The Serpent's Tale

  They said good-bye at the foot of the guesthouse steps.

  Unbelievably tired, Adelia dragged herself up, taking the last rise gingerly as she always did, now with the memory of an event that hadn’t happened but in which, constantly, she watched a cradle tumble over the edge.

  She stopped. The door was slightly open, and it was dark inside. Even if her little household had gone to sleep, a taper was always left burning for her—and the door was never left open.

  She was reassured by Ward coming to greet her, the energetic wag of his tail releasing more odor than usual. She went in.

  The door was shut behind her. An arm encircled her chest, a hand clamped itself across her mouth. “Quietly now,” somebody whispered. “Guess who.”

  She didn’t need to guess. Frantically, she wriggled around in the imprisoning arms until she faced the man, the only man.

  “You bastard,” she said.

  “True, to an extent,” he said, picking her up. He chucked her onto the nearest bed and planted himself on top of her. “Ma and Pa married eventually, I remember exactly, I was there.”

  There wasn’t time to laugh—though, with his mouth clamped onto hers, she did.

  Not dead—deliciously living, the smell of him so right, he was rightness, everything was right now that he was here. He moved her to the very soul and very, very much to her innards, which turned liquid at his touch. She’d been parched for too long.

  Their bodies pumping like huge wings took them higher and higher on a flight into cataclysmic air and then folded into the long, pulsing drop to a truckle bed in a dark, cold room.

  When the earth stopped rocking and settled, she wriggled from underneath him and sat up.

  “I knew you were nearby,” she said. “Somehow, I knew.”

  He grunted.

  She was energized, as if he had been a marvelous infusion bringing her body back to life.

  She wondered if there would be another baby, and the thought made her happy.

  Her lover had relapsed into postcoital inertia. She jabbed a finger into his back. “Where’s Allie? Where are Gyltha and Mansur?”

  “I sent them to the kitchens, the servants are having a revel.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  So that she could look at him, she got up and stumbled for the table, felt around, pinched some tinder out of its box, struck a flint, and lit a taper at its flame.

  He was thin, oh, bless him, but beautiful. In trousers —now down around his hocks—like a peasant, his face smeared with what looked like tree bark.

  “A wren hunter,” she said, delighted. “You came in with the wren hunters. Has Henry come?”

  “Had to get in somehow. Thank God it’s Saint Stephen’s Day, or I’d have had to climb the bloody wall.”

  “How did you know we’d be at Godstow?”

  “With the river freezing? Where else would you be?” He wasn’t responding properly. “We could be dead,” she pointed out. “We nearly were.”

  He sat up. “I was in the trees,” he said, “watched you skating. Very graceful, a little shaky on the turns, perhaps ... By the saints, that’s a bonny baby, isn’t she?”

  Our baby, Adelia thought. She’s our bonny baby.

  She punched his shoulder, not altogether playfully. “Damn you, Rowley. I suffered, I thought you were dead.”

  “I knew that bit of the Thames,” he said, “that’s why I got off, belongs to Henry, part of Woodstock forest; there’s a river keeper close by—I’d baptized his child for him. I made for his cottage, wasn’t easy but I got there.” He sat up suddenly. “Now then ... what’s to do here?”

  “Rowley, I suffered.”

  “No need. The keeper took me to Oxford—we used snowshoes. Bloody place was teeming with rebels, every bastard that had fought for Stephen and suffered for it was in arms and flying Eleanor’s standard or Young Henry’s. We had to bypass the town and make for Wallingford instead. Always a royal stronghold, Wallingford. The FitzCounts held it for the empress during the war. I knew the king’d go there first.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Jesus save me, but it was hard going.”

  “Serves you right,” she said. “Did you find the king? Is he here?”

  “More that he found me, really. I was laid up at Wallingford with a rheum in the chest, I damn near died. What I needed was a doctor.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t attend,” she said tartly.

