by Alys Clare
Back at the Abbey, they both went to see the Abbess.
She was not alone in her little room: before her stood Ranulf of Crowbergh, and Primevère sat on the small wooden stool kept for visitors.
Josse, astounded, instinctively banged the door shut behind him and stood against it. Forgetting that he had left his weapons at the gate, as he and other armed visitors always did, his hand had flown to the place where his sword usually hung.
Gervase, face tense, squared up to Ranulf.
Who, with a smile, put up his hands and said calmly, ‘Please, gentlemen, there’s no need for violence.’ Turning round to exchange a glance with the Abbess – who, Josse noticed, was sitting straight-backed and regal in her throne-like chair with a slight frown but no other sign of unease – he went on, ‘Primevère and I have been experiencing the most agonisingly divided loyalties. I was all for our setting sail last night for France, where I had planned that we would lie low until – until matters had taken their course, with or without our intervention. Primevère’ – he gave her a loving smile – ‘has persuaded me otherwise and, since the decision really has to be hers, I have bowed to her wisdom.’ He stood back, one hand to his heart, head lowered as if to say, I have said my piece and now it is up to others to explain.
Which, after a short moment of silence in which the mood was so full of tension that the very air seemed to crackle, Primevère did.
Gracefully she got to her feet, the luscious silk of her gown hissing as she moved and settling in generous folds around her feet.
‘My lady Abbess, Sir Josse, and—?’ She looked enquiringly at Gervase, who introduced himself.
Primevère smiled. ‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘Patient listeners, stand easy for I am going to tell you a story.’ Briefly her dark blue eyes went around the group, a certain arrogance in her stance commanding their attention, then she began. ‘It is of someone who was born to discontent; someone who, despite being brought up the pampered favourite in a comfortably wealthy family, still could not be happy, for their nature had a peevish streak of self-preservation that always said, I am worth more than this! This person grew to adulthood and became arrogant, adopting the attitude that they were so special that others ought to recognise this and treat them accordingly.’
She speaks of Florian, Josse guessed; she must indeed retain some love for him, for speaking of him in this way makes her look so very sad.
‘This person became manipulative and cunning,’ Primevère went on, ‘and, with time and desperation, cunning turned to dishonesty and then, as the last vestige of conscience was lost, to evil. In pursuance of their own wicked aim, they no longer recognised right from wrong and did not know where to stop.’
The tomb, Josse realised; she refers to his heartless manipulation of gullible people by pretending to have discovered Merlin’s bones.
‘Now I will tell you the tale of someone else,’ she was saying, ‘a woman whose tragedy was that she fell out of love with the man she had married and could no longer accept him as a wife should, turning him out of her bed and, as time went by, shunning his conversation, even his very company.’ She paused, eyes bright with tears, and Josse observed her pain as she spoke of her own experience. She must have felt the stab of empathy for, turning to him, she said softly, ‘It was miserable for her, Sir Josse; how much worse it was for the man to whom she was wed.’
Gervase seemed to shake himself free from the spell of her words; stepping towards her, he said roughly, ‘Madam, murder has been done and yet you would engage our sympathy for the perpetrators! Remember that—’
Surprisingly it was the Abbess who, raising her hand, said quietly, ‘Please, Gervase. Hear her out.’
For an instant Gervase stood his ground. Then, with a faint bow towards the throne-like chair, he subsided.
‘Thank you,’ Primevère murmured. She had been slowly pacing the small room and now she stopped right in front of Gervase. ‘The perpetrators,’ she said, repeating his words. ‘You refer, I think, to Ranulf and me, believing that I was the woman who tired of her husband and that I persuaded my lover to help me rid myself of him? I do not deny that Ranulf and I are lovers and have been since last winter. Ranulf lost his wife, you see, and although she did not love him, he still loved her and his grief at her death was compounded by the cruel rumour that instead of trying to save her life he had left her to die.’ Now the deep blue eyes were hard as they stared up into Gervase’s, as if Primevère were silently saying, you may not have started the rumours but you most certainly have passed them on.
