by Alys Clare
‘They asked at the abbey for directions to Wealdsend,’ Helewise replied. ‘They were coming to you, Lord Robert, for they believed you were embarking on some great plan which would resonate down through history, and they wished to be a part of it.’
Lord Wimarc sat, silent and immobile. Then he said, ‘They were mistaken. I make no plan, and have no wish to be immortalized. I live the quiet life of a recluse, and I do not welcome strangers.’
His last words, accompanied by the icy look he shot from his pale eyes, first at Josse, then at Helewise, could not have been more blunt. And that includes you, hung unspoken on the air.
Josse’s fury rose anew. ‘Yet not one but three young men believed otherwise, and all now are dead,’ he said coldly. ‘Have you any comment to offer? Any explanation, as to why all three came to be so mistaken?’
Lord Wimarc shrugged indifferently. ‘None.’
‘But you can’t simply—’
Suddenly Lord Wimarc stood up, the heavy cloak swirling around him. He was tall, his long body curving over in the hunched posture of a great bird of prey. ‘Can’t, Sir Josse?’ The husky voice was strong now, the tone aggressive. ‘Do not presume, in my own hall, to tell me what I can and can’t do.’
Josse stepped forward, anger driving him on. ‘You have spies out there,’ he cried, waving an arm behind him in the direction of the valley and the land beyond. ‘I know this, for I followed a hooded rider from Medley Hall to your own gates, where, for all that the place appeared deserted, I saw him admitted. What was he up to, Lord Robert? What information was he bringing to you? Did it form another vital element in your secret plot?’
Lord Wimarc appeared to shudder – perhaps with the effort, Josse speculated, of suppressing the desire to jump down and strike him. But when the old man finally spoke, his voice was as chilly and detached as before. ‘I cannot be expected to recall the details of every man who rides through my gates,’ he said dismissively. ‘If you believe, Sir Josse, that I have the time and the inclination to concern myself with such trivialities, then you are mistaken.’
‘This was no triviality!’ Josse shouted. ‘This – this hooded rider who came here brought you, did he not, news of the outside world? News from—’ He had been on the point of saying, news from Lord Benedict de Vitré’s manor of Medley, but even as he spoke, he thought he finally understood the true import of that hurrying, secretive figure. ‘He’d found out about your would-be visitors, hadn’t he?’ His eyes were on Lord Wimarc’s impassive face, searching desperately for some sign; some tiny indication that the furious words were hitting home. There was nothing. ‘Your spy had somehow discovered that three naive and foolish young men were looking for you, coming to disturb your precious seclusion,’ he plunged on, ‘and yet, although you must have suspected they could be in danger – youth and foolish naivety are poor companions out in the wilds – you did nothing to help them. Did you order your gates barred to them, too, when they came here to offer you their swords? Did you watch from the shadows as they rode dejectedly away?’ He took another step towards the old lord. ‘Do you even care that they now lie dead?’
His furious words echoed up into the rafters. He raised his arms in a gesture of frustration, but in that atmosphere of high tension, Lord Wimarc misread it. Spinning round, eyes searching the shadows at the edges of the hall, he shouted out one single word: ‘Manticore!’
And, from the corner where he had been standing, silently and motionlessly observing, a slim, spare figure moved out into the light. Although he was not wearing his heavy, deep-hooded cloak, there was no mistaking his identity: it was the man who had stood with the Fitzwalter faction at Hawkenlye Abbey while Caleb of Battle had been tricked into speaking treason; the man who, later, had ridden at speed past Josse and Helewise on the road leading from Medley. In the poor and inconstant light of the dimly lit hall, it now struck Josse that the sparsely fleshed, pale face, with its prominent brows and sharp cheekbones, resembled a skull …
The man sprang forward, as light on his feet as a cat, and even as he advanced, he had slid his sword out of its scabbard. Moving to stand before his lord, face to face with Josse, he said with quiet intensity, ‘Get back.’
It was not the moment to argue; his eyes fixed on the sword point only inches from his face, Josse did as he was commanded. Resuming his place beside Helewise, he felt her grope for his hand and clutch it tightly.
