A Shadowed Evil

by Alys Clare

  They didn’t get very far with Helewise’s invented list of jobs. Olivar fell in love with Helewise’s grey mare and, as far as you could tell with a horse, Daisy reciprocated the sentiment. The mare had been shut in her stall for several days and was as eager to get outside and stretch her legs as Olivar was to take her, and very quickly Helewise had her tacked up and ready. She didn’t think she should let Olivar go beyond the gates, but the home enclosure was generously sized and both boy and horse seemed content to go round and round inside the perimeter walls, trotting, cantering and even managing a jump, made of two empty barrels and a long pole, kindly put up by old Garth.

  ‘Sits a horse well, for a young ’un,’ Garth observed, standing beside Helewise and watching Olivar with critical eyes.

  Helewise nodded. ‘He does indeed.’ She smiled. ‘I think I’m going to have a job getting him to stop.’

  ‘Maybe he’d like to groom her too,’ Garth suggested. He chuckled. ‘It’d save me the job.’

  Olivar leapt at the suggestion. For the remainder of the morning, having been instructed by Garth, he groomed Daisy till her coat shone.

  Back inside, Helewise and Olivar went into the Old Hall to thaw out their fingers and toes by the fire. Emma, noticing their arrival, brought hot drinks for them, and some honey cakes studded with a few precious raisins, fresh from the oven. The smell of the cakes attracted the three little girls, and they stood eyeing Olivar suspiciously.

  ‘How come you’re allowed out into the hall?’ Cecily asked belligerently. ‘And are you going to talk to us, or stand there all aloof like you usually do?’

  ‘Cecily!’ Emma reproved her. ‘Manners!’

  Olivar looked at Cecily, appearing quite unembarrassed. ‘She – er, Mother’s being not very well, and she’s lying down, so she said I could be with her.’ He jerked his head in Helewise’s direction.

  ‘Do you want to play with us?’ Cecily demanded.

  Olivar hesitated. ‘I’m not really meant to, and she wouldn’t like it,’ he muttered, flushing.

  ‘If your mother’s in her room, she won’t know, will she?’ Cecily pointed out.

  ‘We’re not playing with dolls,’ Brigida piped up, as if such an activity was utterly despicable, and despite the evidence of the collection of dolls lying discarded beside the hearth. She leaned closer to Olivar and said in a very audible whisper, ‘We’re going to play hide and seek.’

  Olivar’s eyes widened. ‘Hide and seek,’ he breathed.

  ‘Come on,’ Cecily said, jumping up and cramming the last little cake in her mouth. ‘I’ll be it, and you lot can count to a hundred and then start looking.’

  ‘Don’t go anywhere near Cyrille’s room! We mustn’t disturb her!’ Emma called out after her.

  Cecily turned, gave her elder sister a resigned look as if to say, I’m not likely to, am I? and then raced away.

  The short daylight faded, and evening came on. Josse and Herbert had not returned. Helewise told herself it was silly to worry; any journey endured under present conditions was bound to take a lot longer than usual, and in all likelihood they had arrived at their destination, spoken to the man they had gone to find and, the day by then being advanced, been pressed to stay the night.

  Take care, my dear Josse, she thought.

  Resigning herself to a night without him, she put on a brave face and went to join the rest of the family as they settled down in the Old Hall for the evening meal. The children had been sent to bed, and Helewise herself had taken Olivar. He had gone to say goodnight to his mother, and, after her cursory acknowledgement, he had scurried back out to Helewise and she had accompanied him on to his own little room, at the end of the passage.

  There was something she had to tell him.

  ‘Josse isn’t here, Olivar,’ she said, kneeling beside the bed and holding his hand, ‘and so he won’t be able to keep an eye on you as he promised.’

  Olivar went sheet-white, and his face filled with dread. ‘What if—’ he began.

  She stopped him. ‘I am here,’ she said, ‘and although I do not believe you are in any danger, I will protect you.’ She felt his small hand grip hers. ‘You know where I sleep, don’t you? Over on the other side of the Old Hall? You came and found me there, on the day I arrived.’ He nodded. ‘Well, I want you to promise me that if at any time you feel lonely or scared, you will come and find me again, just like you did then.’