  “Yes, well, at least I could keep an eye on the river from there. And sure enough, he came, and a fleet of boats with him.” Rowley shook his head in wonder. “He was in Touraine, putting down Young Henry’s rebellion, when he heard about Rosamund. God punish that boy, now he’s joined with Louis of France against his own father. Louis, I ask you.” Rowley’s fists went to the sides of his head in disbelief. “We all knew he was an idiot, but who’d have dreamed the treacherous little whelp would go to his father’s greatest enemy for aid?”

  He leaned forward. “And Eleanor had urged him to do it. Do you know that? Our spies told us. Urged their son against his father.”

  “I don’t care,” she told him. “I don’t care what they do. What is happening now?”

  But she couldn’t shift him. He was still with Henry Plantagenet, who had captured two Touranian castles from the Young King’s supporters before making tracks for England with a small army in the heaviest winter in years.

  “How he did it I don’t know. But here he comes, up the Thames, trailing boats full of men behind him. Did I tell you he was rowing? The barge crew weren’t going fast enough for the bugger, and there he was, pulling at an oar like a pirate and swearing the sky black.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “On his way.” There was a pause. “He wants to see you.”

  “Does he?”

  “Sent me to fetch you. Wants to know if it was Eleanor that did for Rosamund. I said you’d be able to tell him yea or nay.”

  “Great God,” she said. “Is that why you’ve come?”

  “I’d have come anyway. I was worried about leaving you ... but I should’ve known you were safe enough.” He cocked his head, sucking his teeth as if in admiration at her capacity for survival. “God kept you in His hand. I asked Him to.”

  “‘Safe enough’?” It was a screech. “You left me to die in an open boat.” He had to hush her. She went on more quietly. “‘Safe enough’? We’ve been cooped up with killers, your daughter, all of us. There’s been murder done here, betrayal ... weeks, weeks I’ve been afraid ... for Allie, for all of us ... weeks.” She scrubbed the tears off her cheeks with her fists.

  “Ten days, it was,” he said gently. “I left you ten days ago.” He was on his feet, pulling up his trousers, adjusting his shirt. “Get dressed and we’ll go.”

  “Go where?”

  “To Henry. I said he wants to see you.”

  “Without Allie? Without Gyltha and Mansur?”

  “We can hardly take them with us; I’ve found a path through the snow, but it’ll be rough traveling, even on horses, and I only brought two.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” It was a sigh. “I was afraid of this. I told the king. ‘She won’t come without the child,’ I said.” He made it sound like a whim.

  She’d had enough. “Will you tell me? Where is Henry?”

  “Oxford, at least that’s where he was heading.” “Why isn’t he here?”

  “Look,” he said reasonably, “Godstow’s a side issue.

  The important thing is Oxford. Henry’s sending young Geoffrey Fitzroy up here with a small force, it shouldn’t need more—Mansur says Wolvercote and Schwyz have few men. Henry’s not arriving in person ...” She saw the flash of a grin. “I don’t think our good king trusts himself to meet Eleanor face-to-face; he might run her through. Anyway, it’s somewhat embarrassing to arrest one’s own wife.”

  “When? When will this Geoffrey come?” “Tomorrow. That’s if I can get back to guide him and tell him the placements
here—make sure he doesn’t kill the wrong people.”

  He will do it, she thought. He will track back through this dreadful countryside, disgruntled because I won’t leave our daughter behind but assured that she and I will be safe enough. He is all maleness and bravery, like his damn king, and we understand each other not at all.

  Well, she thought, he is what he is, and I love him.

  But a chill was growing; there was new strange-ness; she’d thought it was the old Rowley back—and for a while, gloriously, it had been, but there was constraint. He talked with the remembered insouciance yet didn’t look at her. He’d put out a hand to wipe the tears from her face, then withdrawn it.

  She said, because she was impelled to, “Do you love me?”

  “Too much, God help me,” he said. “Too much for my soul. I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “Done what?”

  “Almighty God forgive me. I promised, I swore an oath that if He kept you safe, I would abstain from you, I would not lead you to sin again. It was touching you that did it. I want you too much. Feeling you was ... too much.”

  “What am I? Something to be given up for Lent?”

