The Serpent's Tale by Ariana Franklin Read Free Book Online Page A

sword taken to Jerusalem so that, in death, little William might be regarded as a holy crusader. It was Rowley who’d made the terrible journey and lain the tiny sword on the high altar—so of course Eleanor looked on Rowley kindly.
    But like everything else in royal matters, it was King Henry who’d arranged it, Henry who’d given Rowley his orders, Henry who’d received the intelligence of what was going on in the Holy Land that Rowley’d brought back with him. Oh, yes, Rowley Picot had been more the king’s agent than the queen’s sword carrier.
    But still claiming special knowledge of Eleanor’s character, the bishop added, “Face-to-face, she’d tear Rosamund’s throat out…but not poison. It’s not her style.”
    Adelia nodded. She said in Arabic, “I still don’t see what you want of me. I am a doctor to the dead….”
    “You have a logical mind,” the bishop said, also in Arabic. “You see things others don’t. Who saved the Jews from the accusation of child murder last year? Who found the true killer?”
    “I had assistance.” That good little man Simon of Naples, the real investigator who had come with her from Salerno for the purpose and had died for it.
    Mansur, unusual for him, struck in, indicating Adelia. “She must not be put in such danger again. The will of Allah and only the will of Allah saved her from the pit last time.”
    Adelia smiled fondly at him. Let him attribute it to Allah if he liked. Actually, she had survived the child killer’s lair only because a dog had led Rowley to it in time. What neither he, nor God, nor Allah had saved her from were memories of a nightmare that still reenacted themselves in her daily life as sharply as if they were happening all over again—often, this time, to young Allie.
    “Of course she won’t be in danger again,” the bishop told Mansur with energy. “This case is completely different. There’s been no murder here, only a clumsy attempt at one. Whoever tried to do it is long gone. But don’t you see?” Another bowl tipped as he thumped the board. “ Don’t you see? Everybody will believe Eleanor to be the poisoner; she hates Rosamund and she was possibly in the neighborhood. Wasn’t that Gyltha’s immediate conclusion? Won’t it be the world’s?” He took his eyes away from Mansur and to the woman opposite him. “In the name of God, Adelia, help me. ”
    With a jerk of her chin toward the door, Gyltha nudged Mansur, who nodded, rose, and took an unwilling Father Paton by the scruff of his neck.
    The two who remained seated at the table didn’t notice their going. The bishop’s gaze was on Adelia; hers on her clasped hands.
    Stop resenting him, she was thinking. It wasn’t abandonment; mine was the refusal to marry, only mine the insistence we shouldn’t meet again. It is illogical to blame him for keeping to the agreement.
    Damn him, though, there should have been something all these months—at least an acknowledgment of the baby.
    “How are you and God getting along?” she asked.
    “I serve Him, I hope.” She heard amusement in his voice.
    “Good works?”
    “When I can.”
    She thought, And we both know, don’t we, that you would sacrifice God and His works, me and your daughter, all of us, if doing so would serve Henry Plantagenet.
    He said quietly, “I apologize for this, Adelia. I would not have broken our agreement not to meet again for anything less.”
    She said, “If Eleanor is proved guilty, I won’t lie. I shall say so.”
    “Ya- hah. ” Now that was Rowley, the energy, the shout that shivered the wine in its jug—here, for an instant, was her joyous lover back again.
    “Couldn’t resist, could you? Are you taking the baby with you? Yes, of course, you’ll still be breast-feeding—damned odd to think of you as lactating stock.”
    He was up and had opened the door, calling for Paton. “There’s a basket of mushrooms in my pack. Find it and bring it here.” He turned to Adelia, grinning.