The Tavern in the Morning

by Alys Clare

  He looked up at her, managing a half-smile. ‘Why stop at one?’

  She answered his smile. ‘I know, I’m sorry. But this isn’t for me, it’s for Ninian.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  She crouched beside him. ‘The life I outlined is perfect, for me. It is exactly what I want. But it’s not right for him – I can’t take the decision to remove him from the mainstream of life and turn him into a wise woman’s son, condemned for ever to live on the fringes of life. Not when I know who he really is. Can I?’

  ‘No,’ he acknowledged. ‘I do see what you mean.’

  ‘Had Thorald lived,’ she went on, ‘which I thank God he didn’t – since we’re to trust each other with all our secrets, Josse, I ought to tell you that it was I who put the stone in his horse’s shoe that morning, in the fervent hope that it would result in a fatal trip, which happily it did – where was I? Oh, yes. Had Thorald lived, then Ninian would have been sent as page to join some other knightly household, and, in time, he would have become a squire. What I’m asking—’ She paused, and he saw tears in her eyes again. Blinking them back, she said, ‘Will you arrange that for Ninian? Put him into a good house somewhere, make sure he grows up as he should?’

  Josse reached out and took her hands. ‘You will lose him,’ he said gently. ‘You do realise, don’t you?’

  She nodded, the tears falling unchecked down her face.

  ‘Once he’s a squire, the next step will be to win his spurs,’ Josse went on. ‘He’ll be caught up in his own life, Joanna. A good life – and I ought to know – but one so different from yours that I doubt he’ll be able to bridge the gap.’

  ‘I know,’ she sobbed. ‘But it’s what he was born to. It would be a great sin for me to rob him of it, just to keep him with me.’ She raised her wet eyes to his. ‘Wouldn’t it?’

  His heart breaking for her, slowly he nodded.

  ‘Will you do it?’ she persisted. ‘Will you give me your word to do your best for him?’

  Reaching down, he lifted her up until she was kneeling before him. Then he wrapped his arms round her, and, pulling her face down against the bare skin of his neck so that he felt the moisture of her tears, he said, ‘Aye, Joanna. I promise.’

  * * *

  Later, when she was calm again, she did as she had said, and fetched the meal which Ella had prepared for them. But neither had much appetite.

  She said anxiously, ‘Is your arm paining you? Is that why you don’t eat?’

  ‘No, the arm’s all right. I’m sorry, Joanna. The food is good, but I’m not hungry.’

  She pushed a chicken leg around her plate, holding it delicately between finger and thumb. ‘Neither am I.’

  ‘We have come to grave decisions today, Joanna,’ he said. ‘Decisions which will affect both of us, for the rest of our lives.’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured.

  He watched her. Slowly, as if aware of his scrutiny, she raised her eyes and met his. Wordlessly he opened his arms, and she got up and hurried over to him. He sat her down on his lap, cradling her to him.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she murmured, as he began to stroke her back. ‘I had wondered if, having decided we are not to stay together, that might mean we could not bed one another again. But—’

  He smiled. ‘But what?’

  ‘Do you have an opinion on the matter, Sir Josse?’ The teasing note was back. It was a shadow of its former self, but it was there.

  ‘I see no reason to suspend our relations,’ he said gravely. ‘We are, after all, both over the age of consent, and—’

  ‘Some of us further over than others,’ she put in.

  ‘– and there seems, on the face of it, no reason to abandon something which gives us both such pleasure.’ He held her face in his hands, meeting her eyes. ‘Shall we retire to bed, Joanna my sweet?’

  She said, ‘Yes.’

  But now, knowing he was to lose her, lovemaking was bitter-sweet. At one point, feeling tears on her face, he wanted to cry with her. Controlling himself, he hugged her close to him.

  She said out of the darkness, ‘When God gave us the infinite gift of tears, Josse, I don’t think He said anything about their being used solely to bring comfort to women.’

  And so he wept with her. It brought relief, of a sort.

