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, bearing 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.
“Rosamund Clifford?” Mansur asked Gyltha.
“You know her, you heathen. Fair Rosamund as they sing about-the king’s pet fancy. Lots of songs about Fair Rosamund.”
That Rosamund. Adelia remembered hearing the ha’penny minstrels on market days, and their songs-some romantic, most of them bawdy.
If he’s dragged me here to involve me in the circumstances of a loose woman…
Then she reminded herself that she, too, must now be numbered among the world’s loose women.
“So she’ve near been murdered, has she?” Gyltha said, happily. “Per’aps Queen Eleanor done it. Tried to get her out of the way, like. Green jealous of Rosamund, Eleanor is.”
“The songs say that as well, do they?” Adelia asked.
“That they do.” Gyltha considered. “No, now I think on’t, can’t be the queen as done it; last I heard, the king had her in prison.”
The mighty and their activities were another country, in another country. By the time reports of what they were up to reached the fens, they had achieved the romance and remoteness of myth, nothing to do with real people, and less than nothing compared to a river flooding or cows dead from the murrain or, in Adelia’s case, the birth of a baby.
Once, it had been different. During the war of Stephen and Matilda, news of their comings and goings was vital, so you could know in advance-and hopefully escape-whichever king’s, queen’s, or baron’s army was likely to come trampling your crops. Since much of the trampling had taken place in the fens, Gyltha had then been as aware of politics as any.
But out of that terrible time had emerged a Plantagenet ruler like a king from a fairy tale, establishing peace, law, and prosperity in England. If there were wars, they took place abroad, blessed be the Mother of God.
The wife Henry brought with him to the throne had also stepped out of a fairy tale-a highly colored one. Here was no shy virgin princess; Eleanor was the greatest heiress in Europe, a radiant personality who’d ruled her Duchy of Aquitaine in her own right before wedding the meek and pious King Louis of France-a man who’d bored her so much that the marriage had ended in divorce. At which point nineteen-year-old Henry Plantagenet had stepped forward to woo the beautiful thirty-year-old Eleanor and marry her, thus taking over her vast estates and making himself ruler of a greater area of France than that belonging to its resentful King Louis.
The stories about Eleanor were legion and scandalous: She’d accompanied Louis on crusade with a bare-breasted company of Amazons; she’d slept with her uncle Raymond, Prince of Antioch; she’d done this, done that…