Ariana Franklin - The Serpent’s Tale

“Where is he now?”

“On his way.” There was a pause. “He wants to see you.”

“Does he?”

“Sent me to fetch you. Wants to know if it was Eleanor that did for Rosamund. I said you’d be able to tell him yea or nay.”

“Great God,” she said. “Is that why you’ve come?”

“I’d have come anyway. I was worried about leaving you…but I should’ve known you were safe enough.” He cocked his head, sucking his teeth as if in admiration at her capacity for survival. “God kept you in His hand. I asked Him to.”

“‘Safe enough’?” It was a screech. “You left me to die in an open boat.” He had to hush her. She went on more quietly. “‘Safe enough’? We’ve been cooped up with killers, your daughter, all of us. There’s been murder done here, betrayal…weeks, weeks I’ve been afraid…for Allie, for all of us…weeks.” She scrubbed the tears off her cheeks with her fists.

“Ten days, it was,” he said gently. “I left you ten days ago.” He was on his feet, pulling up his trousers, adjusting his shirt. “Get dressed and we’ll go.”

“Go where?”

“To Henry. I said he wants to see you.”

“Without Allie? Without Gyltha and Mansur?”

“We can hardly take them with us; I’ve found a path through the snow, but it’ll be rough traveling, even on horses, and I only brought two.”

“No.”

“Yes.” It was a sigh. “I was afraid of this. I told the king. ‘She won’t come without the child,’ I said.” He made it sound like a whim.

She’d had enough. “Will you tell me? Where is Henry? ”

“Oxford, at least that’s where he was heading.”

“Why isn’t he here?”

“Look,” he said, reasonably, “Godstow’s a side issue. The important thing is Oxford. Henry’s sending young Geoffrey Fitzroy up here with a small force, it shouldn’t need more-Mansur says Wolvercote and Schwyz have few men. Henry’s not arriving in person…” She saw the flash of a grin. “I don’t think our goodking trusts himself to meet Eleanor face-to-face; he might run her through. Anyway, it’s somewhat embarrassing to arrest one’s own wife.”

“When? When will this Geoffrey come?”

“Tomorrow. That’s if I can get back to guide him and tell him the placements here-make sure he doesn’t kill the wrong people.”

He will do it, she thought. He will track back through this dreadful countryside, disgruntled because I won’t leave our daughter behind but assured that she and I will be safe enough. He is all maleness and bravery, like his damn king, and we understand each other not at all.

Well, she thought, he is what he is, and I love him.

But a chill was growing; there was new strangeness; she’d thought it was the old Rowley back-and for a while, gloriously, it had been, but there was constraint. He talked with the remembered insouciance yet didn’t look at her. He’d put out a hand to wipe the tears from her face, then withdrawn it.

She said, because she was impelled to, “Do you love me?”

“Too much, God help me,” he said. “Too much for my soul. I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Done what?”

“Almighty God forgive me. I promised, I swore an oath that if He kept you safe, I would abstain from you, I would not lead you to sin again. It was touching you that did it. I want you too much. Feeling you was…too much.”

“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.