  * * *

  In the early morning light, she got out of bed and dressed. He watched as she collected her few belongings together, stowing them into her pack. Her black-handled knife, he noticed, was once more in its sheath on her belt. Had it been she who removed it from Denys de Courtenay’s body? He imagined it had. Somehow he couldn’t see her allowing Will – allowing anybody – to touch her own personal weapon.

  ‘You are going,’ he said. It was not a question.

  ‘I am.’ She looked up. ‘I shall go first to Hawkenlye Abbey. If you think your Abbess will see me, I shall tell her what is planned for Ninian. Then I shall see him. I must explain to him why we—’ She stopped. Recovering herself, she said, ‘He needs to hear, from me, why I have arranged his future as I have.’

  Wanting so desperately to console her, he said, ‘It need not be for ever, Joanna. He will always know where to find you, and he’ll be able to come to see you sometimes. Perhaps.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Thank you for that, Josse. It is, as I know you intended it to be, a comfort. But I don’t think either of us truly believes it.’

  He lay back. Just at that moment, he felt utterly exhausted.

  She was ready to leave. Crossing to the bed, she bent over him and kissed him hard on the mouth. Then she said, ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I meant your arm,’ she said gently. ‘Will you get someone at the Abbey to look after it for you?’

  ‘Aye,’ he repeated.

  She had crossed to the door, and was standing there looking back at him. ‘It wouldn’t have worked between us, you know,’ she said.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because you’ve already given your—’ She stopped. ‘Never mind. I just know. Goodbye, Josse.’

  She was already out of the door as he echoed, ‘Goodbye.’

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘… and, with a last look over her shoulder, she was gone,’ Helewise said.

  Josse, she noticed, seemed to be more his old self. It was now almost a fortnight since Joanna de Lehon – once more calling herself Joanna de Courtenay – had arrived at Hawkenlye, asked to see the Abbess, announced what she intended to do and sought out her son to say goodbye.

  It had taken Helewise that fortnight to get over the experience.

  ‘She’s a most forceful young woman, isn’t she?’ Helewise went on. ‘She appears to know her own mind.’

  ‘Aye, she does that, all right,’ Josse agreed.

  ‘And strong,’ Helewise said. ‘I had the powerful impression that she is a born survivor.’

  Josse sighed. ‘Aye.’ Then, with an obvious effort: ‘You spent some time in conversation with her, then, Abbess?’

  ‘No, indeed not.’ Their meeting, Helewise recollected, had been all too brief. ‘It was apparent that Joanna was steeling herself to do what she must do. I did not think it either right or kind to detain her by chattering away to her.’

  He said, ‘How did she – how was she, having bid her adieu to her boy?’

  Helewise had been trying not to think about that. Not very successfully. ‘As you would expect, Sir Josse. But, in Ninian’s presence, she maintained a cheerful expression. She even managed to laugh when he told her about being dressed up as a nun, when Denys de Courtenay came here searching for him. Of course, we all thought then that it was Joanna he wanted, but—

  ‘Dressed up as a nun?’

  ‘To hide him,’ she explained. ‘Where better to hide a tree than in a wood? In robe and veil, Ninian looked much like all the others, once his grubby boy’s hands were tucked out of sight. A little smaller, but then there are plenty of grown women of short stature.’<
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  ‘Joanna must have been grateful for that. I don’t think she knew de Courtenay had actually searched the Abbey.’

  ‘Indeed he did, and very thoroughly.’

  There was a short pause. Then Josse said, ‘Abbess, will she be all right?’

  Helewise composed her reply before uttering it. ‘I believe she will,’ she said eventually. ‘It near broke her heart to say goodbye to her son, but, as we walked to the gate, we comforted ourselves with the thought that, had she and Ninian remained where they were in her Breton knight’s house, the time would soon have arrived for Ninian to go away to another man’s household anyway, to begin his knightly apprenticeship. The break was harder for Joanna – for the boy, too – because they have spent these past months and years in such mutual dependence. But there would have been a break. And, I imagine, they both knew it, and had privately been preparing for it. I—’

  She had been about to say, I certainly did, when it was my turn. But we are not speaking of me, she reminded herself.

