Ariana Franklin - The Serpent’s Tale

“Has her corpse arrived?” Rowley asked abruptly.

“No.”

“I thought it had been arranged; it was to be carried here for burial.” He was accusatory, the abbess’s fault. Whereas, thought Adelia, any other bishop would have commended a convent that refused to inter a notorious woman in its ground.

Mother Edyve looked down the side of her chair. Allie was trying to pull herself up by one of its legs. Adelia rose to go and remove her but the abbess held her back with an admonishing finger, then, without a change of expression, took the little bell from her chatelaine and passed it down.

You know babies , Adelia thought, comforted.

“Our foundation is indebted to the Lady Rosamund for many past kindnesses.” Mother Edyve’s voice tweeted like a distant bird. “We owe her body burial and all the services for her soul. It was arranged, yet her housekeeper, Dakers, refuses to release the corpse to us.”

“Why not?”

“I cannot say, but without her consent, it is difficult to amend the situation.”

“In the name of God, why not?”

Something, and it might have been a gleam of amusement, disturbed the immobility of the abbess’s face for half a second. From the floor by her chair came a tinkling as Allie investigated her new toy. “I believe you visited Wormhold Tower during the lady’s illness, my lord?”

“You know I did. Your prioress…Sister Havis fetched me from Oxford to do so.”

“And both of you were led through the labyrinth surrounding the tower?”

“Some crackbrained female met us at the entrance to it, yes.” Rowley’s fingers tapped on the table; he hadn’t sat down since entering the room.

“Dame Dakers.” Again, the suggestion of amusement like the merest breath on a pond. “I understand she will admit nobody since her mistress died. She adored her. My lord, I fear without she guides you through the labyrinth, there is no way of gaining the tower.”

“I’ll gain it. By God, I’ll gain it. No body shall remain unburied whilst I am bishop here…” He stopped, and then he laughed; he’d brought one through the gates with him.

It is his saving grace , Adelia thought as she melted and smiled with him, to see the incongruity of things. She watched him apologize to the abbess for his manner and thank her for her amiability-until she saw that the nun’s pale old eyes had turned and were watching her watching him.

The abbess returned to the subject. “Dame Dakers’s attachment to her mistress was”-the adjective was carefully considered-“formidable. The unfortunate servant responsible for bringing in the fatal mushrooms has fled from the tower in fear of her life and has sought sanctuary with us.”

“She’s here? Good. I want to question her.” He corrected himself. “With your permission , madam, I should like to question her.”

The abbess inclined her head.

“And if I may trespass on your kindness a little more,” Rowley went on, “I would leave some of my party here while Dr. Mansur and his assistant accompany me to Wormhold Tower and see what may be done. As I say, the good doctor here has investigative abilities that can enable us…”

Not yet. Not today. For God’s sake, Rowley, we’ve traveled hard.

Adelia coughed and caught Gyltha’s eye. Gyltha nudged Mansur, who stood next to her. Mansur looked round at them both, then spoke in English and for the first time. “Your doctor advise rest first.” He added, “My lord.”

“Rest be damned,” Rowley said, but he looked toward Adelia, who must go with him when he went, or why was she here?

She shook her head. We need rest, Rowley. You need it.

The abbess’s eyes had followed the exchange and, if it had told her nothing else, though it probably had, she’d learned enough to know the matter was settled. “When you have disposed of the unfortunate gentleman’s body, Sister Havis will see to your accommodation,” she said.

It was still very dark and very cold. The nuns were chanting Lauds in their chapel, and everybody else with a duty to do was performing it within the complex of buildings, out of sight of the main gates, where a covered carriage containing a dead man had been left just inside them.

Walt and the men-at-arms were guarding it. They stood, stamping and slapping their arms to keep warm, stolidly ignoring the inquisition of the convent porter, who was leaning out of a bottom window in the gatehouse. Sister Havis told him sharply to withdraw his head, close the shutters, and mind his own business. “Keep thy silence, Fitchet.”

“Don’t I?” Fitchet was aggrieved. “Don’t I always keep it?” The shutters slammed.

“He does,” Sister Havis said. “Mostly.” Holding the lantern high, she stalked ahead of them through the snow.

Walt led the horses after her, the bishop, Oswald, and Aelwyn marching beside him, with Adelia and Mansur above them on the cart’s driving seat.

Rowley, aware now that he had tired her, would have left Adelia in the room that had been prepared for her and Gyltha and the baby in the guesthouse, but this dead young man was her responsibility. However good the reason, his body was being treated disgracefully at her behest; she must accord it what respect she could.

They were following the wall that ringed the convent’s extensive buildings and gardens to where it ran into the woods in which, on the other side, lay the dead man’s dead horse.

The rush of water that they’d heard from on the bridge became loud; they were close to the river, either the Thames itself or a fast stream running into it that gushed up even colder air. The noise became tremendous.

Mansur pointed; he and Adelia were seated high enough on the cart to see over the wall and, when trees allowed, across the water itself. There was their bridge and, on its far side, a water mill.

The Arab was saying something-she couldn’t hear him-perhaps that the mill had been in darkness when they’d stood on the bridge so that they hadn’t noticed it. Now light came through tiny windows set in its tower, and its great wheel was being turned by the race.

They’d pulled up. Sister Havis had stopped at a large stone hut built flush with the wall on this side and was unlocking its door.

The nun’s lantern showed the inside of the hut to be empty apart from a ladder and a few tools. The floor was slabbed with stone, but most of its space was taken up by a great curve of iron set with handles, like the lid of an immense pot.

Sister Havis stood back. “It will need two to lift it.” She had the same emotionless voice as her mother.

Aelwyn and Oswald exerted themselves to raise the lid, displaying the blackness of a hole and releasing a chill that was palpable even in the air of the hut, and with it a smell of straw and frozen meat.

The bishop had taken the lantern from the prioress and was down on his knees by the side of the hole. “Who built this?”

“We do not know, my lord. We discovered it and maintain it. Mother Abbess believes it was here long before our foundation.”

“The Romans, I wonder?” Rowley was intrigued. The ladder was carried over and put in place so that he could descend. His voice came up with an echo, still asking questions, Sister Havis answering them with detachment.

Yes, its position so far from the convent butchery was inconvenient, but presumably its builders had placed it here to be close to a part of the river that was embanked so that the chamber would suffer no erosion while yet benefiting from the cooling proximity of running water.

Yes, the convent still pickled and salted most of its animals after the Michaelmas slaughter, since even Godstow could not provide feed for them all during the winter, but freezing some carcasses enabled its people to have occasional fresh meat into the spring, or later.