Richart remembered the pigeon message about the tiring woman. This must be her! Herliva! And Jaufré—Heaven shrivel his ballocks—had a firm hold of the creature’s arm as though she was his captive. The malicious whoreson and his bloody-minded timing! Richart stared up at the statue of the Madonna on her wall plinth and sent a prayer for her aid—whatever was needed. He was not going to give Adela up to a cruel death.
She peered through her lashes. They had arrived in some sort of vestry. Aside from Richart’s clenched jaw, she could see an ominous row of empty wall hooks like upturned gallows against the whitewashed walls. The chamber stank of incense, herbs and some heavy perfume that Leonor had dabbed on earlier. Or maybe it was Seguinus’s.
God help her! What would happen now? There was no instruction from the man in whose arms she lay and he was probably as much in a quandary as she was. And she was not sure she cared, the man she had thought she loved just wanted Alys’s lands.
‘This is some tiresome misunderstanding.’ Leonor, highest in rank, had preceded them into the chamber. Declining the only chair, which stood on a spattered cloth next to a pot of gilding, she closed a vestment chest, sat down upon it and invited Richart to set Adela down beside her.
Drooped within the protective curl of Leonor’s arm, Adela was frantic for inspiration. Should she continue as Lady Alys, give pretence of relief in Herliva’s survival? The folds of the comtesse’s veil against her face gave her a chance of opening her eyes a fraction wider. There was a second door at the end of the room. She felt the chiller air of the cloisters seep in as the bishop made sure no one was eavesdropping, then after investigating the chair for tackiness, he seated himself like a judge. His long fingers flexed like pale talons upon the carved lion heads as he angled his eagle nose towards Herliva.
‘What is your name?’ he asked in a voice that promised Hell and damnation to the uncertain.
The woman dropped to her knees before him, head bowed. ‘Herliva, my lord bishop, attendant to Lady Alys.’
‘You accompanied my lady from England?’
‘Yes, my lord bishop, and I have served her ever since her first marriage.’ She turned her head to Richart, pushing back her veil, and the chamber beheld a wound as wide as a smashed plum above her temple. ‘My lord Vicomte, I was present when we were attacked, east of Toulouse, and my poor lady was slain.’
Adela saw convincing disbelief show in his face. ‘I really am in no mind for these lies,’ he declared with a dismissive gesture, then added angrily in Occitan, ‘It’s not this wretched woman who needs questioning but my oh-so-devoted half-brother. Why did you keep this creature back until now, Jaufré? To cause me the maximum humiliation? Did you arrange the ambush?’
‘No! And you’re the one with the lying slut,’ Jaufré said through his teeth.
‘Enough! Later!’ Seguinus raised a hand of peace. ‘Since the attack came in darkness, my good woman,’ he continued, holding Herliva fast beneath his hawk-like stare, ‘it must have been hard to see what was happening with all the panic. How did you manage to survive? Did you hide?’
‘I was nursing two wounded men when the brigands attacked. I scrambled down to flee, but one of the outlaws walloped me such a blow. When I came to my senses later and all was silent, I ran away. As did she, yes, and with my lady’s jewels.’ A bony arm swung in accusation. ‘Her name’s Adela and she was my lady’s laundress.’
‘That’s not true.’ Adela roused herself, glad of Leonor’s supportive arm. ‘I rejoice to see you well, Herliva, but you should not lie. Adela was a hairbraider, a good one, too, and I regret that she is no more.’ If her dilemma had been less dire, she would have laughed aloud at Richart’s sucked-in cheeks, save they were both under the malicious scrutiny of his brother.
‘Liar!’ screeched Herliva. She swivelled back to the bishop. ‘She’s Adela, my lord! A pretender and a thief!’
Adela was at Richart’s mercy. Only a fool would miss the clenched fists, the anger simmering within his skin. ‘Perhaps I—’ she began.
He cut briskly across her. ‘There was no theft,’ he corrected calmly and she released her breath.
The bishop leaned forward. ‘These are serious allegations, woman. We could put you to the question and you know what that might mean.’ Terror immediately usurped the indignation in Herliva’s face and she looked round anxiously at Jaufré to safeguard her. ‘However,’ Seguinus’s hands slammed the wooden lions and he rose to his feet. ‘I do not believe one word of this. My Lady Alys here speaks not only Norman French but Latin. Place this woman in custody!’