‘I had no intention of harming your lord,’ he said, staring right into the swordsman’s eyes. ‘You have my word.’
‘Your word,’ the man echoed neutrally. ‘I see.’
He was still standing in front of Lord Wimarc, who now, with a quiet groan, returned to his chair and sat down. The slim man took up his position at his side, still holding his sword with its point towards Josse. From his belt, Josse noticed with concern, hung a long knife in a leather scabbard. Next to the belt buckle was stuck a short, stabbing blade.
Seeing him clearly now, Josse took in the details of his face. The man’s skin was sallow, almost olive in colour, and his close-cropped hair was so dark that it appeared black. His lean face was close-shaven, the lips of his wide mouth narrow and pale. His high cheekbones stood out like blades, casting shadows on the lower part of his face, so deep that they looked like wounds. His eyes seemed to change colour, now appearing mid-brown, now shadowed to profoundest black. They were, Josse noticed with a shudder of unease, quite dead.
He thought back to that single word, spoken by Lord Wimarc in the instant that he thought he was about to be attacked. Manticore. It was vaguely familiar … A legendary beast, Josse thought, dragging up the memory from the depths of his mind, which combined the most ferocious aspects of all the killer creatures, and was crueller than any of them.
Was the word a command? Or was it, God help them, this dead-eyed man’s name?
The man nodded, as if he had been aware of Josse’s thoughts and waited only for him to finish. ‘You came to ask if Lord Wimarc knew these three young men who have unfortunately died,’ he said, ‘and, now that you have been given his answer, there is no more reason for you to remain. I will—’
‘I know you,’ Josse interrupted. ‘You were at Medley Hall, and I followed you here. You were also at the abbey when Nicholas Fitzwalter spoke, and I believe that you abducted an old woman who was being cared for in the infirmary. You probably brought her here, although you will of course deny it.’ He raised his hand, gestured wildly in his frustration. ‘What are you up to?’ he shouted. ‘What’s going on, and why were those three young men killed? I know you are involved, so don’t try to—’
The man shot towards him, sword swinging above his head in preparation for the down stroke – the killing stroke – and in that instant of greatest peril, the stillness of his face and the violence in his movements formed such an extreme contrast that it was in itself an affront.
Hastily Josse shook off Helewise’s hand, and he was drawing his own weapon to defend himself – to defend them both – when Lord Wimarc barked an order: ‘Manticore, no.’
The old man’s voice spoke out with clear authority, and the swordsman stopped dead. So Manticore is his name, Josse thought, feeling the tremor in his tight muscles as his whole body responded to the threat. It served only to increase the horror of the man.
Lord Wimarc was beckoning, and his swordsman lowered his weapon and went to his side. Lord Wimarc muttered a few words, too soft for Josse to make out. Then Manticore looked around the hall, paused for a moment as if considering, and made a brief gesture. There were sounds of movement all around the hall, and into the light from the fire pit stepped perhaps ten or twelve men. All wore the plain, unmarked, sombre-coloured livery of the house.
All were armed.
Josse pushed his sword back into its scabbard – he knew he must not give any man the excuse to attack – and put his left arm around Helewise’s waist, drawing her close. His heart aching, he thought, I let her have her way and come with me, when my instincts tol
d me not to. And now my impulsiveness – my weakness; my desire for her company – means we are both in grave danger.
He did not even dare admit the thought that the danger might well prove fatal.
There was a long pause. Then Lord Wimarc said, as if initiating a courteous mealtime conversation, ‘Do you know what has happened this day?’
Josse met the old man’s steady gaze. Watching him closely, fear putting every sense on the alert, he noticed that, while a quick glance suggested that Lord Wimarc sat there totally composed, as still and majestic as a standing stone, yet there was tension running below the calm surface. A tic jumped in his eyelid. The long fingers of his left hand played constantly with the huge citrine ring on the middle finger of his right.
‘No,’ Josse replied shortly. ‘I don’t know. Something of import, I imagine, to judge by your tone.’
