by Alys Clare
He did not have the chance to explain himself. As if his lord saw everything that had happened in the past two days in the blink of an eye — he probably did, for he was very, very clever and his mind worked as fast as quicksilver — he turned to the man and fixed him with eyes that blazed with fury.
Into the hush that had suddenly descended, he said in an icy voice, ‘So you bring me a girl?’
‘I thought — I-’ the man stammered.
The lord, as if aware of all the ears straining to hear, flung out his arm in a wide gesture. ‘Get out, the lot of you,’ he shouted. ‘Go and hurry those blasted cooks. I want my dinner!’
One by one the others shuffled away. The man and the girl stood side by side before the lord. ‘You were saying?’ the lord prompted silkily.
The man sidled closer. Speaking almost into his lord’s ear, he whispered, ‘We — I know that your preference is for young women, my lord. Why, your good lady wife was scarce more than this girl’s age when you wed her, and she-’
The lord flung out his balled fist, and it was only the man’s quick reaction that saved him. ‘Do not dare speak of my wife!’ the lord hissed. His face was scarlet with fury, the bright eyes swelling alarmingly above the puffy cheeks. ‘She was young, yes, when first I laid eyes on her, but she was precociously mature and already a woman!’ He paused, panting. ‘What do you think I am?’ he demanded, the low, controlled voice almost worse than the awful shouting. ‘You have brought me a child!’
The man wanted to weep. Everything had gone amiss. He had got it wrong, as so often he did. Already, the voices were starting up their clamour inside his head, jeering at him, accusing him, calling him a fool.
His lord had beckoned to the girl, and she was slowly walking up to him. He held out a hand, and she took it. He was speaking to her; the man knew he must be because he could see the lord’s lips moving. He told the voices to be quiet so that he could listen.
‘-your name, child?’ the lord was asking.
‘Rosamund Warin.’ The girl spoke up clearly, causing the lord to smile.
‘Rosamund,’ he said. ‘Rose of the world. Warin… Yes, I know the name. Who is your father, Rosamund Warin?’
‘He is called Dominic and he lives at New Winnowlands.’
‘I know that name, too,’ mused the lord. He frowned in concentration for a few moments, and then, his prodigious memory coming to his aid, he said, ‘The abbess of Hawkenlye was called Warin.’
‘Yes, she’s my grandmother, only she’s not abbess there any more. She-’ Rosamund did not go on. The man wondered why. It was not that the lord had stopped her; more as if she herself had elected not to say any more.
The lord did not appear to have noticed.
The man watched him intently. As if the lord felt his eyes on him, he looked up and stared right at him.
The man bowed his head to receive whatever furious invective the lord chose to hurl at him. He did not even dare to think what his punishment would be. It would be severe and it would be painful, that was for sure.
The lord’s voice said calmly, ‘Look at me.’
Slowly, the man obeyed. To his huge surprise, the lord was smiling. ‘You are a fool,’ he said, quite pleasantly, ‘but then I expect you already know that, for people no doubt tell you all the time.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ the man muttered. He very much wanted to lower his eyes, for the lord’s hard stare was paining him, but he did not dare.
‘A fool, but it may yet be that in your folly you have unwittingly done me a service,’ the lord went on. He paused, frowning. ‘Yes,’ he said softly, more to himself than to the man. ‘Yes, I believe that would work very well…’
The man waited. Between him and the lord, Rosamund stood quite still, like a slender statue. The lord turned to her. ‘Why were you brought here, child? Do you know?’ he asked her kindly.
‘He said there was to be a party,’ she said, nodding her head towards the man. ‘He told me I would meet you, lord, and he said it was a surprise.’ She stopped, and it seemed to the man, watching her back, that her shoulders drooped a little.
The lord must have noticed, too. ‘Would you like to go home?’ he said gently.
Her head shot up. ‘May I?’ Then, as if she remembered her manners: ‘I mean, after the party, of course.’
‘Of course,’ the lord echoed. He leaned towards her. ‘Tomorrow I shall take you back to Hawkenlye Abbey,’ he announced.
