A Murderous Procession aka The Assassin

“Kestrel. Fine young brancher and looking for a young lady as’ll train un to the fist.”

Allie held her breath. “I could do that, I help our austringer at home. I helped him mend a peregrine’s tail feather with an imping needle.”

“Did ee now? You’re the one, then.” The castellan/jailer looked at Adelia. “I’ve got a young un, six he is, a keen falconer. She could come out to fly the bird with him and me across the plain.”

Unable to speak her gratitude, Adelia grasped the man’s hand.

Nevertheless, it was terrible to turn around as she rode away and see that small figure with Gyltha at her side, waving from the ramparts. Mansur didn’t look back at all, but his silence suggested another parting that had been equally hard.

Rowley tried to engage her in encouraging conversation, but she wouldn’t speak to him.

S CARRY IS ALREADY at Southampton; he can move fast when he wants to, can Scarry. He’s wearing clerical dress today and is sitting in a back-street tavern near the Church of Saint Michael where, since it is a watering hole popular with the town’s clerics and their visitors, he passes unnoticed.

In any case, he looks unremarkable because he’s put on his bland face, the one he wears when he is involved in an act of betrayal. (Scarry has learned that to have no allegiance to kings or countries, or anyone but Wolf, can be profitable.)

Another man, not unlike him in dress, approaches the settle and table he has chosen in a dark corner of the tavern, says: “Good evening, master. Have you come far? May I join you?” His Latin has an accent from a country warmer than England. He calls for ale, a flagon for himself and one for Scarry, sits down, and taps his fingers on the table in a complicated rhythm.

Scarry taps back.

“We understand that Excalibur is on the move,” the man says, like someone commenting on the weather. “The king is sending it to Sicily with his daughter.”

Scarry inclines his head as if agreeing that it has indeed been a fine day.

“We want to… intercept it.”

There is a pause while a tapster slams two tankards on their table, slopping them both, wishes them health, and waits.

“And this for you, my man,” the agent says. “God bless you.” A copper coin is passed over, neither of too much value nor too little.

“The treasure chests will be heavily guarded,” Scarry says when the tapster goes.

“It won’t be in the chests. At least, we don’t think so. Too open to attack on the way. No, it’s to be carried separately. Find out by whom, and there’ll be a hundred gold pieces for you, twenty-five now and the rest on delivery.”

With a slight thump, a purse slides down the man’s sleeve and onto the table where it is instantly covered by his hand. Scarry puts out his own in an apparent pat of approbation and the switch is made.

“You understand? The sword is simply to disappear. It will not reappear until such time as its new owner is ready to unsheathe it. You will be contacted.”

Scarry nods amiably. His companion is one of Duke Richard’s agents; therefore, Scarry knows who, among the many people desirous of Excalibur, the new owner is to be. He doesn’t care much. What are earthly kings and dukes to him? Mere purveyors of money. He has his own king.

He isn’t even surprised that he is uniquely fitted to carry out the instruction; he is becoming used to his God’s bounty in making easy arrangement for him.

For, two years ago, when, in his agony at Wolf’s death, he was tracking the woman Aguilar, did he not see her coming down the Glastonbury Tor, reputed home of Arthur of Britain, with a man he now knows was the King of England?

Coiled in the long, warm grass, like an adder, he’d watched them.

The other man finishes his ale, stands, says loudly that he’s happy to have made Scarry’s acquaintance, and leaves.

Scarry doesn’t watch him go. He is smiling, remembering…

Chatting like old friends, they’d been that day, Adelia Aguilar and Henry Plantagenet.

And King Henry, who’d gone up the hill unarmed, had come down it with a sword in his hand…

Three

HENRY II WAS SAVING money; only Joanna’s immediate court and servants would be sailing the Channel with her; the horses, grooms, cooks, laundresses, even some of the knights, soldiers, and others that were to form her marriage cavalcade overland were awaiting her in Normandy, the duchy Henry had inherited from William the Conqueror. It was cheaper than ferrying all of them over from England, though some of the treasure chests containing part of the dowry raised from the English would accompany her on the crossing.

He had, however, ordered Southampton Castle to lay on a farewell banquet for his daughter before she and the company caught the outbound tide. Even this, though, was less opulent than it might be-not so much because Henry had stinted, but because the castle servants and cooks knew, as did everyone else, that the king regarded time spent on eating course after course of food as time wasted.

Nevertheless, such dishes as were served at the great table in the castle’s hall that evening were simple by most banqueting standards but of fine quality So was the wine. From a gallery came the notes of viol and rebec as they accompanied a pure countertenor in song.

Halfway through, Henry Plantagenet stood up to raise his glass to Joanna.

“My lords, my ladies, gentlemen, may I commend to you this dutiful and excellent princess of England, Normandy, Anjou, Touraine, Aquitaine, Gascony, and Nantes who shall honor us and the Kingdom of Sicily by combining in her body these two great empires. May God be with her.”

Everybody rose. There was a shout: “To Joanna.”

The dutiful and excellent princess smiled her thanks.

The guests prepared to sit down again, ready to tuck into the spiced beef with oysters and battered egg dumplings that had arrived on the board.

But their king hadn’t finished with them; he was still on his feet; they must remain on theirs. “As you know, our most beloved Bishop of Winchester will be leading the journey to Sicily…”

He bowed to a small, round, richly dressed man who was breathing hard from what appeared to be agitation, but stopped shifting long enough to bow back.

“… and our well-beloved Bishop of Saint Albans with him.”

Rowley bowed.

“Most of you in this company are well and happily acquainted with each other,” Henry went on, “however, we have guests whom you have not yet encountered. I recommend to your friendship the Lord Mansur, who is highly versed in Arab medicine and will be assisting our good Doctor Arnulf in everything connected with my daughter’s health.”

Henry had eyes that flared when he was particularly intent. They flared now as they looked from the impassive face of the Arab to that of Eleanor’s Dr. Arnulf, who wasn’t taking this well.

But it was Father Guy, one of the Bishop of Winchester’s two chaplains, who stood up, quivering with outrage and courage. “If I do not mistake me, my lord, the man is a Saracen, a Saracen. Would you give your daughter’s well-being to one whose race is even now trampling the Holy Places?”

There was a general intake of breath, but Henry looked toward Mansur. “Lady Adelia, be so good as to ask my lord doctor if he has ever trampled a Holy Place.”

Adelia translated.