  ‘All right,’ he whispered.

  She bent over to kiss him good night, then walked softly away. Cyrille won’t be very pleased, she thought, if he does come to me for comfort and she finds out.

  She realized she didn’t really care.

  The evening meal was all but over, and they sat on round the long board. Cyrille had emerged from her room to join them, and had tucked into her food with gusto. Conversation had been sporadic; it was as if the household were respecting the presence of Peter’s body, lying cold and alone in the chapel. And also, perhaps, Helewise reflected, they were all too aware of the absence of Josse and Young Herbert. Others had expressed the same conclusion that she had drawn – they’d been invited by Sir Godfrey Hellingsham to stay overnight and would reappear the next day – and Helewise was heartened by their confidence and good sense.

  All the same, it was hard to look at the two empty places and not worry a little.

  Cyrille was helping herself to a honey biscuit, dipping it in her goblet and sucking the liquid from it with evident pleasure. She had demanded the rich white wine, having rejected the customary sweet red with some vehemence.

  Helewise studied Cyrille’s bent head. An extraordinary idea had just occurred to her. On the face of it, it seemed very unlikely; but, on the other hand, it explained virtually everything.

  She thought back over the past few days, considering one by one the quirks of behaviour that Cyrille had displayed. Her exaggerated horror at the presence of the leper and the imagined threat he posed; her refusal to eat hare or drink red wine; the repeated gesture of clasping her hands over her breasts or stomach; even – Helewise’s eyes opened wide with shocked realization – that strange moment in the chapel, when she had come across Cyrille fiddling with some small object on a length of thread.

  Could it really be true?

  But then Helewise’s good sense took over from her instincts, and she knew she must be wrong. According to what she had told the family, Cyrille was thirty-two years old; she had a son of six, and thus would have been twenty-six when she gave birth to him.

  Helewise did not believe Cyrille was as young as that. She added a good seven or eight years on, and that was being generous; she could not accept Cyrille as being much younger than forty. And, besides, if Helewise’s sudden suspicion was right, then without doubt everyone would know by now, since Cyrille would surely be keen to demand every last act of consideration, every small gesture to ensure her comfort and well-being.

  Horrified suddenly at her deeply unkind and uncharitable thoughts, Helewise felt herself flush. Instantly penitent, she began a silent prayer of abject apology, vowing even as she prayed that she must take the very first opportunity, and each and every subsequent one, to make amends to Cyrille for her wicked speculations. Yes, she has no idea what I was thinking, she told herself firmly, but that is no excuse whatsoever.

  She sat there, head down, burning with shame and horror and trying desperately to come up with something kind to think about Cyrille. Then she thought, What if my instinct is right? She tried to convince herself that, in this matter, what she sensed in her heart must give way to what made sense in her head.

  But she discovered she couldn’t.

  TWELVE

  Josse and Herbert made better time than anticipated, for once they had completed the long, steady climb up on to the downs, they found that the well-drained higher ground had not been as badly affected by the weather as the lowland. Musing on this, Josse remembered Joanna telling him about the old ways; the greenways and the ridgeways, the dry hill ways and the
sweet ways which wound all over the country, and how they were as old as man’s occupation of the land and indicated that the earliest ancestors had shared a disinclination to get their feet wet unless there was no choice.

  Josse had ridden along the downs with Joanna. He felt her presence acutely this morning.

  As they topped the downs and began the descent on the north side, Herbert raised his arm and, pointing ahead, said, ‘That’s Henshaw, down beyond that patch of woodland. See? You can see the church, over by that big yew.’

  ‘Aye, I see,’ Josse said. He glanced at the sky, estimating that noon had not long passed. ‘We’ve done well, lad.’

  Herbert grimaced. ‘We still have to get down this rather steep incline, and then we’ll have to find where Sir Godfrey lives, and it could be quite some way out beyond the village.’

  Aye, and there might be a second Flood and a small plague of locusts, too, Josse thought. He hadn’t realized his cousin’s son was such a pessimist. ‘Well, let’s just hope for the best,’ he replied, grinning, ‘and maybe we’ll find the place is just past the church and we ride straight to it.’

