by Alys Clare
To distract his thoughts from her, he watched the three nuns as they looked down into the grave. The Abbess was staring unblinking at the skull, as if trying to imagine what the features had looked like in life; Sister Caliste, very obviously distressed, was praying; Sister Euphemia, her face impassive, studied the bones, shot a quick look at Josse, then slowly walked away.
After a few moments the Abbess, Sister Caliste and Josse followed the infirmarer back to the horses and, thanking Ranulf for granting Sister Euphemia’s request, the Abbess mounted the cob and set off back up the path. At the place where it met the bigger track, she said, ‘Our way is to the left so here we will bid you farewell, Sir Ranulf.’
He bowed. ‘It has been a pleasure, my lady.’
‘We will keep the lady Primevère informed as to progress into finding out who murdered her husband,’ Josse said. Then, watching Ranulf, ‘The sheriff of Tonbridge will be returning home soon and he will be keen to apprehend whoever robbed and killed Florian.’
Ranulf absorbed this, the smile still on his face turning now slightly puzzled. ‘But I thought it was agreed that some passing thief saw the opportunity and, attacking poor Florian in the darkness, made off with both money and horse?’ He laughed, shaking his head. ‘The sheriff is a good man, I have no doubt, but even he cannot work miracles. Much as I hate to say it, I do not believe that the man who slew Florian will ever be found. Why, he’s probably across the narrow seas by now and hundreds of miles away!’
Josse did not reply immediately; he noticed that his failure to agree seemed to be bothering Ranulf. Finally he said easily, ‘No doubt you are right. Now, we must be on our way – farewell!’
He felt Ranulf of Crowbergh’s eyes on his back as the little party rode away. It was not, he discovered, a comfortable sensation.
‘Sir Josse?’ the Abbess said.
‘My lady?’
‘It may well be of no importance,’ she said carefully, ‘but when Primevère spoke to me of her neighbour before I had met him, I believe that she implied he was older than he is.’
‘Indeed?’ He could not see why it should matter and the Abbess did not seem all that sure of herself. ‘In what context did she make this attempt to mislead you?’
‘Oh, I would not put it as strongly as that!’ the Abbess said. ‘It was just a vague feeling and the mistake may well have been mine.’ She bit her lip. ‘She referred to him as the head of a worthy household and spoke of fussy old servants, both of which gave the impression of a family headed by an elderly couple.’ She made a wry face. ‘Or so I believed. It seems I was misled.’
‘And why should Primevère have wished to mislead you, my lady?’
Her frown deepened. ‘I don’t know . . .’
He waited but she said no more.
Nobody spoke again until they were nearing Hawkenlye Abbey. Then Sister Euphemia, who had been lagging behind apparently deep in her own thoughts, kicked her heels into the mule’s sides and, drawing level with the Abbess and Josse, said, ‘My lady, about those bones.’
‘Yes, Sister Euphemia?’ The Abbess was looking at her with an indulgent smile. ‘Worth the detour, do you think?’
‘Oh, yes, my lady,’ the infirmarer said.
She paused. Then, surprising Josse with the firm conviction behind her words, stated baldly, ‘Whoever else they may or may not belong to, those are not the bones of Merlin.’
‘So Sir Josse also believes, Sister, having been shown a mysterious site in Brittany which appears to have a better claim to be Merlin’s burial place. But—’
‘Forgive me for interrupting, my lady, but that’s not the point.’ The infirmarer’s face was flushed. ‘Those aren’t any man’s bones. For all their size, I know I’m right because in this instance I know what I’m talking about.’ She paused. Then she said, ‘Those are the bones of a woman.’
Chapter 18
‘Sister Euphemia, how can you possibly be so sure?’ the Abbess demanded.
They were back in the Abbess’s room, she herself seated behind her table, the infirmarer, Josse and Sister Caliste standing in a row before her.
Sister Euphemia did not seem at all put out by her superior’s impatient question. ‘I have long worked as a healer, my lady, as you well know,’ she replied calmly. ‘Before I entered Hawkenlye, I was a midwife. I have laid out my fair share of dead bodies and sometimes those I prepared for their graves had been long dead. I know full well the differences between the skeletons of a man and a woman. There are two main things to look for,’ she went on eagerly, ‘first, the skull, where normally the ridges above the eyes are much more pronounced in a man than in a woman.’
