A Murderous Procession aka The Assassin

At first, the sight of Mansur’s head with its kaffiyeh bent over them caused some sufferers to panic, but eventually his imperturbable calm soothed them and they clung to him in their pain. The Irishman, on the other hand, told jokes to the sick as he tended them and, though they grated on Adelia’s ear, they seemed to enchant both patients and nuns to the good of both.

It was a tug of war, and the strain for those pulling against Death on behalf of their patients tired them to the last fiber. Adelia and Sister Ermengarde rarely left the cowshed but took alternate rests on a hay bale when they dropped.

Rowley and a servant came every day from Figeres, to bring bread and clean linen and so that those desperate to unburden themselves of their sins could do so to a bishop in case they went to their God unshriven.

Jacques the harness maker and Pepe, one of the cooks, died and were buried in graves that O’Donnell and Deniz hacked into the limestone of the hillside, but by the fifth day those who were going to survive were recovering including Rankin.

TWO MEN ARE meeting by night at a quiet crossroads halfway between Figeres and the town of Aveyron. Their horses are tethered to a fallen walnut tree while they walk and talk, heeping their voices low even here, where there are only owls and foxes to hear them.

“All this can be delivered, ”Scarrysays, “for the Bishop of Saint Albans is Henry of England’s representative and he has been summoned to negotiate between all parties. What secret decisions are made amongst them I shall know of.”

Scarry is selling power, for knowledge of what goes on at the innermost conferences of the great is above rubies to those with ambition. And Scarry’s price is cheap, as he makes clear but insists on-fifty gold coins and the mere ruination of one particular soul.

“Unless that is done, your master can go whistle for news that will advantage him,” he says, pleasantly.

Father Gerhardt is aware that his master does not like whistling, nor will pass up an opportunity that may well prove golden, as well as delivering an old enemy into his hands.

“It shall be done,” Father Gerhardt tells Scarry. “And now, where is the bitch?”

Scarry tells him. Father Gerhardt’s bitch is not Scarry’s bitch. But since a burning always makes good entertainment, he will attend that of them both.

ROWLEY AND LOCUSTA brought visitors with them; Lady Petronilla and Mistress Blanche had come on behalf of Princess Joanna to inquire after the patients’ health.

Adelia looked up from spooning vegetable broth into the groom Martin’s mouth, to see what looked like two ravishing butterflies settling their wings outside the cowshed door-well outside.

Lady Petronilla stayed there, enumerating to the O’Donnell the gift of goodies the princess had sent. “Some girdle bread, fig and raisin custards-the Figeres monks are masters of custards-oh, and some lavender oil to put on poorly heads.”

Damn, Adelia thought, I was hoping for some meat.

Blanche, however, ventured into the cowshed, a clove pomander held close to her elegant nose.

“There’s no plague here,” Adelia told her sharply

“It’s not a rose garden, either,” Blanche said equally sharply

It wasn’t, but it was clean and tidy. The rows of palliasses were now on boards with legs that kept them off the ground; there were fresh straw pillows for the patients to rest their heads on. Mangers that erstwhile cows had fed from were now lined with grasses and filled with dried herbs.

She resumed spooning broth into Martin’s mouth while the lady-in-waiting strolled along the beds, asking benign royal questions: “How long have you been a mule driver, my man. Really?” “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? Hadwisa, of course. We’ll soon have you better, Hadwisa.”

She lingered, watching Adelia. “How many of our people have you lost?”

“We’ve saved thirty out of thirty-four, thank you very much.”

But it appeared that Mistress Blanche had not meant to be critical. “When the flux attacked one of my father’s castles, half the sufferers died.”

“Ah,” Adelia said, still put out. “I suppose he didn’t have a witch and a Saracen looking after them.”

Surprisingly, Mistress Blanche smiled. “Perhaps it would have been better if he had.”

Well, well, a compliment.

Adelia said: “The true saints are the two nuns who took us in. I would introduce you, but they’re returning some of the chamber pots we borrowed.”

“How tasteful. The princess shall be visiting you tomorrow, she can thank them then.”

When the two women had gone, attended by Locusta, Adelia waited until the bishop and his flock had finished their prayers, then asked him to bring strong beef broth with him tomorrow: “We haven’t been able to give the patients meat since we came; the sisters are vegetarians.”

Rowley nodded. “I was afraid they were.”

“Why? What’s wrong with that?”

“Come for a walk.”

Followed by Ward, they strolled down the hill together, Adelia glancing anxiously back in case one of her patients suffered a mishap in her absence. The sun was chilly. They sat down under the bare branches of a lonely fig tree.

Rowley took her hand. “Sweetheart, at last we’re in touch with the outside world. Our messenger met up with King Henry at Perigord. I’m being sent away I’ve got to go ahead. The trouble with Angouleme has stirred up the southern lords…”

He was leaving her. That was all she heard before the old, old misery took her in its jaws. He was going. Even such snatched moments as they’d had together were to be taken away

He went on talking, explaining the region’s constantly shifting and bloody history “We’re approaching the southernmost boundary of Henry’s empire,” he told her. “From here on we’ll be in dragon country.”

He spoke of the dragon lords who took any opportunity to ride to war and invade their neighbor, of alliances kept and broken, of counts, viscounts, princes, Alfonso of Aragon, Roger of Carcassonne, Raymond of Toulouse, D’Albi… the names drifted up into the branches above her, translating themselves into rapine and corpses.

“So there it is,” he said. “I have to make sure Joanna has safe conduct through to Saint Gilles. There’s to be an attempt at a peace conference at Carcassonne…”

“When are you going?” she asked.

“Tomorrow And…” His fists clenched. “I won’t be coming back.”

“Not coming back?”

He reached into his robe and brought out a parchment from which dangled a heavy red seal. “Read this.”

She began reading: “To our best beloved Rowley, Bishop of Saint Albans, greetings in the Lord from Henry, King of the English, Lord of Normandy and Aquitaine…” She skimmed through the titles; they could take forever. “Know that we have need of your esteemed service in Lombardy…”

She handed it back. “Just tell me.”

It was politics. It was to do with Emperor Barbarossa and the Lombardians, with popes, anti-popes, staying on good terms with some, undermining others.”

She stopped listening. Henry The king. Always his king. Above God, above everything: Henry Plantagenet.

“You do see, sweetheart,” he said desperately, “Henry can’t afford trouble in Northern Italy Diplomacy and guile are necessary” He looked at her and became angry. “Peace, mistress. Stopping people dying. I’ve got to go.”

“I know.”

In silence, they watched a robin hopping incautiously near their feet in a search for worms.

“Will we meet in Sicily?” she asked eventually

“No. I’ll be there for the wedding, I hope, but tomorrow you’re going straight back to England, you and Mansur. I’ve arranged with Captain Bolt…”