  It was a reminder she was needing quite frequently, at present.

  Josse gave her a smile. ‘You comfort me, too,’ he said. ‘As always.’

  She bowed her head, studying her hands folded in her lap. It was not easy to accept his generous words, when her conscience was pricking her. Perhaps she should … No. Euphemia could so easily have been mistaken.

  ‘… out in the wildwood?’ Josse was saying.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir Josse, what did you say?’

  He looked at her curiously. ‘You were not attending, Abbess!’

  ‘No, I was thinking of Joanna. You were speaking of the wildwood?’

  ‘Aye. I was wondering how you thought she would fare. living in Mag Hobson’s old shack. She did tell you of her intention, to continue learning the old crafts?’

  ‘She did. And I think she will do very well. Sir Josse, bearing in mind Joanna’s character and her recent past, I truly believe her best chance of happiness – perhaps her only one – is to detach from the world she has known. It has treated her roughly, and she bears a heavy burden of resentment and anger. Living alone out there in the woods, with nature all around her, she will have a tough life, but I believe it will heal her. She needs, above everything, to be mistress of herself. I feel that she will find contentment. I pray that she will.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Josse muttered. Then: ‘You are easy with yourself, living with the knowledge that she is out there in the forest, consorting with Mag Hobson’s old friends, learning all that they will pass on to her?’

  Easy with myself? Helewise thought. No, I am not. For, despite her strength and her self-sufficiency, Joanna is a human being, needing love, as do we all. Needing God’s help and blessing, as do we all. Yet there she will be, alone, turning her back on Our Lord, following the old ways …

  But, then, it was Joanna’s choice. And, as Helewise herself had just said, Joanna knew her own mind.

  Something told her not to repeat these reservations to Josse. Making herself face him, forcing a bright smile, she said, ‘I must be easy with myself, Josse. As must you be. For Joanna has made her decision, and we must live with it.’

  He was getting to his feet, preparing to leave. He still moved his right arm stiffly; Helewise had seen the wound, when Sister Euphemia dressed it earlier, and, even in its largely healed state, the sight of the great slash had near made her pass out. He had been lucky not to lose the use of the arm; the cut had gone deep into the muscle.

  It was Euphemia’s opinion that only Joanna’s neat stitches and cleansing, healing salves had saved the arm, let alone Josse’s use of it.

  Another legacy of Joanna de Courtenay, Helewise thought, walking with Josse to the stables. He will always bear that scar, to the end of his days. As will he also always carry his love for her.

  She stood by Horace’s side as Josse swung up into the saddle. Looking up, she met his eyes. There was so much she wanted to say, about love never being wasted, about what he had shared with Joanna being of precious value, even though it was over.

  But we do not have that sort of talk between us, she told herself. So she just said, ‘Farewell, Sir Josse. Come and see us again soon.’

  He gave her a vague wave, and turned Horace’s head towards the gates. ‘Aye, I will,’ he said. ‘Farewell, Abbess Helewise.’

  She watched until he had ridden away and out of sight.

  Then, with a sigh, she returned to her duties.

  Postscript

  Joanna was approaching the beginning of her first autumn of living in Mag Hobson’s shack. It was October, still mild, but she had reluctantly to admit that summer was over. The midday sun was no longer as powerful, the leaves were starting to turn and, in some cases, to drop, and once or twice she had been tempted to stoke up the fire in her hearth to warm her through the night.

  Since quitting Hawkenlye Abbey – and the precious person it then had contained – back in February, she had spent virtually all her time in the hut in the clearing. She went up to the manor house now and then, to make sure all was well and that doors and gates were secure. But the house was too full of the presence of people she had loved and lost. Ninian. Mag. And Josse. She far preferred life in the shack.

  There had been little need to clean it or tidy it, for Mag had cared for it well. But Joanna had felt a certain impulse to add something of her own personality to the small dwelling and its surroundings; she brought from the manor house a few carefully-chosen items, each of which was important to her in some way.

