Faithful Dead

by Alys Clare

  THE FAITHFUL DEAD

  Alys Clare

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Also by Alys Clare

  Fortune like the Moon

  Ashes of the Elements

  The Tavern in the Morning

  The Chatter of the Maidens

  Copyright © 2002 by Alys Clare

  First published in Great Britain in 2002 by Hodder and Stoughton

  An Hachette UK Company

  The right of Alys Clare to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted

  by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN 978 1 444 71669 6Book ISBN 978 0 340 79330 5

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For Geoffrey

  CONTENTS

  The Faithful Dead

  Also by Alys Clare

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One: England, Autumn 1192

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part Two: Outremer, Summer 1148

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part Three: France and England, 1150–1165

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part Four: England, Autumn 1192

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Postscript

  About the Author

  Primo pro nummata vini

  ex hac bibunt libertini;

  semel bibunt pro captivis,

  post hec bibunt ter pro vivis,

  quater pro Christianis cunctis,

  quinquies pro fidelibus defunctis.

  It’s first to the wine seller

  That the dissolutes raise their mugs;

  They have one drink for the prisoners,

  Three for the living folk,

  Four for all Christendom,

  Five for the faithful dead.

  Carmina Burana:

  cantiones profanae

  (Author’s translation)

  The old man’s loud breathing was keeping the boy awake.

  It was now, some hours since they had lain down in the draughty shelter. The supper provided by the monks had been adequate, but hardly what you would call tasty. Still, over the past weeks, the boy had become accustomed to going to bed on an empty stomach, so to have it filled – even with watery, bland soup without the savour of salt, and a big hunk of rough bread – was better than usual.

  No, he reflected, turning on his side and edging further away from the old man. No, I have no complaints on that score.

  But how he wished the snoring, rasping breaths would stop and let him get some sleep!

  Flinging himself on to his back, he wondered idly – not for the first time – if it would be a kindness to hold a folded cloth over the old fellow’s face and put him out of his misery. Raising himself up on one elbow, he stared down at his master. In the light of the one dull lamp illuminating the sleeping area, the face showed up deathly pale and glistening with sweat. As the boy watched, another brief coughing fit rattled the old man’s thin frame. It was not enough to wake him, though. Not that time.

  Ah, but he’d been a good master, the boy reflected, lying down again. Tough – he’d driven his servant hard, accepted no excuses for slackness or laziness – but fair. Aye, there had always been appreciation for a job well done. And, the boy reminded himself, grinning faintly into the darkness, the master had promised him a silver coin if he made sure the two of them got safe home again.

  A silver coin!

  He lay for several very happy moments while he contemplated what use he might make of a silver coin.

  Ah, but home was such a long way away, he thought, dismay clouding his pleasant reverie. Once admitted, depression seemed to flood through him; he suddenly found himself feeling unaccountably miserable.

  One silver coin? It was as if another’s voice spoke inside his head, a cold, faintly jeering voice that was strangely insistent. Just one coin? After all you’ve done for him? Why, the help and support you’ve given him during the trials and hardships of this journey alone are surely worth more than that! One coin, my lad, is nothing more than an insult.

  The boy felt the skin on the back of his neck stir, as if someone had run a rough hand against the natural direction of the fine hair that grew there. And from a different – better – part of his mind came the urgent message: don’t listen! Close your ears! Do not pay heed to the Evil One!

  For a few heartbeats, he felt sick with terror. Then he thought, no, I am allowing my imagination to run away with me. Here I am lying in the pilgrims’ shelter of one of the holiest spots in England, not fifty paces from Our Lady’s Shrine and her blessed, healing spring! Come on, you fool, this is the last place that the – that any harm is going to come to you!

  He made himself relax. The old man’s breathing was getting rougher, more painful, and now there seemed to be a little pause between each laborious outward breath and the next drawing in, as if, even in his sleep, the old man was trying to decide whether further effort was worth the pain that it cost him.

  The boy looked at him again. He’s no pauper, he reflected, for all that he’s dressed like one. No, he’s got wealth all right, aye, and rich possessions and all. He has his reasons for pretending to be a poor pilgrim, and I reckon I know what they are. He’s––

  With an abrupt snort, the old man launched into a violent fit of coughing, chest heaving, spasms shaking his whole body. From another part of the sleeping area the boy heard a faint protest, cut short as a different voice – a woman’s – muttered, ‘For pity’s sake, Jack! He’s not doing it just to annoy you, the poor soul can’t help himself !’

  The boy watched as the old man spat into a filthy, stained piece of cloth, then, muttering to himself, settled down again. Soon the painful breathing resumed.