‘No, no,’ Herliva screeched. ‘God be my witness, I’m telling the truth.’
‘Be calm!’ Jaufré admonished, grabbing hold of her arms from behind, and as Herliva’s shrieks changed to sobs, he added, ‘Let her swear upon the Gospels, Uncle. Clearly, one of these women is a liar.’
There was a hiss of anger from Seguinus. ‘This is not the time, nephew! Take her through to my house and lock her in the souterrain. Make sure she speaks with no one, and then we will expect you to explain yourself.’
‘Yes, beloved brother,’ growled Richart. ‘Why did you keep her back until now?’
‘You forget there’s another witness,’ snarled Jaufré. ‘Père Arbert—’
‘Is almost blind and no doubt the ambush cudgelled what’s left of his wits,’ finished Seguinus.
‘Do as our uncle says!’ Richart ordered, his chin arrogantly tilted. His expression was murderous. ‘Volpil bastart! Go!’
With ill grace, Jaufré pushed the protesting woman out the door to the cloisters.
Adela straightened as the latch fell behind them. ‘Herliva is an ill-spirited woman and I never liked her, but I will not stand by and see her tortured.’ Neither Richart nor his uncle appeared to have heard her. Only the comtesse put an arm about her shoulders and gave a reassuring hug. ‘Let them deal with this.’
Should she tell the truth? ‘My lords,’ she began, but Seguinus, with his gaze fixed on Richart, flicked imperious fingers to hush her. ‘My lord nephew, until we have these charges looked into further, I think it is best that you delay your vows and proclaim to the people that Lady Alys has been taken ill.’
‘And why should I do that?’
‘Because the good name of our family is being called into question.’
‘But, for the good of the people—’
‘What, this … this flimsy agreement you have with John Plantagenet?’ scoffed the bishop, and involving the comtesse, he added, ‘You will have to pardon my outspokenness with my nephew, madame, but “the good of the people” would be better served if my nephew were to join the crusade, as my lord your husband has done!’
Beside Adela, the comtesse tensed.
‘Yes, we all know your opinion, Uncle.’ Richart turned away in fury, his fists upon his belt.
Beyond the thick stone walls, Adela could hear the jeers of a crowd fermenting into riot. There would be vulnerable children in that press of people and this was all her fault. With a murmur of thanks to Leonor, she followed Richart to the window. No longer would she presume to put a hand upon his arm, but perhaps she could make amends. ‘My lord, I beg you to order a covered dray to be brought to a side entrance for me.’
Troubled eyes looked down at her and she could see he understood. ‘And will that serve the greater good?’ he asked cryptically and cast his gaze upwards. ‘Merde! What a cursed mess!’
‘Perhaps that’s your cousin come,’ the comtesse remarked as they heard men’s voices beyond the cathedral door. The hubbub of the restless congregation rumbled across the threshold as Tibaut strode in.
‘Phew!’ he muttered, leaning back against the boards and shaking his fingers with a scalded gesture. ‘A lot of champing at the bit going on out there.’ Then, scanning their tense faces, he asked, ‘So, what am I to tell the lowly and unwashed?’
Seguinus drew breath but Richart forestalled him. ‘Arrange for a chareta to be brought to our uncle’s hall to c
onvey my lady hence! I am about to proclaim that she has been taken ill.’
‘And has she?’ Tibaut asked, eyeing Adela without concern as he mopped his brow with the back of his glove.
‘Yes, if I say so,’ barked Richart with a steely side glare at his uncle. ‘And inform the captain of the guard to pass the word to our sergeants that I want no bloodshed.’
‘But the people do, Richart.’ Seguinus calmly removed his stola and draped it over the chair back. ‘The human dogs of Mirascon want feeding.’ He looked across at Tibaut. ‘I suggest you carry word to Sir Henri to haul the brigands out into the marketplace and hang them!’
Adela gasped. She, too, wanted the murderers of Lady Alys punished, but were these captives responsible? Surely the accused men’s depositions should be taken under oath?
