The Winter King--A Hawkenlye 13th Century British Mystery

by Alys Clare

  She knew Canon Stephen was the infirmarian, and so looked for him in his place of work. He had clearly gone straight back to whatever task he had been doing before the interruption, and was in a small side room, pouring some thick, greenish liquid from a large jar into smaller bottles. He looked up as she was shown in, the frown replaced by a smile of welcome.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you in your labours,’ she said.

  He bowed courteously. ‘It is a pleasure to be sought out by the abbess of Hawkenlye.’

  ‘Not any more,’ she said swiftly.

  He smiled again. ‘Perhaps not, my lady. Yet we hear that your good works continue. What can I do for you?’

  It might have been wishful thinking, but she had an idea that he was eager for her to speak. She paused. Now that the moment had come, she did not know how best to say what she had come to say. Just tell him what you thought you observed, a calm voice said in her head. ‘When Mistress Gifford asked you just now to verify that the visit she made to Medley with you was the first time she’d been there – when you went to view Lord Benedict’s dead body – I was watching you. I may be wrong but I thought you hesitated.’

  He studied her for a long moment, not speaking.

  ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘A young woman stands accused of something that I know she did not do.’

  Slowly Stephen nodded. ‘I did hesitate, yes, although I’m surprised you noticed. Oh, I’ve tried to tell myself it’s nothing, but nevertheless, it’s bothering me, and I can’t seem to get it out of my mind.’ He smiled quickly. ‘In fact, I was relieved to see you, when you arrived just now. I suppose there’s no harm in telling you …’

  She waited.

  In a rush, he said, ‘It was just that, when Mistress Gifford, Brother Mark and I entered the house, she – Mistress Gifford – made a remark that seemed to suggest she’d been there before.’

  Helewise’s heart gave a thump. ‘What did she say?’ she asked urgently. ‘Can you remember?’

  He frowned. Then he said, ‘She remarked that we must be in the original part of the house, and I thought she was about to say it was different from the newer sections, only she suddenly seemed to realize what she was saying, and she stopped. I prompted her to continue, and she said something about it being dark and cold.’

  ‘Dark and cold,’ Helewise echoed absently.

  ‘Oh, and she said it was frightening, too. But …’ He stopped.

  ‘Go on,’ she urged.

  He shook his head. ‘I could be mistaken, but, just for an instant, I had the clear impression that she was familiar with the house.’

  She had been there before, Helewise thought. Of course she had, for she went to see Lady Richenza, to prescribe the potions for her and for Lord Benedict, just as Meggie says. That earlier meeting with Lady Richenza can’t have been witnessed by anyone – and, if both women deny it, what on earth is to be done?

  If Sabin had admitted to that earlier visit, her thoughts ran on, then people might have started to suspect that one of her potions had killed Lord Benedict.

  As it is … Helewise was torn between anguish for Meggie and fury at Sabin’s treachery. As it is, she’s trying to put the blame on Meggie.

  Oh, dear Lord, how could she!

  Canon Stephen, she noticed belatedly, was anxiously hovering. ‘My lady? Are you unwell? You look rather pale.’

  ‘I am quite well, thank you,’ she managed to say.

  Then – although she could see that he longed to ask her to explain – she wished him a firm good day and hastened back to the sheriff’s house.

  Lady Richenza and her steward had gone, and Gervase was nowhere to be seen. Josse, waiting for her with obvious impatience, was standing in the courtyard, holding their horses’ reins. ‘A moment,’ she said, giving him an apologetic smile.

  Inside the hall, Sabin was alone. Approaching her, Helewise said, ‘Sabin, you must tell the truth. It was you who made the potion.’

  ‘It wasn’t!’ Sabin cried.

  ‘In any case –’ Helewise pressed on as if Sabin hadn’t spoken – ‘it was a blade, not any potion, that killed Lord Benedict, so, in the end, you have nothing to fear. Can you not admit to having prepared the medicament? You are protected by your reputation as an apothecary, and your status as Gervase’s wife. But, Sabin, Meggie has no such armour. The fact that the stab wound actually killed him is being overlooked as people rush to put the blame on her, purely because she isn’t like everyone else.’