Lord Robert’s eyes seemed to bore into him. Now there was jubilation in his expression, tinged with another, more dangerous emotion, which Josse feared was the sort of fanaticism that is almost madness. Not looking away, forcing Josse to go on staring right at him, Lord Robert said, ‘The king is dead. He has been killed. The land is free of him, and a great evil has left the world.’
Josse heard Helewise’s gasp of horrified dismay. He tightened his grip on her hand. In that moment of deepest peril, he feared very much that a wrong word from either of them would invite the same fate as the king had just suffered.
Then he stopped thinking of Helewise and himself, and the import of what he had just been told sank in.
King John was dead? Oh no, no – it was impossible. Lord Wimarc was lying. He had been misinformed; misled. He was misleading them – Josse and Helewise – for some deep purpose of his own. He was deranged.
It could not be true!
John was dead.
King John; son of the great Henry II and his magnificent wife; brother of Richard, who had been the hero of his age. In a series of images that flashed across his mind like summer lightning, Josse saw the life of the man who he had known, on and off, since John was a furiously angry little boy, hurling platters and lying on the ground stuffing rushes in his mouth because he could not get his own way.
He was a cunning, self-serving, ruthless devil of a man, Josse thought as he felt the pain of loss begin. But, dear God, I liked him.
He wondered if he could speak without giving away what he was thinking. Lord Robert was clearly waiting for a response; sitting there in his vast, ostentatious throne, he was gloating like a man who had just won a great and unexpected victory against overwhelming odds.
Which, in a way, Josse reflected, he had.
‘From your demeanour,’ he began, gratified to discover that his voice did not shake, ‘I would surmise that you had a hand in this death.’
‘You surmise correctly,’ Lord Robert said grimly.
But Josse could not absorb it. ‘You cannot have done this deed!’ he cried. ‘The king is better-guarded than any man in England.’
Lord Wimarc inspected the citrine stone on his right hand, turning it this way and that. ‘Nevertheless, he is dead,’ he said softly.
Slowly, Josse shook his head. ‘Why?’ he asked simply.
Lord Robert eyed him suspiciously. ‘Do you need to be given reasons, sir knight? The people of England long to be rid of this monster. Is that not sufficient?’
‘Some – aye, if not most – probably agree with you,’ Josse acknowledged. ‘But to wish for the death of God’s anointed monarch in a moment of anger and frustration is a very different matter from perpetrating the deed.’
Lord Wimarc made no reply.
‘In any case, why should you, in particular, wish so fervently for the end of this rule?’ Josse pressed on. ‘What has King John done to you that you find so much more unbearable than the hardships the rest of us are forced to suffer in these tumultuous times?’
Still Lord Wimarc sat silent.
‘Do you intend,’ Josse asked, ‘to join the self-serving barons who flock to Nicholas Fitzwalter? Do you too wish to clip the wings of whoever sits on the throne, so that the high lords of England can keep more of their wealth and their power for themselves?’ Warming to his theme, words seemed to flood up, and he did not try to hold them back. He and Helewise stood, alone, amid a circle of well-armed and, presumably, well-drilled men. There was no hope for them, unless Lord Robert Wimarc was going to be merciful. We have nothing to lose, Josse thought savagely. And, dear God above, I will know the truth of this.
He pressed on. ‘Perhaps it is that you shudder at the thought of what would happen if King John didn’t yield to the Pope?’ he suggested. ‘For they say, do they not, that Pope Innocent plans to invite Philip of France to invade? You reason, I might guess, that it is better to see John die now, before Philip can have a chance to strike?’
Another thought occurred to him. Watching Lord Wimarc closely, very aware of the silent presence of Manticore, standing just behind his lord, Josse said, ‘Or, possibly, you think to see the crown pass to John’s young son Henry? You would prefer a four-year-old child on the throne as Henry III, and perhaps you aspire to have a say in how the land is governed while he remains too young to do it himself? If this were to happen, then there would indeed have to be a council of regents, and might the lure of a place on that council be sufficient to entice you out of your isolation?’
Josse stopped, panting slightly. He realized he had barely drawn breath in the course of his passionate outburst. He sensed Helewise edge closer. ‘Are you all right?’ she whispered.
‘Aye,’ he muttered.