Richart clearly shared her misgivings. ‘Without a lawful hearing?’ he exclaimed at his uncle. ‘And you a man of God!’
Tibaut sniffed. ‘But remember that riot we had last year when the mob set fire to the houses of the alien merchants in Rue Saint-Sauveur and several infants were trampled? I tell you, cousin, this lot are like a haystack about to ignite.’
The nod of agreement was wrenched out of Richart. ‘Oh, Devil’s balls! Do as he says, Tib. Go!’
‘Oh, well done, my lord,’ applauded the bishop as Sir Tibaut rattled out. ‘That wasn’t too difficult, was it? Of course, some improvisation will be necessary.’
Improvisation? Slick-tongued viper! He might have been discussing an order for candles.
The comtesse, clearly aware of the insects of dislike and provocation buzzing between Holy Church and temporal power, rose to her feet. ‘Then, is it certain there is no handfasting today?’
‘My dear lady,’ began Seguinus, but Richart forestalled him with a bitter answer: ‘Instead of a wedding, we are to have a hanging.’
‘Not quite to my taste, dear friend.’
‘Nor mine, my lady, but the prepared feast for our guests can still take place if the kitchen hasn’t overcooked everything by now. I pray you, Uncle, take Lady Alys through to your house!’ The Lord of Mirascon still held the reins. Like a farewelling traveller anxious to be gone, he gave a curt nod to her. His courteous arm was offered to Leonor.
The lady, bless her, delayed to bestow a fond embrace. ‘I shall see you at the castle, Alys dear.’
The castle? And then what?
Left alone with Seguinus in the room’s silence, she trembled inwardly as she met the bishop’s slow, cold smile. He gestured to the outer door.
‘Let us go, shall we? This way, Adela.’
Chapter Nineteen
Clergue se fan pastor
Et son aucizedor!
E par de gran sanctor
Qui los vei revestir.
Clergy pass for shepherds,
Yet they are murderers,
And they seem so holy,
Robed in their vestments.
Clergue se fan pastor by Peire Cardinal
Adela made a pretence of amusement. It was Seguinus’s crooked sense of humour, wasn’t it? However, he was locking the vestment chamber door behind him and his huge shadow was dwarfing hers as he ushered her along the north side of the cloister. Halfway down, a postern opened onto a herb garden. A rabbit far from its warren would have understood the spasm of shivery fear between her shoulder blades as she stepped onto the path.
‘Perhaps you would care to wilt now,’ Seguinus suggested, taking her arm as they reached the postern to the forecourt of his hall.
‘Wilt, my lord?’
‘Droop. Like this!’ The droll slump of shoulders and tilt of head surprised her. ‘A charming flowerhead, her life over,’ he explained further. Yes, she could appreciate the logic in upholding Richart’s stratagem, but she did not like the sound of ‘over’.
‘Is this quite necessary?’
‘Possibly not since my servants are trustworthy. However, the gossip of this day’s mischief will no doubt …’ His gloved hands spread meaningfully.
‘Of course.’ The honour of the family. Pretend to be ill. So she drooped, allowing him to half support her as they crossed to the steps of the logement. Two lay servants ran down to assist and Seguinus, with the fastidious repugnance of a pure churchman, instantly relinquished her to their care. It was not to be the cellar, she realised with relief, as she was helped upstairs to a spacious receiving chamber that smelled of last night’s candles.
‘Somewhere to wait,’ Seguinus said, indicating they should lead her to a narrow, cushioned settle. ‘Refreshment will be brought to you.’ Then he and his servants withdrew. No key was turned to lock her in. With a whoosh of relieved breath and a prayer of gratitude, she leaned back and crossed herself, thankful she was not confronted with Herliva. By now Richart would be riding with his guests back to the castle, Sir Tibaut would arrive soon and then, whatever happened, it would be God’s will.
No distracting tapestries softened the austerity of the walls, only a wooden cross, half a span high, bearing the image of a very tormented Christ. If it was supposed to remind the bishop of Christian principles such as humility and compassion when he sat dealing with his correspondence at the table opposite, she doubted Seguinus bothered to observe it.
She unpinned the chaplet from her head and set it beside her. In happier circumstances, she would have also toed off the embroidered shoes, but she must be ready to leave. If only Sir Tibaut would hurry.
