Ariana Franklin - Grave Goods aka Relics of the Dead

It grieved the German particularly that he’d lost his sword, symbol of everything he’d once been, which Hilda had made him lay down and was now nowhere to be found. “She could not sell it,” he said. “It was too fine. No, she has thrown it away. Why not me, also? I am without use.”

Until now, Adelia had left Emma in ignorance of her mother-in-law’s attempt to have her killed, waiting for the poor girl to be stronger. Yet she had to be told, and when, round the table, that part of the tale was reached, she waited for the fury she herself felt.

Wolf and dowager, two murderers.

She was disappointed. Emma had, after all, suffered terribly: the attack on the road by Wolf and his brigands, the assumption that she had found safety when they reached the Pilgrim Inn being taken away by a madwoman, the tunnel, forced exile on a leper island… Her spirit had been wrecked.

Gyltha cried out in disbelief at the news. Mansur swore horribly in Arabic.

Emma just wept for her dead servants.

“Can it be proved?” Mansur asked.

“I don’t know.” Adelia hadn’t thought about that yet. “At the very least, the woman should be turned out of Wolvercote Manor, bag and baggage.”

Emma shook her head. “There’s nothing to be done. I’m not sending Roetger into another trial by combat. I’ll lose Wolvercote… God knows I wanted it for Pippy… but I’ll not see my man wounded again.”

“Bugger trial by combat,” Gyltha said. “That harpy’s got to hang.”

Emma continued to weep.

It wasn’t the moment to tell her that Roetger would never be able to fight again; his foot was now too badly damaged.

Adelia didn’t tell the champion, either, but his listlessness that evening as she tried to make him take food suggested that he guessed.

When Millie relieved her, Adelia went back to her own room and took the sword from the hill out of the chest where she kept it wrapped in a sheet. She sat on the bed to study it.

Mansur’s objection to taking it had evaporated when he’d learned the sword had saved Adelia’s life. “Thus Allah looked down from Paradise and saw you in need of a weapon. He gave you the warrior’s.”

That’s one explanation for grave robbing, she thought.

What she could hardly admit to herself, and certainly not to anybody else, was that, in one desperate moment in a forest, the sword had lived. It had killed for her protection as if the function for which it was made had suddenly energized it.

The trouble was that it had enjoyed it.

Or was it me? Did I enjoy it?

She knew she had not. Wolf had been a disease, had killed, would have killed Alf, killed her, would have gone on killing. Arbitrarily, the occasion and means to stop him had fallen to her. She, whose job it was to preserve life, regretted it and always would, but, as Rowley’d said, there was nothing else she could have done.

The question was whether the sword now belonged to her. She felt that it did; its leap in her defense had passed ownership from the dead man in the cave to her living hand. Loathing weapons of destruction, this thing with its encrusted pommel as warty as Allie’s toad was the exception; she felt safer in its presence-not just safer, bolder-she could defy the world with it, challenge her enemies. You dare not touch me now.

She thought, And that is how wars begin.

Keep me, the sword said. Though you are a woman, you shall be a warrior defending all frail women.

Its voice was high and sweet, like Rhys’s harp.

And then she knew that this was Glastonbury magic; she was being entwined by legends, holy springs, dreams, ghosts, swords that came alive… all of them delusion. The Salerno masters who had trained Adelia in hard truth frowned down on her, ashamed.

She came to a decision. You are an artifact, she told the sword. You belonged to a warrior who has no further use for you-but I am a doctor, and I have a patient who has.

The next morning, having told him its story, she gave the sword to Roetger.

“An ugly old thing,” she said, finding the words an effort, “but until you get a better one…”

He was intrigued by it, brightening more than she’d seen him since the rescue from Lazarus, as if she’d given him back his manhood. “So,” he said, caressing the blade. “Old-fashioned, but ugly, no. You shall see when it is again polished. I am grateful.”

Millie was sent to the kitchen for cleaning equipment, and Adelia left her patient with his new medicine to go down to the parlor and write the report that the king had demanded. She couldn’t put it off any longer-the next day Captain Bolt was coming to collect it.

It was a list of disasters unlikely to put a sparkle in the royal blue eyes.

Arthur and Guinevere not Arthur and Guinevere but two male lovers. A favorite abbot both a killer and a suicide, taking a madwoman with him to a terrible death. The Glastonbury fire due to the carelessness of one of its own monks. A forest in which travelers on the King’s Highway lay slaughtered. One of his nobility, a Somerset dowager, a would-be murderess.

And above all, as far as Henry would read it-and rage-no proof that King Arthur was dead.

Sucking the end of her quill, Adelia wondered if the king’s sympathy would be evoked by her own brushes with death. It was unlikely-he was not a sympathetic man.

But this is the last time you employ me, Henry Plantagenet. Henceforth, I am to be a bishop’s mistress.

A mistress, she thought, still idling, a courtesan. Her mind dwelt on the few houris she’d seen being carried through the streets of Salerno, painted and veiled, trailing light silks and heavy perfume.

It made her smile.

Still, she thought, Rowley will have to decently clothe his indecent woman. Since, at the moment, both she and Emma were in garments that Millie had purchased for them from a seamstress in Street’s market, where, it had to be said, the standard of couture leaned more heavily on durability than style, the idea was not totally displeasing.

Again, though, she was aware of an essence that had been Vesuvia Adelia Rachel Ortese Aguilar leaching out of her. And again, she told herself it was a small price to pay for love.

From the courtyard, the mellifluous voice of Rhys was being directed toward Emma’s window.

“Lay down your weapons, lady, or you kill me. Let me not see that curling hair, those fine eyes That spear the heart of all true men…”

Adelia sighed and returned to her report to the king.

Putting her two and only triumphs on the parchment showed them up as weak. What matter to Henry, lord of a great empire, that Eustace, a common drunkard, had been proved innocent of a crime? How much would he rejoice at Lady Emma and young Lord Wolvercote’s rescue when he hadn’t known they’d been abducted in the first place?

Oh, dear.

Gritting her teeth, Adelia dipped her quill into the inkpot and pressed on, returning to the matter that concerned her most at the moment-the dowager’s perfidy.

“You, who prize justice above all things, my dear lord, will know how to right the great wrong committed by this woman according to the wish of your most devoted servant, Adelia Aguilar.”

Then, in case one of the king’s unknowing clerks might read the letter to him, she scratched out her signature and replaced it with that of Mansur.

She was searching for sealing wax when Allie flung the door open, ablaze with excitement. “Come and see, Mama, come and see.”

Adelia followed her daughter into the courtyard, where Pippy was staring at something that had been tied to the wellhead by a bit of string around its neck.

“What’s that, in the name of God?”

“It’s a puppy.” Allie was ecstatic. “It’s mine.”

Whatever it was, it was the untidiest animal Adelia had ever seen; very young and wobbly on long, thin legs, with a rough coat and eyebrows that curled upward like an old man’s.