by Alys Clare
Besides, she herself had an urgent reason for moving on. Césaire wanted her dead badly enough to have set an assassin on her trail; having encountered the man, she knew that she was right in her assumption that Césaire would not do the deed himself but hire another to do it for him. But now, were he to become anxious as to what had happened to that assassin, he might very well despatch a second and she and Josse might not be so lucky again. If they left now they might make ten or a dozen miles before stopping for the night; very likely, more. And they surely could not be more than a couple of days from the coast, although for obvious reasons they could not now aim for Dinan but must turn north-westwards and take the longer road to one of the ports that lay further along the coast.
Josse was one-handedly removing the horses’ hobbles, and Meggie was helping him. He would not, Joanna thought, be able to put on their saddles and bridles; since he really did seem determined to set off, she hastened to finish packing away their belongings and, after kicking out the last embers of the fire and throwing the circle of hearth stones back into the undergrowth, she shouldered her satchel and her pack and went to help him.
Studying the sun’s position, she steered them to the west of the track that would lead out of the forest in the direction of Dinan. At first Josse did not notice; he must be suffering, she thought with a stab of empathetic pain, for normally he is acutely aware of direction. Eventually he said, almost apologetically, ‘Shouldn’t we turn slightly to the right if we’re heading for Dinan?’
Reining in, she said, ‘Josse my love, we’re not. I believe I know who attacked us last night. I think it was someone hired by Césaire.’
So total had been Josse’s immersion in their mission in the Brocéliande that, she observed with amusement, he had to think for a moment to recall who Césaire was and why he should want them dead. Then: ‘Your husband’s brother. Of course.’
‘My late husband’s brother,’ she amended. ‘He threatened me in the inn at Dinan and said I’d got away with it too long, or words to that effect. He always was a dreadful man – a bully and a coward, one of the worst combinations there is.’
‘Just the sort to send another to do his killing for him, do you think?’
‘Oh, yes. That would be Césaire’s way.’
Josse was frowning. ‘You really think he still carries a sufficient grudge against you to kill you now, all these years afterwards? He must in truth have loved his brother.’
She gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘Love had nothing to do with it.’ She hesitated, then, giving Josse a slightly guilty look, said, ‘After Thorald died, I left as quickly as I could, as I believe I told you?’
He nodded. ‘Aye, you did. Before any of your horrible in-laws could stop you, was what you said.’
She grinned. ‘Yes, they were a family who were quite without redeeming features and I loathed every one of them.’ She paused. ‘What I did not tell you, however, was that before I left, I went to Thorald’s secret hiding place and helped myself to a large bag containing silver coins and some heavy pieces of gold jewellery. That’s why Césaire wants revenge: not because he thinks I had a hand in Thorald’s death but because I took the family treasure that he reckons should have gone to him.’
Josse whistled. ‘Was it a very big bag of silver?’
Her smile widened. ‘Very.’
They rode on, for some moments not speaking. Then he said, ‘Where do you suggest we go instead of Dinan?’
Dear Josse, she thought, with a rush of love for him. Not one word to the effect that it was a dishonest act to steal from my husband, never mind having actively worked towards that very convenient accidental death. So stout is his support of those he loves that whatever I did, I think he would find a good excuse for my behaviour.
But he had asked her a question.
‘Well, I’ve turned us north-west now in order to avoid both Dinan and Léhon, which lies to the south of the town and is the place where Thorald had his estates. We will pass well to the south-west of the Rance and with any luck, anyone searching for us will not be able to find us.’
‘Can we keep within the forest? Does it extend as far as the coast?’
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘Let’s keep on this heading and find out.’
They were in luck for, although the forest thinned occasionally and in some cases, around hamlets and villages, petered out entirely, sooner or later the track would once again disappear beneath the trees.
Out in the wildwood, they saw not a soul.
Towards the end of the afternoon they passed a village called Yvignac, whose church’s strange round tower they had been using as a landmark for some miles. There a baker sold them fresh bread straight out of the oven and mouth-wateringly fragrant. They also purchased milk, cheese, cider and apple tarts. On the far side of the village the forest closed in again and soon they came across a clearing close to the track where they stopped and fell upon the food. Josse was clearly in great pain – riding a large horse, even a well-mannered one, was no fit task for a man with such a wound – but, despite Joanna’s urging, he flatly refused to stay there in the clearing and make camp for the night. He was good for many miles yet, he claimed stoutly. Although she would rather by far have lit a fire, made up an analgesic remedy and helped his agony, there was nothing for Joanna to do but agree. She did, however, insist that Meggie rode with her.
They rode on until at last the long daylight began to fade. Then, with the clear sky above deepening to a blue so piercingly beautiful that it seemed like the heavens’ gift, Josse announced that he’d had enough.
Joanna had to help him down from Horace’s back. They were on a track leading north-north-east along a river and quickly she found them shelter under a long, straggling hazel hedge and made Josse comfortable in his blanket. His forehead felt heated but the arm, thank the Great Ones, was still cool. She built a fire, gave Meggie careful orders as to how to tend it, and then slipped down the river bank to collect water. Her most important task was to mix up a pain-killing remedy for Josse and she was going to get it ready as fast as she could and not make him suffer a moment longer than he had to.