  Sabin looked at her, just once, then swiftly turned her eyes away. ‘I didn’t do it,’ she muttered. ‘Lady Richenza supports me. We never met, and I am blameless.’

  It was, Helewise reflected wearily, turning into a mindlessly repeated incantation.

  Sick at heart, disgusted with Sabin and worried to the depths of her being about Meggie – and about Josse – Helewise turned away.

  SIXTEEN

  There was, Meggie reflected as she hurried away from St Edmund’s Chapel and plunged into the welcoming shelter of the forest, only one place to go. She knew she could look after herself in the hut; she’d lived there through much colder winter weather than this when she was a child, and her mother had taught her how to make sure of the things human life had to have to sustain it: warmth, shelter, water, food. She always kept some supplies in the hut, and a good reserve of firewood stood neatly stacked against its side wall, sheltered by the overhang of the roof.

  Nobody outside her immediate circle knew how to find the hut, or were even aware that it existed. Moreover – and this really should have come first – Josse would not worry about her quite so much if he knew that was where she was. I can’t go and tell him, Meggie thought as she paced along, because they may already be hunting for me. She did not pause to define they. It was too frightening. But it’s all right, because he’ll know.

  She hoped very much she was right.

  The anxious fear would not leave her. As soon as Gervase becomes involved and Sabin finds out what’s happening, she told herself, the truth will emerge, because Sabin will speak up in my defence. The injustice of it hit her suddenly. She came for my help! I gave it willingly, because she was desperate!

  Desperate. The word echoed in her head.

  She seemed to hear a wise voice say, Sabin is desperate, yes. Do not rely on her, for she fights to save herself.

  And then Meggie knew why she was so afraid.

  She made herself go on. Forcing her mind away from the worst of her dread, she tried to summon facts that might work in her favour. She was a healer, and the number of people she had helped and advised over the years was uncountable. She had a good reputation at the abbey, and Helewise often said that she would not be able to do her work at the sanctuary without Meggie, her knowledge and her remedies.

  All that, she realized with a sinking of the heart, is nothing when set against the fact that I am an outsider. Born out of wedlock to a forest woman (Joanna’s pedigree had in fact been far more elevated than anyone else’s for miles around, but hardly anyone knew that, and those who did kept it to themselves) and raised, wild and barefoot, in its secret fastnesses.

  No. If they were determined to find someone to blame for poisoning Lord Benedict de Vitré with a potion, and then attempting to cover it up with a wound inflicted after death, then they wouldn’t settle for Sabin de Gifford, Tonbridge apothecary, healer and wife to the sheriff. Not when the other option was the strange, unknown, outsider: Meggie.

  The hut seemed to reach out to her, offering its secure roof and walls, and its wonderfully secret location, as the one place she wanted to be.

  She quickened her pace. Just in case anyone should come after her – it was not unknown for hounds to be used to track a fugitive – she took a twisting, turning route, doubling back on herself several times. She even removed her boots and hose and, for far too many very cold paces, waded along in the little stream that wound its way through the forest.

  At last, she came out into the clearing where the h
ut stood waiting for her. The familiar scene opened up before her, every inch of the terrain and the surrounding trees known and loved. She hurried up to the hut …

  … and saw, as soon as she was close enough to make it out, that the intricately knotted rope which she used to secure the door hung in a loose loop from the door latch.

  Instantly she stepped back, leaping into the shelter of the trees and crouching down behind a thicket of brambles. Who was inside? Was it – hope flared swiftly – was it Jehan?

  Just as quickly, disappointment followed: if it was Jehan, where was his horse? Where was Auban, that patient, comfortable, chestnut horse? And Jehan, she knew in an instinctive flash, would have been looking out for her. Would have sensed, in all likelihood, that she was near, and come out to greet her. Open his arms to her. Hold her tight and kiss her, with all the passion built up by absence.

  Stop thinking about Jehan, she ordered herself.

  Cautiously she emerged once more into the clearing. She looked round for a weapon; it was foolhardy, surely, to approach an unidentified stranger unarmed. She had a light, beautifully crafted sword that Jehan had made for her, and she knew exactly where it was. She pictured it, hidden beneath the straw-filled mattress on her sleeping platform. Inside the hut.

