Ariana Franklin - Mistress of the Art of Death

And here they were, its illustrations, growing in real life at her feet, as thrilling as if she’d encountered a famed face in the street.

The herbalist author, relying heavily on Galen, like most of his kind, had made the usual claims: laurel to protect from lightning, all-heal to ward off the plague, marjoram to secure the uterus-as if a woman’s uterus floated up to the neck and down again like a cherry in a bottle. Why did they never look ?

She began picking.

All at once she was uneasy. There was no reason for it; the great ring was as deserted as it had been. Clouds changed the light as their shadows chased one another briskly across the grass; a stunted hawthorn assumed the shape of a bent old woman; a sudden screech-a magpie-sent smaller birds flying.

Whatever it was, she had an apprehension that made her want to be less vertical in all this flatness. So foolish she’d been. Tempted by its plants and the apparent isolation of this place, tired of the chattering company she’d been surrounded with since Canterbury, she’d committed the error, the idiocy, of venturing out alone, telling Mansur to stay and care for the prior. A mistake. She had abrogated all right to immunity from predation. Indeed, without the company of Margaret and Mansur, and as far as men in the vicinity were concerned, she might as well be wearing a placard saying “Rape me.” If the invitation were accepted, it would be regarded as her fault, not the rapist’s.

Damn the prison in which men incarcerated women. She’d resented its invisible bars when Mansur had insisted on accompanying her along the long, dark corridors of the Salerno school, making her look overprivileged and ridiculous as she went from lecture to lecture, and marking her out. But she’d learned-oh, she’d learned-her lesson, that day when she’d avoided his chaperonage: the outrage, the desperation with which she’d had to scrabble against a male fellow student; the indignity of having to scream for help, which, thank God, had been answered; the subsequent lecture from her professors and, of course, Mansur and Margaret, on the sins of arrogance and carelessness of reputation.

Nobody had blamed the young man, although Mansur had afterward broken his nose by way of teaching him manners.

Being Adelia and still arrogant, she forced herself to walk a little farther, though in the direction of the trees, and pick a plant or two more before looking around.

Nothing. The flutter of hawthorn blossom on the breeze, another sudden dimming of light as a cloud chased across the sun.

A pheasant rose, clattering and shrieking. She turned.

It was as if he had sprung out of the ground. He was marching toward her, casting a long shadow. No pimply student this time. One of the pilgrimage’s heavy and confident crusaders, the metal links of his mail hissing beneath the tabard, the mouth smiling but the eyes as hard as the iron encasing head and nose. “Well, well, now,” he was saying with anticipation. “Well, well, now, mistress.”

Adelia experienced a deep weariness-at her own stupidity, at what was to come. She had resources; one of them, a wicked little dagger, was tucked in her boot, given to her by her Sicilian foster mother, a straightforward woman with the advice to stick it in the assailant’s eye. Her Jewish stepfather had suggested a more subtle defense: “Tell them you’re a doctor and appear concerned by their appearance. Ask if they’ve been in contact with the plague. That’ll lower any man’s flag.”

She doubted, though, whether either ploy would prevail against this advancing mailed mass. Nor, considering her mission, did she want to broadcast her profession.

She stood straight and tried loftiness while he was still a way off. “Yes?” she called sharply. Which might have been impressive had she been Vesuvia Adelia Rachel Ortese Aguilar in Salerno, but on this lonely hill, it did little for a poorly dressed foreign trull known to travel in a peddler’s cart with two men.

“That’s what I like,” the man called back. “A woman who says yes.”

He came on. No doubt about his intention now; she dropped, groping into her boot.

Then two things happened at once-from different directions.

Out of the clump of trees came the whoom-whoom sound of air being displaced by something whirling through it. A small ax buried its blade in the grass between Adelia and the knight.

The other was a yell from across the hill. “In the name of God, Gervase, call your bloody hounds and go down. The old girl’s champing at her bit.”

Adelia watched the knight’s eyes change. She leaned forward and, with an effort, pulled the ax from the ground and stood up with it, smiling. “It must be magic,” she said in English.

The other crusader was still shouting for his friend to find his dogs and go down to the road.

The discomfiture in this one’s face changed to something like hatred, then, deliberately, to disinterest as he turned on his heel and strode away to join his fellow.

You’ve made no friend there, Adelia told herself. God, how I loathe being afraid. Damn him, damn him. And damn this damned country; I didn’t want to come in the first place.

Ill-tempered because she was shaking, she walked toward a shadow under the trees. “I told you to stay with the cart,” she said in Arabic.

“You did,” Mansur agreed.

She gave him back his ax-he called it Parvaneh (butterfly). He tucked it into the side of his belt so as to be out of sight under his robe, leaving his traditional dagger in its beautiful scabbard on display at the front. The throwing ax as a weapon was rare among Arabs but not for the tribes, and Mansur’s was one of them, whose ancestors had encountered the Vikings that had ventured into Arabia where, in exchange for its exotic goods, they had traded not only weapons but also the secret of how to make the superior steel of their blades.

Together, mistress and servant made their way down the hill through the trees, Adelia stumbling, Mansur striding as easily as on a road.

“Which of the goats’ droppings was that?” he wanted to know.

“The one they call Gervase. The other’s name is Joscelin, I think.”

“Crusaders,” he said, and spat.

Adelia, too, had little opinion of crusaders. Salerno was on one of the routes to the Holy Land and, whether going out or coming back, most soldiers of the crusading army had been insufferable. As pig-ignorant as they were enthusiastic for God’s work, those going out had disrupted the harmony in which different creeds and races lived in Sicily ’s kingdom by protesting against the presence of Jews, Moors, and even Christians whose practices were different from their own, often attacking them. On the way back, they were usually embittered, diseased, and impoverished-only a few had been rewarded with the fortune or holy grace they’d expected-and, therefore, just as troublesome.

She knew of some who’d not gone to Outremer at all, merely staying in Salerno until they’d exhausted its bounty before returning home to gain the admiration of their town or village with a few tall tales and a crusading cloak they’d bought cheap in Salerno ’s market.

“Well, you scared that one,” she said now. “It was a good throw.”

“No,” the Arab said, “I missed.”

Adelia turned on him. “Mansur, you listen to me. We are not here to slaughter the populace…”

She stopped. They had come to a track, and just below them was the other crusader, the one called Joscelin, protector of the prioress. He had found one of the hounds and was bending down, attaching a leash to its collar, berating the huntsman who was with him.

As they came up, he raised his head, smiling, nodded at Mansur, and wished Adelia good day. “I am glad to see you accompanied, mistress. This is no place for pretty ladies to wander alone, nor anyone else for that matter.”