Ariana Franklin - A Murderous Procession aka The Assassin

Who are you? Adelia wondered. The fleeting reference to Ermengarde and burning had been made easily and it was as if his account of their rescue might have been a mere exploit carried out on a whim. Yet to do what he had done argued a ferocity of purpose to free them, which their previous acquaintance hardly merited. He had saved their lives at considerable risk to his own.

She asked what was, to her, the question: “Was it the Bishop of Saint Albans who sent you after us? Where is he?”

“In Italy, lady.” O’Donnell’s long eyes slid toward her. “Went straight on to Lombardy, as ordered by King Henry He’ll be joining up with us in Palermo, when he’s spared.”

Ulf said: “So he doesn’t even know…?”

“About your abduction? No. Still thinking you’re on your way to England. And nobody likely to tell him different”-the eyes slid again-“though I’m sure, if they had, the dear man would have been posthaste over here to box Aveyron’s ears for him and get you out.”

Ulf was asking why the Bishop of Winchester hadn’t done it, why they’d been abandoned… Something like that; Adelia had stopped listening.

She got up and wandered over to the lake at the rear of the cave, took off her shoes-one of them was worn through now; both of them disgusting-to walk into its shallow, icy water.

The king, first and foremost. Never her. I could have died. This hideous resentment might be unfair-Rowley hadn’t even known of her danger-but she felt it, God, she felt it.

I could have died - and that I didn’t, nor the others, has been due to a virtual stranger.

She stood still so long that the ripples she’d brought to the surface of the water to become still and, dim though the light was, reflect her image in it.

A mess was what she saw; hair like a bramble bush-what had happened to the scarf Ermengarde had lent her?-and beneath it a face distorted with dirt and despair.

“Cheer up, now.” The Irishman stood at the edge of the lake, watching her. “We’ll have you to Palermo in a wink.”

Not Palermo. I want to go home to Allíe. Her eyes still on the water, she said: “I don’t know why you did what you did, but I thank you. For all of us, from the depths of my heart, I thank you.”

He turned away “You’ll be needing a new pair of shoes,” he said.

WOLF IS BARKING inside Scarry’s head. “How did they escape? where did she go?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. Stop it, my love, you’re hurting me.”

It’s the worms; they twist and squirm through holes in his brain so that he can’t think for pain.

“You promised.”

“Cathars must have rescued her.”

“Find her. Destroy her. I am you and you are me, forever. Homo homini lupus.”

“I shall, I shall. wíll you give me peace, when I do?”

“Oh, yes, then we shall both have peace.”

But the worms keep up their squígglíng, for all that Scarry can do in trying to take his head off and let them out.

DENIZ MADE HER SHOES. The burden his mule carried was a cornucopia from which the little Turk produced a huge needle, oiled thread, canvas, and a piece of leather.

While he was at work, the ex-prisoners did their best to become clean.

With the men standing dutifully outside the cave entrance, eyes averted, the two women stripped and used the lake as a washtub for themselves and their clothes. Adelia tried to persuade Boggart to immerse herself completely, as she was doing, but the girl stayed on the edge with Ward, laving herself and pleading her pregnancy. “Be a shock to the baby, missus.”

Perhaps she was right; the water was very cold, but, to Adelia, its bite was almost baptismal, taking away stain not only from her body but, in part, from her soul.

Whatever it was, she emerged tingling with a new determination. I’m alive and, God dammit, I’ll stay alive. I’m goíng to get back to Allie.

The mule’s pack did not include soap, so laundering was less successful; even scrubbed and dried in the sun, the ex-prisoners’ clothes were poor excuses for garments. The O’Donnell’s sash, which he gave to Adelia to make a sling for her arm, looked positively resplendent against the rest of her once she was dressed.

He also produced an old cloak and hood so that Mansur’s ruin of a headdress-which the Arab insisted on still wearing-would be covered.

“So much the better for those who see us,” he said, when they were all inspected. “Tagrag pilgrims trying to find their way to Compostela and not so much as a cross in their pockets to keep the devil from dancing, as my old granny used to say.”

He wouldn’t let them stay in the cave longer than two days. “For if I’m aware of this one, maybe so are our pursuers.”

How was he aware of this one? Ulf, who’d spent a lot of time deep in conversation with O’Donnell and to whom Adelia posed the question, grinned and said: “He’s in the smuggling business, missus, ain’t you got that yet? There’s more goes into these caves than escaped prisoners.”

A man of diverse activities, then-fleet owner, transporter of crusaders, smuggler, killer, savior… He bewildered Adelia. Despite what she owed him, she still found herself uncomfortable in his company. The others didn’t; to them he was an angel only lacking the wings.

Mansur, who knew her too well, said softly: “He had to quiet those guards, ’Delia. There was no other way than by a knife.”

“I know,” she said. “I just wish…”

She was leaving too many dead behind her.

Ulf inquired of the Irishman the details of what had taken place at Figères and, after listening, came storming over to where Adelia was resting.

“Did you hear that? Hear that? They denied us. Bloody Judas Iscariots, the lot of ’em. Sent a message to Aveyron saying we was none of theirs. None of theirs.” He was almost dancing with rage. “Now will you believe me? There’s someone doing dirty work somewhere.”

“They should have made sure, I suppose, but it’s understandable. They assumed Mansur and Boggart and I were on our way back to England. They couldn’t have expected…”

“Understandable? They near as a button got us all burned- and it was deliberate.”

“No,” she said firmly, “whatever it was, it wasn’t deliberate.”

The boy’s shoulders sagged. He gave a despairing glance in the direction of the others and left her alone.

On the second night they set off again, going by moonlight. Adelia would have preferred them to be able to rest up longer-for Boggart’s sake, if not her own-but O’Donnell insisted that Aveyron’s men might be searching every cave in the area.

“Our good bishop’ll not be lightly robbed of his human torches. He’s mounting a crusade all his own-setting an example to the Pope.”

“Where are we going?”

“A long way A village I know, not too far from the coast.”

Though they weren’t being dragged this time, and could take turns riding, the going was as heavy as it had been when tied to their captors’ ropes. The moonlight deceived them into taking false steps and the mountains became steeper.

Until she got used to them, Adelia found Deniz’s shoes difficult to walk in. Whilst the miracles of invention-a shaped sole of leather to which sailcloth was stitched and then tied up round the ankle so that her feet looked like two perambulating plum puddings-were serving her well, they were less than supple.

By day, they stayed under the cover of trees somewhere near a stream. Mansur, Ulf, and Rankin took turns keeping watch, while the Irishman, Deniz, and the hounds went hunting, and the women gathered wood and searched for late herbs with which to flavor a game stew. After this, they slept the sun down from the sky before starting afresh.