A Murderous Procession (39 page)

Signor Feodor had sat her down when she’d entered, offered her a glass of sherbet, and got ready for the bargaining without which no sale in La Kalsa was complete.

She sipped her drink: “How much, Signor?”

“For the knights, a gold tari. For the animals, two.”

“Each?”

He spread his hands. “What would you, Signora? The articulation to make them kick and bite is complex. Also, as I say, I am reluctant to let them go.”

It was a ridiculous price. Normally, she’d have pretended to walk out of the shop, and he’d have called her back with a lower offer, and she’d have pretended to leave again, and he’d have called her back … but it would take time that she didn’t have—while he did.

“Three tari for the lot,” she said.

“You would ruin me, Signora? Five.”

“Four.”

“Four and a half, and I am a fool to myself.”

“Done,” she said. “Wrap them up.”

She’d surprised him; he’d have gone down to three and a half. He was on his feet in a second, tapping the son pulling the animals’ strings on his rump. “We have a sale, Eneas.”

Because she’d overpaid, much grateful attention was given to parceling the puppets. She would be traveling far with them? Then they must be encased in wool to prevent damage. And the lucky recipient? A girl? Allow us to include a box of Greek delight for her….

Ward was pulling at her sleeve and making the noise in his throat that indicated he’d smelled something or somebody he knew and liked. Still sitting with the glass in her hand, Adelia turned her head to peer through the narrow gaps in the calico ribbons that hung over the booth’s entrance to keep out flies.

The piazza was beginning to celebrate its king’s wedding; flares were being lit, merchants were redoubling their efforts to sell plaster-cast depictions of a crowned bride and groom, drink stalls were doing a roaring trade, and, in the square’s center, a dais was being put together for a band to accompany the night’s dancing.

“Who’ve you seen, you silly dog?”

Then she saw who it was because his was the only figure in the piazza that was totally still. A man she knew was standing on the far side of the piazza under a fan-shaped palm tree, looking toward the booth, where the two remaining marionettes were still jouncing.

He and she had traveled the same one thousand miles—much of it together.

“Poor thing, he’s ill” was her first thought; his hair, which was capless, had been allowed to grow bushy, his robe was worn ragged, while his face had the fixity of suffering.

Adelia got up to go and greet him. As she did it, the wind gusted, swaying the fronds of the man’s palm tree, raising his hair, and sending shade and light flickering over him as, once, they had flickered over a wild figure in the glade of a Somerset forest, striping his face as it had been striped then.

The eyes gleamed when the light caught them, then went dark; they weren’t staring at the marionettes; it was the booth’s curtain strips. When the same gust of wind that had revealed him blew them aside to reveal her, he smiled. She saw his teeth. And the knife in his hand.

She couldn’t move.

“There, Signora. Signora?”

The string handle of a heavy parcel was being slipped over the untrammeled wrist of her left arm. Still she didn’t move.

All this way, destroying as he went, unsuspected. He’d killed. He’d smiled and killed … who? She was unable to remember, only that they were dead. Now it was her turn.

A group of people moved, chattering, across the square, blanking him out for a moment. When they’d gone, the space beneath the palm tree was empty.

She began to move backward slowly, pulling Ward with her, the parcel weighing on her other arm as it groped for any obstruction behind her. It was a shrinking away, not so much through terror for herself—though she was terrified—as through a dreadful revulsion. That thing out there was disordered, no longer human, more a giant poisonous insect unable to control itself; its antennae had discovered her and its fangs would sink into her whether or not there were people around to watch.

“
Get away. Get away
.” She didn’t know if she said it to the creature or herself.

“Signora?”

She kept backing off until she bumped into the marionette table. Then she turned and began running for the opening at the rear of the tent, Ward galloping beside her.

She was in an alley. Turn left, yes—if she turned left and left again she would be farther down the piazza. The antennae would wave and not locate her. Run. She’d run with everything she had, regain the cathedral and be safe.

She swung left, but there was no other turning to the left, only another alley going to the right. She took it. Again, no left turn.

She ran, doubled back, took a narrow cut between some houses where crumbling balconies overhead formed a roof that gave an echo to her running footsteps—and, she thought in her panic, somebody else’s.

