“These are your instructions. To discover the culprit whom, three days ago”-he checked the date-“yes, it was the celebration of Saint Leocadia…three days ago, made an attempt on the life of the woman Rosamund Clifford of Wormhold Tower near Oxford. You will require the help of the nuns of Godstow in this endeavor.” He tapped the slate with a bony finger. “It must be pointed out that, should the aforesaid nuns offer you free accommodation at the convent, your payment shall be reduced accordingly.”
He peered at them, then returned to the main thrust. “Any information is to be sent to his lordship immediately as it is gained-a messenger to be provided for the purpose-and you will tell no one else of your findings, which must be unearthed with discretion.”
He scanned his book for more detail, found none, and clapped it shut. “Horses and a conveyance will be at the door within an hour, and food is being prepared in the meantime. To be provided without charge.” His nose twitched at his generosity.
Dangling by the back of his surplice from Mansur’s hand, he had the appearance of a surprised kitten.
Gyltha was informing the struggling kitten. “You see, lad,” she said, bending to put her face close, “we come to see Bishop Rowley.”
“No, no, that is impossible. His lordship departs for Normandy tomorrow and has much to do before then.” Somehow, horizontally, the little priest achieved dignity. “I attend to his affairs…”
But the door had opened and a procession was entering in a blaze of candles, bearing at its center a figure from an illuminated manuscript, majestic in purple and gold.
His lordship assessed the situation. “Put him down, Mansur,” he said in Arabic.
Mansur opened his hand.
Both pages carrying his lordship’s train leaned out sideways to peer at the ragbag of people who had floored Father Paton. A white-haired functionary began hammering on the tiles with his wand of office.
Only the bishop appeared unmoved. “All right, steward,” he said. “Good evening, Mistress Adelia. Good evening, Gyltha, you look well.”
“So do you, bor.”
“How’s Ulf?”
“At school. Prior says as he’s doing grand.”
The steward blinked; this was lese-majeste. He watched his bishop turn to the Arab. “Dr. Mansur,
This was worse. “My lord…”
“Supper will be served up here as quickly as may be, steward, we are short of time.”
“Your vestments, my lord…Shall I fetch your dresser?”
“Paton will divest me.” The bishop sniffed, searching for the source of a smell. He found it and added, “Also, bring a bone for the dog.”
“Yes, my lord.” Pitiably, the steward wafted the other servants from the room.
The bishop processed to the bedroom, the secretary following and explaining what he had done, what
Bishop Rowley’s voice: “Which seem to have become somewhat garbled on the journey.”
“Yet I obeyed them as best I could, to the letter, my lord… I cannot understand…” Outpourings of a man misjudged came to them through the open door as, at the same time, Father Paton divested his master of cope, dalmatic, rochet, pallium, gloves, and miter, layer after layer of embroidered trappings that had employed many needlewomen for many years, all lifted off and folded with infinite care. It took time.
“Rosamund Clifford?” Mansur asked Gyltha.
“You know her, you heathen. Fair Rosamund as they sing about-the king’s pet fancy. Lots of songs about Fair Rosamund.”
Then she reminded herself that she, too, must now be numbered among the world’s loose women.
“So she’ve near been murdered, has she?” Gyltha said, happily. “Per’aps Queen Eleanor done it. Tried to get her out of the way, like. Green jealous of Rosamund, Eleanor is.”
“The songs say that as well, do they?” Adelia asked.
“That they do.” Gyltha considered. “No, now I think on’t, can’t be the queen as done it; last I heard, the king had her in prison.”
The mighty and their activities were another country,
Once, it had been different. During the war of Stephen and Matilda, news of their comings and goings was vital, so you could know in advance-and hopefully escape-whichever king’s, queen’s, or baron’s army was likely to come trampling your crops. Since much of the trampling had taken place in the fens, Gyltha had then been as aware of politics as any.
But out of that terrible time had emerged a Plantagenet ruler like a king from a fairy tale, establishing peace, law, and prosperity in England. If there
The wife Henry brought with him to the throne had also stepped out of a fairy tale-a highly colored one. Here was no shy virgin princess; Eleanor was the greatest heiress in Europe, a radiant personality who’d ruled her Duchy of Aquitaine in her own right before wedding the meek and pious King Louis of France-a man who’d bored her so much that the marriage had ended in divorce. At which point nineteen-year-old Henry Plantagenet had stepped forward to woo the beautiful thirty-year-old Eleanor and marry her, thus taking over her vast estates and making himself ruler of a greater area of France than that belonging to its resentful King Louis.
The stories about Eleanor were legion and scandalous: She’d accompanied Louis on crusade with a bare- breasted company of Amazons; she’d slept with her uncle Raymond, Prince of Antioch; she’d done this, done that…
But if her new English subjects expected to be entertained by more naughty exploits, they were disappointed. For the next decade or so, Eleanor faded quietly into the background, doing her queenly and wifely duty by providing Henry with five sons and three daughters.
As was expected of a healthy king, Henry had other children by other women-what ruler did not?-but Eleanor seemed to take them in her stride, even having young Geoffrey, one of her husband’s bastards by a prostitute, brought up with the legitimate children in the royal court.
A happy marriage, then, as marriages went.
Until…
What had caused the rift in the lute? The advent of Rosamund, young, lovely, the highest-born of Henry’s women? His affair with her became legendary, a matter for song; he adored her, called her