  In fact, both Herbert and Josse were half right. They found Sir Godfrey Hellingsham’s manor easily – the first person they asked gave clear, concise directions and, since it was easily the biggest house for miles, it would have been hard to miss – but it was a good five or six miles north-east of Henshaw, bordered by lush, gently sloping meadowland to the south and, on the valley side to the north, small fields and orchards.

  They rode through wide-open gates into a big cobbled yard, bound on two sides by walls of small bricks interspersed with rows of flints, on one side by an elegant house, and on the fourth by a long row of stables, beyond which were several workshops and a smithy.

  Hearing the sound of their mounts’ hooves, a dozen horses put their heads out over the stable doors, ears pricked with interest. Several stable lads looked up from their work, a brindled bitch came up and barked at them and a big man on a grey trotted over and wished them good day, dark, bushy eyebrows raised questioningly over round brown eyes.

  ‘Am I addressing Sir Godfrey Hellingsham?’ Josse asked, pulling Arthur up as the man approached.

  ‘Yes. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Josse d’Acquin, and this is my cousin’s son, Herbert of Southfire Hall.’

  Sir Godfrey stared at them both. ‘Southfire I believe I know. Down Lewes way?’ He glanced at Herbert, who nodded. ‘Acquin, now, that’s not a name I recognize.’

  ‘No, I’m not surprised,’ Josse said with a grin. ‘It’s where I come from but not where I live, which is the other side of the Great Forest, although I’m presently a guest at Southfire.’

  ‘Well, now that we all know who we are,’ Godfrey said, returning the smile, ‘why don’t you tell me what I can do for you?’ He looked over their horses, eyes darting about so that they seemed to be everywhere at once. ‘Nice enough creatures you have there,’ he remarked, ‘although many now say that you haven’t ridden till you’ve ridden a horse with the blood of the Saracen mounts.’

  ‘It’s about one of your horses we’ve come,’ Josse said, ‘but I’m afraid I’m not here to buy one.’

  Godfrey’s smile widened. ‘Fair enough, but don’t blame me if I try to change your mind. Tib!’ he yelled suddenly, making them jump.

  One of the lads came running over. ‘Yes, Sir Godfrey?’

  ‘Take our visitors’ horses and look after them,’ Godfrey ordered, ‘since they’ve come a fair step today. Oh, and take mine, too.’ He dismounted, handing his reins to the lad, and Josse and Herbert did the same. ‘Now, follow me into the house,’ Godfrey went on, leading the way, ‘and we’ll have a drop of ale while we talk.’

  A short time later, seated on a padded settle before a good fire with a pewter mug of rather fine ale in his hand, Josse began. ‘An injured man was recently tended at Southfire Hall,’ he said, ‘both he and his horse having suffered a bad fall. We believed the man was on the mend, but the blow to his head must have been worse than we thought, and he died during the night.’

  ‘God rest his soul,’ Godfrey said reverently, and both Josse and Herbert muttered, ‘Amen.’

  ‘We know nothing of the man except his name, and we need to find out where he came from so that his household can be informed of his death,’ Josse went on. ‘We had no clue, until one of the grooms at Southfire happened to remark that the dead man’s horse was one of yours.’

  Godfrey was nodding even before Josse finished speaking. ‘Yes, I had an idea that’s what you were going to say,’ he said. ‘They’re very distinctive, my horses. It was my grandfather who brought the first Saracen stallion to these parts – he was Sir Godfrey, like me and like my father, too – and he had the idea of—’ Josse gave a discreet cough and Godfrey, picking up the hint, said, ‘Well, you haven’t come here to hear me drone on about bloodlines and brood mares, have you?’

  ‘No,’ Josse agreed.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Godfrey said, smiling. Clearly, he had taken no offence at having his little lecture curtailed, and Josse, who had an idea that this might be something that happened quite a lot, guessed he’d probably had to become used to it. ‘Describe this horse to me.’ Leaning forward, his expression suddenly serious, he said, ‘Is it all right? You said it had a fall?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Josse assured him. ‘My uncle’s groom has taken extremely good care of it. Him, I should say, as he’s a gelding. Chestnut, with a ginger mane, and white markings on his face that look like a crudely drawn cross. He has two white feet, the front left—’

  ‘And the back right,’ Godfrey finished for him. Then, with utter certainty, he sat back and said, ‘That’s Mickle.’