There was utter quiet in the long hall. You would never believe, Josse thought with strange detachment, that twelve men stood around the walls, for they make no more noise than a dozen statues.
He glanced at Manticore, whose dark eyes were narrowed into slits as he watched and waited. Then he turned back to Lord Robert.
‘Is it worth it?’ he asked softly. ‘You have killed your king, or your man here has done so on your orders.’ He shot a glance at Manticore. It was a guess, but Josse was all but certain he was right. ‘Which, be in no doubt, will be judged to be the same thing.’ He edged a little closer. ‘Do you imagine you will not be brought to justice? Do you think to live in peace under whatever new regime evolves? Think again! Oh, Lord Robert, new rulers do not allow the murderers of their predecessors to go on living in happy isolation, for there is always the fear that, having once committed regicide, it may become a habit. At best, you will be closely watched till the end of your days. At worse, you may be deemed too much of a worry, and they will quietly dispose of you. Your—’
Lord Robert broke his long silence, and his voice was cold with fury. ‘I care not a jot for those puffed-up lords who only wish the king curtailed because he is too powerful, and who bleat because that power damages their own position and bleeds their wealth!’ Emotion twisted his face; it was clear he despised the Nicholas Fitzwalters of the world. ‘In addition, I am quite indifferent to which royal backside sits on the throne of England.’ He leaned forward, craning his stringy neck towards Josse. ‘What has King John done to me, you ask?’ The mocking echo of Josse’s words was eloquent with pain. ‘Listen, sir knight –’ he turned briefly to Helewise and, strange amid the powerful tensions in the hall, gave her a quaintly old-fashioned bow – ‘listen, my lady, and you shall hear.’
He leaned back in his chair, wrapped the fur-trimmed cloak more closely around his thin old body and, after a short pause, resumed.
‘I have always shunned human company,’ he began, ‘perhaps because of a harsh upbringing, which made loneliness preferable to the cruel jibes, the days spent in solitary confinement and the regular beatings. For, you see, my family name was deemed one to live up to, and those men given the task of raising me were harsh in the administration of the necessary lessons. When I came of age, I thought to spend my adulthood alone; indeed, by the time I became a man, I had become unfit for company. Especially, you will appr
eciate, the precious, delicate company of a lady.’ He shot an almost apologetic glance at Helewise, as if, as the sole representative of her sex who was present, it was for her, on behalf of all women, to hear his account of himself.
Then, lowering his head, he stared down into his lap. There was a pause, and then he said, ‘Once free of my tormentors and able to make my own decisions, I spent many years shut away with my books, my manuscripts, my writings, my thoughts, and the world left me alone. I reached the advanced age of thirty-five, and then the miracle happened: by pure chance, I met a young woman barely out of girlhood, and she saw through all my deep and carefully raised defences and fell for me.’
His voice had changed, Josse noted; suddenly the grim tone had lightened, as if the sun had come out after a week of cloud.
‘Of course, I reciprocated,’ Lord Wimarc continued, a smile stretching the tight lips, ‘for she was utterly lovely. Despite my lifelong resolve to be alone, I let down every last guard, and declared my love for her. Her name was Agnes; she had hair like ripe corn, which she loved me to brush for her, and her eyes were like the summer sky at twilight.’ He paused, and Josse saw his throat working as he sought to control himself. ‘Agnes and I were wed,’ he went on softly, ‘and she conceived a child.’
There was a long pause. Josse sensed grief creep out of the old man, emanating out of him to spread like darkness covering the ground. ‘She died,’ Lord Robert whispered at last. ‘My Agnes died, giving birth to our child.’ He covered his face with his hands, and the huge citrine glittered in the firelight. ‘I had to bear my heartache and go on living without her,’ he went on, dropping his hands back into his lap, ‘even when I longed with all my soul to follow her into the grave, for I was not alone: in Agnes’s stead, I had a little daughter to look after, and I could not abandon her. In time – in not very much time – I grew to love Tiercel, my own child, just as profoundly as I had loved her mother. I made up my mind not to lose her as I had lost my beloved Agnes and, accordingly, I shut us away here at Wealdsend and vowed to devote what remained of my life to her care, her protection and her happiness.’
