by Alys Clare
Perhaps Melusine had reasons of her own for claiming that her daughter’s marriage was dying, if not dead . . .
Something suddenly occurred to Helewise. She saw again the pretty picture of Primevère lying on her bed, apparently sick, with her pale face supporting the claim. Yet there had been that fall of luscious, extravagant, gleaming hair. And, now Helewise came to think of it, the young woman’s eyes had been bright, the whites shining and clear; apart from the pallor, Primevère had looked the picture of health.
Supposing – just supposing – she had only been pretending to be sick? It must be possible to create the image of pale cheeks; why, a small amount of flour would surely do the trick.
Although she simply did not know why Primevère, lucky enough to be well, might wish to pretend she was sick, nevertheless Helewise wrote down Primevère: what ails her and is she genuinely unwell?
Then she sat back and stared at her list.
And she realised that, a considerable time spent in deep thought notwithstanding, she didn’t seem to have come up with anything very helpful. Also, that she had absolutely no idea of what to do next.
I have spent far too much time on this already, she rebuked herself sternly. In order that my musings shall not be entirely wasted, I must worry my thoughts to a conclusion and then leave the matter alone and get on with my work.
She tried to still her whirling mind, hoping that a moment’s serenity would allow some sense or pattern to emerge from the chaos. She laid down her stylus, folded her hands, closed her eyes and, deliberately relaxing the tension in her neck and shoulders, laid her head back against her tall chair.
After some time she thought, but I have been making this far more complicated than it is, for surely by far the most likely answer is that someone – a visitor to the tomb, or, as I was beginning to suspect when I was with Primevère, one of the guards – knew that Florian would be alone when he carried away his takings that night, followed him until he was well away from anybody who might hear him cry out and then hurried on ahead to set up the rope that broke his neck. Why, I have only to look around me to see what poverty there is in this land of ours. People are desperate, as is demonstrated by the way in which they are flocking to the so-called Merlin’s Tomb in the hope of some miracle that will give them a helping hand. Why, then, should I seek to complicate what is almost certainly murder for gain, the gain being a good horse and several bulging bags of money?
She kept her eyes closed, trying to maintain the state of deep and clear-sighted concentration. At first it seemed to her that she had convinced herself that the obvious solution was the right one. But then, like the first fluffy cloud in a clear sky that heralds a storm, the face of the guard at the tomb to whom she had spoken slid into her mind, swiftly followed by that image of the pale-faced Primevère reclining against her pillows.
Someone at the tomb might well know more than has yet been revealed; she would send Augustus and Saul over there to ask around. As for herself, she would give Primevère a little time to recover from the shock and the grief of Florian’s death, then she would ride back to Hadfeld and, with an experienced nurse beside her such as Sister Euphemia if she could be spared and Sister Caliste again if she could not, visit the young widow on the pretext of trying to help her in her sickness and her sorrow.
She was just thinking resignedly that in truth she had not yet finished with this killing when a new realisation seared across her mind, temporarily driving everything else out: with Florian dead, Merlin’s Tomb would surely now be closed and the pilgrims would come back to Hawkenlye.
The great surge of relief that this happy thought brought with it was swiftly and very thoroughly displaced by a flood of guilt. How can I of all people, she demanded in silent anguish, be glad of anything that comes about because of such a death? That poor young man had his neck broken and his body thrown into the bushes to rot, and here am I feeling happy! She was horrified that, even after all her years as a nun and a Christian, still such a thought could have got through her guard. Getting up, she left her room and went across to the Abbey church where, in its empty and lofty silence, she prostrated herself before the altar and begged first for forgiveness for her wicked thought and then for the Lord’s mercy on the soul of Florian of Southfrith.
In the small hours of that morning, Josse knelt over the body of Joanna as she lay on her back in the dell in the Brocéliande forest, biting down on the keening howl of grief that was trying to burst out of him. She lay pale and unmoving just where she had fallen and he was not sure that he could detect any signs that she was breathing. Meggie was watching him from the snug burrow of her blanket, her brown eyes wide; she did not speak and had made no move to rush to her mother’s side.
