A Murderous Procession aka The Assassin

Poitiers was proud and which, Adelia feared, might cause Mansur’s presence in the city to be regarded as an offense, especially among unsophisticates like the head laundress and Joanna’s nurse, who would lose no time in broadcasting it.

Unlike the Young King, Richard Plantagenet hadn’t rushed to meet his sister; he was not, as Adelia saw at a glance, an impulsive youth.

He stood at the doors of Eleanor’s palace like a colossus, taller than and as splendid as Young Henry but weightier, both physically and mentally and dressed in gold.

The brothers did not get on. They had combined in the revolt against their father, but when the three of them made peace and Henry II had ordered the elder to go and help Richard put down the Aquitanian rebels, the Young King had deserted the fight and gone off to take part in more tournaments.

Just looking at Richard now, Adelia knew that if it ever came to open war between them, the younger would win.

After bowed to Joanna and kissed her hand, his deep voice rang over the courtyard: “Here is my beloved sister, princess of my blood. Who befriends her is my friend; who harms her shall feel the might of my fist.”

Unnecessary, Adelia thought. Who would harm that child?

Joanna, however, gazed up at her brother in adoration as, with her fingertips on his, she was led into a hall as big and as impressive as any Adelia had ever seen.

The feast held in it that night also reflected Eleanor’s taste-it certainly wouldn’t have been Henry’s.

Every course was elaborate; not a boar head without its tusks and an apple in its mouth, not a peacock without its fanned tail, nor an oyster without its faux pearl-yet the food was of a freshness suggesting that everything had been alive or growing yesterday in this richest of all countrysides. Youthful knights far outnumbered the women guests, which, again, would have suited Eleanor, who liked male admiration, especially from the young.

Her son did, too, it seemed. Though the women he knew well, such as Lady Beatrix, Lady Petronilla, and Mistress Blanche, were being accorded the honor of sitting with him at the top table, as were the bishops of Winchester and Saint Albans, the handsome Locusta, whose lack of position and a title hardly merited it, was with them, and looking somewhat uncomfortable at being so singled out.

But then, Adelia thought, perhaps Richard wants to discuss with him the plans for the rest of their journey to Sicily.

Or was it that? When the duke addressed the ladies, which he did charmingly enough, his eyes were dull. When chaffing with his knights, or in conversation with Locusta, or accepting a dish from his kneeling page-a slim, beautiful lad-his whole face became refreshed.

Sitting in her unexalted place in the middle of one of the long tables below the dais, Adelia’s glance met her lover’s. She raised her eyebrows in interrogation.

He gave back the merest twitch of his head. I think so.

For a moment the intimacy of understanding between the two of them was so sweet she could think of nothing else. Again, she asked herself: Why didn’t I accept him when he offered? Fool, you fool, look at us now.

She got herself under control and turned her mind back toward Aquitaine’s princely duke. If she and Rowleywere right, how dreadful for the young man. In the world’s eyes, not just a sin but a crime; to be something nobody wanted him to be, not even himself. Perhaps, then, the frenetic need to save his soul and placate his disapproving God could only be assuaged by taking up His banner and killing His enemies.

His reception of Mansur had been as coldly courteous as it had been to her but, presumably not daring to offend his father, he had at least given the Arab a place at the feast as high as Dr. Arnulf’s.

On their way to their beds, Adelia heard Lady Petronilla say to the other ladies-in-waiting, “My dears, now we are home.”

IN THE CHILLY NIGHT, two men are walking and talking in the garden that was once Eleanor of Aquitaine’s. One of them has a massive shadow which sometimes blends into that of the other.

“The sword is mine by right,” he says. He keeps his voice low but it is deep with authority. “Who else am I but Arthur’s heir? Who else will use it to defend our sweet and gracious Lord from His enemies?”

“I know where it is, and you shall have it by the time we reach Palermo, my lord,” says the other shadow. “For, indeed, you are its rightful owner. Without you, Christendom will be cast into darkness and the Holy Places lost forever. Your father refuses to raise it in their defense.”

“You will refer to him as the king.” For all Richard’s hatred of his father, anything that diminished Henry Plantagenet’s royalty diminished his own.

“The king of course,” says Scarry in apology. And then: “It is meet and right that you should have it, for if you could see the unworthiness of those to whom it has been entrusted, you would weep.”

He pauses because there is a sob from beside him; Richard the Lionheart is weeping. He cries easily; often he cries in church.

After a considerate wait, Scarry goes on: “To take it is to rescue it from another thousand years of oblivion.”

In the darkness, Scarry inclines his head a little, listening to the echo of his own words issue into the October air. That was rather fine; didn’t sound like theft at all.

He resumes: “When the time comes…” It is a euphemism for the death of Henry II; both men know it. “… when the time comes it shall be as if it were rediscovered. And this hand…” Another pause as the lesser shadow blends into the first while Scarry plops a kiss on the royal palm. “… and this hand, this blessed, blessed hand, may then raise Excalibur that heretics everywhere shall flee in confusion at the sight of it, back to the Pit from which they were raised.”

“Yes,” Richard says. “Yes. It is meet and proper that this should be so. It is not demeaning that is done for the greater glory of God.”

“It is not.” There is a cough of some delicacy as Scarry slides from the divine to the financial. “And… er… there have been expenses.”

“You will be paid as promised. On delivery. Now leave me.”

Bowing, Scarry leaves and, looking back, sees that the colossus has fallen to its knees and its clasped hands are raised high in supplication for… what? Absolution? Removal of the thorn that so torments its poor flesh?

“You’re praying to the wrong master, idiot,” Scarry says quietly, and disappears into the blackness from which he has come.

EVEN THOUGH it was cold at night, these October days in Aquitaine were warm, and Joanna dived into her old haunts, a child again, scuffling through the autumn leaves as she played ball and blind man’s buff with those of her own age, obviously as healthy as a ferret, leaving her doctors to their own devices.

There were creature comforts: enough bedrooms to give Adelia one of her own, to be shared only with Boggart and Ward-and, oh joy it had a garderobe in it. There was a ladies’ bathing place with a marbled, sunken bath twenty feet long. Every side table contained fruit and sweetmeats.

With it all, there was an alteration of sound. The Aquitanians amongst the wedding train had immediately reverted to their native tongue, the langue d’oc, so that the air of the palace echoed with it as if a breeze had wafted in from another, more exotic continent. It varied so much from the Norman French she was used to that Adelia, who soaked up languages like sand absorbs water, had difficulty with it at first but then, recalling her visits to the Occitan valleys of Italy, where the people spoke a patois version, was soon able to get her tongue round it and, when in church, to join the others in the Occitan version of the Paternoster-“Paire de Cel, Paire nostre, sanctificat lo teu Nom”-like a true Languedocienne.

However, the magic of the langue d’oc was not to be found in ecclesiastical chant but when it sang of love of woman. Draped over balustrades, leaning against statues, sighing, singing to their lutes and viols, were young nobles in whom Eleanor had inspired the tradition of courtly love. Any pretty noble lady would do; the thing was to