‘The skull had quite large brow ridges,’ the Abbess remarked.
‘Aye, my lady, but the woman in that grave must have been a veritable giantess and that doesn’t surprise me. It’s the other difference that makes me so sure.’
‘And that is?’ demanded the Abbess.
‘The pelvis, my lady. It’s one shape in a man, quite another in a woman. Stands to reason, really, when you keep in mind that a woman’s designed to bear children. You need a good, wide opening between the bones to let a baby pass out and, believe me, I’ve seen what problems can crop up when a woman’s too narrow down there. Why, sometimes—’
‘Thank you, Sister,’ murmured the Abbess.
‘Sorry, my lady.’
‘That’s quite all right.’
There was a small silence. Then the Abbess said, ‘So you are in absolutely no doubt that the skeleton in Merlin’s Grave is female?’
‘None whatsoever.’
Another silence, again broken by the Abbess, who, addressing the room in general, asked, ‘Has anyone else a relevant observation to report?’
Josse held his peace. He believed he had noticed several things, but it would be interesting to see if either of the nuns had anything to offer.
Sister Caliste, flushing slightly, said, ‘I have, my lady.’
‘Go on, Sister.’
‘I – oh, I’m probably wrong, but I thought that the lady Primevère was pregnant.’
‘So did I,’ said the infirmarer.
‘Goodness!’ the Abbess exclaimed. ‘What grounds have either of you for your supposition?’
Sister Euphemia glanced at Sister Caliste and then, with an apologetic smile at her junior, spoke. ‘You said that when you saw her the first time, she lay abed and pale, although the rest of her was a picture of health.’
‘That’s right, I did,’ the Abbess agreed. ‘I went back to Hadfeld with her mother after Melusine had identified Florian’s body and together we went up to Primevère’s bedchamber.’
‘Could she not have taken to her bed out of grief?’ Josse asked. ‘It would also account for looking so pale.’
‘But she was in bed and pale before she knew he was dead and, although it was true that he had not been home for several days, this was apparently not unusual and, according to her mother, Primevère was not unduly worried,’ the Abbess said. ‘I did wonder if she had deliberately made herself look pale, perhaps by dabbing flour into her cheeks, although why she should do such a thing I cannot say.’
‘Such an appearance – pale face but otherwise a veritable glow of well-being – is typical of pregnant women,’ the infirmarer assured them. ‘A woman can be healthy as you like but still affected by sickness, usually in the morning although sometimes at other times; it depends on the woman. My guess, my lady, is that the first time you met young Primevère, she had the radiance of pregnancy but it was marred by her having just brought up her dinner.’
‘It seems a slim fact on which to say with certainty that the lady is pregnant,’ the Abbess protested.
‘She is very full in the breasts,’ Sister Caliste put in.
‘Aye, and more so than when first I saw her almost three weeks back,’ Josse added.
He smiled as, outnumbered, the Abbess sat back and threw up her hands. ‘Very well!’ she cried. ‘Primevère is pregnant; I ac
cept what you all urge me to believe. It does but increase my pity for the poor girl, since she must face the daunting prospect of bringing a fatherless child into the world . . .’ She broke off, frowning.
‘My lady?’ Josse said.
She shook her head. ‘It’s nothing. Now,’ she got to her feet, ‘Sister Euphemia, Sister Caliste, thank you for accompanying me today and for your most valuable contributions. Please, now go about your duties and I am sorry to have kept you from them for so long.’
She waited until the two nuns’ footsteps had faded away. Then, nodding to Josse to close the door, she said, ‘So we must conclude that Florian of Southfrith committed a deliberate fraud in claiming that the bones that he found and planted in the forest were those of Merlin; it was nothing but a way to earn money.’
‘I believe that is so,’ Josse agreed. ‘Were the young man not dead, he would have much to answer for before the sheriff.’
‘When will Gervase de Gifford return?’ she asked.