Josse did not know what to do.
He had been crouching there above her for an immeasurable time that could have been hours or just a few moments and, as the light of dawn waxed around him, he noticed that blood from the wound on his right forearm had dripped down on to Joanna’s cheek, running down her neck to pool in the hollow above the place where her collar bones met. My blood, he thought distantly, staining her pale skin. He tore his eyes from her and looked at his arm. The blood was beginning to congeal.
He thought, I must do something to help her.
He laid his sword and his dagger carefully down on the mossy grass and then, using his left hand in an effort to spare himself any more pain from his right, very gently he edged his fingers behind her head.
There was a large lump at the base of her skull. Feeling around, he discovered that by bad luck she had fallen on to a boulder lying in the grass. Her head seemed to have been jerked backwards, the boulder pushing her neck forward while her head fell back behind it. His exploring fingers went on across her head, tangling in her thick, soft hair, but he found no other wound.
He put his cheek to her mouth, trying to detect any drawing-in or expulsion of air. He thought he felt a very faint breath, but it could have been a product of his own fierce need. Bending down further, he laid his ear against her breast, just over her heart . . .
. . . and, after a few unimaginably terrible moments, heard a heartbeat.
It was faint and worryingly irregular, but it was there.
His world had just begun turning again.
He leapt up and hurried across to where Meggie lay beside the remains of their fire. ‘Meggie, I need your mother’s blanket because she’s hurt and we must keep her warm,’ he said to the wide-eyed child, trying to keep his voice cheerful. ‘Then when I’ve made her comfy, you and I will build up the fire. Will you help me do that, Meggie?’ Solemnly Meggie nodded. ‘That’s my good girl,’ Josse said approvingly. Then, catching up Joanna’s blanket and his own as well, he went back to her.
He did not think he ought to move her, tempting though it was to draw her closer to the fire. He had seen people with concussion before and he knew from experience what could happen if an unconscious man unable to say where he was hurting was dragged along the ground. Once in his soldiering days a man had fallen from his horse and landed on his head. The troop had been in a hurry and the commanding officer had snapped out to two of the man’s comrades to pick him up and sling him across his saddle. When the man had rapidly recovered consciousness, it was briefly to scream out with agony before the blood in his lungs drowned him: his fall had broken three ribs, one of which had, as he was lifted and put on his horse, punctured a lung.
I will not let such a fate be Joanna’s, Josse told himself. Very tenderly, disturbing her as little as possible, he tucked both blankets around her prostrate body. He felt her bare feet – they were icy – then, as he began to rub them, called out softly to Meggie.
‘Sweetheart, come here,’ he said. ‘Mummy’s feet are cold and she needs them to be warmed up. Will you kneel here – just here, aye, that’s right – and put her feet very carefully in your lap? Aye, like that – very good. Now, put your hands around them and, very, very gently, rub some heat into them.’
Not long afterwards he was back by her side. Meggie had done her job well and now Joanna’s feet were far less chill to the touch. ‘Well done, Meggie,’ he said approvingly. In addition, the fire was now blazing and the warmth from its flames could be felt even from where the three of them were, some four or five paces away.
‘Hungwy,’ Meggie announced.
‘You’re hungry?’ She nodded. Of course you are, Josse thought, wondering if he could steel himself to leave Joanna’s side to prepare some food. What could he fetch that would take the least time? Their provisions were low but there were some strips of dried meat, the last of the flat bread and a couple of apples. Not much for a hungry child, but at least she could have all of it; Josse didn’t think he’d ever want to eat again.
He leapt up, fetched the bag in which Joanna carried the victuals and was back again in an instant. He delved in the bag and, extracting some meat and a hand’s-span-sized piece of bread, gave them to Meggie. She chewed her way rapidly through the food, swallowed and said, ‘More.’