The slow-moving water, when she thought to taste it, was brackish: it must be a tidal inlet, which meant they were close to the sea.
We can follow the inlet up to the coast, she thought, visualising the action, where in whatever port we come to, we shall find a boat to take us back to England. Then Césaire will not be able to find me, and Josse, Meggie and I will be safe.
Back in England, also, she and her daughter would have to part from Josse. But she didn’t allow herself to dwell on that.
Instead she concentrated on tomorrow. It would be the time of greatest danger for, even if Césaire had not discovered that his assassin was dead, he might in any case be watching the ports since he would be able to reason as well as she could that returning via Dinan would be foolishly risky. What can I do? she wondered as, having fed Josse the analgesic, she watched him slide into a light sleep. How best can I keep us safe?
Safe.
Without any conscious prompting, an image of her little hut in the forest slid into her mind. She felt utterly safe there, for as well as being right out in the wildwood she had set it about with spells for safety and for concealment. Nobody – not even Josse, whom she loved – could find it if she did not want them to. But she was not in her hut now: she was approaching the north coast of Armorica with someone hunting for her who wished her dead.
Against her will she saw more images. Horrible images, of the arrest, trial and execution of a woman condemned for killing her husband by witchcraft. The woman had been kept awake far beyond her endurance, her body naked and shaved of hair from when they had searched for the Devil’s Mark. She bore both physical wounds from her long torment and also mental wounds, for they had raped and abused her. Now, still naked, she was being led out to the thick stake surrounded by brush and bundles of wood where, very soon now, they would tie her up and burn her to dea
th.
She saw the woman’s face and the woman was her.
She gave a low moan, and felt a great keening wail rise up in her throat.
She gritted her teeth and kept her silence. I will not allow this weakness, she commanded herself fiercely. His man did not succeed back there in the forest, either in killing me or Josse my protector, or in taking me prisoner and marching me off to Dinan. We killed the killer, Josse and I. Josse is wounded now and cannot fight as he did then, so it is up to me.
Slowly she rose to her feet, careful not to disturb either Josse or Meggie, sleeping peacefully beside her father. Then, already beginning on the long, low chant that would carry her into the right frame of mind, she delved into her leather satchel and began assembling the tools and the ingredients she would need.
Then she began to work her spell.
In the morning they followed the inlet down to the sea. To Joanna’s relief, Josse looked better after his night’s rest. She had ensured, by slipping a light sedative into his herbal infusion, that his sleep was profound; the sleeping draught, combined with strong pain-killing herbs, had knocked him out like a felled ox and both she and Meggie had been disturbed by his snoring. But now she had her reward for interrupted sleep, for here was dear old Josse, bright-eyed and claiming the pain was much reduced, holding out his arm to show her that his wound seemed to be healing well.
So far, so good.
On the right bank of the inlet, on a promontory guarding the bay, was a great castle, granite-built, threatening. Neither knowing nor caring to whom it might belong, Joanna and Josse ignored it and instead went down to the shore, where several boats of varying size were tied up along a wooden quay. Their requests for passage for two adults, a child and two horses seemed doomed to failure until one man, an ageing sailor missing one eye whose face was chestnut-brown and deeply seamed with creases, offered the remark that his wife’s cousin’s son had a boat and that sometimes – only sometimes, mind – he sailed over to England, where he knew a man with a weakness for Breton oysters. He might – just might – be setting off on such a venture quite soon and he might see his way to taking some passengers. For a consideration, naturally.
After parting with the price of several flagons of cider and the meals to go with them, Josse managed to elicit the information that the seaman’s relative by marriage sailed out of somewhere called St Cast and that this port was maybe another four, five miles up the coast; they couldn’t miss it, claimed the old sailor, and his wife’s cousin’s son was called André and his boat was the Sacrée Vierge.
Josse, Joanna and Meggie rode on. They found both André and his boat and, just as the old man had said, André was loading boxes of oysters. He eyed his would-be passengers, nodded and suggested a price for their fare to England. It was not unreasonable but for pride’s sake Josse haggled and beat him down a little. Then, for André was eager to utilise the tide and the south-westerly wind to the very best advantage, Josse and Joanna got the horses on board and into the hold and, sitting up in the prow with Meggie held securely between them, watched as the Sacrée Vierge slipped her moorings and pulled away from the shore.
The wind strengthened as they entered open water and soon the sails were scooping it up, filling and billowing over their heads. The boat was a smallish craft, lightly built, and she sped along as if she were flying. André, relaxing somewhat now that they were well on their way, came to pass the time of day and told them the ship was bound for New Shoreham, where his lordship the lover of Breton oysters lived. They expected to make landfall in time for supper the next day, André said, adding that there would be little point in even contemplating the voyage unless it were at a time when conditions meant it could be accomplished swiftly. Even his magnificent and freshly collected oysters, he said, didn’t keep longer than three days.
