a portly, portentous, mitered figure representing, as most bishops did, the hypocrisy and suffocation of a church that opposed not only herself but every advance necessary for the mental and physical health of mankind.
There was a touch on her shoulder. “If you would follow me, mistress. His lordship is to grant you an audience in his house, but first he must receive the sheriff and celebrate Mass.”
“Grant us a audience,” Gyltha mimicked as Mansur lowered her to the ground. “That’s rich, that is.”
“Um.” The bishop’s messenger—his name had turned out to be Jacques—was still off-balance; Saracens and fishwives were not the sort of people he was in service to deal with. Somewhat desperately, he said, “Mistress, I believe my lord expects his interview to be with you only.”
“This lady and gentleman come with me,” Adelia told him, “or I don’t go.”
Being in Cambridge again was distressing her. The worst moments of her life, and the best, had passed in this town; the place was haunted by spirits whose bones rested in peace while others still shrieked to a god that hadn’t heard them.
“The dog, too,” she added, and saw the poor messenger’s eyes roll. She didn’t care; it had been a concession to come at all. When she’d stopped off at her house on the way in order to pack suitable winter clothing for them all, she had gone so far as to wash her hair and change into her best dress, shabby though it now was. Further than that, she would not go.
The episcopal residence—the bishop had one in every major town in the diocese—was in Saint Mary’s parish, a building now abuzz with servants preparing it for unexpected habitation.
Followed by the dog, Ward, the three were shown into a large upstairs chamber where dust sheets were now being whisked off heavy, ornate furniture. An open door at its far end revealed the gilt and plaster of a bedroom where footmen were hanging brocade drapes from the tester of a magnificent bed.
One of them saw Mansur looking in and crossed the room to shut the door in his face. Ward lifted his leg and piddled against the door’s carved arch.
“Tha’s a good dog,” Gyltha said.
Adelia hefted the rush basket holding her sleeping baby onto a brassbound chest, fetched a stool, undid her bodice laces, and began the feed. What a remarkable child, she thought, gazing down at it, accustomed to the quiet of the fens yet showing no fear, only interest, amid the hubbub that had been Cambridge today.
“Well,” Gyltha said to her. The two women hadn’t had a moment until now in which to talk privately.
“Exactly.”
“What’s his lordship want with you, then?”
Adelia shrugged. “To look into an attempted murder in Oxfordshire, so Prior Geoffrey said.”
“Didn’t think you’d come for that.”
“I wouldn’t have, but it’s on the king’s orders, apparently.”
“Oh, bugger,” Gyltha said.
“Indeed.” Henry Plantagenet’s was the ultimate command; you could squirm under it, but you disobeyed it at your peril.
There were times when Adelia resented Henry II bitterly for marooning her on the island of Britain so that, having discovered her talents at reading the secrets of the dead, he could use them again. There were other times when she didn’t.
Letters had originally passed between the English king and his royal kinsman, William of Sicily, requesting help for the problem in Cambridge that only Salerno’s investigative tradition could provide. It had been a shock to everybody that Salerno obliged by sending a mistress of the art of death rather than a master, but things had turned out well—for Henry II, at least. So much so that other letters had passed between him and King William requesting—and granting—that Adelia stay where she was awhile longer.
It had been done without her request or permission, an act of naked piracy, typical of the man. “I’m not an object,” she’d shouted at him. “You can’t borrow me, I’m a human being.”
“And I’m a king,” Henry told her. “If I say you stay
, you stay.”
Damn him, he hadn’t even paid her for all she’d done, for the danger, for the loss of beloved friends—to the end of her days, she would mourn for Simon of Naples, that wise and gentle man whose companionship had been like a second father’s. And her dog, a much lesser loss but, nevertheless, a grief.
On the other hand, to weight the scale, she had retained her dear Mansur, gained an affection for England and its people, been awarded the friendship of Prior Geoffrey, Gyltha and her grandson, and, best of all, acquired her baby.
