Unholy Innocence Read Online Free Page A

now, a twelve-year-old child sitting on the throne. Fortunately, the English barons are for John, as is the Archbishop - as am I .’
    As a senior member of the King’s Council it mattered what the Abbot of Edmundsbury thought on such issues, as I knew only too well, so I nodded my assent.
    ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ he continued haughtily, ‘John is no Lionheart. He has neither Richard’s soldiering skills nor his ability to command the love of his people. John is a schemer, an embezzler and a whoremonger, but he at least has had some experience of statecraft, certainly more than a twelve-year-old boy.’ Samson ran his hand over his pink bald pate contemplatively. ‘Mind you, he’d make a better fist of it if he spent a little less time in bed and a lot less time in his bath.’
    ‘Father,’ I said glancing nervously at the door again. ‘Do you think this talk is wise?’
    Samson casually waved aside my protest. ‘It’s early days. We can only pray that time will improve matters. But given the precariousness of his position it is understandable that he will clutch at anything that might strengthen his grip on the crown. And what better way to do that than to associate himself with Edmund who is, after all, the patron saint of the English, a martyr and a national hero who died defending his kingdom from the Great Heathen Army of the Danes. Put baldly, King John is here in Bury not so much because of his love for our revered and blessed martyr, but because Edmund was a Wufinga .’
    He spoke the name as though that were sufficient explanation in itself. I’d heard of the Wufingas , of course, what student of the liberal arts has not? They were the almost mythical lineage of kings dating back a thousand years to the pagan Saxon gods of England. But what had that to do with the modern world? King John was a Norman, not a Saxon.
    Samson seemed to read my thoughts: ‘King John also traces his descent along this same line through his grandmother who was of the Confessor’s lineage and through him to the ancient royal lineages of Wessex and East Anglia all the way back to Woden himself.’
    ‘Ah,’ I murmured.
    ‘Ah indeed,’ nodded Samson. ‘John heard about the opening of the tomb last November and he simply wants those who witnessed the event to confirm the family likeness. Now, that’s not so difficult, is it?’
    He looked askance at me as though he was not sure himself if he quite believed what he said next:
    ‘Despite appearances King John is something of a scholar who admires learning in others. He was particularly keen to have your endorsement since a physician is supposed to view these things with a certain scientific detachment.’ He wrinkled his nose at the word. ‘So it follows he is not best pleased to hear that you think his….relative….was in such a state of disintegration that he bore no more resemblance to the King than to his pet marmoset.’
    I stifled a laugh. King John really must be clutching at straws if he needs my approval. Still, at least it proves I was right: Edmund’s body was a sack of old bones after all, even Samson thinks so. But something still puzzled me:
    ‘Forgive me father, but if Saint Edmund gives legitimacy to King John, then surely he gives the same legitimacy to his brother Geoffrey’s son - the twelve-year-old Prince Arthur who you do not think fit to reign.’
    ‘Well done,’ smiled Samson. ‘You’re starting to think like a politician at last.’ He breathed in deeply. ‘The difference is symbolic.’ He tapped his drawings again and smiled triumphantly. ‘Like my towers. They are symbols, too. Put simply, John is here, Arthur is not. That is a fact, but it is also a symbol. Never underestimate the power of symbolism in politics, Walter.’ He sighed heavily, heaved his not inconsiderable bulk off his chair and walked over to the open window. I couldn’t help noticing as he did so a ring-shaped cushion on the seat he had just vacated. Piles, I