  It was no use lamenting the fact. She bent down and picked up a length of wood, checking it was sound. Weighing it in her hands, she felt her confidence creep back.

  She walked stealthily back to the door of the hut.

  She raised the latch, carefully, making no sound.

  She edged the door open, just a tiny amount, and peered through the gap.

  She suppressed a gasp. Then, a wide grin spreading across her face, she flung the door wide and hurried inside.

  The old woman crouched by the fire that glowed in the hearth, rosy-cheeked from the warmth, well wrapped-up in one of the woolly blankets from Meggie’s bed. She returned the grin, eyes crinkling.

  She said, with an edge of laughter in her voice, ‘Knew you’d be along, sooner or later.’

  Meggie knelt down on the floor and took Lilas in her arms.

  ‘How did you find it?’

  The first swift spate of questions – Are you all right? Are you eating? Have you been keeping warm enough? – were out of the way, and Lilas had reassured Meggie on every one. Now the next, equally important, queries could begin, first of which was how Lilas had managed to discover the hut.

  ‘I was drawn here,’ Lilas said, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. ‘There’s some power hereabouts, and it led me to your little hideaway.’

  ‘A power,’ Meggie breathed. Imagining some great, glowing light drawing Lilas on through the hidden ways of the forest, she said, ‘This power must have felt your need, and—’

  Lilas leaned over and dug her in the ribs. ‘I’m teasing you, girl. I just stumbled on it, and recognized it as a good place.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Lilas said, ‘Magic doesn’t really work that way – leastways, not in my experience.’ She must have noticed Meggie’s disappointment. ‘That’s not to say there isn’t power here,’ she added gently. ‘There is.’ Fixing her eyes on Meggie’s, she murmured, ‘Not yours, I sense, although you’re well on your way.’

  ‘My mother lived here,’ Meggie said. ‘And, before her, my grandmother. They say she was one of the Great Ones.’ She wondered if Lilas knew what that meant.

  She need not have worried. Lilas was nodding, accepting the statement as readily as if Meggie had just commented on the weather. ‘What was her name? Your grandmother, I mean.’

  ‘The Outworlders knew her as Mag Hobson. To the forest people, she was Meggie.’

  ‘Your mother named you after her,’ Lilas observed. ‘Wise of her.’ She nodded again, making a strange little gesture of reverence towards the hearth. ‘She was indeed a Great One, and no mistake.’

  ‘You’ve heard of her?’

  Lilas grinned. ‘Course I have. Didn’t I tell you I have forest blood?’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ Meggie muttered. Discovering the old woman in her hut was proving not to be so strange, after all. People like Lilas – like Meggie – would readily feel its benign power and be drawn to it.

  Meggie pulled her thoughts back to the moment. ‘Why did you flee from the Hawkenlye infirmary?’ she asked, although she felt she already knew. ‘Did something – or someone – scare you?’

  ‘Scare doesn’t begin to describe it,’ Lilas said with a shudder. ‘I heard the commotion outside, in that big, open space inside the gates, and that puffed-up lord shouting his mouth off, and then he made that poor, feeble, lily-livered sap of a monk speak up like that, and I guessed it wouldn’t be long afore they came looking for me. I’d escaped the buggers once!’ she exclaimed. ‘Apparently, some grim-looking feller came to Hamhurst to fetch me away to that hawk-faced, bolt-eyed lord—’

  ‘Nicholas Fitzwalter, do you mean?’

  ‘Aye, him. Anyway, when his man came to fetch me, I wasn’t there, see, because the village elders had got in a flap about me and my visions, and they’d decided, in their wisdom, to pack me off to Hawkenlye and get me out of the way.’ Her indignation threatened to choke her.

  ‘I’m sure they were thinking of your welfare,’ Meggie said. ‘The abbey nuns are very good at looking after people.’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ Lilas said with a sniff. ‘But you can’t tell me the villagers weren’t also concerned for their own safety. It was dangerous, see, for all of them, to have an old crone spouting bad things about the king. Outsiders might have thought they all agreed with me.’