There was no one around. Everybody had gone to the main streets to join in the celebrations. The noise of music and singing faded into quiet as Adelia became lost in the labyrinth that was the oldest and poorest part of La Kalsa….

ROWLEY
HURLED
HIMSELF
through the streets, shoving people out of the way, yelling for anybody who’d seen a lady and a dog. A garishly dressed woman held out her arms to him. “A lady and a dog,” he shouted at her. She laughed, and he pushed her off.

A beggar obstructed him and Rowley knocked him flying before he realized the man had nodded. He went back and hauled the wretch to his feet. “A woman and a dog.”

“Dressed pretty, was she? Her headed that way, sir. Have pity on an old crusader, sir.” With one hand, the beggar pointed toward La Kalsa’s piazza and extended the other for money

He didn’t get any.

Running, Rowley entered the piazza. It was full of men, women, and children dancing. Shouting for Adelia, he broke through prancing circles of dancers that merely reformed behind him.

Jesus Christ, where was she? What the hell had she come here for? If it
was
her.

He began looking into shop fronts. “A lady and a dog? Has she been here?”

And then, because God was good, a fat fellow standing outside a marionette booth beckoned him over. “The lady with the dog?”

“Was she here?”

“Such a nice lady, the dog … well. Bought my best creations … for her daughter, she said. I have others, sir, if you . . .”

Rowley shook him.
“Where did she go
?”

“Out the back, sir, I don’t know why. She was running….”

So was Rowley, through the long tent, into the alley, shouting her name. Running, Jesus, she’d been
running.
He felt for his sword and remembered that he was a bishop—had been—and bishops didn’t wear swords, not in a cathedral at least.

Just as well; if he found her, he’d kill her with it. “Where are you, damn you?”

The alleys turned and twisted; he turned and twisted with them.

He saw a tattered shrub in a pot indicating that the hovel it stood outside served ale. He’d seen it before, minutes ago, same hovel, same fucking shrub. He was going in circles.

Stopping, he could hear other voices shouting her name; he thought one of them was Mansur’s high treble.

And someone else, nearer, was calling his. “My lord bishop. Bishop Rowley Bishop Ro-ow-leee.”

Father Guy Father Guy had run after him.

Almighty God, they were looking for him;
him,
the bishop who’d gone insane. He’d shamed the English Church in front of a thousand Sicilians; he was their responsibility; they couldn’t let him scamper the streets yelling for a woman. They’d take him back and shut him up somewhere because, whatever he was, he’d always belong to the Church.

The chaplain had people with him, was coming nearer, talking. “He must be found, proctor, you understand? I want all your men out.”

A deep voice: “We’ll find him, Father.”

The bastards’ll hold me up.

He backed into a doorway and stood still as death.

Nearer now. “Lost his wits, poor fellow. Ugh, these stinking by-ways.” It was Dr. Arnulf.

When they’d passed, he dodged down a narrow cut-through to get away from them and found himself in a dilapidated square with a horse trough in its middle. His eye caught a movement on the far side, the flick of a cloak’s edge as its owner disappeared around a corner. He ran after it and leaped on a hurrying figure, bringing it to the ground.

It swore as he turned it over. It was Ulf.

“Have you seen her?”

“No. Thought I heard the bloody dog bark, though.”

“Which way?”

“This
way”

They hared off together, but there were a thousand dogs loose in the city and—”
Sod it
“—Ulf’s boots slid in a deposit left by one of them, sending him sprawling.

Rowley ran on. Ahead was a cross street with a flambeau guttering in its bracket at a corner of the intersection.

And there she was. He saw her as if in a bright frame. She was standing on tiptoe with her back to him, trying to read a street name by the light of the expiring flambeau. The dog was at her feet.

He heard Ulf coming up behind him, cursing. To his left, at the top of the street, a tall man in white robes was hurrying down it. Mansur.

Another figure was coming up on his right out of the darkness.

Hearing him swear, she turned around and came toward him, smiling. He went forward and took her in his arms, still cursing her for the fright she’d given him.

