Ariana Franklin - The Serpent’s Tale

Oddly enough, the one mind she could equate with his was Mother Edyve’s. The world believed that what was now was permanent, God had willed it, there could be no alteration without offending Him.

Only a very old woman and this turbulent man had the sacrilegious impudence to question the status quo and believe that things could and should be changed for the betterment of all people.

“Come on, then,” he said, “we’ve got time. Tell me. You’re my investigator-what did you find out?”

“You don’t pay me for being your investigator.” She might as well point this out while she had the advantage.

“Don’t I? I thought I did. Take it up with the Exchequer. Get on, get on.” His stubby fingers drummed on the window sill. “Tell me.”

So she told him, from the beginning.

He wasn’t interested in the death of Talbot of Kidlington. “Silly bugger. I suppose it was the cousin, was it? Never trust the man who handles your money…Wolvercote? Vicious, that family. All rebels. My mother hanged the father from Godstow Bridge, and I’ll do the same for the son. Go on, go on, get to the bits that matter. ”

He meant Rosamund’s death, but it all mattered to Adelia, and she wasn’t going to let him off any of it. She’d been clever, she’d been brave, it had cost too many lives; he was going to know everything. After all, he was getting it free.

She plowed on, occasionally nibbling at the cheese. Drops from melting icicles splashed on the sill. The king watched the courtyard. The body of the woman who’d begun it all lay on her bed and rotted.

He interrupted. “Who’s that… Saints’ bollocks, he’s stealing my horse. I’ll rip him, I’ll mince his tripes, I’ll…”

Adelia got up to see who was stealing the king’s destrier.

A thickening mist hid the hill and gave an indistinct quality to the courtyard below, but the figure urging the horse into a gallop toward the maze entrance was recognizable, though he was bending low over its neck.

Adelia gave a yelp. “Not him, not him. He mustn’t get away. Stop him, for God’s sake, stop him. ”

But there was nobody to stop him; some of Schwyz’s men had heard the hooves and were running toward the maze, uselessly.

“Who was it?” the king asked.

“The assassin,” she told him. “Dear God, he mustn’t get away. I want him punished.” For Rosamund, for Bertha…

Something had happened to frighten him if Jacques was deserting Eynsham and the second installment of his precious payment.

Then she was pulling at the king’s sleeve. “It’s your men,” she said. “He must have heard them. They’re here. Shout to them. Tell them to go after him. Will they catch him?”

“They’d better,” he said. “That’s a bloody good horse.”

But if Henry’s men had arrived and the assassin had heard them and decided to cut his losses, there was no sign of them in the courtyard and no sound.

Together, Adelia and the king watched the pursuers return, shrugging, to disappear toward the kitchen.

“Are you certain your men are on their way?” she asked.

“We won’t see them til they’re ready. They’ll be coming through the rear of the maze.”

“There’s another entrance?”

The king smirked. “Imitate the mole, never leave yourself only one exit. Get on with it, tell me the rest.”

Jacques’s escape anguished her. She thought of the little unmarked grave in the nuns’ cemetery…

The king’s fingers were tapping again, so she took up her tale where she’d left off.

There was another interruption. “Hello, where’s Dakers going?”

Adelia was beside him in an instant. The mist had begun to play tricks, ebbing and flowing in swirls that deceived the eye into seeing unmelted mounds of snow as crouching men and animals, but it didn’t hide the thin black figure of Rosamund’s housekeeper crawling toward the maze.

“What’s that she’s dragging?”

“God knows,” the king said. “A sawing horse?”

It was something large and angular, too much for the human bundle of bones that collapsed after each pull but which managed to steady itself to pull again.

“She’s mad, of course,” the king said. “Always was.”

It was agonizing to watch such effort, but watch they did, having to keep refocusing their eyes as Dakers inched her burden along like an ant through the shifting grayness.

Leave it, whatever it is, Adelia begged her. They haven’t seen you. Go and die at your own choosing.

Another blink and there was only fog.

“So…” the king said. “You’d taken one of Eynsham’s templates from this chamber to Godstow and given it to the priest… Go on.”

“His handwriting is distinctive, you see,” she told him. “I’ve never seen another like it, very curly-beautiful, really-he uses classically square capitals but fills them in with whirls and his minuscule…”

Henry sighed, and Adelia hurried on. “Anyway, Sister Lancelyne, she’s Godstow’s librarian, once wrote to Eynsham asking if she might borrow the abbot’s copy of Boethius’s Consolation in order to copy it, and he’d written back, refusing…”

She saw again the learned little old nun among her empty shelves. “If ever we get out of here, I’d like Sister Lancelyne to have it.”

“A whole Philosophy ? Eynsham has a Boethius?” The Plantagenet eyes gleamed; he was greedy for books and totally untrustworthy when it came to other people’s.

“I should like,” Adelia said clearly, “Sister Lancelyne to have it.”

“Oh, very well. She’d better look after it. Get on, get on.”

“And while we’re about it”-there had to be some profit out of this-“if Emma Bloat should be widowed…”

“She will be,” the king promised. “Oh, yes, she will be.”

“She’s not to be forced into marriage again.”

With her own fortune and Wolvercote’s lands, Emma would be a prize. She would also, as the widow of one of his barons, be in the king’s gift, a valuable tradeable object in the royal marketplace.

“Is this a horse fair?” the king asked. “Are you haggling? With me ?”

“Negotiating. Regard it as my fee.”

“You’ll ruin me,” he said. “Very well. Can we proceed? I need evidence of Eynsham’s calumny to show the Pope, and I doubt he’ll regard curly handwriting as proof.”

“Father Paton thought it was.” Adelia winced. “Poor Father Paton.”

“Anyway…” Henry was looking around the table. “The bastard seems to have taken his template with him.”

“There are others. What we can’t prove is that he employed an assassin to kill…who did kill.”

“I shouldn’t worry about that,” the king said. “He’ll probably tell us.”

I’ve condemned a man to torture , she thought. Suddenly, she was tired and didn’t want to say any more. If Schwyz managed to put a flame to the bonfire in the hall, there was no point to it, anyway.

She abridged what was left. “Then Rowley arrived. He told Walt, that’s his groom, to look after me when the attack came. Walt, not knowing, told the assassin, who told Eynsham-who is very afraid of you and decided to run and take me with him.” It sounded like the house that Jack built. That’s all,” she said, closing her eyes, “more or less.”

Drips from the icicles were increasing, pattering like rain onto the windowsills of a silent room.

“Vesuvia Adelia Rachel Ortese Aguilar,” the king said, musing.

It was an accolade. She opened her eyes, tried to smile at him, and closed them again.

“He’s a good lad, young Geoffrey,” Henry said. “Very loving. God bless him. I got him on a prostitute, Ykenai-strange name, the saints only know what race her parents were, because she doesn’t. Big woman, comfortable. I still see her occasionally when I’m in London.”