by Alys Clare
‘How did Teb know that Leofgar had left the Old Manor to come here?’ Josse asked. ‘Could someone have told him?’ It was something that had been puzzling him on his walk back to the Abbey.
He watched her face. Her frown gradually clearing, she said eventually, ‘I don’t know how he knew when Leofgar left,’ she said, ‘unless somehow he heard it from Wilfrid, but I can guess how he knew Leofgar had come here.’ Her eyes on Josse’s, she said quietly, ‘Because Teb knew that Leofgar is my son.’
‘More likely Fitzurse knew,’ Josse suggested. ‘I do not think, my lady, that the wide gap between your son and the likes of the Bell brothers would allow them to have any knowledge of your son’s lineage.’
‘Very well,’ she agreed, ‘let us say instead that Fitzurse, on finding that Leofgar had left his home, said, ah, I bet I know where he’s gone, he’ll have taken his family to Hawkenlye Abbey where his mother is Abbess!’
Josse accepted that. ‘Aye, it’s possible,’ he said. ‘Teb Bell sets out for the Abbey, perhaps with murder in his heart because he thinks Leofgar killed his brother. But he never gets here because someone apprehends him and hangs him.’ Before she could speak, he said, ‘My lady, please be assured that I do not believe your son murdered Teb Bell. I am convinced that he is as ignorant as he claims to be of these two men and whatever business they said they had with him.’
She studied him for a moment and then said, ‘I am glad of that, Sir Josse. I have never thought of my son as a murderer although, in all truth, I think that under certain circumstances he could and indeed would kill.’
‘Which of us would not say the same?’ Josse countered.
She inclined her head. ‘Indeed,’ she murmured. Then, as if deliberately turning her thoughts from that unwelcome concept, she said briskly, ‘Arthur Fitzurse, then, knows of my son. He knows who his mother is, presumably also the identity of his father.’ She broke off suddenly, eyes wide as if at some extraordinary thought. But, whatever it was, she appeared to dismiss it for, when she resumed, it was in the same tone: ‘Fitzurse is interested in something that he believes to be in my son’s possession. Not something valuable such as Leofgar’s modest amount of silver, for Walter Bell found that and ignored it. No. Something of quite a different nature. He wants to look for it within my son’s home and he employs a local ruffian to break into the Old Manor and hunt around.’
‘Why not go himself?’ Josse put in.
‘Because if he were to be discovered there, apprehended and arrested, then whatever purpose is driving him would come to an abrupt end,’ she said. ‘The Bell brothers, on the other hand, are not only expendable, as far as Arthur Fitzurse is concerned, but also, according to Gervase de Gifford, experienced thieves. Perhaps Fitzurse thought it better to employ a professional. By using another to do his dirty work, Fitzurse could distance himself from whatever might happen.’
‘Then why come forward now that the attempted theft went wrong and Walter Bell ended up dead?’
She thought for some time. Then she said triumphantly, ‘Because Walter Bell ended up dead! Oh, don’t you see, Bell failed in his task and didn’t find what Fitzurse sent him to find! And it is as you just said – Arthur Fitzurse is desperate to get his hands on this thing, whatever it is, and so he goes along to Gervase de Gifford, spins a tale about Walter Bell having set off to the Old Manor to resolve a fictitious quarrel with Leofgar and not coming back. He knows it’s quite safe to make up this tale of a quarrel because both Bells are dead now and neither can deny it; the only one who can is Leofgar, but presumably Fitzurse reckons that it will be a case of Leofgar’s word against his. He uses Walter Bell’s disappearance as an excuse to demand that de Gifford make a search of the house and grounds. But Josse, Fitzurse didn’t care about Walter Bell! You were right; what he wanted was an opportunity to hunt through the Old Manor himself!’
Josse saw again Fitzurse’s face as he strode about the Old Manor’s hall; saw the eager, darting hands, the intent expression in the cold eyes. Aye, he thought, I was right.