The miserable light from the flambeau glinted on an upraised blade over her shoulder.

He swung her round so that the blade went into his own back, once, twice, before the killer was pulled away and Ulf pinioned the arms while Mansur drew the curved dagger from his sash and cut Locusta’s throat with it.

THEY
DRAGGED
ROWLEY
into the vestibule of a shabby tenement. Adelia never let go of him, crawling beside him with one arm under his back so that it was raised above the dirty floor, the blood from it pouring over the crook of her elbow.

Knowledge deserted her; she didn’t know what to do.

Help me, I don’t know what to do.
But her mouth was too frozen to say the words, and she looked up into the faces of Mansur, Ulf … and recognized neither of them.

“Get away, woman. Let a proper doctor see to him.” Another face, mouth puffing from exertion. Arnulf’s hands were on her shoulders, trying to pull her off, so she sank her teeth into his wrist to stop him.

He fell back. “She’s bitten me, the bitch has bitten me.”

A calm voice said: “Adelia.” It was Dr. Gershom’s.

“Yes?”

“Let me look, child. We’ll see what the damage is.”

“Yes, Father.” Sense came back to her; she had help; she was a doctor again. She said: “Somebody bring a light.”

Light came.

Calling for quiet, Dr. Gershom tore open the front of Rowley’s shirt and pressed an ear against his chest to listen for any sucking sound. He heard none. “Not the lung, I think,” he told her.

“I’m frightened it’s the liver.”

“Let’s see.”

Rowleywas heaved onto his side, and they ripped away the back of his shirt to see what lay underneath.

Two wounds, both gaping, both deep. Downward and sideways strokes had gone into the heavy musculature of the back between the posterior axillary lines.

“I don’t know,” Dr. Gershom said. “I don’t know. Maybe …” He avoided looking at his daughter. She was bunching the folds of her skirt around her fists to press them into the wounds—the blood immediately soaked into the silk until it dripped.

Gershom knew, as she knew, that even if no major organ had been touched, part of Rowley’s clothing had most likely gone in with the passage of the knife and would turn the area round it putrid if it wasn’t got out.

“I need my equipment,” he said. “We’ll get him to my house … operate … something to carry him on.”

Mansur moved to the stairs and ripped out two of its risers with the ease of a man pulling up grass.

“No.” For a dying man, the voice was clear. “They’ll find me. Take me home. Adelia? Are you there?”

“I’m here, dearest.”

“Who, my son? Who will find you?” Dr. Gershom asked.

Adelia knew. They. The “they” who would claim her lover for their own, who’d absorb their bishop back into the organism that was blanketing the world, the “they” who would take this man away from her for the last time and give him to the torture of their doctors.

She looked up and around. So many people in this dirty place. How had they all come here? Had they flown?

There were those she loved; her father, her mother—tearing her own petticoat into strips for bandages—an agonized Ulf and Boggart with her baby, Mansur, tight-lipped, efficiently making a stretcher … And the O’Donnell, the O’Donnell had come …

Behind them, the enemy; Dr. Arnulf, Father Guy, outraged and giving orders to a large man in clerical robes. “Fetch help, Master Proctor. It is not seemly for a bishop to die here. Bring assistance. He must be taken to the cathedral, relics, the last rites….”

“You shan’t have him.”
In this unreality, it was all she knew.

“The woman is a witch and must be arrested….”

Now the O’Donnell had the chaplain by the throat and was shaking him like a bundle of straw. “You touch her, you bastard …”

But the proctor had gone. They’d be here soon to take him. They’d taken Ermengarde.

There was a bloodied bundle half in, half out of the vestibule’s entrance where somebody had kicked it out of the way. Its throat was severed. Her eyes passed over it, had no interest in it; the insect had done its damage and now was squashed; she felt nothing for it. Only Rowley mattered.

“Adelia?”

Her mother was pushing her gently. “Let me take over now, little one.” Dr. Lucia was holding clean, folded pieces of petticoat to stanch the wounds, other strips were bandages. “He needs to be able to see you.”

Relinquishing a post she would have given to nobody else, she lifted her dripping hands from her lover’s back and moved so that her mother’s instantly replaced them.