For a brief moment Gervase looked sheepish. Then, rallying, he said coldly, ‘I have only Ranulf’s word for that.’
‘Mine too,’ Primevère said, ‘for I was there that day and both Ranulf and I did what we could for her.’ Gervase was about to speak but she anticipated his question. ‘I did not speak up, and I was wrong. I would have done had Ranulf been arrested, but as it was it seemed best not to invite further slandering of his good name by advertising the fact that his neighbour’s wife had been with him on the day his wife died.’ Now Primevère spun round to face the Abbess. ‘Ranulf and I have sworn to the Abbess Helewise that we were not lovers then, although neither of us can deny that we already loved each other.’
‘And I believe them,’ the Abbess said.
‘But you are now,’ Gervase said bluntly. ‘You are pregnant, madam, are you not, and not by your husband?’ There was a gasp and swift movement from the corner where Ranulf stood and he went to stand by Primevère’s side.
‘I am, and the child is Ranulf’s,’ Primevère replied. ‘And—’
‘Enough,’ Ranulf said forcefully. His arm around her waist, he looked around the group, fixing Josse, the Abbess and Gervase in turn with a direct stare. Then, bending his head to hers, briefly he touched her forehead with his lips. ‘Enough,’ he whispered to her.
She looked up at him. ‘I must finish,’ she said.
He looked at her for a long moment. Then, shoulders slumping, he whispered, ‘Very well.’
‘You killed Florian, didn’t you?’ Gervase appeared to be addressing both of them. ‘An unwanted husband was a hindrance at the best of times; even more so when the lady here was expecting an unwelcome child.’
Two heads turned sharply to face him and the protest ripped out of both Primevère and Ranulf: ‘No.’ Ranulf was about to continue but Primevère whispered, ‘Please?’ and, with an obvious effort, he stopped.
‘Not an unwelcome child,’ she said with dignity, ‘for, although conceived out of wedlock, this baby could not be more loved and wanted if he or she were the heir to the throne. And’ – now she faced Gervase again – ‘for all that it must seem to you that for us to kill him was the obvious and rational solution, I have to tell you that neither Ranulf nor I had anything to do with the death of Florian. Should you doubt us, we can provide someone who knew that we were together on the night he was killed.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ murmured Gervase.
Ranulf’s face darkened. ‘Have a care,’ he said. ‘You make a vicious implication, and it can and will be proved to you that you speculation and guesswork are entirely wide of the mark.’
The slight emphasis on speculation and guesswork were, Josse thought, a calculated insult; since guessing and speculating were in truth exactly what he and Gervase had done, under the circumstances it seemed justifiable.
Primevère had moved her position so that she now stood between Ranulf and Gervase. With dignity she said again, ‘Let me finish.’
And, after a tense moment, both men stepped back.
Josse, suppressing a flash of admiration, waited for her to complete her tale.
‘Florian’s death has set me free to marry the man I love and when Ranulf spoke just now of wanting us to sail over to France, he referred to his suggestion that the two of us go over to live on his estate near Le Mans for a time. We would have married quietly somewhere on the journey and at home Ranulf would have presented me as hi
s new and pregnant bride. There we would have stayed until either those who killed Florian were caught and brought to justice or until the law gave up and stopped hunting for them.’ She shot a glance at Gervase. ‘But then we discovered who was behind the murder and it changed everything.’
‘Who is it?’ Gervase demanded. Then, furiously, as his anger finally boiled over: ‘I have had enough of rambling tales that skirt and obscure the truth; if you really do know who killed your husband, tell me now or I shall arrest the pair of you.’
As the echoes of his harsh voice died away, nobody in the room doubted that he meant it.