‘Employing the Bell brothers did not turn out to be such a bright idea after all,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Walter did not find what he was sent to find and got himself killed for his troubles. Teb took up the role of avenger and came storming up here to Hawkenlye to demand the truth from Leofgar. Now as I said I do not think for a moment that Leofgar killed Teb – apart from anything else, he had no idea of the man’s existence and certainly did not know that Teb was on his way to find him.’ He watched her face, wondering if she were thinking the same thing. ‘No. My candidate for the role of Teb Bell’s killer is someone who knew both Teb and what he intended to do when he reached Hawkenlye and found Leofgar.’
‘Arthur Fitzurse.’
‘Aye.’
‘But why would he kill Teb Bell?’
‘Because he did not want him to confront Leofgar. Just imagine, my lady, a furious Teb bursting into the Abbey demanding to speak to your son and accusing him of having killed Walter! Questions would be asked, and if Teb’s fury got the better of him and, God forbid, he had attacked or even killed Leofgar, then it would have been very difficult to cover up such an occurrence and there would have been a full investigation. And Fitzurse is not ready for that. He does not welcome anyone looking too closely into his affairs, certainly not before he has found whatever he is looking for.’
‘Yes.’ She was nodding her agreement. ‘And I would judge also that he prefers others to dance to his rhythm,’ she said. ‘He needs to be in control.’
‘Aye, and the danger that Teb Bell might make very loud and public trouble by accosting Leofgar here at Hawkenlye was a risk he could not take.’
‘So he followed him, jumped him and murdered him,’ she finished. ‘Sir Josse, it is possible, is it not?’
‘More than possible,’ he said. ‘I would say it is highly likely.’
She had been watching him but now her eyes seemed to slide away from his and become unfocused, almost as if she were entering a reverie. ‘What is it, my lady?’ he asked, and heard the concern in his voice.
‘Hm?’ She returned her gaze to him but still she looked distant.
‘What are you thinking about?’ he said gently. ‘Can I help?’
Now she smiled. ‘Dear Josse, I expect so. You usually can.’
He grunted an acknowledgement and then waited while she assembled her thoughts. Then she said, ‘Just now we surmised that Arthur Fitzurse knew of Leofgar’s parentage. He knew who I was and therefore he probably knows about Ivo. I’m just—’ Again she frowned, then gave a half laugh, as if she were amazed at her own thoughts. Then she said, ‘Josse, it’s probably nothing more than a coincidence and I’m being foolish even to consider it.’
‘I have never known you to be foolish,’ he said gallantly.
Her smile widened. ‘Thank you. That is only because you know me only as a sedate nun and not as the girl and the woman I once was.’
‘But even then, foolish was surely not the right description.’
‘I am not so sure ...’ But whatever image she had been seeing she must have closed off, for the soft, indulgent expression abruptly left her face. Then she said, ‘It is his name.’
‘Whose name?’
‘Arthur Fitzurse’s. Urse surely derives from ursus, the bear.’
‘Aye, and his forename is that of a legendary hero who fought under the banner of the bear.’
Her eyes studying him were full of emotion. ‘As do the Warins,’ she said quietly. ‘Did you not notice the shield on the wall of the Old Manor’s hall?’
He cast his mind back and saw it again. Images and vocabulary rose up from his own fighting past and he thought, aye, I noticed it. Bear salient on an azure ground. A stirring image, for despite the shield’s age the rearing creature maintained its ferocity. ‘I did,’ he said. ‘I can picture it clearly.’
‘Fitzurse,’ she repeated. ‘Son of the bear.’
‘A not uncommon name,’ Josse observed. ‘Bo
rne, amongst others, by one of the four knights who murdered St Thomas à Becket.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said dismissively, ‘but I’m not talking about all these others.’
Then he saw what she meant. ‘You believe Arthur Fitzurse has a connection with the Warins?’ he demanded. ‘An illegitimate connection?’ Suddenly very embarrassed by the direction in which they seemed rapidly to be going, he protested, ‘But that would mean—’ and found he could not go on.