‘But my grandmother-’ The girl bit off the rest of whatever she was going to say. If she had been about to point out again that her grandmother was no longer abbess of Hawkenlye, she must have thought better of it. Perhaps, the man reflected, she had decided that being taken to the abbey was as good an offer as she was going to get and she had better accept it. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said instead. ‘That would be most convenient.’
‘Good,’ the lord said. Then, his eyes dancing with light as if he were contemplating some wonderful event: ‘Good!’ He clapped his hands, yelled to the others that they could come back and told them to bring the food with them.
The remainder of the evening had passed in a blur. Everyone had drunk a lot, and the shouting and the singing had all resonated inside the man’s head, competing with the voices that alternately cajoled, threatened and, very occasionally, praised him.
The others made him the butt of their mocking jokes, and it had hurt him. He had done all this, conceived his brilliant plan, to stop them treating him like an idiot. He had truly believed that bringing the girl would please his lord so much that the lord would turn to him, thank him and announce that he was to be advanced to the post of one of the lord’s close guard. That would have shown them, all of them, for at long last he would have been in his rightful place at his lord’s side.
Where he, of all men, surely belonged. Even if nobody ever seemed to remember it.
It was late now, and everybody was sleeping. The girl had been accorded a corner to herself, and the lord had made sure that she was snug and comfortable. He had commanded that the men respect her privacy, and the man knew that nobody would dare to disobey. The girl was safe now.
Somehow, despite the fact that his plan had gone so badly awry, he could not help being glad about that. It had never been his intention to hurt her. He’d just had to use her as a means to an end, in much the same way that people used him.
Tomorrow they were taking her back to the abbey. The lord had seemed very pleased about that. The man tried to think why. He was quite good at thinking, or at least he was when the voices gave him a bit of peace. They were quiet now — perhaps, like the others, they, too, were asleep — and the man frowned as he thought about why the lord might be happy to go to the abbey.
An image began to firm in his mind. It was misty and vague at first, but then it solidified and he knew what he was seeing. Of course.
A slow smile spread across his face. He drew up his cloak, made himself comfortable and very soon, against all his expectations, he fell asleep.
Helewise woke very early the next morning, worrying about Rosamund and trying to puzzle out whether the death of this Hugh de Brionne could be connected with the girl’s disappearance. She got up quietly — Tiphaine was still asleep — and built up the fire in the hearth. She knelt beside it to say a heartfelt prayer for her granddaughter’s safety: ‘Please, dear Lord, let her be waking in warmth and safety this morning. Let her find her way back to we who love her.’
She prayed for a little longer, then stood up and, with quick, decisive movements, put water on to heat and set about making the breakfast porridge. The Lord could not bring Rosamund home by himself, and it was up to Helewise to do whatever she could to help. She did not know quite why, but she had the growing conviction that she must tell Josse the dead man’s name as soon as she could. She ate her bowl of hot food standing up, swallowing it so fast that she burned her throat. Then she shook Tiphaine gently, told her where she was going and set off.
The morning was still young as she s
trode along. In the weak sunlight the grass by the track was glistening with frost; the first frost of the autumn. Hurry, she told herself. She increased her pace.
By the time she reached the House in the Woods, she was out of breath and glowing. She ran up the steps and opened the door, finding Josse and Geoffroi eating at the big table by the hearth. Ignoring their surprised expressions, she said, ‘The dead man’s name was Hugh de Brionne. Tiphaine overheard my son Leofgar identify him last night.’ She pulled up a bench and sat down on it, only then realizing that she felt quite exhausted.
Josse was staring at her, repeating the name under his breath. ‘Hugh de Brionne. Aye, I know the family. His father Felix and I both saw service with King Richard.’ He narrowed his eyes, clearly concentrating hard. ‘Aye, now that I know the man’s identity, I can see that he did indeed look a little like his father, although his face was badly-’ Belatedly, he recalled his son’s presence. ‘Er, his face had suffered some wounds, and so I did not see the resemblance yesterday.’