Primevère bowed her head meekly. ‘Very well,’ she said quietly. Then she raised her eyes to meet those of Gervase. ‘Florian’s habits were well known,’ she began, ‘and everyone both at the tomb and at Hadfeld was aware that he came home two or three times a week with the takings. Usually he had a guard with him and so the first task of the murderer was to arrange it so that one night, Florian rode alone. A guard was approached; it was Hal, the one with the scars and the broken nose. The murderer, judging correctly that Hal was a violent man, had found out that he was on the run for killing a man in a fight, and that useful little fact gave the murderer power over him. Not that Hal needed much persuasion; a large share of the proceeds of the robbery was sufficient incentive to enlist his help.’
‘But surely the killer wanted the money!’ Josse protested.
‘No, Josse,’ Primevère said with a sad smile, ‘for the person behind Florian’s death was already wealthy. It was not for personal gain that my husband was killed.’
The person was already wealthy.
Agonisingly divided loyalties.
The decision has to be hers.
He thought then that he knew who had killed Florian of Southfrith and, meeting the Abbess’s eyes, he saw in their expression that he was right.
‘I spoke just now of someone who was deeply discontented and who, instead of sitting back in happy appreciation of all that life had provided, instead was compelled ever to strive for more: a larger house, a purer-blooded horse, higher status, more reverent awe from everybody else. When their own options grew fewer and fewer, this person turned the force of their driven nature to another, whose steps they tried to force along a certain path almost from birth.’
The tears were falling silently down her face; Josse, unable to witness such pain any longer, said softly, ‘You speak of yourself, Primevère, and the person who has tried to put you in harness all your life is your mother.’
Primevère turned to him. ‘She can’t help it!’ she protested. ‘She acts out of love for me; although she never liked Florian she believed, as I did, that he was very rich and so she grudgingly accepted him. Then when she saw that I no longer loved him, she was delighted because it meant that, sooner or later, she would be able to persuade me to abandon him and our life of deepening poverty at Hadfeld, when she planned to take me back to France to marry a distant kinsman of hers who has high social standing and is wealthy beyond counting. She had, or so she told me, already written to the man to tell him about me.’ She dropped her head in shame, as if she too were in some way responsible for her mother’s actions. ‘Then, of course, Florian came up with the idea of pretending he had found Merlin’s Tomb and suddenly there was so much money coming in that I could have anything I wanted. I began to express doubts about leaving Florian and going to marry the new husband my mother had selected but not because, as she thought, I was tempted by Florian’s sudden wealth.’ She leant closer to Ranulf and he tightened his arm around her. ‘It was because, even though I was married to Florian, I could not bear to go away and leave the man I love.’
‘So your mother hired the guard Hal to kill Florian,’ Gervase said slowly. ‘She, then, is guilty of his murder.’
‘She did not actually kill him!’ Primevère cried. ‘She’s an old woman and she could not possibly have carried out such a brutal slaying!’
‘But she paid someone else to do it for her,’ Gervase said relentlessly. ‘She must have told Hal to say to Florian that the guards were too busy that night with the visitors for any of them to accompany him home with the money. Then, as Florian set off, Hal must have ridden hard and overtaken him, setting up his garrotte rope and then, presumably, spooking Florian’s horse so that he rode full tilt into it. No doubt he’d have had a weapon of some sort with which to finish the job if the fall didn’t kill Florian. Then he dumped the body, caught the horse and its precious bags of money and rode off into the night, finding some place to hide up until he could sneak over to Hadfeld and report back to Melusine.’
‘Yes,’ Primevère whispered. ‘Yes, that’s what happened.’ A sob broke out of her. ‘When Maman told me, she thought I’d be pleased.’
And that – the memory of that moment – was finally too much; Primevère turned her face into Ranulf’s chest and collapsed into his arms.
‘Do you want my help?’ Josse panted as he ran after Gervase.
‘No, Josse. I can have a band of men ready swiftly and there’s no need for you to come as well.’
They reached the stables and Gervase was untethering his horse. ‘Will you go after Melusine too?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Gervase said grimly.
‘And what of Hal? He’s now a very rich man and he rides Florian’s fast horse, so—’
‘His new wealth is what will give him away.’ Gervase was in the saddle now, clearly impatient to go. ‘He won’t resist the temptation to start spending. I’ll get him, Josse; you’ll see.’