Also, although the Plantagenet was a crafty, hottempered, parsimonious swine, he was still a great king, a very great king, and not just because he ruled an empire of countries stretching from the borders of Scotland to the Pyrenees. The quarrel between him and his Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas à Becket, would damn him forever, ending as it had in the archbishop’s murder. But Henry’d had the right of it, in Adelia’s opinion, and it had been disastrous for the world that the Jew-hating, selfaggrandizing, backward-looking Becket’s refusal to allow any reform of the equally backward-looking English Church had driven his king into uttering the dreadful cry “Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?” For immediately it had been taken up by some of his knights with their own reasons for wanting Becket dead. They’d slipped away across the Channel to Canterbury and committed a deed that had resulted in making a martyred saint out of a brave but stupid and blinkered man while, at the same time, giving the Church every excuse to scourge a king who’d wanted to curb its power and allow greater justice to his people with laws more fair, more humane than any in the world.
Yes, they called Henry Plantagenet a fiend, and there were times when Adelia thought he probably was, but she also knew that his ferocious blue eyes saw further into the future than any other man’s. He’d succeeded to the throne of an England blasted and impoverished by civil war and given it a secure prosperity that was the envy of other lands.
It was said his wife and his sons resented and had plotted against him and, again, Adelia could see why—he was so far ahead of everybody else, so quick, that their relationship with him could provide no more than metaphorically clinging to his stirrup as he rode.
Yet when the Church would have put Adelia on trial during her search for the murderer of Cambridge’s children, it was this busy king who’d found time to step in and exonerate her.
Well, so he should, she thought. Wasn’t I saving him trouble and money? I’m not his subject, I am a Sicilian; he has no right to coerce me into his service.
Which would have been an unquestionably reasonable sentiment if, sometimes, Adelia didn’t feel that to be in the service of Henry II of England was a privilege.
Nevertheless, she damned his eyes for him and, for the sake of her child’s digestion, tried to clear him from her mind. Trouble was, the vast room around her reflected a Church that made her angrier than Henry ever could. Here was nothing that was not rigidly and opulently religious—the bishop’s massive chair, a cushioned, gold-inlaid prie-dieu where his lordship could kneel in comfort to the Christ, who’d died in poverty, air stuffy with incense. Urging herself to despise it, Adelia contrasted it with Prior Geoffrey’s room at the priory, which was all the holier for its reminders of the profane—fishing rods in a corner, the smell of good food, an exquisite little bronze Aphrodite brought back from Rome, the framed letter from a pupil he was proud of.
She finished feeding. Gyltha took the child from her to burp it, an occupation both women vied for— there was no more satisfying sound than that tiny belch. Because the newly lit brazier had not yet begun to warm the room, Gyltha added another blanket to the basket before she put it in the shadows to let the baby sleep. Then she went to stand by the brazier and looked around with complacence. “Murder, eh? Old team and old days back again.”
“Attempted murder,” Adelia reminded her. “And no, they aren’t.”
“Do make a change to go travelin’, though,” Gyltha said. “Better’n a winter iced into they bloody fens.”
“You love winter in the fens. So do I.” Adelia had learned to skate.
“Don’t mean as I can’t enjoy somewheres else.” Old as she was, Gyltha had an adventurous spirit. She gave a rub to her backside and nodded toward the basket. “What’s his lordship going say to our little treasure, then?”
“I can only hope,” Adelia said, “that he won’t ask whose it is.”
Gyltha blinked. “Ooh, that’s nasty. He’s not a’goin’ to do that,’course he not a’goin’ to do that. What’s set your maggots bitin’?”
“I don’t want us to be here, Gyltha. Bishops, kings, they’ve got no right to ask anything of me. I won’t do it.”
“You got any choice, girl?”
There was a step on the landing outside. Adelia gritted her teeth, but it was a small priest who came in. He carried the holder of a lit candle in one hand and a slate book in the other, raising the light high and making a slow arc with it, peering at each face with shortsighted eyes.
“I am Father Paton, his lordship’s secretary,” he said. “And you are ... yes, yes.” To make sure, he put his book on a table, opened it, and held the candle near. “An Arab male and two females, yes.” He looked up. “You will be provided with transport, service, and provisions to Oxford and back, a winter cloak each, firing, plus a rate of a shilling a day each until such time as his lordship is satisfied the work be done. You will have no expectation beyond that.”
