“We did not wish to disturb their rest, my lord.”
“Very thoughtful,” Henry said, still pleasant though the bishop quailed. “And how are we getting on?”
Hubert Walter had left his place to stand by the king, holding out his parchment.
Henry took it, putting down his bowl of broth. “I hope nobody minds if I make myself familiar with the case-it’s been causing me some trouble, you see; my Cambridge Jews have been incarcerated in the castle tower because of it.”
He added mildly enough, but, again, the judges shifted in discomfort, “And I’ve lost revenue accordingly.”
Scanning the parchment, he leaned down and took a handful of rushes from the floor. There was silence as he read, except for the beat of rain against the high windows and a contented gnawing from one of the dogs, who’d found a bone under the table.
Adelia’s legs were trembling so much that she didn’t know whether they’d hold her up; this plain, casual-seeming man had brought a directionless terror into the refectory.
He began murmuring, holding the parchment to a candelabra on the table in order to see it better. “Boy says abducted by the nun…not recognizable in law…hmm.” He put one of the rushes he was holding down beside the light. Absently, he said, “Splendid broth, Prior.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“The nun’s knowledge and use of the river”-another rush was laid beside the first-“An opiate…” This time, the rush was put across the top of the other two. “All-night vigils with an anchorite…” He looked up. “Has the anchorite been called to witness? Oh, no, I forgot-this is not a trial.”
Adelia’s legs became weaker, this time with a hope so tenuous she hardly dared entertain it. Henry Plantagenet’s rushes, neatly crisscrossed as if he were going to play spillikin with them, were multiplying with each piece of evidence she’d brought against Veronica.
“Simon of Naples…drowned whilst in possession of tallies…the river again…a Jew, of course, well, what can you expect…” Henry shook his head at the carelessness of Jews and read on.
“The laywoman’s suspicions…Wand-le-bury Hill…maintains she was thrown down a pit…didn’t see who…tussles…laywoman and nun…both injured…child rescued…local knight responsible…”
He looked up, then down at the pile of rushes, then at the judges.
The Bishop of Norwich cleared his throat. “As you see, my lord, all the charges against Sister Veronica are unsubstantiated. Nobody can incriminate her because…”
“Except the boy, of course,” Henry interrupted, “but we can’t give any legal weight to him, can we? No, I agree…all circumstantial.”
He looked once more at his rushes. “Hell of a lot of circumstance, mind you, but…” The king puffed out his cheeks, blew hard, and the rushes scattered. “So what did you decide to do about this slanderous lady…what’s her name? Adele? Your handwriting is pitiable, Hubert.”
“I apologize, my lord. She is called Adelia.”
The archdeacon was becoming restive. “It is unpardonable that she should level calumnies such as these against a religious; it cannot be overlooked.”
“It certainly can’t,” Henry agreed. “Should we hang her, do you think?”
The archdeacon battled on. “The woman is a foreigner; she has come from nowhere in company with a Jew and a Saracen. Is she to be allowed to slander Holy Mother Church? By what right? Who sent her and why? To sow discord? I say the devil has put her amongst us.”
“It was me, really,” the king said.
The room was silenced as if an avalanche of snow had muffled it. From the door behind the judges came the sound of shuffling, splashing feet as Barnwell’s canons groped their way through the rain along the cloister to church.
Henry looked at Adelia for the first time and exposed his ferocious little teeth in a grin. “Didn’t know that, did you?”
He turned on the judges, who, not having been invited to sit, were still standing. “You see, my lords, children were disappearing in Cambridge and so were my revenues. Jews in the tower. Trouble in the streets. As I said to Aaron of Lincoln-you know him, Bishop; he lent you money for your cathedral-Aaron, I said, something must be done about Cambridge. If the Jews are slaughtering infants for their rituals, we must hang them. If not, somebody else must hang. Which reminds me…” He raised his voice. “Come in, Rabbi, I’m told this is not a trial.”
The door from the kitchen opened and Rabbi Gotsce entered cautiously, bowing with a frequency that showed he was nervous.
The king took no more notice of him. “Anyway, Aaron went away to consider and, having considered, returned. He said that the man we needed was a certain Simon of Naples-another Jew, I fear, my lords, but an investigator of renown. Aaron also suggested that Simon be asked to bring with him a master in the art of death.” Henry bestowed another of his smiles on the judges. “I expect you are asking yourselves: What is a master in the art of death? I know I did. A necromancer? A species of refined torturer? But no, it appears there are qualified men who can read corpses and, in this case, might gain from the manner of the Cambridge children’s murder an indication as to the perpetrator. Is there any more of this excellent broth?”
The transition was so fast that it was some minutes before Prior Geoffrey roused himself and crossed to the hatch as if a man in a dream. It seemed natural that a woman’s hand extend a steaming bowl to him. He took it, walked back, and proffered it to the king on bended knee.
The king had employed the interim in chatting to Prioress Joan. “I hoped to go after boar tonight. Is it too late, do you think? Will they have returned to their lair?”
The prioress was bewildered but charmed. “Not yet, my lord. May I recommend you employ your hounds toward Babraham, where the woods…” Her voice trailed away as realization overtook her. “I repeat hearsay, my lord. I have little time for hunting.”
“Really, madam?” Henry appeared gently surprised. “I have heard you famed as a regular Diana.”
An ambush, Adelia thought. She realized she was watching an exercise that, whether it succeeded or not, raised cunning to the realm of art.
“So,” the king said, chewing, “thank you, Prior. So, I asked Aaron, ‘Where in hell can I find a master in the art of death?’ And he said, ‘Not in hell, my lord, in Salerno.’ He likes his little quips, does our Aaron. It seems the excellent medical school in Salerno produces men qualified in that recondite science. So, to cut a long story short, I wrote to the King of Sicily.” He beamed at the prioress. “He’s a friend, you know. I wrote begging the services of Simon of Naples and a death master.”
Having swallowed too quickly, the king began to cough and had to be slapped on the back by Hubert Walter.
“Thank you, Hubert.” He wiped his eyes. “Well, two things went awry. For one thing, I was out of England putting down the bloody Lusignans when Simon of Naples arrived in this country. For another, it appears that in Salerno they qualify women in medicine-can you believe it, my lords?-and some idiot who couldn’t tell Adam from Eve sent not a master in the art of death but a mistress. There she is.”
He looked at Adelia, though nobody else did; they watched the king, always the king. “So I’m afraid, my lords, we can’t hang her-much as we want to. She’s not our property, you see, she’s a subject of the King of Sicily, and friend William will want her returned to him in good condition.”
He was down from the table now, walking the floor and picking his teeth as if in deep reflection. “What do you say, my lords? Do you think, in view of the fact that this woman and a Jew, between them, seem to have saved further children from a nasty death at the hands of a gentleman whose head is even now pickling in the castle brine bucket…” He drew a puzzled breath, shaking his head. “Can we so much as scourge her?”