Ariana Franklin - A Murderous Procession aka The Assassin

“The Will and the Alf believed it to be the wolf man’s beloved…” Here Mansur spat into the sea. “… the one called Slurry? Sparry?”

“Scarry?” She hadn’t spoken the name in two years; she remembered the Latin lament that had shaken the trees as he’d cradled the dead Wolf in his arms. Te amo. Te amo.

“Oh, that’s nonsense. The man’s dead. If you remember, Captain Bolt cleared the forest.” And without mercy. Bits of the outlaws had hung from trees for days.

“The bishop does not think so. He believed the Will and the Alf.”

“Why didn’t Rowley tell me?”

Mansur shrugged. “He only told me on the way to Sarum.”

“But why didn’t he tell me?”

“You would not speak to him. Perhaps it is better in any case that you did not know until we reached Normandy, you might not have left.”

“Of course I wouldn’t have left.” Always supposing there was a maniac after her… “He wouldn’t hurt Allie, would he?”

The Arab looked down at her. “Why should he do that? You imagine vain things. Allie is safe enough in Sarum, where her father has put her.”

Logic had little application to fear, but Adelia tried to apply it because, at one level, she knew her friend was right.

“Now you will forgive the bishop,” Mansur said.

In the sense that Rowley had placed their daughter in the charge of Queen Eleanor against the wishes of herself, nothing had changed. But if there were an assassin roaming Somerset-and Adelia still had trouble believing it-Allie was safely out of his way

What was explained was Rowley’s anger that night; he’d always shown fury when he was frightened for her. Stupid man, she thought, as her own anger drained away.

Which left the dilemma that when they could have been friendly together, she had refused. Now that she would, they had no opportunity to; she dare not compromise him, nor could he compromise himself.

“Oh, damnation,” she said, wearily

A shivering princess emerged on deck, wrapped round by a thick cloak and her nurse’s arm, to be helped to windward-presumably because it was the farthest side from Mansur and Adelia.

At that another voice took command. “No, no, the little one will be better to leeward, d‘ye see,” Admiral O’Donnell said. “Over this side what comes up tends to fly back in your face.”

Joanna was helped across the deck and her hands placed about a cleat. “Hang onto that, mavourneen, and fix your dear eyes on the horizon. Is that better now?”

Wanly, the princess nodded that it was.

“But maybe,” the O‘Donnell said, sliding his eyes toward Adelia, “we should dispense with the little dog.”

Adelia glanced down at her feet where Ward, looking as wan as the princess, had put his head on her shoes and was exuding a smell that competed against the freshness of wind and sea.

There had already been complaints about him from the ladies-in-waiting with whom Adelia had shared the night-“He’ll give our little dogs fleas.” “ Our little dogs are perfumed.”-and she’d been compelled to shut him outside on deck where, tied to a stanchion, he’d whined away the hours at being parted from the mistress with whom he’d only just been reunited.

Shrugging, she turned away, Ward staggering after her on unsteady legs.

So the battle of the doctors had been won-with Rowley’s help.

Adelia wondered if the royal nurse, obviously a powerful figure in Joanna’s life, would prove an ally now that Mansur’s advice had triumphed.

It appeared that she would not. Across the width of the deck, Edeva, her substantial Irish figure looming over her charge, could be heard stating in a loud mutter that “darkies” would only lay hands on “my darling” over her dead body

AT THE MOUTH of the Orne, a galloper was sent ahead to Caen while the two ships stopped to pretty themselves. Sails were taken down, the salt of the Channel cleansed from woodwork, gilding was polished, bunting was spread, musicians readied their instruments, oarsmen settled into their benches. The company arrayed itself on deck. A recovered Joanna, dressed in white and gold, was placed on a raised throne and the sun shone on her.

Father Adalburt was expressing his surprise at Normandy’s similarity to England. “Look, look,” he kept saying, “fields and… and reeds. And there … wading birds just like those at home. Who would have thought it? Dear Lord, how wondrous are Thy works.”

Slowly, with oars dimpling the water in unison, and to the sound of flute and tabors, they began to glide down the river from which the Norman warships of William the Conqueror had set out for England more than a hundred years before.

On the banks, reed cutters dropped their scythes to watch, and herdsmen left their cows, calling to their wives and children to come and see these unearthly swans go by

As the ships entered the harbor, the musicians on board changed their instruments to trumpets and blew a fanfare that was answered by a line of tabarded heralds on the quay.

Dressed in its best, Caen’s entire nobility had turned out to greet its Plantagenet princess.

It might have saved itself the trouble; Joanna had no eyes for anyone but the young man robed in peacock colors in the forefront of the crowd. Showing animation for the first time, she bounced, squeaking with pleasure. “Henry!”

Crowned eight years ago when his father had feared for the succession, the Young King was glorious, resembling his mother in his beauty and his father not at all.

And kind , Adelia thought, as Joanna ran across the lowered gang-plank to be picked up and whirled around in her brother’s arms, both of them abandoning royal dignity Here was someone showing more care for the girl than the parents who had let her go so easily.

And charming. Everybody on board the royal boat, from bishop to oarsmen, was thanked for his sister’s safe arrival in Normandy. He was gracious to Mansur… “My lord, your fame in medicine precedes you.” To Adelia he said: “Mistress, we are honored by a lady so knowledgeable in Arabic. Have you spoken it long?”

By the time Adelia had risen from her deep bow and was ready to reply, he had passed on to the next recipient of his attention. She didn’t mind; it had been nice of him to distinguish her by asking. But she was left with an impression of lightness, an easiness without depth. A fine prince, maybe, but not a king. A symbol, not an administrator.

There was the trouble, she thought. When he was this boy’s age, Henry Plantagenet had fought for and won the throne of England and already given it a stability that was the envy of monarchs everywhere.

Young Henry, on the other hand, had been passed an easy crown without responsibility, because he himself either had none or wasn’t ready for it, leaving him with the trappings of kingship and no means to apply them, a situation that, egged on by Eleanor, had caused resentment and, eventually, rebellion.

Father and son had since exchanged the kiss of peace-but at a price. According to Rowley, Young Henry’s return to the fold had been bought with the enormous stipend of a hundred pounds of Angevin money a day Which, from the look of it, he was spending. His retinue as they progressed toward the Abbaye-aux-Hommes and its church of Saint Étienne for a service to greet Joanna included at least fifty noisy young knights complete with squires, all gorgeously dressed and mounted. To the disapproval of the staid Sir Nicholas Baicer and Lord Ivo, they chattered and laughed throughout the ceremony so that it was difficult to distinguish the words of the mass. Nor did their Young King attempt to quiet them.

Adelia, however, was encouraged; with an escort as large as this, she thought, the safety of the journey to Sicily was ensured.