The Serpent’s Tale

“Lawyer. Name of Warin. Now he has been asking questions. Very worried about his young cousin, seemingly, as was last seen riding upriver.”

“Warin, Warin. He wrote the letter the boy carried.” It was as if an ice barrier was melting and allowing everything to flood back into her memory. Your affct cousin, Wlm Warin, gentleman-at-law, who hereby sends: two silvr marks as an earnest of your inheritance, the rest to be Claimed when we do meet.

Letters, always letters. A letter in the dead man’s saddlebag. A letter on Rosamund’s table. Did they connect the two murders? Not necessarily. People wrote letters when they could write at all. On the other hand…

“When did Master Warin arrive seeking his cousin?”

“Late last night, afore the blizzard. And he’s a weeper. Crying fit to bust for worry as his cousin might’ve got caught in the snow, or been waylaid for his purse. Wanted to cross the bridge and ask at the village, but the snow started blowing, so he couldn’t.”

Adelia worked it out. “He was quick off the mark to know the boy was missing, then. Talbot of Kidlington-it must be him in the icehouse-was only killed the night before.”

“Is that a clue?” The gleam in Gyltha’s eye was predatory.

“I don’t know. Probably not. Oh, dear God, what now?”

The church bell across the way had begun to toll, shivering the ewer in its bowl, sending vibrations through the bed. Allie’s mouth opened to yell, and Adelia scrambled to get to her and cover her ears. “What is it? What is it?” This was no call to worship.

Gyltha had her ear to the shutters, trying to listen to shouts in the alley below. “Everybody to the church.”

“Is it fire?”

“Dunno. Summoning bell, more like.” Gyltha ran to the line of pegs where their cloaks hung. Adelia began wrapping Allie in her furs.

Outside, groups of people hurried from both ends of the alley and joined the congestion in the noisy church porch, where those pausing to let others go in chattered in alarm, asking one another questions and receiving no answers. They took noise in with them…and quieted.

Though it was crowded, the church was silent and mostly dark, all light concentrated on the chancel, where men sat in the choir stalls, men, some of them in mail. The bishop’s throne had been placed in front of the altar for Queen Eleanor to sit in; she wore her crown, but the enormous chair dwarfed her.

Beside her stood a knight, helmeted, his cloak flung back to show the scarlet-and-black blazon of a wolf’s head on the chest of his tabard. A gauntleted hand rested on his sword’s hilt. He was so still he might have been a painted sculpture, but his was the figure that drew the eye.

The trickle of sound that came in with newcomers dried up. Godstow’s entire population was here now, all those who could walk, at least. Adelia, fearing that the child in her arms might be crushed, looked round for space and was helped up onto a tomb by people already standing on it. Gyltha and Ward joined her.

The bell stopped tolling; it had been mere background to what was developing and only became noticeable now by its cessation.

The knight nodded, and a liveried man behind the choir stalls turned and opened the vestry door, which was the entrance used by the religious.

Mother Edyve came in, leaning on her cane, followed by the nuns of Godstow. She paused as she reached the chancel and regarded the men who occupied the places reserved for her and the sisters. The Abbot of Eynsham sat there, so did Schwyz, Montignard, others. None of them moved.

There was a hiss of appalled breath from the congregation, but Mother Edyve merely cocked her head and limped past them, a finger raised to beckon at her flock as she went down the steps to stand with the congregation.

Adelia peered round the nave, looking for Mansur. She couldn’t see him; instead, she found herself looking at mailed men with drawn swords standing at intervals along the walls, as if the ancient stones had sprung rivets of steel and iron.

Warders.

She turned back. The knight in the chancel had begun speaking.

“You all know me. I am the Lord of Wolvercote, and from this moment I claim this precinct of Godstow in the name of our Lord Savior and my gracious liege lady, Queen Eleanor of England, to be held against the queen’s enemies until such time as her cause prevails throughout this land.”

It was a surprisingly high, weak voice from such a tall man, but in that silence it didn’t need strength.

There was a murmur of disbelief. Behind Adelia, somebody said, “What do he mean?”

Somebody else muttered, “Gor bugger, is he tellin’ us we’re at war?”

There was a shout from the nave: “What enemies is that, then? We ain’t got no enemies, we’m all snowed up.” It sounded to Adelia like the voice of the miller who had questioned Bishop Rowley. There was a general, nervous snigger.

Immediately, two of the men-at-arms against the southern wall barged forward, hitting people aside with the flat of their swords until they reached the interrupter. Seizing his arms, they pulled him through the crowd to the main doors.

It was the miller. Adelia got a glimpse of a round face, its mouth open in shock. The men dragging him wore the wolf’s head blazon. A boy ran after them. “Pa. Leave my pa alone.” She couldn’t see what happened after that, but the doors slammed shut and silence descended again.

“There will be no disobedience,” said the high voice. “This abbey is now under military rule, and you people are subject to martial law. A curfew will be imposed…”

Adelia struggled with disbelief. The most shocking thing about what was happening was its stupidity. Wolvercote was alienating the very people he needed as friends while the snow lasted. Needlessly. As the miller said, there was no enemy. The last she’d heard, the nearest military force was at nearby Oxford-and that was Wolvercote’s own.

Oh, God, a stupid man-the most dangerous animal of them all.

In the choir stalls, Montignard was smiling at the queen. Most of the others were watching the crowd in the nave, but the Abbot of Eynsham was examining his fingernails while the scowl on Schwyz’s face was that of a man forced to watch a monkey wearing his clothes.

He wouldn’t have done this, Adelia thought. He’s a professional. I wouldn’t have done it, and I don’t know anything about warfare.

“…the holy women will keep to their cloister, rationing will be introduced while the snow lasts, and one meal a day shall be eaten communally-gentles in the refectory, villeins in the barn. Apart from church services, there shall be no other gatherings. Any group of more than five people is forbidden.”

“That’s done for his bloody meals, then,” Gyltha breathed.

Adelia grinned. Here was stupidity in extremis; the kitchen staff alone numbered twenty; if they couldn’t congregate, there would be no cooking.

Whatever that man is up to, she thought, this is not the way to do it.

Then she thought, But he doesn’t know any other. This is a man for whom frightened people are obedient people.

And we are frightened. She could feel it, collective memory like a chill lancing through body heat in the church. An old helplessness. The Horsemen were with them, introduced into their peace by a stupid, stupid swine.

For what?

Adelia looked to where Schwyz and Abbot Eynsham sat, radiating discomposure. If this is the queen’s war, they are all on the same side. Is Wolvercote establishing himself over his allies before he can be challenged? Grabbing authority now? Not the Abbot of Eynsham, not Schwyz, nor any other to win the glory, if glory was to be won. Wolvercote had arrived to find the queen of England at hand and must establish himself as her savior before anyone else could. If she succeeded under his generalship, Wolvercote might even be the true regent of England.

I’m watching a man throw dice.