My Lady of the Bog (28 page)

“His Excellency has condemned your healings as works accomplished through traffick with the dead. What say you, Lady?”

“I am perplexed. For how might the dead impart life and health, being those qualities they most sorely lack?”

A titter went through the audience.

“You are charged with worshipping heathen idols.”

“Denied.”

“You deny bowing down to an elephant of gold?”

“I deny worshipping it.”

“Pray, what difference is there?”

“One of understanding. A wife may kiss her husband’s likeness. She does not believe the likeness is her husband.”

Open laughter spilled from the backbenches, drawing the Bishop’s warning glare.

“Nonetheless, our Lord forbids the worship of graven images.”

“The Lord engraved upon that cross?”

“He is the exception.”

“And the bird above?”

“That is no bird, my Lady, but the Holy Spirit.”

“That is no elephant, sir. But the spirit of God.”

“And yet the Lord forbids you worship it.”

“And where is this Lord you say forbids it?”

“Why, our Lord is everywhere!”

“Then He must dwell within my idol.”

There was the buzz of conversation, as the Crowner and the Bishop conferred.

“Are you not guilty of denying Christ’s authorship of this world, claiming it is born of the
Matres?”

“Nay, I merely observed that mothers, as a rule, give birth to sons. Sons, rarely, if ever, give birth to their mothers.”

“Lady, it is said you are much beloved by your people.”

“If so, would it be a crime?”

“Loved, nay. But
adored
and
worshipped?”

“I give them herbs and unguents. They are grateful, I think, to be rid of their pains.”

“Do not they call you Alba Mère?”

“They call you many names, as well.”

There was laughter.

“What means this title?”

“I am told, ‘Good Mother.”

“ ‘Fairy Mother? Fairy
Witch
?’ ”

She conferred with her translator. “No.”

“Are you not that one whom certain pagan prophesies foretell?”

She shook her head. “Pass on.”

“And yet the people sing it in their songs.”

“That may well be. For it’s said, ‘Whatever is too silly to say . . . may always be sung.’ ”

The Bishop pronounced:

She was fetys
²
,
prude
³
and dun of hewe
,

Na pale as snowe y-fallen newe
.

And through her smoke
⁴
as whyt as milk

Her flesh was brun
⁵
and soft as silk
.

Modre makeless
⁶
,
Lady darke
,

Who n’er came to a fals heart!

Amidst the tempters of the night
⁷

She has shewed us Paradise!

“What means this final line, my Lady?”

“I could not say. I did not write it. Anyway, it is fact well-known that minstrels are all lunatics, sick with love of drink or women. I see no reason then why I, a traveller, am accountable for the delusions of your country’s poets.”

Guffaws erupted from the gallery, followed by the Crowner’s warning of eviction, even as the Bishop abandoned his spiritual examination in favour of the Crowner’s material one.

“I have deemed the riches unearthed upon your lands to be ‘Treasure Trove.’ As such, they are to be handed to the Crown.”

“And yet, in doing so, you overrule the verdict of your peers and the opinion of your predecessor.”

“That well may be. Yet, such a judgment is mine to make. Therefore, I again command you: confer this treasure on the Sheriff of Dorchester for conveyance to the King.”

“And I repeat that I will not so long as you threaten us with death.” In the face of this refusal, the room went still.

“Then, my Lady, we will seize it.”

“You will have to find it first. For it is reburied, and I alone know where.” She waited to let this news sink in. “Still, I am not so naive as to think so petty an advantage will buy me justice—or my freedom. And so I offer this: I will give you seven parts out of eight of the treasure, and my life along with it.
But mine alone and no one else’s
. In return, you will swear to do no harm to any other person, beast, crop, well, field, or habitation of Throopiddle Bryannt, so help you God.”

For when Mayura had been seized, a number of our villeins had risen up to protect her, killing and injuring some of the King’s soldiers—an act of rebellion that was normally punishable by extirpation of the village entire and its ground sewn with salt.

Appalled, I rose, but strong hands pressed me down.