‘I cannot say, my lady. He has had the time even by now to have visited Nantes and be well on the way home, especially if his ship had the same favourable wind which we – which I enjoyed.’
We, he thought. Joanna, Meggie and me.
He firmly closed his mind on that.
She had noticed; he knew she had. But, bless her for her tact, she did not pick it up. ‘Will he call here on his way home to Tonbridge, think you?’ she asked instead.
‘He might, although I imagine that Sabin will be very anxious to get back to her old grandfather.’
‘Then, Sir Josse, we can but wait for him and then pass the burden of resolving this sorry business of the shrine over to him. Whether he will feel any action is necessary, the originator of the fraudulent shrine being dead, your guess is as good as mine.’
‘He may well feel that there is little point,’ Josse said, ‘unless he feels the matter of the shrine is relevant to the robbery and Florian’s murder, for that is a crime whose perpetrator he will for certain wish to bring to justice.’
‘Oh, Sir Josse, but of course! Is there, do you think, any hope that the murderer will be caught?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. It would have been unfair to add that he didn’t much care.
She was watching him. ‘A young man is dead,’ she said gently. ‘He may have been greedy and unscrupulous, but he did not deserve to die at another’s hands. For myself, I believe we must pass on to Gervase de Gifford all that we know and have thought concerning who could have wanted Florian dead.’
‘You are right, my lady,’ he conceded with a sigh. ‘When I get the chance, that is exactly what I shall do.’
Leaving the Abbess’s room, he set off aimlessly in the direction of the Vale. But it was as yet only mid-afternoon; there were hours to go till bedtime and little down there to distract him. With visitors still a rarity, even the monks were reduced to mending things that weren’t really broken and endlessly sweeping dust off paths that nobody trod.
I’ll ride down to Tonbridge, he thought suddenly. I’ll see if Gervase is back and if so, maybe he’ll offer me supper while we discuss our journeys. If not, I’ll drop in on Goody Anne and see what tavern fare is on offer this evening.
Brightening at the prospect – not much, but even a little was a help – he turned and headed for the stables. Sister Martha greeted him with a kindly smile and, despite his protests that there was no need for her to stop what she was doing since he could easily prepare his horse himself, had Horace tacked up and ready within moments.
Thanking her, he set off at a smart pace and was soon taking the turning down the hill that led to Tonbridge.
He knew Gervase was back even before he rode up to the door from the sheer amount of noise emanating from the house. There were voices – Sabin’s and the thin, reedy tones of old Benoît – and a shout of laughter from Gervase. It would be good, Josse thought, to be among happy people.
A young lad rushed up to take his horse, giving him a shy smile of welcome, and Josse strode up the steps and into the house.
The old grandfather was sitting in his accustomed place on the bench by the hearth and Sabin sat beside him, holding both his hands and talking away very rapidly in her own tongue. Benoît was nodding and smiling, as if whatever she was telling him was good to hear. Gervase stood relaxed, a mug of wine in his hand which he was using to make occasional gestures as he backed up some remark of Sabin’s. He has come on in his knowledge and use of his bride-to-be’s language while they have been away, Josse thought; it was no surprise, for Gervase was a quick-witted and intelligent man.
It was Benoît who noticed Josse first. Hearing some small movement, he turned his cloudy eyes in the direction of the door and said, ‘There’s someone there!’
Sabin and Gervase turned, saw Josse and both rushed to greet him. He was hugged and kissed by Sabin, had his hand shaken and his back slapped by Gervase, and was then escorted to a seat beside Benoît and given a mug of the excellent wine. Benoît put his face right up against Josse’s and said, ‘Why, it’s that fellow, what’s-his-name!’
‘How long have you two been back?’ Josse asked Gervase when he could get a word in.
‘We rode up from the coast and arrived soon after noon,’ Gervase said. ‘We looked out for you in Dinan, hoping to take ship home to England with you, but there was neither sign nor word of you.’
‘No. We – er, we came back by another route.’ He frowned at Gervase who, understanding, gave a swift nod. ‘We’ll speak of it later,’ Josse muttered to him, and again he nodded.