She must have picked up his awkwardness. ‘Sir Josse, I have to think about this,’ she said kindly. Standing up, she came round her table and approached him. She put a light hand on his sleeve and murmured, ‘You must be very tired, as indeed I am. Let us try to have a good night’s sleep and then, given time to dwell upon all that we have discussed, speak again in the morning. Yes?’
‘But—’ He wanted to protest that at that moment sleep suddenly seemed an unreachable dream; tired though he was, both physically and mentally, the matter at which she had just hinted had set his mind spinning. Could she really be hinting at what he thought she was? God’s boots!
She was tidying the ledgers on her table, setting everything out neatly in preparation for the morning. She seemed quite serene, although he knew her well enough to realise that this might be a pose adopted to conceal inner turmoil.
But it was quite clear that she was not going to be persuaded to speculate any more tonight.
‘Aye,’ he agreed, with a gusty and regretful sigh. ‘Aye, let us talk again tomorrow.’
Then she blew out the candles and together they left her room and went their separate ways to bed.
Chapter 13
Trying to follow her own advice and lose herself in much-needed sleep, Helewise found that it was quite impossible. She had tried so hard to rid her mind of her preoccupations, to remember that she was first and foremost a nun, Abbess of this place that she loved so well, for she knew that she had no right to spend so much of her waking time worrying about her son. He’s safe for the time being, she told herself reassuringly. Thanks to Josse, I now know that. But still I cannot stop thinking about him.
And, as if that were not enough to make her conscience far too active to allow her to relax, there was the question of her memories. Not just of her son – and his brother – as children, as, before this visit of Leofgar’s, she had known them last; also, and possibly even more vividly, of her life with Ivo. Oh, and the visit to the Old Manor had been the summit of it all! To have gone back there, where she lived so happily with Ivo, when already her mind had been full of the past, had been almost too much to bear.
Now there was this business of Arthur Fitzurse and what might turn out to be a true claim on the Warin family. Josse, dear Josse, had realised what he was about to say and stopped, but she had guessed. His extreme embarrassment was because he had been about to speculate that Arthur might be Ivo’s illegitimate son.
He couldn’t be. Well, he could, but, if he were in truth in the mid or late thirties, then Ivo would have to have begotten the boy when he was about fourteen or fifteen ... Actually, she thought now, it was entirely possible.
But she did not think it was true. When they had fallen in love and exchanged those precious first confidences, Ivo had made no secret of the sexual encounters he had enjoyed before meeting her. She had not taken it amiss; he had been thirteen years her senior after all and she would hardly have expected him to be totally inexperienced! But he had never mentioned having left any of these women with child. Would he necessarily have known about it if he had? She would have to think it over; it was only right.
But, right or not, she knew she would not dwell for very long on the possibility of Ivo having had a child about whom he had known nothing.
No.
Not when there was another very much more likely candidate for this hypothetical child’s father ...
She gave in to the power of the past. Settling herself comfortably in her bed, she closed her eyes and, with no effort whatsoever, conjured up in her mind the day she had first set eyes on Benedict Warin.
It is spring. It is the year 1167, and the youngest son of King Henry and Queen Eleanor is four months old; his name is John. The kings of England and France have fallen out and there is fighting in France, but then there is usually fighting somewhere and it is of no great concern to the young girl who dances in the bright rays of the early April sun that shine down into her small bedchamber.
Helewise feels like singing. Her beloved father, Ralf de Swansford, is coming home! Oh, Helewise gets on perfectly well with her strong-willed and forthright mother; loves her dearly, in fact; but she is her father’s elder daughter and soul mate. And Father has promised to bring home presents for everyone ...
Helewise’s mother is the great Emma Caedwalla, and it is said that in her youth her beauty was such that they called her another Helen of Troy. Nobody carried her off with him and started a war, but the stories tell that her poor parents were besieged with lovesick young men desperate to win Emma’s hand until, having enjoyed herself hugely for a couple of years, she settled on her second cousin Ralf and put the rest of them out of their misery. She could, as it happened, have done this far sooner, for she had known Ralf all her life and nobody made her laugh like he did.