  ‘They probably did,’ Meggie murmured.

  ‘Didn’t have the guts to say so, though, did they?’ Lilas countered.

  There did not seem much point in pursuing it. ‘So, when you were in the infirmary, you realized you had to get away?’ she prompted. ‘Before Fitzwalter’s man came to find you?’

  ‘Aye, I did,’ Lilas said grimly. ‘There’s that little door at the far end of the ward, which opens on to the forecourt, and I’d been peeping out to see what was going on. I guessed he’d come in that way since it was nearest. So I crept out through the main door, at the opposite end, and made my way out through the little gate that opens on to the valley behind the abbey. That looked a bit open for my needs, and besides, I could see lots of monks and other folk milling around. Besides, in the other direction was the forest. Knew I’d be safe there.’

  ‘And you found my hut,’ Meggie said. She took Lilas’s thin old hand, squeezing it. ‘I’m so glad you did.’

  It was all very well to be warm and, with any luck, safe, Meggie reflected the next morning. With the stream running past close by, she and Lilas would not go thirsty. Food, however, threatened to be more of a challenge and, for the first time since her early childhood, Meggie was thrown back on her own ingenuity. There were root vegetables out in the plot in front of the hut, and late autumn in the forest provided berries and a few last fungi, in addition to the stores of chestnuts and hazelnuts that Meggie had already set aside. For the solid base without which a meal did not keep hunger away for long, however, she was going to have to remember all that her mother had taught her, and go foraging.

  Leaving Lilas pulling and preparing roots, Meggie set off on to the hidden network of animal tracks deep within the forest. She had spent the previous evening fashioning a couple of traps out of withies, and, from the hook in the corner of the hut where it had hung since Joanna had last put it there, she took down her mother’s catapult. The leather sling had been stiff and dry, and Lilas had sat patiently rubbing animal fat into it until it had regained its flexibility. Whether Meggie would be any good with it remained to be seen. Geoffroi had, on rare occasions, allowed her to have a go with his, but the smallest target she had ever managed to hit was a tree.

  After a long time of quietly wandering the tracks, studying the pattern of animal prints, eventually she set her traps. If they failed, she would resort to snares, although it would
be with reluctance. It was one thing to imprison a creature in a cage supplied with bait and then dispatch it swiftly by wringing its neck; quite another to send it wild with panic and pain because it could not free itself from the ever-tightening loop of the snare.

  Her first attempts with the catapult were risible. Then, with the images of both her mother and her brother in mind, she made herself relax and tried to copy the way they did it. She began to improve.

  Back at the hut, Lilas greeted her with the cheerful news that the food was ready. The vegetable and chestnut stew was good, except there wasn’t enough of it.

  It was too soon to go and check the traps, so Meggie made herself relax. It was warm by the fire and, leaning back on a straw-filled sack covered with a sheepskin, she was very comfortable. She had started out early that morning, and walked many miles in the course of her foraging. Presently her eyelids began to droop, and soon she was asleep.

  In the dream, she is walking with Lilas in a remote part of the forest that she does not recognize. Lilas is humming softly: a repetitive, hypnotic series of notes that seems to penetrate Meggie’s mind, weaving its way deep inside and twining itself with her thoughts and her memories. She is aware – although she does not know how she knows – that this trance is like nothing she has experienced before.

  She sees her mother, long dark hair streaked widely with grey. Her mother gives her a smile so full of love that Meggie hears herself sob. Joanna wears a bear’s claw mounted in silver on a thong around her neck. Oh, Meggie remembers that claw! Her mother is speaking, very quietly: There are portals in the world that you have not even dreamt of, my daughter. Meggie stretches out a hand, as if to take hold of her mother, and Joanna melts away.

  Now the vision is changing. There is a man, and there is danger. A long and very thin blade is held up to the light of a candle: it has a wicked point and both edges have been honed to razor sharpness. It is a killing weapon.

  Horrified, Meggie watches as a hand raises the knife. It plunges up in a tight arc, energy concentrated in its point. There is a terrible sound as it finds its target.