“No, mistress.”
“No, I didn’t think you did. Damn them, those bitch… those blasted females have taken it to spite me.”
Boggart considered. “Don’t think as they can have, mistress. It was there when they all went in. I saw it. Ain’t nobody left to come outside since.”
In bed that night, Adelia lay awake for a while wondering who in the abbey was a thief, and why, out of all the jewelry on the table, he-or she-had stolen the one of least monetary value.
Well, with Allie waiting for her, time was of the essence and to make a fuss would only delay the morning’s start while a search was made and people questioned, as well as make her even less popular than she was.
Yawning, she decided she would just have to employ another silversmith when she reached Sicily
But the night was not over…
This time the screams came from the gardens overlooked by the monastery’s guesthouse windows.
This time they were terrible.
This time they were Boggart’s.
There was a resentful mutter of “Sir Nicholas slipped his leash again” from one of the other women as Adelia ran for a cloak. Downstairs, she tugged back the bolts on the door and hurled herself into the garden.
In the middle of the lawn, Sir Nicholas’s substantial and palpitating body was humped over Boggart’s feet. His hands gripped her ankles so that moonlight threw the shadow of the girl’s and man’s figures onto the grass in the shape of a monstrous crochet, except for where a small dog tugged at the seat of the man’s robe.
It would have been the scene of comedy if Boggart’s mouth hadn’t been contorted into a white O of horror and the screams pumping from it weren’t those of a soul in remembered torment.
Adelia joined Ward in tugging at Sir Nicholas’s robe-just as uselessly; the knight was fixed and oblivious. She tried kicking him. “Leave her alone, curse you,” she yelled, “Curse you, you horrid old man, leave her alone.”
Later, she was to recall the sound of laughter coming from the guesthouse windows, but she knew then, and afterward, that this wasn’t ridiculous; something terrible was happening.
She threw herself on the man and reached round his face for his eyes, digging her fingers into them. Even then, he shook his head like a bull so that her nails merely scraped the skin of his cheeks. But somebody was lifting her and Ward to one side while somebody else with more strength than she had was dragging the great bulk away from Boggart’s feet and throwing it onto its back on the grass.
She had a glimpse of the knight’s face, unrecognizably loose and vacant, before his squire and another man hefted him to his feet and carried him away
Rowley was trying to comfort Boggart. “There, there, my dear. No need to be frightened; he has these turns, they don’t mean anything. No harm done.” She flinched away from him as he tried to touch her.
“Ask her if there’s harm done,” Adelia spat at him. She picked up the shivering Ward and put him in Boggart’s arms. Then, with her hand on the girl’s shoulder, she urged her toward a stone bench in the shadow of an arbor.
Rowley followed, at a loss. “Can I do anything?”
“No,” Adelia told him. “We’re going to sit here quietly for a while.”
He sat with them, next to Adelia, while on the other side Boggart gasped at something they couldn’t see. The girl was holding Ward so tightly that the tremors wracking her body were making him shake with her.
On the far side of the lawn, most of the shutters of the guesthouse were closing; entertainment over.
“Well, at least he left both her shoes this time,” Rowley said, trying for lightness.
Adelia looked down at Boggart’s shoes. She’d bought them for her in Caen, with another pair and some riding boots, to replace the hulking, hobnailed clogs-a man’s, and far too big for her-that she’d been wearing in Southampton. The girl had clutched the new shoes as she was clutching Ward now, and for along time couldn’t be persuaded to wear them in case they were sullied. Eventually, Adelia had taken the clogs and thrown them away
These were sullied now; the little ribbons that laced the sides had been mouthed so that they trailed limp and wet.
“Why does he do it?” Adelia asked. “What possible… why?”
“I don’t know.” Rowley paused. “She’s been attacked before, hasn’t she?”
“I think so.”
“I’m sorry.” He patted Adelia’s hand and stood up. “She won’t want me around, then.”
“No.”
