“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 letters.”
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 an 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-”