Ariana Franklin - Mistress of the Art of Death

Adelia moved away to join Ulf, who was slapping his cap against his leg to shake off raindrops. He waved it in the direction of the tax collector. “Don’t like that un.”

“I don’t either,” Adelia said, “but the Safeguard seems to.”

Absentmindedly-and she thought he would be sorry for it later-Sir Rowley was caressing the dog’s head where it leaned against his knee.

Ulf growled in disgust. Then he said, “You reckon them sheep were done for by him as did for Harold and the others?”

“Yes,” she said. “It was a similar weapon.”

Ulf mused on it. “Wonder where he’s been killing betwixt times?”

It was an intelligent question; Adelia had asked it of herself immediately. It was also the question the tax collector should have asked. And hadn’t.

Because he knows, she thought.

DRIVING BACK TO TOWN in the cart, like a good medicine vendor after a day picking herbs, Simon of Naples expressed gratification at having joined forces with Sir Rowley Picot. “A quick brain, for all his size, none quicker. He was most interested in the significance we place on the appearance of Little Saint Peter’s body on Chaim’s lawn and, since he has access to the county’s accounts, he has promised to assist me in discovering which men owed Chaim money. Also, he and Mansur are going to investigate the Arab trade ships and see which of them carries jujubes.”

“God’s rib,” Adelia said. “Did you tell him everything ?”

“Most everything.” He smiled at her exasperation. “My dear Doctor, if he is the killer, he knows everything already.”

“If he’s the killer, he knows we’re closing him round. He knows enough to wish us away. He told me to go back to Salerno.”

“Yes, indeed. He is concerned for you. ‘This is no matter to involve a woman,’ he told me. ‘Do you want her murdered in her bed?’”

Simon winked at her; he was in a good mood. “Why is it that we are always murdered in our beds, I wonder. We are never murdered at breakfast time. Or in our bath.”

“Oh, stop it. I don’t trust the man.”

“I do, and I have considerable experience of men.”

“He disturbs me.”

Simon winked at Mansur. “Considerable experience of women, too. I believe she likes him.”

Furiously, Adelia said, “Did he tell you he was a crusader?”

“No.” He turned to look at her, grave now. “No, he did not tell me that.”

“He was.”

It was the custom of those in Cambridge who had been on pilgrimage to hold a feast after their return. Alliances had been made on the journey, business conducted, marriages arranged, holiness and exaltation experienced; the world in general had been widened; and it was pleasurable for those who had shared these things to be brought together once more to discuss them and give thanks for a safe return.

This pilgrimtide it was the turn of the Prioress of Saint Radegund’s to host the feast. Since, however, Saint Radegund was yet a poor, small convent-a situation soon to be altered if Prioress Joan and Little Saint Peter had anything to do with it-the honor of holding it on her behalf had been awarded to her knight and tenant, Sir Joscelin of Grantchester, whose hall and lands were considerably larger and richer than hers, a not unusual anomaly in the case of those who held part in fee of the lesser religious houses.

A famous feast-giver, Sir Joscelin. It was said that when he’d entertained the Abbot of Ramsay last year, thirty beeves, sixty pigs, a hundred and fifty capon, three hundred larks (for their tongues), and two knights had died in the cause, the latter in a melee laid on for the abbot’s entertainment that had gotten gloriously out of hand.

Invitations were therefore valued; those who had not been on the pilgrimage but were closely associated with it, stay-at-home wives, daughters, sons, the good and the great of the shire, canons, and nuns, thought themselves ill-used not to be included. Since most of them were, the caterers t0 Cambridge ’s finery had been kept busy with barely a spare breath to bless the names of Saint Radegund’s prioress and her loyal knight, Sir Joscelin.

It was not until the morning of the day itself that a Grantchester servant arrived with an invitation for the three foreigners in Jesus Lane. Dressed for the occasion, complete with a horn to blow, he was put out when Gyltha took him in at the back door.

“No use going by the front way, Matt, Doctor’s physicking.”

“Let’s just blow a call, Gylth. Master sends his invites with a call.”

He was taken into the kitchen for a cup of home brew; Gyltha liked to know what was going on.

Adelia was in the hall, wrangling with Dr. Mansur’s last patient of the day; she always kept Wulf to the end.

“Wulf, there is nothing wrong with you. Not the strangles, not ague, not the cough, not distemper, not diper bite, whatever that is, and you are certainly not lactating.”

“Do the doctor say that?”

Adelia turned wearily to Mansur. “Say something, Doctor.”

“Give the idle dog a kick up his arse.”

“The doctor prescribes steady work in fresh air,” Adelia said.

“With my back?”

“There is nothing wrong with your back.” She regarded Wulf as a phenomenon. In a feudal society where everybody, except the growing mercantile class, owed work to somebody else for their existence, Wulf had escaped vassalage, probably by running away from his lord and certainly by marrying a Cambridge laundress who was prepared to labor for them both. He was, quite literally, afraid of work; it made him ill. But in order to escape the derision of society, he needed to be adjudged ill in order to avoid becoming so.

Adelia was as gentle with him as with all her patients-she wondered if his brain could be pickled postmortem and sent to her so that she might examine it for some missing ingredient-but she refused to compromise her duty as a doctor by diagnosing or prescribing for a physical complaint where none existed.

“How about malingering? I’m still a-suffering from that, ain’t I?”

“A bad case,” she said and shut the door on him.

It was still raining and therefore chilly and, since Gyltha didn’t hold with lighting a fire in the hall from the end of March to the beginning of November, the warmth of Old Benjamin’s house lay in its kitchen outside, a roaring place equipped with apparatus so fearful that it could be a torture chamber if it weren’t for its ravishing smells.

Today it held a new object, a wooden barrel like a washerwoman’s lessiveuse. Adelia’s best saffron silk underdress, as yet unworn in England, hung from a flitch hook above it to steam out the wrinkles. She had thought the gown to be still in the clothes press upstairs.

“What’s that for?”

“ Bath. You,” Gyltha said.

Adelia was not unwilling; she hadn’t bathed since last climbing out of the tiled and heated pool in her stepparents’ villa that the Romans had installed nearly fifteen hundred years before. The bucket of water carried to the solar every morning by Matilda W. was no replacement. However, the scene before her prefigured an event, so she asked, “Why?”

“I ain’t having you let me down at the feast,” Gyltha said.

Sir Joscelin’s invitation to Dr. Mansur and his two assistants, so Gyltha said, having put his man to the inquisition, was at Prior Geoffrey’s prompting-if not true pilgrims, they had at least joined the pilgrimage on its return journey.

To Gyltha it was a challenge; the stoniness of her face showed that she was excited. As she had allied herself with these three queer fish, it was necessary for her self-esteem and social standing that they appear well when exposed to the scrutiny of the town’s illustrious. Her limited knowledge of what such an occasion demanded was being augmented by Matilda B., whose mother was scrubwoman at the castle and had witnessed preparations for the tiring of the sheriff’s lady on feast days, if not the tiring itself.