  “In a way.” His voice had become measured, a bishop’s. “My dear, every Sunday I have to preach against fornication in one church or another, hearing my own exhortation mingling with God’s whisper, ‘You are a hypocrite, you lust for her, you are damned and she is damned.’”

  “Much to be said for hypocrisy,” she said dully. She began dragging on her clothes.

  “You must see. I can’t have you punished for my sin. I left you to God. I made a bargain with Him. ‘While she is safe, Lord, I am Your servant in all things.’ I swore the oath in the king’s presence, to seal it.” He sighed. “And now look what I’ve gone and done.”

  She said, “I don’t care if it is sin.”

  “I do,” he said heavily. “I’d have married you, but no, you would keep your independence. So Henry had his bishop. But a bishop, don’t you see? A keeper of other people’s souls. His own, yours ...”

  Now he looked at her. “Adelia, it matters. I thought it would not, but it does. Beyond the panoply and the choirs—you wouldn’t believe the singing that goes on—there is a still, small voice ... nagging. Say you understand.”

  She didn’t. In a world of hatred and killing, she did not understand a God who regarded love as a sin. Nor a man who obeyed that deity.

  He was raising his hand as if about to make the sign of the cross over her. She hit it. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “Don’t you dare bless me.”

  “All right.” He began struggling into his clothes. “Listen to me, though. When Geoffrey attacks, before he attacks, you’re to go to the cloister—he’ll keep the fighting away from there. Take Allie and the others. I’ve told Walt to make sure you get there ...‘She’s important to the king,’ I said.”

  She didn’t listen. She’d never been able to compete with Henry Plantagenet; for sure she wouldn’t be able to outrival God. It was winter, after all. To an extent, for her now, it always would be.

  Like a fishhook in the mind, something dragged her attention away from despair. She said, “You told Walt?”

  “Mansur fetched him here while I was waiting ... Where have you been, by the way?”

  “You told Walt,” she said.

  “And Oswald—they didn’t know where Jacques was, nor Paton, but I told them to spread the word, I want all my men ready—they’ll need to get to the gates and open them to Geoffrey ...”

  “Dear Christ,” she said.

  Ward was snarling softly.

  She almost tripped as she made for the door so that she slammed against it. She slid the bolt across, then put her ear to the wood and listened. They wouldn’t have long, only the grace of God had allowed the two of them this long. “How were you going to get out?”

  “Cross the gatekeeper’s palm with silver. What is it?”

  “Shssh.”

  The sound of boots running through the slush of the alley. “They’re coming for you. Oh, God. Oh, God.”

  “Window,” he said. He crossed the floor and jerked the shutters open so that moonlight lit the chamber.

  Window, yes.

  They dragged blankets off the bed and knotted them together. As they slung them out of the window, the assault on the door began. “Open. Open up.” Ward hurled himself at it, barking.

  Rowley tied the blanket rope round the mullion and heaved back on it to test it. “After you, mistress.”

  She was always to remember the polite quirk of his hand as at an invitation to dance. “I can’t,” she said. “They won’t hurt me. It’s you.”

  He glanced down and then back at her. “I have to go. I’ve got to guide them in.”

  “I know.” The door was being assaulted; it wasn’t a strong door, it would give any minute. “Do it, then,” she hissed.

  He grinned, took a falchion from his belt, and gave it to her. “See you tomorrow.”

  As he reached the parapet, she tried to undo the knot around the mullion and then, because it was too tight, began sawing at it with the blade, glancing out every other second. She saw him make for the nearest crenel and jump, cloak flying. It was deep snow, a soft enough landing for him. But could he get to the steps?

  He had. As, behind her, the door splintered and a dreadful yelp came out of Ward’s throat, she saw her man skidding across the ice like a boy.

  She was thrown to one side. Schwyz roared, “There he is. Opposite bank. Loso. Johannes.”

  Two men leaped for the door. Another took Schwyz’s place at the window, frantically winding a crossbow, his foot in its stirrup. He aimed, loosed. “Ach, scheiss.” He looked at Schwyz. “Nein.”

  Adelia closed her eyes, then opened them. There was another step on the outside landing.

