Ariana Franklin: A Murderous Procession aka The Assassin

Now it was the turn of Joanna’s ladies-in-waiting to be flayed. “Since we were able to reach Lady Adelia only at the last minute when, due to misfortune, she was without an attendant, I know that I can call on you, Lady Beatrix, Lady Petronilla, and Mistress Blanche, to share your maidservants with her and provide her with all affection and daily comfort in your power.”

He had given Adelia what status he could, but the stiff smiles and bows being accorded to her from across the table suggested that the three women who gave them weren’t going to clasp her to their bosom any more than Dr. Arnulf intended to be Jonathan to Mansur’s David.

“Also,” the king said, “may I present to you the man who will sail you down the Mediterranean when you reach it, the Lord O’Donnell of the Skerries, my admiral…”

Here was another stranger who’d been attracting glances of curiosity through dinner. With his black, curly hair tied in a plait and more showing at the open neck of his jerkin, the man didn’t look like an admiral; he looked like a pirate. He had curiously long eyes as if he could face forward yet still see to the side; they had rested on Mansur with interest and even longer on Adelia, making her uncomfortable.

The company welcomed Admiral O’Donnell and prepared to sit down at last. But…

“It is by God’s grace that the Lord O’Donnell was in this country on business,” continued the king, mercilessly. “We have not seen him these two years, yet in the past he and I have sailed through storms that would have foundered a lesser shipmaster. His fleet will be awaiting you at Saint Gilles, when you reach it, to sail you down the coast of Italy. And while on board, he shall be obeyed in all maritime matters.”

Good. Good. The man looked a fine rogue to be accompanying them overland, but if his ships were sound when they reached them… And now could they proceed with dinner?

No, they couldn’t.

“We owe our deep gratitude to our esteemed John, Bishop of Norwich, not only for his time and accomplishment in concluding the arrangements for our princess’s marriage with Sicily but in traveling the route that you will be taking and choosing the hostelries and monasteries to accommodate you on the way, an endeavor that has taken him no less than two years.”

Ah, their accommodation, yes, that was important. The company was pleased to toast the Bishop of Norwich. And now…

“Also,” Henry said-he was enjoying this-“his nephew, Master Locusta Scaresdale, who accompanied him. Though Bishop John is returning to his diocese, Master Locusta has consented to be your outrider, going ahead to inform your various hosts of your arrival. I commend him to you.”

Locusta? In Latin it meant lobster.

A dark-haired young man groaned. “William,” Adelia heard him whisper. “My name’s William.”

“Also,” the king said, “out of our charity and in the service of God, we have given our permission to certain devout pilgrims to the Holy Land that they may cross the Channel with you this evening and travel by land in the safety of my daughter’s train.”

Adelia’s mouth twitched. Henry loathed pilgrims; they were exempt from paying any tax for the pilgrimage’s duration and left a hole in his revenue.

The guests, however, nodded their heads at their monarch’s piety even as they looked longingly at the board…

“And, of course,” the king added, “they will be on board the ships that take you into the Mediterranean. I am sure they will be extended every Christian kindness.”

He took time with his head cocked on one side, seeming to wonder if there was more to say, reluctantly decided that there wasn’t, and at last waved his guests to their food.

It was too late; the beef was cold and the dumplings had shriveled.

Even after the meal, the king’s guests were expected to mingle amicably, which, under his gaze, they tried to do. Face after face appeared in front of Mansur and Adelia. Two of Henry’s knights, Sir Nicholas Baicer and Lord Ivo of Aldergate, were gravely courteous; both of them weighty, more diplomats than fighters, they seemed unsurprised at Henry’s choice of a Saracen doctor for his daughter-close servants of the Plantagenet eventually stopped being astonished at what he did.

Most of the other guests said polite things with a smile that didn’t stretch to the eyes; ladies-in-waiting, the pirate-admiral, clerics.

Father Guy didn’t bother to smile, though his colleague, Father Adalburt did-but he smiled at everything to the point of simplemindedness. He had never been out of England before, he told them.

“Is not this exciting? But how can you both be Sicilians when you are different colors?”

Adelia tried to explain the many cultures and races that the chaplain would encounter in Sicily “You will find it a very different country from this, Father.”

“Will I? But everybody there worships our Lord, I hope.”

Patiently, Adelia explained that there were as many forms of religion as there were races.

This upset him. “Ultima Thule,” he exclaimed. “And we take our dear princess there to marry? Salvam fac reginam, O Domine.”

As they watched him scurry away, the Bishop of Saint Albans came up, grinning. “I see on your faces the look of people who’ve been talking to Father Adalburt.”

“Where does such a buffoon come from?” Mansur asked in Arabic.

“Scar Fell, I believe. Somewhere in the Lake District, anyway.”

“And why?”

“The Bishop of Winchester is his godfather and employs him out of charity. The thing to do is regard him as a holy fool and enjoy him. I do.”

With meaning, Adelia said, “I am not enjoying anything.”

“Not forgiven me yet, then?”

“No.”

“You will. I’m too charming to withstand for long.” He winked at her and walked off to talk to Lord Ivo.

The trouble is you are, Adelia thought. He was in plain clothes today, which suited him better than a bishop’s regalia: thigh boots, swirling cloak, a peacock’s feather in his cap. Big, strong, she never knew if he towered among other men in fact, or only in her eyes. Though, in working for the Plantagenet, they’d been through hell together, he’d always been able to make her laugh.

But not this time. In any case, their meetings and conversation would be restricted from here on in; he could hardly be seen to single out a woman who was apparently nothing to him. Well, that suits me.

The friendliest reception given to the Arab and Adelia came from Bishop John of Norwich and his nephew; having sojourned in Sicily for so long, they were eager to exchange experiences with two of its natives.

They’d made maps of Joanna’s forthcoming route, which they were distributing, long thin scrolls of parchment like scarves on which were drawn each accommodating castle or hospice, the roads between them marked with the bridges, borders, and tolls to be encountered. Adelia and Mansur were asked for their approval.

Pleased to be consulted, the two Sicilians studied the map. “We’re not going via the Alps, then?” Adelia asked.

That was the most straightforward route. Coming to England, she’d traveled it in reverse, by boat from Salerno up the Italian coast to Genoa, through the Mont Cenis pass into France and thence to the Channel.

Now, she saw, they would be going overland via the extreme west, hugging the edge of the Atlantic, down through Aquitaine, to Saint Gilles on the Mediterranean coast, where they’d board ship for Sicily It would take longer and involve somewhat more time at sea-Adelia still remembered with discomfort the Mediterranean storm that had nearly capsized the boat taking her to Genoa; she didn’t like ocean voyages.