“We have no need for your cunning offer, as we can compel you to give us what we seek. If you do not reveal where the treasure’s hid, I will order you to Dorchester prison, not to be tortured, my Lady—not yet. Only to be shown the divers and varied implements employed to this end. Their mere sight, I am told, loosens many a bowel—and tongue!”

Mayura opened her mouth and displayed a crimson seed upon her own. “Should I crush this husk, my soul departs in the space of a minute. And there is no torment that you or the fiends of Hell may devise that I cannot withstand for sixty seconds.”

There were cries from the audience. The Bishop rose. “Witch! Self-murder damns the soul.”

“You care not a fig for my soul—nor, apparently, your own. For if you did, you would not damn it with the blood of an innocent queen, nor connive to thieve her wealth and land. And all in the name of
God!
” Her contempt blazed, hot and free, and then, as suddenly, it cooled.

The Bishop said: “We do this all for the love of God.”

Mayura snorted: “Love is sacrifice. If not, it isn’t love, but business. Where there’s love, you give of your substance. And you don’t count the cost. The shepherd loves his fatted lamb, but only for its meat and the silver it will bring him. Save us all from that kind of ‘love.’ My offer stands. Do you accept?”

“Our authority permits . . .”

“Very well . . .” and she oped her mouth as the gallery cried out and I and many others moved to stop her.

“Stay! We consult.”

I tried to reach my Lady then, to get her to rescind, but was forcibly stopped—and when I finally caught her eye, she looked straight through me.

The parley went on for several minutes. The Bishop then said, “In the Church’s mercy and compassion, it accepts your terms and swears to uphold them upon the blood of our Blessed Saviour.”

“As I do, too. Upon my elephant.”

“And now, having admitted your errors, I charge the guards . . .”

“Back!” Mayura warned.

The Crowner looked incredulous. “You break a vow only moments old?”

“We agreed that I would
give
my life—not that you would
take
it.”

The Bishop and Crowner glared at Mayura. “What means this?”

“I choose my own death.”

The Crowner and Bishop again exchanged looks. “We did not understand . . .”

Her scorn stopped them. “You sound like the villein’s lad who went to Poole and was swindled of his corn. If you are so foolish as to agree to something you didn’t understand, you would be best to keep it to yourself, lest your Master finds you wanting.”

“Guards!”

“Tell them, stay! Or your King forfeits an enormous fortune, something which, for your own sake, would not be wise.”

And so the final stalemate began over my Lady’s right to die in a way of her own choosing, one that was only broken when my Lady conceded the right of the Crowner to witness her execution—and promised the Palace one half of the treasure, with a quarter made over to the See of Exeter and one-eighth part to the Crowner himself, for “his godly work of mediation.”

All morning folk had gathered in the street outside, listening to reports of the trial. Now, as the Queen departed, some bowed or curtsied at her passage; others tried to touch her hair or kiss the silken hem of her sari.

“What poison sits upon thy tongue?”

Turning to me, she bit into it. Its crimson liquor stained her mouth. And I recognized the harmless betel.

Though my Lady carried herself with queenly dignity through the streets of Poole, once within our carriage, she clung to me like a drowning girl. She began to quake and pant and weep. Her flesh grew hot and she became delirious so that it was hard to understand her. Apparently, she was frightened of the fire—terrified of being burned. Then fear of drowning overtook her. Then fear of being entombed alive. And then she wept most bitterly that she would never see her son again, nor kiss his head, nor smell his hair.

At dusk, at the manor, she became as one possessed, declaring that all of Shiva’s phantom army was gathered in the trees. She heard their talons grappling the branches and their wings fanning the overheated air, and she rent her garments and pulled her hair, proclaiming her clothes alight and burning.

At dawn, she became silent and slept without moving. When she awoke at midmorning, she was already half gone. Her eyes were empty, burned clean by an inner flame. She said nothing, but sat in the sun, telling her beads, drinking in the last noon of her existence as serfs, wise women, and nobles alike gathered at her feet.