  The old man’s movements had disturbed his cloak, in which he had wrapped himself, and the thin blanket that the monks had provided. The night air was chilly – it was late August, but a storm earlier in the day had left a nip in the air – and the boy reached out his hand and gently rearranged the covers. There, that was better; the cloak was quite thick, it’d give some warmth to his chest, and––

  In the midst of his careful attentions, the boy suddenly caught the glint of metal. The lamplight was reflecting off something tucked inside the old man’s clothes, something which, formerly hidden, had slipped out and into view during the coughing fit.

  The cold voice was back inside the boy’s head. It said, go on! Have a good look! You won’t do any harm; you’re only going to have a peep, aren’t you?

  The boy watched as, almost without his volition, his hand stretched out towards the old man’s frail body. Stretched out – further – a little bit further – until the gra
sping fingers closed on the object. It felt cool to the touch, and the metal of which it was made was smooth . . . and, in shape, a square, a rectangle . . . a little box?

  He pulled. But the object was attached to something, perhaps caught up in the old man’s clothes, and at first would not come.

  It’s on a chain round his neck! the boy realised suddenly, with a brief, violent surge of fury that quite surprised him. I can’t get at it, he’s got it too securely fastened.

  No, he hasn’t, the cold voice said. Try again.

  The boy did as he was told. The chain came free of whatever had been obstructing it, and he held the object up to the light.

  It was a box; he could see tiny hinges where the lid met the base and, on the opposite side, a latch and a fastening. The workmanship was exquisite; even the boy, well travelled as he was, had seen nothing like it. Such detail! And so minute! And the way in which the faint light made the metal glow – as if it were lit from within – surely suggested that it was precious. Could it be – was it possible that it was – silver?

  For quite a long time, he lay and stared at it, the shock of finding such an object hidden away in the dirty, threadbare garments of his master so great that it seemed to bring all thoughts to a standstill.

  But the amazed reaction was short-lived.

  Where did the old man get it? the boy began to wonder. And what’s he thinking of, carrying it with him on a journey such as we’ve just endured, when the least worrying possibility was that he’d lose it, and the most alarming that someone would have spotted it and killed him for it? Why, it was foolhardy to take the risk! Not only for him, but for me, too! No murdering thief stealing from the master would have left the servant alive to bear witness, that’s for sure!

  His rage against his master was briefly so great that it blanked out everything else. For a short while he forgot where he was, what he was doing there, the very night around him.

  When, in due course, he came back to himself, he realised that something was different.

  The light had changed, for one thing. Was that what it was? The moon had risen, and was bathing the clearing outside the shelter in chilly silver.

  The boy frowned in concentration. No, there was something else . . .

  Then he knew.

  The noise, that annoying, sleep-interrupting noise, had stopped. The old man was no longer breathing.

  Still clasping the box on its chain, the boy stared dispassionately down at his master. Should he call one of the monks? The old fellow could only just have stopped breathing. They could send for that big bossy nun who was in charge of the infirmary. She might be able to help. She could give the master some medicine, get those lungs working again.

  Couldn’t she?

  But the cold voice in his head said, no. Too late for that. Your master is dead.

  ‘Dead,’ the boy repeated in a soft whisper.

  Nobody knows about this, he thought, tightening his fist around the metal box in his hand. It was heavy, he noticed; he shook it to see if it would rattle, which would imply there was something inside it, but it made no sound. And he had been promised a silver coin, which he surely would not be getting now that his master was dead.

  For who was there to give it?

  Another thought struck him, a dreadful thought that made him shake with fear. They’ll say I did it! They’ll say I finished him off ! They’ll say I should have taken better care of him, fetched someone when he had that awful coughing fit earlier!

  Wanting to moan but afraid to wake the other people in the shelter, the boy stuffed his ragged cuff into his mouth.

  Get away from here, the cold voice advised. Put some distance between you and this scene of death. The monks and the nuns don’t know who you are or where you come from, do they? To them you’re just a servant, nameless, unimportant. They’ll never find you. They probably won’t even bother to look for you. Run, now, while you’ve got the chance. Morning is far off; you can be miles away by the time they find out the old man’s dead.

  He thought hard, chewing at his sleeve. It was good advice. Wasn’t it?

  All his short life he had been used to doing what he was told. To be forced to make a decision for himself was a unique experience.

  Which, perhaps, excused its being such a poor one.

  Without another glance at his dead master, he stood up, silently rolled his few possessions into a compact bundle and stuffed it inside his cloak and, with the box on the chain still held tight in his hand, tiptoed out of the shelter.

  He stepped cautiously and lightly along the path until he was a good distance away from the small knot of buildings in the Vale. Then he hitched up his robe and ran.

  PART ONE

  England, Autumn 1192

  1

  Josse d’Acquin stood with his manservant, Will, looking gloomily out over the meadow which, last night, had contained the household cow and her calf.