Close at hand was a stand bearing a large book, presumably Seguinus’s current study. She inspected the leather cover with its tooling of gold. Not the Holy Gospels. Mind, that might be easily remedied; if Seguinus wanted her to swear to being Lady Alys, he would find a copy.
The building was quiet around her. No sound of any arrival. The chariot should come soon. Every moment felt prolonged, tortured to greater intensity. Was this Seguinus’s purpose, to tighten her to snapping point? What if … She was becoming concerned again. Richart had let her live, but surely he must be unwilling to carry this deception further. God pardon her, she had tried not to lie.
Plaintive buzzing summoned her to the window. A desperate bee was futilely flinging itself against the thick glass. ‘O Sweet Christ!’ she exclaimed, her hand freezing as she grasped the handle of the window light. Below on the sill lay a flagellation whip, dark with dried blood. If Seguinus made his own body bleed in the name of God, what would he do to the heretics? Or Herliva?
The bee pleaded for release. ‘At least you shall have liberty, you busy creature.’ The insect squeezed through the gap, but the window light would not open further though she thrust hard and the feeling of being trapped returned. Growing frantic, she looked around for something she could conceal as a weapon and then she saw it—a scabbarded dagger placed in the wide space between the two neat piles of documents on the bishop’s table. Not left there, more like carefully arranged, just like a chalice upon an altar, as though it was waiting for a ritual to begin. Waiting, why? Her fingers reached out. She could take her life now. Better than being broken on the wheel or burned to death.
Behind her, she heard the rustle of stiff cloth. ‘Are you afraid?’ Seguinus asked.
‘Should I be?’
‘Yes. All men fear death.’
She sensed him move from the threshold and, biting her lip, turned, watched him stand aside as a servant carried in a flagon and two goblets. At the bishop’s nod, the man filled them, carried one across to her, served his master, then withdrew. The serenity of the commonplace left her at odds with the guile in the churchman’s eyes. There was no holiness there. It was like facing the flicking tongue of a serpent.
An odd smell to the vapour of the wine made Adela hesitate, but Seguinus seemed not to notice. ‘For the good of Mirascon!’ he declared and watched her over the rim as he tasted his.
‘To the health of my lord,’ she added and drank.
He observed the open window. ‘You should be out there with them, shouldn’t you?’
‘Whom?’
>
‘Why, the brigands who murdered your mistress. That lovely back hurdled and flogged, running with blood. Your slender legs broken on the wheel. And that beautiful neck.’ Already, she could feel his long fingers fastening round her throat.
‘Oh, stop it, Seguinus,’ she said wearily, taking a further sip of wine. ‘I know you are set against this alliance, but to bribe Herliva to accuse me is very low. I’ll not allow you to torture her.’
‘In vino veritas, I believe you once said to me.’ She watched him raise the wine cup to his lips again. ‘The story is thus. You will go down to question your tiring woman—or fellow servant, perhaps I should say. She will attack you with a knife, wounding you fatally and then one of my servants will rush in and slay her. That’s roughly the report that your betrothed requires. Two chickens, one knife! Lord Richart needs your death.’
Dear God, was he in earnest?
‘Sounds utterly implausible to me,’ she laughed, relying on the wine to steady her nerves. ‘Besides,’ she continued, moving so the table was between them. ‘I think you would prefer me to take my own life.’
‘It would be convenient for Mirascon if you could.’
Would Lady Alys pout now? ‘But, my lord,’ she simpered, ‘Sir Tibaut will be here shortly.’
‘Ah, the reliable cousin.’ Seguinus’s smile hinted he was impressed. ‘Well, maybe you are right and I am teasing you. You’re a very clever woman, Adela.’
‘You truly think I’m a hairbraider?’ she questioned with feigned astonishment. ‘I really do feel insulted.’
‘You can feel whatever you like.’
She took another gulp of wine. There might still be time to gull him, keep him talking, make a bargain.
‘You asked me to be your ally, my lord bishop,’ she purred flirtatiously, skimming her hand along the table’s edge, the weapon within her reach, ‘but you haven’t given me a chance to prove my usefulness yet.’
‘Haven’t I?’
Troubadour Page 27