  She brought the willow basket which Ninian had made, under Mag’s tuition. She also brought his long-discarded hobby horse; she had painted its face herself, an age ago, and had given the horsy features a look of Ninian. It was comforting, to have standing in the corner of her little shack an object which radiated her son’s elemental self.

  She also brought the furs and the rugs which had lain before the fire in the hall, on which she and Josse had first made love. If she buried her face in them and breathed in deeply, she could conjure up Josse’s presence. That, too, was a comfort.

  There had been little need to bring clothing, for she always wore the same garments, washing them when they needed it and, while they dried by the fire, spending the time naked, making her tender flesh become accustomed to the air, the rain, the sunshine, the frost and the snow. She possessed only a loose linen shift, a hooded cloak, a white head-cloth and a generously-sized, dark-coloured veil. And she habitually wore her heavy woollen robe, stuck into the belt of which she carried her black-handled knife.

  Lora had shown her how to purify it.

  ‘It needs no purification from the sin of slaying Denys,’ Joanna had protested, ‘because that was no sin.’

  ‘Nay, nay, child!’ Lora had cried, scolding and laughing at the same time. ‘More an act of charity, as far as the rest of the world’s concerned, I’d say. Like putting down a malformed calf. But it has been stained with his blood, and that’s why you cleanse it. See? It’s precious, is your knife. Take good care of it.’

  They had performed the ceremony together, their two right hands holding the blade in the flame of a specially built, small fire out in the woods. Joanna had burned her fingers quite badly, and Lora had said that was all a part of the cleansing.

  * * *

  The shack now had hangings at its tiny window, and over the door. Mag had been hardier than Joanna was, and, although Joanna was working diligently at toughening herself, she still keenly felt the draughts which whistled and wheezed their way through the many gaps. Joanna also felt a residual need to wash herself, a hangover from her old life, and, while Mag had been content with the cold water of the stream that ran along nearby, Joanna preferred to heat water over her fire and wash inside the hut.

  It made Lora laugh uproariously to see her go through what Lora referred to as ‘all that fussing and fretting’, carrying and heating water when there was a perfectly good stream not twenty paces away.

  But Joanna knew that
Lora, wisest of teachers, equivalent to Mag herself, was well aware how hard Joanna was finding her new life. And how earnestly she was trying to adapt to it. If warming water and washing indoors helped, Lora’s attitude seemed to say, then what of it?

  * * *

  Sitting outside her shack now, watching the last of the sunlight fade from the clearing, Joanna reflected on how much she had learned in the seven months she had been there.

  I can look after myself, she thought wonderingly. Just about. I have vegetables growing in my little patch next to the herb garden. I know which woodland plants I can safely eat, and I am beginning – just beginning – to understand their medicinal uses. I keep chickens, and I know how to snare rabbits and tickle trout. When I have to, that is, for Lora has taught me that all of life is to be respected, and that we only take another creature’s life when it is truly necessary.

  But then Lora had also said it was wrong to hesitate, when other factors indicated that there was a real need in the diet for the meat of a fellow creature.

  Joanna stretched, putting a hand to her belly. I’m well, she thought. Thanks to Lora, I think I’ve got the balance about right.

  Lora had taught Joanna much else besides how to attend to her physical needs. Sometimes, looking back over the months of intensive instruction, Joanna’s head reeled at all the new information she had acquired. Some of the secrets Lora had revealed to her had been, quite literally, breathtaking – Joanna had never even dreamed there were such things in the world.

  And Lora, to Joanna’s delight, had pronounced her an apt pupil. ‘Carry on this way, my girl,’ she had said recently, ‘and, come Imbolc, I’ll take you with me to the Great Festival. You’d be ready come Samain, I reckon, but, by the look of you, you and I will have other things on our minds round about then. Aye. Samain night, I reckon.’

  Then she had gone, leaving, as she always did, with neither a farewell nor any indication of when she might be back. But she always came back. And that was all that mattered.

  ‘Come Imbolc,’ Joanna murmured aloud. ‘The Great Festival.’