For a moment, watching him walk reluctantly away, Adelia was overcome by her fortune in being loved by him. He was a man with failings, as all men had failings-as she was an imperfect woman-but his humanity concealed no clefts in which lay hidden monsters like that of Sir Nicholas; it went clean to the core.
We must both do better by Allie, she thought, she needs the two of us. We must do it together.
Boggart, staring straight ahead, began talking. “My fault,” she was saying. “This un…” She clutched Ward harder. “His poor little belly were upset by summat so I reckoned to walk him… My silly fault. I thought as he was a kindly gent’man. I smiled at him. Silly to make a fuss, no harm done, my fault…”
“Boggart,” Adelia said. She put out a hand to the girl’s face, to turn it toward hers. “You listen to me. This was not your fault. It’s happened to others. Sir Nicholas is one of those men that has a demon caged inside him. Drink lets it loose. He attacked you, but it could have been anybody, any woman at all. It could have been me. You’re no more at fault than… than a tree hit by lightning.”
“Ain’t I?”
“No.”
“Tha’s good, then.” She sounded doubtful.
“Boggart. Something happened to you. Before this, I mean. Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m all right, mistress. Really I am.”
“No, you’re not. It might help if you told me.”
If Boggart was going to, the moment went. Somebody was approaching them from across the garden; Mistress Blanche was walking carefully, so as not to spill a mug in her hand.
She said: “I thought the child might need a pick-me-up. The kitchener gave me some milk. I’ve put some brandy in it.”
Adelia had to untwine Boggart’s hands from Ward’s fur and, even then, hold the mug to her lips.
In her perfect enunciation, the lady-in-waiting said: “It’s never nice, this sort of thing, but men are strange cattle. After all, he did her no harm. One just has to get over it.”
Adelia looked up sharply, but the woman had taken thought and trouble for Boggart. There was humanity here, too; even fellow feeling.
“She’s blaming herself I suppose,” Mistress Blanche said.
“Yes.”
“One always does. Tell her not to.”
It was an admission so unexpected and revealing, such an unbending, that Adelia instinctively put out her hand.
Mistress Blanche didn’t take it; there were to be no all-women-together confessions. “I was concerned for the girl,” she said. “And so should you be. She’s getting cold.”
Together, they got Boggart to her feet and took her back to the guesthouse.
FROM A WINDOW Scarry has been watching them, laughing a little.
He has been holding a silver necklet with a cross in his hand. Now he drops it carefully down a crack between two uneven floorboards.
WHEN ADELIA TOLD ROWLEY about the loss of her necklet, he was concerned. “I don’t like you not to be wearing a cross.”
“Why?”
“Every other woman has one; it singles you out.”
Adelia shrugged. “I’m singled out already.”
For a moment he looked into her eyes. “You are for me,” he said.
When Ulf heard of the theft, he, too, became thoughtful.
“Funny that,” he said. “Lord Ivo’s squire told me as how somebody’s been rummagin’ in the luggage packs. Nothing taken, though.”
�
�Why, do you think?”
“Lookin’ for this, p’raps.” Ulf patted the wooden cross poking out from his mule’s saddlebag.
“That cannot be,” Mansur said. “If a thief is after the sword, he would search for it in the treasure chests, not luggage.”
“Would he, though, would he? Iffen he’s clever, he’d reckon as how the king’d know them chests’d be the first to be raided in an attack and he’d reckon old Henry would’ve hidden you-know-what somewhere else.”
Ulf’s childhood had introduced him to the criminal mind, but this was too subtle for Adelia: “If it’s the same thief and if he took my necklace instead of the ladies’ diamonds, he’s not as clever as all that.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Admiral O’Donnell coming up on his magnificent bay, accompanied by Deniz on a donkey. When those two men weren’t taking the rare opportunity, for seamen, of joining Sir Nicholas and Lord Ivo in a hunt, they spent a good deal of the time riding alongside Mansur.
Deniz said never a word, but his master persisted in asking the Arab about his native customs, telling stories of Ireland and seafaring to Adelia, and questioning Ulf about the Cambridgeshire fenlands. In fact, Ulf particularly seemed to intrigue him.