1.
Bahr Al-Qulzum:
The Red Sea

2.
fetys
: neat, comely

3.
prude:
proud

4.
smoke
: smock

5.
brun
: brown

6.
modre makeless
: matchless mother

7.
tempters of the night
: the incubus and succubus

Chapter 37

“H
ey, bunk. Case against the little lady? Just took a very serious U-ie. Henry Lewis Carlson Jones? Forensic’s been going through stuff in his truck. And they’ve found a number of personal items, souvenirs, belonging to three of his victims, plus to a fourth they didn’t know was his. That’s pretty damn conclusive. Now guess what? They dusted a change purse they found ‘neath the seat and whose prints are on ’em?
Vidya Prasad’s.”

I said nothing. That was it. It was over. And having tied her directly to Jones’s murder, they’d very soon be coming for me.

“So there you have it. It’s a wrap. Case closed. They finish up the paperwork, they’ll let her go.”

I didn’t follow. “Release Vidya? Why?”

“Why? Because if Jones there had possession of Miss Vidya’s purse, he musta took it when he murdered Jai. Just like he did with his other victims. How else could he have gotten it? They didn’t know each other. Phone, cell phone, e-mails, all that’s been checked.”

“And her confession?”

“Buncha crap. She did it just to get you out. Like you just tried to do for her. No. Case closed. And the CID is pleased as peaches. Eight murders solved. One inquest and it’s all over. Not even a trial, seeing as Jones ate his own pistol.”

Confused by the news, I began to argue: “But the truck, I heard, was ten miles away!”

“Yeah, so? Some citizen stole it. And drove it till it ran out of gas. Works for me.”

“Oh.” Stunned, I started to hang up, when Houlihan interjected, “Hey! Reason the Queen Mummer never answered our calls? She was dead or dying. Just talked to her what not and such, and he don’t know Vidya personal like, but he did say that if she is who she claims, she’s her only living female kin, and the royal title
devolves
on her. Another words, your little lady ain’t a princess. She’s Queen. Just thought you’d like to know, in case you wanna welcome her—
royally
, I mean.” He laughed. “Hey, sorry for all the shit I gave ya. Just doin’ my job. See ya round, Bunk.”

I replaced the telephone in its cradle, then gave a cry of jubilee.

I rang the prison.

“Lass was released an hour ago.”

“You sure? Where is she then?”

“Can’t say, laddie, can I now? No longer in our jurisdiction. Perhaps they stopped for a shandy in Stour.”

“ ‘They?’ ”

“Ah, didn’t the carner give her a ride? Said he was headin’ back her way.”

I hung up, relieved. Strugnell was with her.

Funny, I hadn’t thought Strugnell
knew
Vidya . . . But, of course, he’d seen her at the hospital that day.

Yet something was still bothering me. It was as though an image was slowly developing inside, like a Polaroid that I couldn’t yet see.

I rang Strugnell’s office and got his voicemail. I called his home; no answer there. Stour, where Vidya had been jailed, was twenty minutes away. So where were they? They should have been here half an hour ago.

Where could they possibly be? His Mum’s? Desperate, I opened the village telephone directory, flipping through until I found her name.

White, Marla 22 Puck Lane.

Alba
, Marla.

I felt a weird, galvanic shock, as if my nerves had spit electricity. Something skidded in my heart—followed by the memory of a newspaper clipping.
Streetcar Maniac Slashes Four!
Christ! It was the very first thing he had told me!

Then the Polaroid resolved, revealing another linguistic equation:
crowner = coroner
.

And I knew then I’d made an unforgivable mistake.

I was in the Land Rover, driving as hard and as fast as I dared, the machete and Odin on the seat beside me. I speed-dialed Houlihan, left a message, then veered hard off the county highway and down the disused, sodden track. Claws of blackthorn ripped at the Rover as its wheels threw up a thick, wet grit that its wipers only smeared the more, forcing me out the side window to see.
Too late!
I rear-ended Strugnell’s mired Mini. There was a grinding crash as I slammed the embankment and spun downhill for forty yards.