From the grass Joanna’s voice said, ‘More, please.’
And Josse, knowing better than to fling himself upon a possibly wounded woman, had to content himself with saying gently, ‘Joanna. Welcome back.’
As she struggled to sit up, telling the anxious Josse very firmly that there was nothing wrong with her but a headache and she would mix up some herbs and soon put that right, she felt something damp on her face and neck. She put up her hand and it came away coated with blood. Oh, Great Mother, I am wounded after all and, if it gives no pain, it must be deep and grievous indeed . . .
But Josse, eyes watching her every move, spoke quickly. ‘Joanna, it isn’t your blood – there is no wound to your head or neck except the bump on the back of your skull.’
‘Then what is—’ She broke off, for what she had just caught sight of had answered her question. ‘Josse, I must see to your arm.’
‘But—’
‘Now, Josse, for the cut slices deep and if it starts bleeding again, I may not be able to stop it.’
She got to her feet, unable quite to prevent the wince as the pain from her head seared through her. He noticed that, too, and put out a hand to hold her back. But it seemed that his strength had suddenly left him, for even as he tried to grab her, he sank back on to the grass.
She looked down at him, nodding. ‘Yes, dear Josse. Lie there until I have done what I can for you. Meggie – oh, Meggie, hello, dearest! Have some more to eat – yes, help yourself from the bag. Now,’ she added to herself, ‘what should I do first?’
He had mended the fire, she noted, and she put a small amount of water on to boil. While it heated up she fetched her leather satchel and took out several small packets: comfrey, Lady’s Mantle, herb bennet, horsetail and lavender; styptics and an antiseptic with which to treat that gaping wound on Josse’s arm. Also, because she knew she would be a more efficient and observant healer without the thumping headache, she set out white willow and a tiny pinch of the dangerously poisonous but highly and swiftly efficacious monkshood for herself.
As soon as the water began to steam she poured a little into the small wooden cup that she reserved only for healing and into which she had already put some drops of lavender oil. Then, returning to Josse, she gave the bowl and a clean piece of soft cloth to Meggie and told her to bathe away the blood.
Josse looked up at her, horrified. ‘She’s only a child!’ he hissed. Looking down at the cut on his arm – it was, Joanna had to acknowledge, not a pretty sight – he added, ‘She shouldn’t have to do this!’
‘She’s a healer and in her own time she’s going to be a fine one,’ Joanna replied calmly. ‘Also, as you are about to find out, she has an exceptionally gentle touch.’ Then she went back to the fire.
The water was now boiling and quickly she poured some on to the mix of analgesic herbs in her drinking cup, swirling the mixture round and round to make the plant substances release their power and to cool the water a little. Making a face at both the ghastly, bitter taste and the still-hot water, she swallowed it down. Then, knowing that it would soon bring relief and in the meantime trying to ignore the crashing pain in her skull, she set to work to prepare the mixture that would knit Josse’s flesh together and, with any luck, heal that awful cut without the need of stitches.
Some time later, her headache all but gone and Josse’s arm bound up in clean cloth – she had after all had to put in three stitches, an operation that Meggie had observed with keen interest and that Josse had borne with great courage, only crying out once – the three of them sat under the shade of the birch trees eating the small amount of food that Meggie had left in the bag.
‘Now, dear Josse,’ Joanna said when there was not even a crumb remaining, ‘tell me what happened this morning just before dawn.’
She had been dying to ask ever since she had come round but, appreciating that there were more important things to do and that, moreover, there no longer seemed to be any imminent danger, she had reined in her curiosity and got on with what she (and, increasingly, Meggie) did best. But now that she had done all that she could, she had to know.
Josse was gazing out over the forest and for a while did not answer.
‘Josse?’ she prompted.
He turned to her and, smiling, reached for her hand with his unbandaged one. ‘I do realise,’ he said gently, ‘how much you must want to know. It’s just that I’m not sure how to tell you because I don’t know what did happen.’