With a nod and a very faint smile – Gervase, Josse thought, was going to derive a certain grim pleasure from catching the two people behind the murder of Florian – he put heels to his horse and clattered off across the courtyard and out through the gates.
Thoughtfully Josse made his way back to the Abbess’s room. Shortly afterwards she appeared in the doorway carrying a platter of food and a mug of wine. ‘Sir Josse?’ she said. ‘Ranulf has taken Primevère to the infirmary to lie down and I have arranged for food to be sent in to them. Will you eat too?’
It was only then, with the prospect of food before him, that he realised how hungry he was. He went to join the Abbess and they sat down on a stone seat in the cloister outside her room while he ate.
‘We have come to the end of this particular road, Sir Josse,’ the Abbess said as he finished his meal.
‘Aye.’ He swallowed. ‘Gervase seems to think he’ll catch both Melusine and the guard Hal.’
She was slowly shaking her head. ‘I still find it difficult to accept the fact that Primevère voluntarily gave up her own mother,’ she said. ‘It was a terrible thing that Melusine did, but the woman was so misguided that surely it almost amounts to a sickness, in which case we ought to pity rather than condemn her.’
‘Perhaps,’ Josse suggested gently, ‘such a sentiment might form her defence, if and when she is put on trial.’
The Abbess turned to him. ‘Oh, Sir Josse! To think of imprisonment and possibly even the gallows, when all her life she has been used to such luxury!’
He shrugged. He could not find it in him to feel quite the same sympathy. Instead he said, ‘I think I may know why Primevère acted as she did.’
‘Oh?’
‘I think she may have inherited some of her mother’s instinct for self-preservation,’ he said. ‘She realised full well that she and Ranulf were likely to be suspected of murdering Florian and so, before any questions could be asked or any arrests made, she got in first and revealed who really did it.’
‘But her own mother!’ the Abbess repeated.
Josse gave her a quick grin. ‘Who no doubt guessed precisely what her daughter would do and is even now on her way across the Channel bound for home.’
‘But then – will she not be brought to justice?’
Josse shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Probably, aye.’ He paused. Then: ‘Gervase de Gifford is a very determined man.’
There was a short silence. Then sh
e said, ‘Well, the tomb is closed, thank the good Lord, and we here at Hawkenlye may now wait in happy expectation of our pilgrims returning.’
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘Ironic, to think that our – my trip to Brittany was in vain since the tomb was going to shut down anyway.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Again, silence fell between them.
He thought for some time before expressing the thought that had steadily been growing in his mind. There was something that he very much wanted to do; he knew full well what was behind this final excursion that he had to make and he was quite sure the Abbess would have no difficulty in guessing this reason. But he decided to tell her just the same.
‘There’s one thing I would still like to see to,’ he said, sipping at his mug of wine.
‘And that is?’
‘I want to have another look at those old bones,’ he said.
‘You do? Why?’
He was not sure that he could tell her, for he barely knew himself. ‘Oh, I don’t know, just a feeling I have. We now know whose they aren’t, but I’d still like to see if I could discover where Florian found them and who they really did belong to.’
‘A very big woman,’ the Abbess said. ‘Is that not enough, Sir Josse?’
‘No, my lady. Perhaps it ought to be, but—’ He shrugged. ‘Somehow I sense that there is still more to this business.’
‘Your instincts are usually sound,’ she said loyally. ‘Go and have your final look, sir Josse. If you set out now, you will be there and back again by sunset.’
Chapter 21
He rode slowly along the track that led around the forest fringes. Horace was tired – so was he – but there was no hurry and the horse had been rubbed down and watered when they returned from the earlier journey. Besides, it was cool in the shade.
His mind and his heart turned constantly into the forest to where he knew – or assumed – she was, she and his little daughter. He wanted more than anything to turn in under the trees and, riding as hard as conditions allowed, go and seek them out. But he had promised her not to; not for the time being, anyway.