  The meadow was now empty, and there was a gap in the ragged hedge large enough for a cow and a calf to have squeezed through.

  Will was muttering under his breath. The general tone of voice suggested he was a little disgruntled.

  Josse patted his arm. ‘Don’t blame yourself, Will,’ he began, ‘we both knew the boundary was weak just there and––’

  ‘I weren’t blaming myself,’ Will replied, with an uncharacteristic display of spirit; Will, devoted and hard-working, usually tended to take the responsibility for everything that went wrong at New Winnowlands on his own narrow shoulders. ‘I was saying, it’s too much. There’s only so many hours in the day and, for the life of me, I can’t be in two places at once.’

  Greatly surprised, Josse turned to look at him. ‘I agree, Will,’ he said gently. ‘But what am I to do? Whenever I have suggested that we take on more hands, you say you can manage. You say that you and Ella prefer to look after me on your own.’ Ella was Will’s wife, or perhaps his woman; Josse had no idea whether or not they were wed and certainly had never enquired. Ella worked as hard as Will and, although chronically shy, could turn her hand to any task within the house and quite a few outside it.

  ‘That we do, sir, that we do.’ Will was frowning, chewing his lip; clearly he had something on his mind.

  ‘Then I repeat: what am I to do?’

  Will stood silent for some time, as if pondering over the relative merits of speaking out or keeping his thoughts to himself. Eventually – he was still glaring out over the empty meadow – he decided to unburden himself.

  ‘See, sir, it’s like this,’ he began, a hand rubbing at the small of his back. ‘Me and Ella, we don’t like taking orders from anyone, leastways, saving old Sir Alard, who could be tricky, God rest him, when an east wind put him in an ill humour. And yourself, a’ course, Sir Josse, and you’re not a demanding man. What we – I mean, it’s not as if we’ve ever been under the charge of others, and we’re probably too set in our ways to learn.’ He looked up hopefully at Josse to see if the significance of his little speech had been understood.

  Josse, still in the dark, said, ‘I’m sorry, Will. What are you saying?’

  Will sighed. ‘We wouldn’t take to it, sir. If that’s what you decide to do – and it’s for you to say, I do see that – then me and Ella might . . . we might . . .’ Whatever depressing image he was imagining was clearly moving him; his eyes blinked rapidly a couple of times and he swallowed hard, making the prominent Adam’s apple in his thin throat bob up and down. ‘And we’re settled here, settled and secure, and we’re that fond of our little place,’ he muttered, voice breaking.

  Suddenly Josse understood. And hastened to correct his poor suffering manservant’s misapprehension.

  ‘Will, I would never put someone in over you, or over Ella,’ he said, forcing all the sincerity he could muster into his voice. ‘Why on earth should I want to do so? The pair of you have looked after me well these two years or more, and I have never had cause for complaint. I must assure you that I have no desire to change the arra
ngement – I do not intend to risk upsetting the applecart, not when it rolls along so smoothly!’ He tried to lighten the mood with a laugh, but Will did not join in.

  ‘And there’s my back,’ Will went on, as if he had not heard. ‘I’ve a pain down here’ – he was still rubbing – ‘like some little imp’s got in there with a red-hot pitchfork.’ He raised mournful eyes to Josse. ‘Maybe I’m getting too old, sir.’

  When troop morale was as low as this, Josse reflected, remembering his soldiering days, the best thing to do was to organise a distraction. Take the men’s minds off feeling sorry for themselves.

  ‘Come, Will,’ he said bracingly. ‘First we’ll round up that cow – she can’t have gone far – then you must get Ella to put a warm poultice on your bad back. I can mend the gap in the hedge – a couple of hurdles should do it.’ Will shot him a dubious look. ‘Then I suggest that you cast around for a likely young lad to come and give you a hand here. Not just at the busy times such as sowing and harvest’ – he hoped he sounded more authoritative than he felt, being still far more a soldier than a farmer – ‘but on a regular basis. There must be someone, some son of one of my tenants growing out of childhood and with energy to spare.’ He waved a vague hand, as if suitable youths were lining up in the courtyard in front of the manor house, eager and alert, just dying to come and work under Will.

  Will sniffed, managing to put a lot of expression into the brief sound. He said shortly, ‘Maybe.’

  I do not know enough about the people who live on my land, Josse reflected. And, since the manor is but a small one, I have no excuse. I inherited my tenants from old Sir Alard, I take their rents and a portion of all that they produce and, presumably, Will organises their labours when they fulfil their commitments to me as their landlord.

  He stood deep in thought but, try as he might, he could not bring to mind the face, features or demeanour of any of the peasants who lived, worked and, eventually, would die on his manor.