‘It is easier to detect similarity between two people when you are looking out for it,’ she said. ‘You had no idea who the dead man was.’
He gave her an affectionate smile. ‘Kind of you to say so,’ he murmured. Then, speaking so softly that he merely mouthed the question: ‘Has Meggie turned up?’
She shook her head. So Meggie was not here at the house either…
Josse had turned to Geoffroi, who was listening wide-eyed to the conversation about the dead man. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘I have to go to speak to Gervase. Somebody must go to inform the dead man’s parents what has happened and, since I know Felix de Brionne, I think it ought to be me.’
Geoffroi nodded. ‘Can I come too?’
Josse put his arm round his son’s shoulders. ‘You could,’ he said, ‘but, if you are willing, I have a much more important job for you.’
Geoffroi’s expression brightened. ‘What is it?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Son, Helewise has to get back to the hut, and neither Ninian nor Meggie has yet returned. I need someone here who can come and find me if anything happens, and, since Will, Ella, Tilly and Gus all have a full day’s work ahead of them, the obvious person to ask is you.’
For a moment Helewise thought the boy would see through the ruse. Josse was right: the house of a mother and father being informed of their son’s death was no place for anyone who did not have to be there, especially one of such tender years as Geoffroi. The boy’s expression was at first doubtful, but then, as he thought about the suggestion, his face cleared. ‘I’ll ride like the wind and by the most secret ways,’ he said excitedly. ‘I’ll-’
Gently, Josse stopped the eager flow of words. ‘If you need me, go to the abbey. I will leave word there of where I am bound.’
Geoffroi looked at him solemnly. ‘I will.’
Josse reached over to embrace him briefly then, with a glance at Helewise, led the way out of the hall. ‘I’ll go and get Alfred,’ he said as they hurried across the courtyard. ‘Will you ride with me?’
‘As far as the path to the hut, yes,’ she replied.
He looked at her. ‘You still will not come to the abbey?’
She shook her head. ‘No, Josse. Abbess Caliste has quite enough to cope with in these dreadful times without her predecessor turning up uninvited.’
‘Very well.’
Will was busy in the stable block and swiftly helped Josse prepare his horse. ‘I’m going first to Hawkenlye, Will,’ Josse told him, ‘and then on from there. I don’t know how long I shall be.’
Will nodded. ‘Gus and I will take care of the place in your absence,’ he said.
Josse got into the saddle and reached down his hand to Helewise, pulling her up so that she sat in front of him, sideways across the horse’s withers. Then he kicked Alfred and they set off across the forest.
Riding through the abbey gates some time later, Josse wished, not for the first time, that Helewise was not quite so stubborn. He understood her reason for avoiding Hawkenlye, but surely this was an emergency and she should have made an exception to her own rule.
Still irritated, Josse left Alfred in the stables with the young nun who had taken over from old Sister Martha and hurried to the abbess’s room. If Gervase was at the abbey or expected soon, she would know. He knocked and went in.
Gervase stood just inside the door. ‘I was about to come and seek you out, Josse,’ he said. A slight frown creased his forehead.
‘Good morning, Gervase.’ Josse turned to bow to the abbess. ‘My lady abbess.’
‘As always, you arrive when we need you,’ she murmured. She inclined her head towards Gervase. ‘The sheriff has a task for you, if you will accept it,’ she said, her voice grave.
‘You want me to inform the dead man’s parents of his death,’ Josse said quietly. ‘Aye, I guessed as much. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Leofgar believes you know the family,’ Gervase said.
‘I know Felix, or I did,’ Josse replied. ‘He may not remember me, for they say his mind wanders.’
‘Shall you and I ride there together?’ Gervase said. ‘It is not far, I believe. We can be back here later today.’
‘Aye, I’d be glad of your company,’ Josse said. ‘It’s a grim task.’
As he and Gervase left the room, he sensed the abbess’s sad eyes on them. Listening carefully, he could just make out the soft words of her prayer.
They made good time to the manor of the de Brionnes. The day was cold and bright, and the ground was hard. Even the descent into the low lands around the river did not slow them, as it usually did, for the weather had been dry recently and the rise in the water level that regularly came every winter had yet to happen.