‘Ah.’ She had an idea that she knew why this might be. To prompt him, she said, ‘We sensed that someone was out there, approaching the hillock, and—’
‘You sensed it,’ he corrected. Then, in a fervent whisper, ‘I’m still giving thanks for you and your weird abilities.’
She squeezed his hand. ‘Me too. So, someone attacked us and we both leapt up and laid into them, you with your sword and dagger, me with my knife.’
‘You all but cut his ear off,’ Josse remarked.
‘Did I?’ She had but a vague memory of pouncing on their assailant’s back and wielding her blade. ‘Pity. I must be losing my touch because I was going for his throat. Then what happened?’
‘He flung you off and you fell flat on your back. I thought – hoped – you might only be winded but in any case I couldn’t do anything for you just then because—’
She heard the apology in his voice. ‘Of course you couldn’t,’ she agreed calmly. ‘Your priority was to kill our attacker before he killed us.’
He gave her a grateful smile. ‘You always were a very reasonable woman,’ he murmured. ‘Anyway, I chased off after him down the slope and away along some narrow and winding animal track and suddenly he stopped. When I caught up with him there was something, someone maybe, standing right in front of him.’
‘A man? An animal?’ She was now almost certain she was right.
He shrugged, the deep frown betraying his confusion. ‘I don’t know. While I was in pursuit I thought I heard some very large animal running through the undergrowth, keeping pace with me. Then, when I saw that great shape of darkness rising up in front of the attacker, I – Joanna, it – he – was huge.’
I was right, she thought jubilantly. I just knew he was out there – I sensed his presence. Oh, perhaps he’s been with us ever since Folle-Pensée! He must have picked up that we were in danger and he did not leave us until he had removed that danger.
She had not a single regret over what had happened, for the man sent by Césaire had undoubtedly meant to kill her and probably Josse and maybe even Meggie – oh, Meggie! – too. Nevertheless, she who had seen her rescuer as both man and as bear knew how his very appearance could strike cold terror in the heart, even when he was in his benign aspect. In furious fighting mode, rising up to
his full height on those incredibly powerful back legs, deadly claws extended to strike, he— But she stopped herself. It was too frightening even to think about.
Trying to calm the thrill of excitement coursing through her, she said, ‘Did he kill the man?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Josse replied. ‘I think so. The starlight seemed to flash on a weapon of some sort – it was something I’ve never seen before, almost like a knife with multiple blades – and I caught an image of terrible violence, although the picture wasn’t clear in my mind and I’m at a loss to know what really happened.’ Slowly he shook his head. ‘The man who attacked us fell and I watched to see but he didn’t get up again. When I looked up the dark shape had vanished.’
‘Did you not check that the man was dead?’ she demanded; she had to know, had to be sure they were safe now.
He looked at her and she could not read his expression. ‘No, Joanna. He was down and that was all that mattered. Me, I had other things to see to.’ There was a brief pause. Then: ‘I thought – I was terrified that you were dead.’
She understood. Her moment of anxiety-induced anger vanished and she saw the scene from his perspective.
Dear, loving, loyal Josse.
She leaned against him, turning her head so that she could kiss the bare flesh at his throat. ‘Dearest Josse, I have a skull like a rock. It takes more than falling against a stone to kill me.’
‘Don’t say—’ he began.
But it was enough; there was no need to say any more.
She stopped him with a kiss.
Chapter 15
As the sun rose to its noon height, Josse insisted that he was well enough for them to get moving and proceed with their journey back to the coast. Joanna would have liked him to rest for the remainder of the day for she was afraid that, despite Meggie’s careful bathing, the wound was at risk of developing the hot, red inflammation that told of the onset of the often fatal infection in the flesh. As yet the area around his wound was cool to the touch. Perhaps he would be all right even if they did set off now, for he was strong and healthy and men such as he seemed, in her experience, to fight off deadly infections better than their weakling fellows.
