Building was in progress in the great courtyard. The chatter of gathered clerks was being drowned by an insistent, deafening banging of hammer on wood. A new scaffold was going up in one corner to hold the triple gallows for use in the assizes when the justices in eyre emptied the county’s gaols and tried the cases of those thus brought before them. Almost as high as the nooses would be, a long table and a bench reached by steps were being erected near the castle doors to place the judges above the multitude.
Some of the din faded as Sir Rowley led Adelia and her dog round a corner. Here, sixteen years of royal Plantagenet peace had allowed Cambridgeshire’s sheriffs to throw out an abutment, an attachment to their quarters from which steps led down to this sunken walled garden approached from outside by a gate in an arch.
Inside, going down the steps, it was quieter still, and Adelia could hear the first bees of spring blundering in and out of flowers.
A very English garden, planted for medicine and strewing rather than spectacle. At this time of year, color was lacking except for the cowslips between the stones of the paths and a mere impression of blue where a bank of violets crowded along the bottom of a wall. The scent was fresh and earthy.
“Will this do?” Sir Rowley asked casually.
Adelia stared at him, dumb.
He said with exaggerated patience, “This is the garden of the sheriff and his lady. They have agreed to let Simon be buried in it.” He took her arm and led her down a path to where a wild cherry tree drifted delicate white blossoms over untended grass sprinkled with daisies. “Here, we thought.”
Adelia shut her eyes and breathed in. After a while, she said, “I must pay them.”
“Certainly not.” The tax collector was offended. “When I say that this is the sheriff’s garden, I should more properly call it the king’s, the king being the ultimate owner of England ’s every acre, except those belonging to the Church. And since Henry Plantagenet is fond of his Jews and since I am Henry Plantagenet’s man, it was merely a matter of pointing out to Sheriff Baldwin that by accommodating the Jews, he would also be accommodating the king, which, in another sense, he will-and soon, since Henry is due to visit the castle shortly, another factor I pointed out to his lordship.”
He paused, frowning. “I shall have to press the king for Jewish cemeteries to be put in each town; the lack is a scandal. I cannot believe he’s aware of it.”
No money was involved, then. But Adelia knew whom she should pay. It was time to do it, and do it properly.
She bent her knee to Rowley Picot in a deep bow. “Sir, I am in your debt, not only for this kindness, but for ill suspicion that I have harbored against you. I am truly sorry for it.”
He looked down at her. “What suspicion?”
She grimaced with reluctance. “I believed you might be the killer.”
“Me?”
“You have been on crusade,” she pointed out, “as, I think, has he. You were in Cambridge on the pertinent dates. You were among those near Wandlebury Ring on the night the children’s bodies were moved…” God’s rib, the more she expounded the theory, the more reasonable it seemed; why should she apologize for it? “How else would I think?” she asked him.
He had become statuelike, his blue eyes staring at her, one finger pointing at her in disbelief and then at himself. “Me?”
She became impatient. “I see it was a base suspicion.”
“It damned well was,” he said with force, and startled a robin into flying away. “Madam, I would have you know I like children. I suspect I may have fathered quite a few, even if I can’t claim any. Goddammit, I’ve been hunting the bastard, I told you I was.”
“The killer could have said as much. You did not explain why.”
He thought for a moment. “I didn’t, did I? Strictly speaking, it is nobody’s business except mine and…though in the circumstances…” He stared down at her. “This will be a confidence, madam.”
“I shall keep it,” she said.
There was a turfed seat farther up the garden where young hop leaves formed a tapestry against the brick of the wall. He pointed her to it and then sat beside her, his linked hands cradling one of his knees.
He began with himself. “You should know that I am a fortunate man.” He had been fortunate in his father, who was saddler to the lord of Aston in Hertfordshire and had seen to it that he had schooling, fortunate in the size and strength that made people notice him, fortunate in possessing a keen brain. “You should also know that my mathematical prowess is remarkable, as is my grasp of languages…”
Not backward in coming forward, either, Adelia thought, amused. It was a phrase she’d picked up from Gyltha.
Young Rowley Picot’s abilities had early been recognized by his father’s lord, who had sent him to the School of Pythagoras here in Cambridge where he had studied Greek and Arab sciences and where, in turn, he’d been recommended by his tutors to Geoffrey De Luci, chancellor to Henry II, and taken into his employment.
“As a tax collector?” Adelia asked innocently.
“As a chancery clerk,” Sir Rowley said, “to begin with. Eventually, I came to the attention of the king himself, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Will I proceed with this narrative?” he wanted to know. “Or shall we discuss the weather?”
Chastened, she said, “I beg you to continue, my lord. Truly, I am interested.” Why am I teasing him, she wondered, on this day of all days? Because he makes it bearable for me with everything he does and says.
Oh, dear God, she thought with shock, I am attracted to him.
The realization came like an attack, as if it had been gathering itself in some cramped and secret place inside her and had grown suddenly too big to remain unnoticed any longer. Attracted? Her legs were weak with it, her mind registering intoxication as well as something like disbelief at the improbability and protest at the sheer inconvenience.
He is too light a man for me; not in weight certainly, but in gravitas. This is an infliction, a madness wreaked on me by a garden in springtime and his unsuspected kindness. Or because I am desolate just now. It will pass; it has to pass.
He was talking with animation about Henry II. “I am the king’s man in all things. Today his tax collector, tomorrow-whatever he wants me to be.” He turned to her. “Who was Simon of Naples? What did he do?”
“He was…” Adelia tried to gather her wits “Simon? Well…he worked secretly for the King of Sicily, among others.” She clenched her hands-he must not see that they trembled; he must not see that. She concentrated. “He told me once that he was analogous to a doctor of the incorporeal, a mender of broken situations.”
“A fixer. ‘Don’t worry, Simon of Naples will see to it.’”
“Yes. I suppose that is what he was.”
The man beside her nodded, and because she was now furiously interested in who he was, in everything about him, she understood that he, too, was a fixer and that the King of England had said in his Angevin French, “Ne vous en faites pas, Picot va tout arranger.”
“Strange, isn’t it,” the fixer said now, “that the story begins with a dead child.”
A royal child, heir to the throne of England and the empire his father had built for him. William Plantagenet, born to King Henry II and Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine in 1153. Died 1156.
Rowley: “Henry doesn’t believe in crusade. Turn your back, he says, and while you’re away, some bastard’ll steal your throne.” He smiled. “Eleanor does, however; she went on one with her first husband.”
And had created a legend still sung throughout Christendom-though not in churches-and brought to Adelia’s mind images of a bare-breasted Amazon blazing her naughty progress across desert sands, trailing Louis, the poor, pious king of France, in her wake.