A Murderous Procession aka The Assassin

other up; if one went so would the other. Presumably to judge from their silence, the three other prisoners were doing the same.

Yet there were noises; the tunnel had its own creaks and whimpers. Ulf broke the silence: “Anybody else down here?” But the shout sent up diminishing, skipping reverberations of “anybody else… anybody else…” like answers from the dead, and he didn’t do it again. Certainly no living voice replied.

Food was presaged by the sound of clanking. Each of the two guards who came to feed them had a chatelaine chained to his belt such as were usually worn by ladies to attach useful feminine things like scissors, thimble and needle cases, keys to store cupboards, etc. The guards had only keys, massive keys.

The women’s door was unlocked first. One of the guards shoved in a tray while the other stood back, spear at the ready to repel any rushed escape. The door was locked again. Adelia and Boggart heard the procedure repeated next door, then listened to the rattle of keys as the guards climbed the stairs to their post.

Darkness.

“CATHARS? WHY WOULD Cathars be connected with the princess?” The Bishop of Winchester was having trouble catching up.

“They are not, of course,” said Father Guy, soothingly “It is their ploy to escape punishment. As my lord Aveyron says, all heretics are liars. These are nothing to do with us.”

“It is strange, though,” the bishop continued. “Is it possible… could it be that… how many of our people stayed behind in that nuns’ hospital at the last?”

“Oooh,” Dr. Arnulf said casually “Seven? Eight?”

“Not five, then?”

“And remember, my lord,” pointed out Father Guy, “the Bishop of Saint Albans said before he left for Carcassonne that he would be sending the Saracen and his female back to England. It is safe to assume that they have already gone.”

“Taking the others with them, one supposes,” Dr. Arnulf said.

“Also, they would be taking the direct route back to England; they cannot have wandered so far off it as to encroach on Aveyron territory.”

“Nor would they be dressed as Cathars.”

The chaplain and doctor were topping each other, and doing it well, though they avoided each other’s eyes like secret lovers. Father Adalburt watched them, smiling his vacant smile.

The Saracen, thought the Bishop of Winchester wearily. The Saracen and his woman-what was her name? They had blighted with ill luck a journey already hard enough for an old man; he was dreading its recommencement. “I wish the Bishop of Saint Albans were here,” he said. “He would know, but, alas, we shan’t have his company now until we reach Sicily.”

Father Guy in no way regretted my lord of Saint Albans’s absence. “My lord, why should we concern ourselves over a faraway group of unbelievers?”

Dr. Arnulf didn’t regret it, either. “Totally unnecessary.”

They kept quiet while their bishop mused. He was roused by the return of Peter, who began clearing the table; like most of the servants, the man was wearing the Plantagenet leopards on his tunic.

Plantagenet. The word jolted the bishop out of his reverie. Troublesome and unlucky as the Saracen and his woman had proved to be, King Henry had stressed their importance. Perhaps all pains should be taken to ensure that they were safe-the king’s toes, if stepped on, could deliver a devastating kick.

“Should we not send someone back to Aveyron… to see if there has been some unfortunate mistake… ensure that the bishop’s prisoners do not include our people?”

Father Guy put out a hand to quell a hiss from Dr. Arnulf. “My lord, if I may say so, that would be an error reflecting badly on yourself. It would indicate to this foreign bishop that you have allowed Princess Joanna’s train to be riddled with heretics, or why else should you even inquire for these?”

“Oh, dear, yes. No, we mustn’t do that.”

“I don’t see why your lordship is even troubling yourself with the matter,” Dr. Arnulf said. “The bishop’s prisoners are dressed as Cathars, therefore they must be Cathars.”

The old man sighed. “Very well, then, I suppose we must send a letter to Aveyron tomorrow disclaiming any knowledge of these people.”

Doctor and chaplain took in a breath and then dispelled it.

The thing that Aveyron’s letter had brought into the room’s shadows grew in size, vibrating slightly

Father Guy said swiftly: “Allow me to pen it, my lord. Best it were done right away If you will retire, I’ll bring the letter to your room for your signature.”

“Thank you, my son.” My lord of Winchester raised himself from his chair, making gratefully for his bed, a tired man made more tired by the uneasy feeling that something had got away from him.

As the door closed behind him, Father Guy’s eyes at last met those of Dr. Arnulf.

The doctor nodded. “Write the letter, then,” he said.

OUTSIDE ONE OF the tents surrounding the chateau, Admiral O’Donnell was playing chess with Locusta by the light of a fire.

“Ah, Peter,” he called as the servant passed him. “Who’s our visitor? The one with a look that would perish the Danes?”

“Brought a message from the Bishop of Aveyron, my lord.”

“Did he, now?” The Irishman moved his queen. “And what was the letter about?”

Peter told him.

“Cathars,” said the O‘Donnell, nodding. “Bad cess to ’em.”

“Checkmate.” Locusta grinned. “You’re off your game tonight, my lord.”

“To you the glory.” He stretched and yawned. “And me for me bed. Good night, gentlemen.”

SINCE LIFE, even in despair, had to be lived, the prisoners made the best of it.

They established their own routine. Every morning-if it was morning-they took turns to press their faces to the doors’ bars and talk to one another. This was harder on Adelia and Boggart than the men since, to reach the aperture, both women had to stand on tiptoe, a stance that couldn’t be maintained for too long.

Then, at Adelia’s insistence, they all took exercise by walking twenty times round the walls of the cells. These were of stone and extensive, something their occupants were forced to establish by pace and feel. Rankin, during one of his conversations with Adelia through their door bars, shouted: “For what wud a man o’ God want wi’ sic space for his paiks, lessen he’s a black-avised, messan-dog o’ a limmer?”

Which, interpreted, was a good question. Had the bishops of Aveyron who’d built this place so distrusted their flock that they envisaged incarcerating the hundreds these cells could hold? Was the present incumbent expecting to fill them with Cathars?

In the afternoon-if it was afternoon-they kept up their spirits by singing or reciting, each taking it in turn to stand near the door so that his or her voice could reach the others. In the case of Adelia this was a penance, for her as well as everybody else; she had the singing voice of an off-key crow and restricted herself to chanting nursery rhymes her childhood English nurse had taught her in Sicily

Ulf’s voice was little better so he chose to recount tales of Hereward the Wake and the fight that fenland hero had put up against William the Conqueror. Mansur’s high, clear treble sent songs of the Tigris-Euphrates marshland into which he’d been born ringing down the tunnel. Boggart sang pretty ballads she’d picked up from marketplace minstrels. Rankin, in a tuneful and deep bass, rendered incomprehensible but heart-stirring airs from the Highlands and bewailed the fact that he hadn’t his peeps with which he could have kept up their spirits even further.

“Er, ‘peeps’?”

“Bagpipes,” came the gloomy explanation in Ulf’s voice. “We been spared them at least.”

This was their defiance: no hymns, never hymns; in this place they would not give voice to the God worshipped by the Bishop of Aveyron.

But they became more and more tired; their scraps of food were leftovers from the palace kitchens and, always supposing the cook hadn’t spat in them, were of good quality but too meager to be sustaining. Adelia, her