The Ballad of Rosamunde Read Free

their
expressions were impassive. Rosamunde did not doubt that they were
instructed to forget whatsoever they saw on this night. Whichever
relic the bishop chose would be ‘discovered’ in the crypt of the
church shortly.
    One man had eyes of brilliant blue and a
steady gaze. He watched Rosamunde openly, which surprised her. She
strove to ignore him.
    “I expected Gawain Lammergeier!” the bishop
complained.
    Rosamunde smiled. “My father surrendered the
family trade to me some years past. He sails forth no longer.”
    “Have you not a brother?”
    “My brother chose the family holding as his
legacy.”
    The bishop snorted in disapproval of the
situation. It was clear that he did not want to trade with her, but
at the same time, he wanted a relic. His pale hands moved with
agitation beneath the hems of his sleeves.
    “Perhaps you would like to see what I have
brought,” she said, knowing he would be tempted. She had brought
the best of her current inventory, after all.
    First there had been an embroidered blue
cloth, purported to have been worn by the Virgin. It had the muck
of authenticity about it, but its appearance did not inspire
devotion. The bishop made some cursory remark in praise of it.
    There had been a broken crown of thorns, one
possessing the best provenance of any Rosamunde had seen in recent
years. It was likely still a fake. Rosamunde had seen too many
crowns of thorns to have faith in any of them. The bishop stroked
it, admired it, considered it seriously.
    “How many crowns of thorns can there be, my
lord?” asked the man with the blue eyes. “There is said to be one
in Paris and another in Palestine.”
    “Is this the genuine one?” the bishop
demanded.
    Rosamunde shrugged. “Who can say?”
    The bishop drummed his fingers. “There must
be no question of authenticity, and I cannot imagine how the crown
of thorns might have made its way this far.”
    Finally, there was a coil of dark hair.
Clearly old, it was still lustrous and long, braided neatly. There
was a faint scent of perfume to it, although Rosamunde suspected
that this had been enhanced over the years. Best of all, it was
encased in a jeweled reliquary of masterful craftsmanship, adorned
with images of Jesus treating Lazarus. That reliquary was within a
wooden box of no apparent distinction.
    Although the bishop grimaced at the sight of
the wooden box, his eyes lit when the reliquary was revealed. “What
is that?”
    “It is said to be the hair of Mary, the
daughter of Lazarus.” Rosamunde opened the reliquary and the bishop
took a deep, delighted breath. “She who anointed Jesus with perfume
when he came to her father’s house and washed his feet with her
hair.”
    The bishop pretended to be torn, but
Rosamunde knew which he would choose. And choose the hair, he did.
They negotiated the price, then he gestured to the man behind
him.
    The other man, the one with the compelling
blue gaze, watched Rosamunde steadily throughout the whole
transaction. She sensed that he also knew the bishop intended to
cheat her. She locked her hands behind her back, giving Eugene a
silent and hidden signal.
    The exchange was made, the coin counted and
deposited in Rosamunde’s purse, the relic and its reliquary
surrendered to the bishop’s man. Complements and formalities were
exchanged. They parted, Rosamunde’s intuition warning her all the
while. Eugene was at her back as they left the cell, both of them
scanning the land to the left and right as they returned to the
dingy.
    Rosamunde was glad to see her ship, still
moored where she had left it. The light at the stern had been lit,
the one with the red filter, so she knew that the ship had not been
assaulted in her absence. There was no sound of pursuit.
    Perhaps her intuition had been wrong.
    She emitted a high whistle, a signal to
Thomas waiting in the dingy out of sight. She and Eugene broke into
a run, anxious to be away.
    Rosamunde was not prepared to find Thomas
dead, bleeding in the