They followed the track as it rose from the valley towards the North Downs, and presently Josse indicated the turning that led off it towards their destination. It was years since he had visited Felix de Brionne — back in the early days of King Richard’s reign, he recalled — but he found the way without mistake.
They knew as soon as they rode into the well-kept yard that the sad news they brought had already reached the household. It was evident in the total absence of cheerful, everyday sounds and in the red-rimmed eyes of the lad who came out to take their horses. As they walked towards the impressive, iron-studded oak door, it opened and a grim-faced servant looked out at them.
‘The family is grateful for your condolences,’ he began, with the air of a man who had said the same thing many times already that day, ‘but Sir Felix and Lady Beatrice are not receiving visitors today.’
The door was already closing when Gervase put his foot in the gap. ‘I am Gervase de Gifford, sheriff of Tonbridge,’ he said. ‘This is Sir Josse d’Acquin, an old friend of your master.’ He leaned closer and said very softly, ‘We are the ones who attended the dead man’s body and took it to Hawkenlye Abbey.’
The servant shot them a swift, inquisitive look. Then he nodded and, opening the door widely, ushered them inside.
A woman sat by herself in an elaborately-carved oak chair beside the wide hearth. She was dressed in a tight-bodiced, wide-skirted gown of dark velvet, and a veil covered her head and much of her face, held in place by a gold circlet. Hearing their footfalls, she raised her head and turned to look at them.
‘I said no visitors, Stephen,’ she said in a low voice made husky by grief.
‘Beg pardon, my lady, but this is the sheriff and this is Sir Josse d’Acquin, a friend of the master,’ the servant muttered. He added something in a whisper that sounded like they found the body.
It was not strictly true, but it was no time to quibble.
Lady Beatrice stared at them. She pushed back the veil, and Josse saw that she was perhaps in her late thirties. He also observed that, haggard with sorrow as she now was, she was still very beautiful. Her smooth brown hair was drawn back from a centre parting, and her large eyes were almost black. Her skin was good, her nose straight and delicate, and her mouth wide and
shaped for laughter.
She was far from laughing now.
Greatly affected, Josse approached her and, bowing, took her cold hand in his. ‘You have my deepest sympathy, lady,’ he said. ‘You and I have not met before, although, as your man here says, I know your husband from our service together under King Richard.’
She nodded. Josse was about to go on, but Gervase interrupted. Stepping forward to stand beside Josse, he said, ‘I apologize for my abrupt manner, my lady, but it is my duty to discover how your son died. May I ask how you know of the tragedy? Sir Josse and I came here to tell you, but it seems to me that you have already been informed.’
She studied him. ‘Leofgar Warin came and broke the news last night.’
‘Leofgar,’ Gervase breathed. Turning to Josse, he murmured, ‘He did say he knew the family. I would have asked him to come and tell them, only I understood he was in haste to return home.’
It had been a kindness, Josse reflected, for Leofgar to put aside his own pressing needs in order to perform such a sad task. He wondered how Felix had taken the news.
He considered how best to ask her. He said, ‘Lady Beatrice, is your husband not with you? Has he, perhaps, retired to bed to nurse his grief?’
The dark eyes met his. ‘You would ask me, I believe, if my husband is able to comprehend what has happened. If his fast-failing wits have grasped the fact that his son is dead. My answer is that I do not believe so.’ She dropped her head.
Then you face this tragedy alone, Josse thought. You poor woman.
‘My lady, may we speak to Sir Felix?’ Gervase was asking.
‘You may,’ came the quiet reply. ‘He is in the chamber through there.’ She pointed to where an arched doorway gave on to a passage.
‘Come with me, Josse,’ Gervase hissed. Josse bowed again to the still figure in the chair and followed him through the arch.
Felix de Brionne lay in a high bed under heavy covers. He had aged greatly in the years since Josse had seen him. His face was a yellowish-grey colour, the cheeks so sunken that the large nose stood out like the prow of a ship.