Ralf and Emma are both great-grandchildren of a pair who were almost legendary in the history of the region: Cerdic Caedwalla of Sussex and his wife – an heiress in her own right – Hildegarde of Wadehurst. Cerdic was the lord of Swansford, a manor whose lands spread far over the rolling hills in some of the most beautiful country in the land. He claimed proud descent from an ancient British line and said that his ancestor was Caedwalla, the West Saxon king. Nobody knew whether or not this was true but most people found themselves liking Cerdic so well that in the end they didn’t much care. The popular Cerdic had, in choosing a wife, made what to some was a surprising choice. Hildegarde was highly intelligent – as was Cerdic, in a different way – and also both literate and very musical, neither of which talents her husband shared, unless the ability to scratch out your name meant that you were literate and by musical you implied capable of carrying a tune and singing bawdy choruses in a loud baritone. Hildegarde composed hauntingly beautiful holy songs in her spare time and, rare in a largely illiterate age, insisted that each of her four children learn to read and write. She extracted promises from them that they would similarly instruct any children with whom God saw fit to bless them and also take steps to ensure that these children did the same, and so on down through the family, which was why Helewise and her brothers and sister are each the possessors of the rare gift of literacy. The ability to read and write is, as Helewise’s mother says when Helewise tries to avoid her lessons, her great-great-grandmother Hildegarde’s gift, adding that she knows full well that Helewise will be very grateful for it one day.
Cerdic and Hildegarde’s eldest child, a boy, was christened Egfrith and he died of a flux of the bowels when he was eight years old. His two younger brothers, William de Swansford and Eadgar Caedwalla, both had sons who married and in time begat children, two of whom were Ralf de Swansford, grandson of William, and Emma Caedwalla, granddaughter of Eadgar. The marriage of these two produced a quartet of lively, healthy, intelligent and capable children in whom the blood and the energy of the Caedwallas runs strong ...
Helewise’s elder brother Rainer is, at the time of this sunny spring morning, now sixteen years old and a squire. He has already achieved his full height, the beginnings of a beard and a manly breadth of shoulder; they mature early, Ralf and Emma’s children. Rainer has bedded several cheerful and very willing kitchen maids and is now moon-eyed over the pretty daughter of a neighbouring knight. Helewise’s younger brother Eudo, aged eleven, is also undergoing the training deemed suitable for a knight’s son, although reports suggest that his heart does not seem to be in it and that he is proving quite a handful. Both brothers are presently away from home, although the households in which they live are not far away.
/> The last of the four children, Helewise’s sister Aeleis, is ten years old and the beauty of the family, with thick, glossy hair the colour of chestnuts and clear grey eyes fringed with dark lashes. Her wide mouth smiles readily and the skin of her heart-shaped face is creamy and smooth. Everyone tries to pet her, dress her up and spoil her, but she usually manages to slip through even the grasp of her nurse and, dressed in cast-off boys’ clothing that once belonged to her brothers, loves nothing better than to spend the day with the horses and her father’s hounds. Aeleis loves all animals and her devotion to the stable cat means that this large and indolent creature is now too spoiled and well-fed to earn its keep as a mouser. (When Aeleis grows up, this big-hearted and apparently endless well of love will be turned to humans when, after giving birth to her one and only child, she will set about opening her home to foundlings and proceeding to give food, warmth and the hope of a chance in life to many who would otherwise have died young.)
This is Helewise’s family. She loves them and, at fourteen, has sufficient wisdom to understand that her childhood has been singularly blessed. Not only is there the very comfortable cushion of her parents’ wealth; there is also the unusually tolerant and wide-minded attitude of her mother and father. They have treated their offspring as young adults from an early age, stretching their minds with talk usually reserved for times when the children are not about, so that the four young Swansfords have a wider view of the world than most of their contemporaries. This is one reason why Helewise is so eager to see her father: he has been to London – oh, the very name is exciting! – and has promised to bring back the latest gossip. He will, he whispered to her before he left, save the juiciest morsels to tell her first ...