  A giant figure bowed its head to get through the door and looked calmly around. “Perhaps it would be better if we relieved Mistress Adelia of her dagger.”

  She wouldn’t have used it on a human being in any case. She handed it over, hilt first, to the Abbot of Eynsham, who had written the letters for Rosamund to copy and send to the queen, and then had her killed.

  He thanked her, and she went down on her knees to attend to Ward, where he had crawled under one of the beds. As she felt the kicked and broken rib, he looked at her with self-pitying eyes. She patted him. “You’ll live,” she said. “Good dog. Stay here.”

  Politely, the abbot held her cloak for her while she put it on, then her hands were tied behind her back and a gag put in her mouth.

  They took her to the gatekeeper’s lodge.

  There was nobody else about; the abbey had gone to bed. Even if she’d been able to shout for help, nobody at this end of the convent would have heard her—or come to her rescue if they had. Master and Mistress Bloat were not on her side. Lawyer Warin most definitely was not. There was no sign of Wolvercote’s men, but they wouldn’t have helped her, either.

  The great gates were open, but all activity was centered in the lodge chamber that led off the porch, where Schwyz’s men hurried to and fro.

  They pushed Adelia inside. Fitchet was dead on the floor, his throat cut. Father Paton lay alongside him, coughing out some of his teeth.

  She slid to kneel beside the priest. Beneath the bruises, his face showed indignation. “Kep’ hi’n me,” he said. “Too le’ers.” He tried harder. “Took the lett-ers.”

  Men were fastening hoods and cloaks, collecting weapons into bundles, emptying Fitchet’s food cupboard, and rounding up some frightened hens into a crate.

  “Did our worthy gatekeeper possess such a thing as wine?” The abbot asked. “No? Tut, tut, how I loathe ale.” He sat on a stool, watching the bustle, fingering the huge cross on his chest.

  The two mercenaries who had chased after Rowley came in, panting. “He had horses.”

  “Siech. That ends it, then. We go.” Schwyz took hold of the pinion round Adelia’s hands and jerked her to her feet with a
n upward pull that nearly displaced her shoulders. He dragged her over to the abbot. “We don’t need her, let me kill the whore.”

  “Schwyz, my dear, good Schwyz.” Eynsham shook his great head. “It seems to have escaped your notice that at this moment, Mistress Adelia is the most valuable object in the convent, the king’s desire for her company being such that he sends a bishop to collect her—whether for her sexual prowess or such information as she may possess is yet to be determined. She is our trump card, my dear, the Atalantean golden apple that we may have to throw behind us to delay pursuit ...” He reflected. “We might even appease the king by handing her back to him, should he catch up with us ... yes ... that is a possibility.”

  Schwyz had no time for this. “Do we take her or not?”

  “We do.”

  “And the priest?”

  “Well, there I fear we must be less forgiving.

  Master Paton’s possession of the letters is unfortunate. He has evidence I would not wish king or queen to hear, even supposing he could voice it, which—”

  “Christ’s eyes, do I finish him?”

  “You do.”

  “Nnnnnn.” Adelia threw herself forward. Schwyz pulled her back.

  “I know, I know.” The abbot nodded. “These things are upsetting, but I have no wish to lose the queen’s esteem, and I fear Father Paton could disabuse her of it. Did you provide him with my text on which dear Rosamund based her letters? Of course you did. What an enterprising little soul you are.”

  He was talking. He’d condemned the priest to death and he was talking, amused.

  “Since I stand in high regard with our blessed Eleanor, it would be—what is the word?—inconvenient if she knew I was the goad that pricked her into further rebellion. In view of my desertion, she might tell Henry. As it is, she will be informed of a murderous intruder to the abbey, d’ye see, and that we, the good Schwyz and myself, are in brave pursuit to stop him before he reaches the king’s lines. In fact, of course, we are leaving the lady to her inevitable fate; the snow has proved too much for us, the amiable Lord Wolvercote too little ... As Master Schwyz says of that gentleman in his rough way—he couldn’t fight a sack of shit.”