“Now isn’t that the interesting young man,” said O’Donnell, watching Ulf ride away to join his group. “A friend of yours?”
“As are all the pilgrims, I hope,” Adelia returned.
“Not your usual pilgrim, though, wouldn’t you say?”
“Is he not?” Adelia said, feigning boredom. “What’s different about him?”
“Ah, well, I can’t put me finger on it exactly… a certain lack of holy zeal, maybe. I’d say he lacks the sense of mysterium tremendum that most of them have, would you not agree?”
“I think he suspects Ulf of not being a real pilgrim,” Adelia told Mansur grimly, after the Irishman had gone. “Why can’t the blasted man leave us alone? I’m beginning to wonder if he’s looking for Excalibur.”
“It is for you that he joins us, I think,” Mansur said.
“Nonsense, he’s prying.”
The Arab shrugged. “We have given nothing away.”
But Adelia was left with the feeling that, somehow, they had.
“Lupus, MEO CARO, I have found Excalibur, I thinh. Henry gave it to his creature and she, with wily subterfuge, has it concealed, arte perire sua. The stinking cur that is always with her leaps on the youthful pilgrim with a rapture he shows to no one else except her Saracen and her maladroit maid. They are connected. Also the boy is never without the rough cross he carries. Does it rattle if shaken, I wonder? I believe it does.
Richard shall have it and make us rich as he promised. Let him create havoc with it, let him use it to kill his father, for that is what he secretly wishes. Our main purpose lies elsewhere.
PROGRESS SLOWED WHEN they joined the broad highway leading toward Aquitaine, for this was the main westerly route to the Pyrenees and the road was crowded with pilgrims on their way to, or coming back from, the great shrine of Saint James at Compostela.
Here was holy zeal a-plenty; the air thrummed with it as well as with a hundred different languages and the smell of unwashed bodies tinged by mugwort, a specific against weariness that most of the pilgrims had tucked into their hats or shoes. Those returning from Spain, limping from their long march, despite the mugwort, wore the apostle’s token of a cockleshell and a look of exaltation. Villagers came out from their houses to beg their blessing or kiss the hands that had touched the sacred tomb.
The ones still on their way to Compostela were mostly rowdier, yelling hallelujahs, praising the Lord that their sins would soon be forgiven, some scourging themselves, some dancing, some clearly demented, some barefoot.
One tatterdemalion group surrounded Joanna’s cart, shouting at her to come with them for the good of her soul. Captain Bolt’s men would have dispersed them with the flat of their swords, but the princess showed her mettle by standing up and throwing coins into the crowd.
“I have made the pilgrimage, good people, and been blessed accordingly Take these alms and may God speed you.”
It was the ones pushing handcarts containing their sick relatives in the expectation that Saint James would cure them who concerned Adelia, and she went among them with her medical bag to try to treat them. In most cases she was waved away: “Thank you kindly, but Saint James’ll mend us when we get to him.”
“Leave them,” Mansur advised. “There are too many of them.”
There were, but she couldn’t bear to abandon them, and he had to force her back on her horse or she would have been left behind.
AT THE NEXT MONASTERY, Scarry watches his victim from a high window.
“There she goes to the courtyard to subsume herself in the pilgrims’ gangrenous flesh. And her lustful bishop with her, ostensibly to give comfort and alms, but in truth to be by her side.
“Yes, I hear you, beloved. We approach Aquitaine. It is time for the killing to begin.”
TWO
Six
THE FIRST TWO KILLINGS appeared to be accidental- and one of them actually was.
The ladies of the party having retired to bed, the Abbot of Saint Benoit’s was sitting late at table with his male guests, and offering them the opportunity to go after boar in an hour or two’s time-boar hunting being best done at night when the male, most dangerous of quarries, leaves his sow and young ones in their lair to patrol the forest, snuffling his snout into the leaf mold and plowing the earth with his great tusks to sharpen them.
As Rowley explained to Adelia later, each man had feasted well but was not too drunk. Sir Nicholas had been watched carefully by his squire, who had seen to it that, when refilling his master’s wine cup, there’d been a good measure of water in it.
