It was still hissing sporadically, the words mixed with spittle. “…dare to touch the true queen, you dissembler…my Master, my most northerly Lord…burn your soul…cast you…utmost obscenity.”
Eleanor leaned forward, cupping her ear again, then stood back. “Demons? Belial?” She turned to her audience. “The woman threaten me with Belial. My dear, I married him.”
“Only let me strangle her, lady. Let me cauterize this pus,” Montignard said. A pearl of blood appeared from where the tip of the dagger pierced the woman’s skin.
“Leave her alone,” Adelia managed a shout now. “She’s mad, and she’s half dead already, leave her alone.” Instinctively, she’d put her fingers round the woman’s wrist, feeling a hideously slow pulse among bones almost as cold as Rosamund’s. Dear God, how long had she been hiding in this ice chamber?
“She needs warmth,” Adelia said to Eleanor. “We must warm her.”
The queen looked at Adelia’s dripping hand held out to her in appeal, then at the housekeeper. She shrugged. “We are informed the creature needs warming, Monty. I imagine that does not entail putting it into the fire. Take it downstairs, Schwyz, and see to it. Gently, now. We shall question it later.”
Scowling, the courtier handed his captive over to Schwyz, who took her to the door, gave an order to one of his men, saw her taken away, and came back. “Madam, we should leave. I cannot defend this place.”
“Not yet, Master Schwyz. Go about your duties.”
Schwyz stumped off, not a happy man.
The queen smiled at Adelia. “You see? You ask for the woman’s life, I give it. Noblesse oblige. Such a gracious monarch am I.”
She was impressive; Adelia gave her that. The prickling weakness of shock that threatened to collapse Adelia’s legs left this woman seemingly untouched, as if attempted assassination was the everyday round of royalty. Perhaps it was.
Montignard hesitated. He nodded toward Adelia. “Leave you alone with this wench, lady? I shall not. Does she wish you harm? I do not know.”
“My lord.” Eleanor had a metaphorical whip in her boot. “Whoever she may be, she saved my life. Which”-the whip cracked-“you were too slow to do. Now go attend to that eyesore. Also, we could profit from some warmth ourselves. See to it. And bring me the Bishop of Saint Albans.”
Self-preservation helped Adelia to mumble, “And some brandy. Send up brandy.” She’d just properly seen the wound in her hand; it went deep and, goddamn all assassins, she needed her right hand.
The queen nodded her permission. She showed no sign of leaving the chamber and descending to another. While Adelia considered that perverse, not to say unhallowed, considering the poor body occupying it, she was grateful to be spared the stairs. Sidling out of the royal sight, she sank down onto the floor by the side of the bed and stayed there.
People came and went, things were done, the bed stripped and its covers and mattress sent downstairs to be burned-the queen was insistent about that.
A beautiful young woman, presumably one of Eleanor’s attendants, came in, fluttered at the sight of Rosamund, fainted prettily, and had to be taken out again. Maids, manservants-how many had she brought with her?-carried in braziers, candles enough to light the Vatican, incense and oil burners, lamps, flambeaux. Adelia, who’d thought she’d never be warm again, began to think kindly and soporifically of the cold. She closed her eyes…
“…in hell are you doing here? If he’s coming, he’ll come straight for this tower.” It was Rowley’s voice, very loud, very angry.
Adelia woke up. She was still on the floor by the bed. The chamber was hotter; there were more people in it. Rosamund’s body, ignored, sat at its table, though some merciful soul had covered the head and shoulders with a cloak.
“You dare address my glorious lady like that? She goes where she please.” This was Montignard.
“I’m talking to the queen, you bastard. Keep your snout out of…it.” He jerked the last word-somebody had punched him.
Peering under the bed, Adelia saw the bottom half of the queen and all of Rowley kneeling in front of her. His hands were tied. Mailed legs-she recognized one pair as Schwyz’s-stood behind him and, to the side, Montignard’s fine leather boots, one of them raised for another kick.
“Leave him, my lord,” Eleanor said icily. “This is the language I have come to expect from the Bishop of Saint Albans.”
“It’s called truth, lady,” Rowley said. “When did you ever hear anything else from me?”
“Is it? Then the question is not what I do here, but what you do.”
It’ll come in a minute, Adelia thought. The appalling coincidence of this forgathering must seem sinister to a queen who’d just been attacked.
Cautiously, she began undoing the strings of the purse hanging from her belt and feeling for the small roll of velvet containing the surgical instruments she always carried when traveling.
“I told you. I came on your behalf.” Rowley jerked his head in the direction of the writing table. “My lady, rumor is already blaming you for Rosamund’s death…”
“Me? Almighty God killed her.”
“He had help. Let me find out whose-it’s why I came, to find out…”
“In the dark? This night of nights?” Montignard interrupting again. “You come and same time a demon rush out of the wall to stab the queen?”
Here it was. Adelia’s hand found the tiny, lethally sharp knife in the roll and loosened it so that its handle protruded. What to do with it she wasn’t sure, but if they hurt him…
“What? What demon?” Rowley asked.
Eleanor nodded. “The housekeeper, Dampers. Did you hire her to kill me, Saint Albans?”
“Elean-oor.” It was the protesting growl of one old friend to another; everybody else in the chamber was diminished by the claim of a hundred shared memories. It made the queen go back in her tracks.
“Well, well,” she said, more gently, “I suppose you must be absolved, since it was your leman who pushed aside the blade.”
Adelia’s hand relaxed.
“My leman?”
“I forgot you have so many. The one with the foreign name and no manners.”
“Ah,” the bishop said. “That leman. Where is she?”
Using her one good hand, Adelia pulled herself up by the bed frame and stood where everybody could see her. She felt afraid and rather foolish.
Awkwardly, Rowley looked round. He had blood on his mouth.
Their eyes met.
“I rejoice that she served such a mighty purpose, madam,” the Bishop of Saint Albans said slowly. He looked back at the queen. “Keep her if you will, she’s of no use to me-as you say, she has no manners.”
Eleanor shook her head at Adelia. “See how easily he discards you? All men are knaves, king or bishop.”
Adelia began to panic. He’s abandoning me to her. He can’t. There’s Allie. I must get back to Godstow.
Rowley was answering another question. “Yes, I have. Twice. The first time I came was when she was taken ill-Wormhold is part of my diocese; it was my duty. And tonight when I heard of her death. That’s not the point…” Being bound and on hisknees wasn’t going to stop the bishop from lecturing the queen. “In the name of God, Eleanor, why didn’t you make for Aquitaine? It’s madness for you to be here. Get away. I beg you.”
“‘That’s not the point’?” Eleanor had heard only what was important to her. Her cloak swished across the floor as she retrieved Rosamund’s letter from it. “This is the point. This, this. I have received ten such.” She smoothed the letter out and held it out. “You and the whore were in league with Henry to set her up as queen.”