He peered at his slate once more. “Ah, yes, his lordship has been informed of a baby and expressed his willingness to give it his blessing.” He waited for appreciation. Getting none, he said, “It can be conveyed to him. Is it here?”
Gyltha moved to stand between him and the basket.
The priest didn’t see his danger; instead, he looked once more at his slate and, unused to dealing with women, addressed Mansur. “It says here you are some sort of doctor?”
Again, there was no reply. Apart from the priest, the room was very still.
“These are your instructions. To discover the culprit whom, three days ago”—he checked the date—“yes, it was the celebration of Saint Leocadia ... three days ago, made an attempt on the life of the woman Rosamund Clifford of Wormhold Tower near Oxford. You will require the help of the nuns of Godstow in this endeavor.” He tapped the slate with a bony finger. “It must be pointed out that, should the aforesaid nuns offer you free accommodation at the convent, your payment shall be reduced accordingly.”
He peered at them, then returned to the main thrust. “Any information is to be sent to his lordship immediately as it is gained—a messenger to be provided for the purpose—and you will tell no one else of your findings, which must be unearthed with discretion.”
He scanned his book for more detail, found none, and clapped it shut. “Horses and a conveyance will be at the door within an hour, and food is being prepared in the meantime. To be provided without charge.” His nose twitched at his generosity.
Was that all? No, one more thing. “I imagine the baby will prove a hindrance to the investigation; therefore, I have commissioned a nurse to look after it in your absence.” He seemed proud to have thought of it. “I am informed the going rate is a penny a day, which will be deducted ... Ow, ow, put me down.”
Dangling by the back of his surplice from Mansur’s hand, he had the appearance of a surprised kitten.
He’s very young, Adelia thought, although he will look the same at forty. I would be sorry for him if he didn’t frighten me so much; he’d have taken my baby away without a thought.
Gyltha was informing the struggling kitten. “You see, lad,” she said, bending to put her face close, “we come to see Bishop Rowley.”
“No, no, that is impossible. His lordship departs for Normandy tomorrow and has much to do before then.” Somehow, horizontally, the little priest achieved dignity. “I attend to his affairs ...”
But the door had opened and a procession was entering in a blaze of candles, bearin
g at its center a figure from an illuminated manuscript, majestic in purple and gold.
Gyltha’s right, Adelia thought immediately, the miter doesn’t suit him. Then she took in the set of jowls, the dulled eyes, so changed from the man she remembered.
No, we’re wrong: It does.
His lordship assessed the situation. “Put him down, Mansur,” he said in Arabic.
Mansur opened his hand.
Both pages carrying his lordship’s train leaned out sideways to peer at the ragbag of people who had floored Father Paton. A white-haired functionary began hammering on the tiles with his wand of office.
Only the bishop appeared unmoved. “All right, steward,” he said. “Good evening, Mistress Adelia.
Good evening, Gyltha, you look well.”
“So do you, bor.”
“How’s Ulf?”
“At school. Prior says as he’s doing grand.”
The steward blinked; this was lèse-majesté. He watched his bishop turn to the Arab. “Dr. Mansur, as-salaam alaykum.”
“Wa alaykum as-salaam.”
This was worse. “My lord ...”
“Supper will be served up here as quickly as may be, steward. We are short of time.”
We, thought Adelia. The episcopal “we.”
“Your vestments, my lord ... Shall I fetch your dresser?”
“Paton will divest me.” The bishop sniffed, searching for the source of a smell. He found it and added, “Also, bring a bone for the dog.”
“Yes, my lord.” Pitiably, the steward wafted the other servants from the room.
The bishop processed to the bedroom, the secretary following and explaining what he had done, what they had done. “I cannot understand the antagonism, my lord, I merely made arrangements based on the information supplied to me from Oxford.”
Bishop Rowley’s voice: “Which seem to have become somewhat garbled on the journey.”
“Yet I obeyed them as best I could, to the letter, my lord ... I cannot understand ...” Outpourings of a man misjudged came to them through the open door as, at the same time, Father Paton divested his master of cope, dalmatic, rochet, pallium, gloves, and miter, layer after layer of embroidered trappings that had employed many needlewomen for many years, all lifted off and folded with infinite care. It took time.