‘Did you find the proof that you went searching for?’ Sabin asked.
‘Aye, I suppose so, although it is irrelevant now.’ He hesitated. Was it all right to speak of this before Sabin and the old fellow? Well, she was about to be the sheriff’s wife and Benoît his father-in-law; they’d have to get used to violence, robbery and murder sooner or later. ‘The man behind the tomb out at Hadfeld is dead,’ he said baldly.
‘How did he die?’ Gervase asked.
Josse gave a thin smile. ‘Not from natural causes, that’s for sure. He was robbed and killed late one night on his way home from the tomb.’
Sabin was watching, her eyes wide. Benoît was muttering to himself about men not being safe even in their own beds; he did not seem to have entirely understood.
‘Any idea who might have killed him?’ Gervase asked. ‘The motive was robbery, presumably?’
Briefly Josse related the story, including details of yesterday’s visit to the young widow at Hadfeld. When he had finished, Gervase demanded, ‘Who is this supportive and avuncular neighbour?’
‘Ranulf of Crowbergh.’
The name was clearly familiar to Gervase. ‘I see,’ he said slowly.
‘You know the man?’
‘I know of him,’ Gervase replied.
‘You do not like him,’ Sabin put in. ‘I can tell from your voice.’
Gervase smiled at her. ‘I wouldn’t say that, although I do have reason to be suspicious of him.’ He frowned. ‘There may well be no justification for my suspicion, however, for as I say I have not met him and what I was told was hearsay, indeed little more than taproom gossip. It was never proved.’
Josse’s curiosity was aroused. ‘What was not proved?’
Gervase paused as if considering whether he would be right to repeat the rumour. Eventually he said, ‘Try not to let this cloud your judgement, Josse, but for one thing, the image of Ranulf of Crowbergh as a contented family man is not quite right. He is a childless widower.’
‘Ah!’ One or two images that had puzzled Josse during the morning’s visit now seemed rather clearer. ‘When did his wife die and what happened to her?’
‘She died late last autumn. Apparently she slipped and fell on a frosty path and cracked her skull against a stone water trough.’
‘But?’ There had to be a but.
‘Oh, it’s very likely that was exactly what happened,’ Gervase said. ‘Nobody sa
w but the path was certainly icy, she had good reason to be walking along it, and it appeared that the fatal wound on her head was made by the corner of the trough.’
‘Why, then, the rumours?’ Sabin demanded. ‘The poor man surely had enough to bear, losing his wife so suddenly and in such a manner.’
‘True, my love,’ Gervase said, ‘and I would agree with you and condemn such loose talk were it not for two things. One, Ranulf now has his wife’s fortune at his disposal in addition to his own. Two, there is a suggestion – quite a strong one – that he held back from giving the help that might have saved her. She was unconscious and she bled to death and there is nobody to corroborate Ranulf’s claim to have been away from home when the accident happened. His horse was in the stable and he said he was out on foot with his hawk, yet, unusually for him for they say that he and his falcon are an efficient pair, he returned home empty handed.’
‘But if he was using his hunting expedition to explain his absence then surely he would have made quite sure he came home with a good catch!’ Sabin protested. ‘He must have foreseen that people would doubt him.’
‘Perhaps,’ Gervase said.
‘And what possible reason could he have for wanting his wife out of the way?’ she went on, quite cross now on this innocent stranger’s behalf.
But Gervase and Josse exchanged a look; Gervase, Josse thought, could furnish a reason as well as he could himself.
Sabin urged Josse to stay to supper and, after some token resistance, he accepted. Smells had been wafting through from the kitchen for some time now and his stomach was rumbling loudly enough for the others to hear. Gervase had always kept a good table; with Sabin in residence, the quality of the cuisine had soared up to first class.
Before they sat down to eat, Gervase suggested to Josse that they go outside to check that Horace was being well tended; it was a totally unnecessary expedition but Gervase, Josse guessed, wished to question him in private about his return journey.
Out in the evening cool of the courtyard, Gervase said, ‘Was it to avoid Joanna’s accuser that you did not sail from Dinan?’
