Ariana Franklin - Mistress of the Art of Death

The door from the kitchen opened and Rabbi Gotsce entered cautiously, bowing with a frequency that showed he was nervous.

The king took no more notice of him. “Anyway, Aaron went away to consider and, having considered, returned. He said that the man we needed was a certain Simon of Naples-another Jew, I fear, my lords, but an investigator of renown. Aaron also suggested that Simon be asked to bring with him a master in the art of death.” Henry bestowed another of his smiles on the judges. “I expect you are asking yourselves: What is a master in the art of death? I know I did. A necromancer? A species of refined torturer? But no, it appears there are qualified men who can read corpses and, in this case, might gain from the manner of the Cambridge children’s murder an indication as to the perpetrator. Is there any more of this excellent broth?”

The transition was so fast that it was some minutes before Prior Geoffrey roused himself and crossed to the hatch as if a man in a dream. It seemed natural that a woman’s hand extend a steaming bowl to him. He took it, walked back, and proffered it to the king on bended knee.

The king had employed the interim in chatting to Prioress Joan. “I hoped to go after boar tonight. Is it too late, do you think? Will they have returned to their lair?”

The prioress was bewildered but charmed. “Not yet, my lord. May I recommend you employ your hounds toward Babraham, where the woods…” Her voice trailed away as realization overtook her. “I repeat hearsay, my lord. I have little time for hunting.”

“Really, madam?” Henry appeared gently surprised. “I have heard you famed as a regular Diana.”

An ambush, Adelia thought. She realized she was watching an exercise that, whether it succeeded or not, raised cunning to the realm of art.

“So,” the king said, chewing, “thank you, Prior. So, I asked Aaron, ‘Where in hell can I find a master in the art of death?’ And he said, ‘Not in hell, my lord, in Salerno.’ He likes his little quips, does our Aaron. It seems the excellent medical school in Salerno produces men qualified in that recondite science. So, to cut a long story short, I wrote to the King of Sicily.” He beamed at the prioress. “He’s a friend, you know. I wrote begging the services of Simon of Naples and a death master.”

Having swallowed too quickly, the king began to cough and had to be slapped on the back by Hubert Walter.

“Thank you, Hubert.” He wiped his eyes. “Well, two things went awry. For one thing, I was out of England putting down the bloody Lusignans when Simon of Naples arrived in this country. For another, it appears that in Salerno they qualify women in medicine-can you believe it, my lords?-and some idiot who couldn’t tell Adam from Eve sent not a master in the art of death but a mistress. There she is.”

He looked at Adelia, though nobody else did; they watched the king, always the king. “So I’m afraid, my lords, we can’t hang her-much as we want to. She’s not our property, you see, she’s a subject of the King of Sicily, and friend William will want her returned to him in good condition.”

He was down from the table now, walking the floor and picking his teeth as if in deep reflection. “What do you say, my lords? Do you think, in view of the fact that this woman and a Jew, between them, seem to have saved further children from a nasty death at the hands of a gentleman whose head is even now pickling in the castle brine bucket…” He drew a puzzled breath, shaking his head. “Can we so much as scourge her?”

Nobody said anything; they weren’t meant to.

“In fact, my lords, King William will take it amiss if there is interference with Mistress Adelia, any attempt to charge her with witchcraft or malpractice.” The king’s voice had become a whip. “And so shall I.”

I am your servant all my days. Adelia was limp with gratitude and admiration. But can you, even you, great Plantagenet, bring the nun to open trial?

Rowley was in the room now, large, and bowing to the much shorter Henry, handing things to him. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, my lord.” A look passed between them and Rowley nodded. They were in league, he and the king.

He walked up the refectory to stand beside Prior Geoffrey. His cloak was dark with rain and he smelled of fresh air; he was fresh air, and she was suddenly overjoyed that her bodice was low and her head bare, like a harlot. She could have stripped for him all over again. I am your harlot whenever you want, and proud of it.

He was saying something. The prior was giving instructions to Brother Gilbert, who left the room.

Henry had gone back to his place on the table. He was beckoning to the fattest of the three nuns in the center of the hall. “You, Sister. Yes, you. Come here.”

Prioress Joan watched with suspicion as Walburga advanced hesitantly toward the king. Veronica’s eyes remained downcast, her hands as still as they had been from the first.

More gently now, but with every word audible, the king said, “Tell me, Sister, what you do at the convent? Speak up. Nothing is going to happen to you, I promise.”

It came, breathy at first, but few could resist Henry when he was pleasant, and Walburga wasn’t one of them. “I contemplates the Holy Word, my lord, like the others, and say the prayers. And I pole supplies to the anchorites…” A note of doubt there.

It came to Adelia that Walburga, with her shaky Latin, was so bewildered by the proceedings that she had not attended to most of them.

“And we keep the hours, almost nearly always…”

“Do you eat well? Plenty of meat?”

“Oh, yes, my lord.” Walburga was on firm ground and gaining confidence. “Mother Joan do always brings back a buck or two from the hunt, and my auntie’s good with butter and cream. We eat main well.”

“What else do you do?”

“I polishes Little Saint Peter’s reliquary, and I weaves tokens for the pilgrims to buy, and I-”

“I’ll wager you’re the best weaver in the convent.” Very jovial.

“Well, I’m pretty with it, my lord, though I do say it as shouldn’t, but maybe Sister Veronica and poor Sister Agnes-as-was run me close.”

“I expect you have individual styles?” At Walburga’s blink, Henry rephrased it. “Say I wanted to buy a token from a pile of tokens. Could you tell me which one was yours and which one Agnes’s? Or Veronica’s?”

My God. Adelia’s skin was prickling. She tried to catch Rowley’s eye, but he would not look at her.

Walburga chuckled. “No need, my lord. I’ll do one for you for free.”

Henry smiled. “Tut, and I’ve just sent Sir Rowley to fetch some.” He held out one of the small objects, some figures, some mats that Rowley had given him. “Did you make this one?”

“Oh, no, that’s Sister Odilia’s afore she died.”

“And this one?”

“That’s Magdalene’s.”

“This?”

“Sister Veronica’s.”

“Prior.” It was a command.

Brother Gilbert was back. Prior Geoffrey was bringing another object for Walburga to look at. “And this, my child? Who made this one?” It lay on his outstretched palm, like a star made of rushes, beautifully and intricately woven into quincuncial shape.

Walburga was enjoying the game. “Why, that’s Sister Veronica’s, too.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure as sure, my lord. It’s her fun. Poor Sister Agnes said as perhaps she shouldn’t, them looking heathenlike, but we didn’t see no harm.”

“No harm,” the king said, softly. “Prior?”

Prior Geoffrey faced the judges. “My lords, that is one of the tokens that were lying on the corpses of the Wandlebury children when we found them. This nun has just identified it as being made by the accused sister. Look.”