  ‘Mickle?’ Josse echoed.

  ‘I know,’ Godfrey agreed, grinning. ‘He was born at Michaelmas, you see, and my little daughter reckoned we should honour the fact in the foal’s name, especially when she saw that great cross on his face. “He’s blessed, Father,” she says to me, “and should have a saint’s name.” “Well,” I says, “by rights the saint’s actually an archangel called Michael, so we should call him Michael,” and she said that was a daft name for a horse.’ His grin widened. ‘So the little fellow got stuck with Mickle, although I’m sure that’s not what he’s called now.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Josse admitted. It wasn’t one of the things you asked a sick man, he reflected, not really having much importance when compared to concussion, a broken nose and a dislocated shoulder. ‘So you recall who you sold the horse to?’

  Godfrey was frowning. ‘I’ve been trying to think,’ he said. ‘It was a good few years ago, and Mickle must be getting on for nine or ten now, so I’m that glad to hear he’s still fit enough to survive a bad fall.’ He fell silent.

  ‘Could you ask your little daughter?’ Herbert asked.

  Godfrey looked up with a grin. ‘The small girl who named Mickle is now a happily married woman with a young daughter of her own,’ he said, ‘and she lives a fair few miles away. She’d remember, though; you’re right there. She loved Mickle, and it was hard on her, the day the stable lad took him away, for all that she knew very well the horse would go one day because that’s what we do here. Breeding and selling horses is what puts bread on the board and clothes on our backs, and—’ Abruptly his impressive eyebrows went up and his face brightened. ‘Stable lad!’ he repeated. ‘Yes, it’s coming back to me. Although the lad came and collected the animal, he came later. It was a lady who purchased that horse – she came riding by one sunny morning on a pretty little mare and said she wanted the best animal in my yard, and it had to be good-looking because it was going to be a gift for a handsome young man. Oh, yes, I remember her, all right!’

  ‘Tell us about—’ Josse began, but Godfrey didn’t need any prompting.

  ‘She was a lovely one, and no mistake!’ he said, smiling and misty-eyed at the memory. ‘She came in here with me, sat just where you’re sitting now, and we talked and talked ti
ll noon and beyond, and laughed! I’ve never known a woman make me laugh like that.’

  ‘What was her name? Could it have been Southey?’ Josse put in.

  ‘Southey? No, no, it wasn’t that. She was a beautiful woman – mature, shapely, bright-eyed and as sharp as a tack,’ he went on, ‘and I don’t mind admitting that morning with her was the best I’ve spent in many a long year, before or since, and, seeing as how I was a widower by then, I did no harm to anyone by appreciating that woman’s company like I did, though I can’t speak for her, although that’s her own business, and not for me to criticize.’ He paused for breath.

  ‘Where did she come from?’ Josse asked. If Godfrey either couldn’t or wouldn’t reveal the woman’s name, perhaps he would at least tell them where she lived.

  ‘Eh? Oh – north-eastwards of here, right over towards the forest. Place had a funny name and it stuck in my mind, so whenever someone mentioned it afterwards, I couldn’t help but think of her …’ They waited. ‘Pard’s Wood!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Told you it had stuck in my mind! That’s where she came from, my lovely lady.’ His eyes were dewy with memory.

  ‘North-east?’ Josse said after a while.

  ‘Hm? Yes, yes – like I said, it’s right on the fringe of the forest, although nowadays I dare say they’ve cut back the trees a bit, since that seems to be the way of it, with folk wanting to clear the ground to make space for fields and orchards and houses, still, they’ve a right to live, same as all of us, and—’

  ‘Could we ride over there by nightfall?’ Josse interrupted; you had to interrupt Godfrey, he had realized, otherwise he would talk all day.

  ‘Reckon so, if you got moving sharpish, even in these conditions,’ Godfrey said. ‘It’s not far, six, eight miles, maybe, but—’

  Josse stood up, and Herbert did too. ‘Then we’ll take up no more of your time, and be on our way,’ Josse said. ‘Thank you for your help. I’m sure it’ll enable us to find our man’s household and, hopefully, his kin.’