The abbot was talking of the grandfather of all boars that had been ruining his sown fields through the winter, not to mention killing two peasants. A worthy adversary at the height of his powers, God love him, the abbot had said. To prove it, he had his huntsman bring to the table such of the brute’s droppings as had been found so that the guests could assess them.
Also, the abbot went on, he owned a pack of boar hounds that were sans pareil and ready for the fray. He was sure the noble lords would wish to see them in action.
“You can imagine it, sweetheart,” Rowley told Adelia, “nearly all the noble lords, and some not so noble, were on their feet in an instant, calling for their horses to be saddled, especially Lord Ivo and Sir Nicholas and, of course, the ubiquitous O’Donnell.” Rowley’s mouth went into the thin line it was beginning to adopt every time the Irishman was mentioned.
He went on: “I tried to restrain Father Adalburt because boar hunting is not for amateurs, but the idiot was squeaking with excitement and couldn’t be persuaded. Locusta-poor lad, he doesn’t get much chance to hunt what with having to act as route master all the time-he wanted to go. Even Father Guy was enthused and said he’d join in, at least to watch.”
The Bishop of Winchester had declined on the grounds of being too old and tired. Rowley, reluctantly had decided to accompany the hunt, mainly he said, to keep his eye on the idiots.
IN THE LITTLE stone lodge in the grounds of the Abbot of Saint Benoît’s house, huntsmen are arming themselves. For this is where the good abbot keeps his spears, lances, crossbows, bolts, arrows and yew bows, his stabbing andgralloching knives.
The men are excited and, as ever when boar is the quarry, a little nervous. Not so the hounds in the kennels next door; they are clamoring to be let out and do what they’ve been bred for.
Somebody chaffs Scarry for picking too slender a spear. “That’ll never get through a tusher’s hide.”
Scarry gives a naive smile. “Won’t it?” But he hefts its weight and takes it all the same.
ADELIA WAS ATTENDING to sick pilgrims in the abbey courtyard as the hunt set off, its blare of trumpets and horns competing with the shouts of the whipper-in, the deep belling of the hounds an
d the rallying cries of riders.
She was in bed asleep when it returned but, like everyone else, was woken by the long note of a horn emerging from the forest sounding the mort, the salute to a dead quarry.
Except that this time it was not announcing the death of an animal…
It was raining. Monks, guests, and pilgrims gathered by the gates to watch the dripping hunt’s return. A weeping abbot walked beside a hastily assembled travois on which lay two bodies.
The corpse of Sir Nicholas Baicer was taken immediately to the Lady Chapel. Lord Ivo, bleeding horribly, was carried to the abbot’s room and laid on its bed.
The boar had indeed proved a worthy adversary; the dogs had found and bayed it; Lord Ivo and the abbot with their squires and huntsmen had dismounted ready for the kill.
But, though hounds were sinking their teeth into almost every part of it, the huge animal managed to charge and gore Lord Ivo in the groin, tossing him into the air, before the abbot’s sword went deep into its eye.
“Only then,” said the abbot, still crying, “didwe notice that Sir Nicholas was not with us, indeed had not been with us when we found the beast. Being moonless, the forest was so dark that I fear many of our following missed their way A search was instituted and at last we came upon Sir Nicholas, lifeless, being dragged by his horse, his poor foot still in its stirrup. Now God forgive me that this tragedy should come upon us… one fine knight injured unto death, another already gone to Paradise and my best boarhound with him. Surely we are accursed.”
With Mansur and Dr. Arnulf giving instruction, Adelia and the abbey’s herbalist did what they could for Lord Ivo.
By general agreement, sphagnum moss was applied to his injuries to cleanse them and stem the blood. But, as Adelia could see, the tusks had gone in too far, his lordship was undoubtedly bleeding internally and to stitch the wounds together would merely cause more agony without extending a life that was inevitably coming to its end.
A Murderous Procession aka The Assassin Page 9