After supper Josse and Joanna settled Meggie down to sleep, wrapped in her blankets between them in their place in the prow where she would be perfectly safe. The little ship neither pitched nor rolled and Josse reckoned that they were in for a comfortable night.
Putting his undamaged left arm out so that Joanna could lean into his shoulder, he said quietly, ‘Have we, think you, accomplished what we set out to do?’
She raised her head to look at him briefly before relaxing against him once more. ‘I had almost forgotten our mission,’ she replied. She reached to kiss his throat. ‘These past few days with you have been a joy.’ She laughed briefly. ‘Not to mention the slight distraction of someone trying to kill us.’
He did not want to dwell on how wonderful their time together had been because that thought would lead directly to a far less happy one: that it was about to come to an end. So, acknowledging her remark with no more than a squeeze and a soft kiss dropped on the top of her head, he said, ‘But what of the reason why we made this journey?’
She thought for a moment and then said, ‘It’s up to you, Josse. The Abbess and the Domina hoped that by showing you the place known in Armorica – Brittany – as Merlin’s Tomb and by telling you the legend attached to it, you would be convinced and therefore able to state conclusively that the Brocéliande tomb is the true one and the one in the forest at Hadfeld must therefore be a fake.’ She paused. ‘Are you so convinced?’
Slowly he shook his head. ‘I wish I knew, sweeting. Your people at Folle-Pensée are good, honest souls and they would not tell me that I must believe in the spring being Merlin’s burial place.’
‘No, we leave that sort of command to the church,’ she murmured. ‘Our way is to set out what we believe and then let others make up their own minds. In our view, all men and women have been given a brain and it is up to every one of us to make up his or her own mind on matters of faith. To us the concept of telling people that they must believe or else they’ll suffer damnation is faintly absurd since faith comes from the heart, not the head, and it simply doesn’t work that way. Besides,’ she added, warming to her theme, ‘who wouldn’t claim to believe in just about anything if the alternative were the threat of being roasted in hell for eternity with devils sticking red-hot pitchforks in your private parts?’
Josse chuckled. ‘I can think of one or two priests who would fall into a swoon at the very idea of independent thought on matters of faith.’
‘So can I,’ she agreed wryly.
He was still pondering her original question. Had he seen enough to say without doubt that Florian of Southfrith’s tomb was nothing more than a confidence trick? He did not know. There was nothing fraudulent about the tomb at Folle-Pensée, that was for sure, and he had been left in no doubt that there was a power source there beneath the vast granite slab and in the sparkling water. If he was honest with himself, that moment when Huathe had stood up on the stone and summoned the elements had scared Josse more than virtually anything in his life. He had been a fighting man, aye, but you knew what to expect with a flesh-and-blood opponent. That – that spirit, or presence, or whatever it was at the spring in the Brocéliande was not of this world, or if it was, it was from a part of it that Josse had neither experienced before nor wished ever to meet again.
It dwelled, he thought, in Joanna’s world.
He had been given, he realised, a unique vision into the place that she now inhabited. It was a privilege – aye, he recognised that well enough. But it also brought him immeasurable sorrow, for it made him see just how different her life now was from his. From anybody’s, come to that, who did not share her world.
Do not think of that, a calm voice seemed to say in his head, for there is nothing you can do but accept.
He felt his pain lessen and fade away and, after a moment, he found himself scratching his head and trying to recall what he had just been thinking about . . .
The tomb, he thought. I was comparing Merlin’s Tomb with the power of that spring out in the Breton forest. But then he had felt power from the great bones in the forest near Hadfeld, too, although he was as sure as he could be that whatever caused it had nothing to do wi
th Merlin and everything to do with Florian making false claims for something he did not begin to understand.
God’s boots, but it was difficult!
She had sensed his mental turmoil – bless her, she always knew when he was in any kind of distress and would try to comfort him – and, snuggling against him, she said, ‘Josse? May I make a suggestion?’
‘I wish you would,’ he said fervently.
She laughed softly. ‘Well, both the Abbey and the forest people are desperate to see the new site at Hadfeld closed down, the Abbey because the tomb is drawing away pilgrims from the healing spring in the Vale and from the skilful hands of the nursing nuns, and the forest people because the presence of a money-making business on the sacred soil of the forest is, in their eyes, sacrilegious. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed.
‘You were sent out to Armorica to see with your own eyes another place where it is claimed that Merlin lies entombed. It seems to me that you have to decide which of the two is the more authentic.’
‘There’s no question but that it’s the one in the Brocéliande forest,’ he said instantly. ‘It’s clearly ancient; it’s been a place of veneration for generations and there’s undoubtedly a force there, identified by local tradition as the magician Merlin. The Hadfeld site, on the other hand, is brash and brand-new and I have a strong suspicion that Florian didn’t find the bones where he said he did but brought them in from elsewhere. No. I may not be totally convinced that the place at Folle-Pensée is Merlin’s Tomb, but then I’m not sure that I believe that there ever was a magician called Merlin and even if—’
