by Alys Clare
It was Gilles’s misfortune that the shaft of pain had hit when it did. Had his full concentration been on the task in hand, it might have occurred to him to wonder why the heavy bolts at the top and bottom of the door had not been shot. But, on the other hand, the hall was dark – the only light was from the embers of the fire – and not every door had bolts as well as a stout latch.
Lord, but it was cold! The dying embers gave out no heat, at least, none that he could feel, and he was shivering violently, his teeth chattering. Making himself ignore the fast-growing discomfort, he crept across the floor, feeling the icy cold of the stone penetrating the rushes that covered it. His soft boots made no sound. He could make out an archway in the opposite wall and, approaching it, he saw some steps leading upwards. He climbed them, his breath steady; he was quite calm. At the top of the short stair there was a doorway and another low arch; where, Gilles wondered, was the sheriff? Orientating himself, he recalled in which direction the front of the house was; would the largest chamber be there or at the rear? Standing stone-still, ears alert for any sound, he peered into the shadows and, after a moment, realised that a pair of boots stood outside the door to his left, the one beyond the archway.
The boots were scuffed and stained with the mud of travel. They appeared to be quite large; surely too large for a woman? Then either the sheriff or the old man – probably both – were to be found in that direction.
Killing two together was naturally more difficult than one alone, especially when that one was a woman. Making up his mind, Gilles quietly opened the door before him and slid into the room beyond.
At first he thought that there must be a fire in the room, for he was assailed with a sudden surge of heat throughout his entire body. Blackness overwhelmed his sight and he was suddenly blind; he felt as if a knife had been thrust into his forehead above his left eye. Nausea rose up from the pit of his stomach; taking a deep breath, he swallowed it down.
Get on with it!
By the moonlight coming through the high window he made out the dark shape of a bed, on it the outline of a body. He could smell a faint scent – lavender. Yes, that would be her, for she must surely use the plant so often that its fragrance must have penetrated all her garments. There was the suggestion of white on the pillow; a woman’s small night cap, he thought, modestly covering her fair hair. Yes, she was a neat, clean woman; just the sort to maintain her personal standards even as she slept. On a bench under the window was spread a cloak. Hers.
Knife or garrotte? Or should he simply smother her with her pillow, as he had done the merchant in his bed in Hastings? But the merchant had been feeble with illness; she, as far as he knew, was strong, fit and healthy.
He drew the garrotte out of its place in the pouch on his belt. Running his hands along the fine rope, he felt for the toggle of wood that he used to wind the rope tight. Yes, there it was, just as it should be.
He crept closer to the bed.
The heat scored through him again as if someone had doused him in boiling water. He let out a small moan as pain swelled in his joints. Was this, a part of him wondered, what it felt like to be torn limb from limb? The black shapes spread across his eyes again and suddenly he was weak, so terribly weak; his legs gave out and he sank to his knees.
The nausea was back, undeniable now, and, trying to make as little noise as possible, he retched and a pool of foul liquid splattered on to the rushes on the floor.
The thought came to him quite unexpectedly that he was probably going to die.
I shall kill her first, he decided. Struggling up, he stepped closer to the bed. Then he thought, why should I? There is little point if I am not to be paid. Will he pay me, though, even yet, if I kill her and the old man, or will he say that the necessity to ensure their silence was my own fault for having allowed them to uncover the secret in the first place?
He shook his head. Sick, in agony, fever raging through him and with the urgent need to void his bowels, his brain did not seem to be working and he could no longer think it all through with his usual cold rationality.
She is young and she has a bright future, he mused. I think – yes, I think that I shall spare her.
Smiling at the pleasure that his own magnanimity was giving him, he turned and tiptoed back towards the doorway. In the bed, the body-shaped hump beneath the bedclothes did not move.
As the pestilence took him, Gilles de Vaudreuil fell down the steps.
At the bottom of which Gervase de Gifford was waiting for him.
Chapter 20
Gervase de Gifford, thrilled because his trap had worked and he had the killer in his hands, at first did not take in just how sick the man was.
Summoning the four guards from the courtyard, he gave orders for his prisoner to be manacled and chained to the heavy iron ring set in the wall. The guards took the drooping form of the dark-clad stranger and dragged him away.
De Gifford went straight to the small door leading off the passage between his hall and the kitchen area. It opened on to steps down to the undercroft and was covered by a heavy woollen hanging; a wicked draught came up from the dank cellar below in all but the warmest weather. De Gifford took out a key, inserted it in the lock and turned it. He opened the stout door and called out, ‘We have him. It is safe to come up now.’
Sabin and Benoît de Retz, the latter shivering inside his cloak and blanket and complaining steadily and vociferously not quite far enough under his breath, came up the short flight of steps and emerged into the passage. Sabin was holding the old man’s hand, guiding his footsteps where necessary. De Gifford noticed in passing that she had a cobweb in her hair and a dark, smutty smudge on her cheek but, in his eyes, neither did anything to mar her beauty.
‘Your ruse worked?’ she said quietly. ‘He thought the straw sack was me and—’ She paused, swallowed and managed to continue, ‘—and he attacked?’
De Gifford frowned. ‘He entered the chamber and approached the bed, yes, for I watched from the top of the stairs. But, my lady, I cannot say that he attacked the shape that he surely believed to be you, for in truth he did not.’
Benoît gave a snort of impatience. ‘He must have guessed that it was not Sabin asleep in the bed!’ he exclaimed.
De Gifford considered this. ‘No,’ he said eventually, ‘I do not think that is the answer.’
‘And why not?’ Benoît demanded.
‘Because of his demeanour,’ de Gifford replied. ‘Had he seen through the trick and realised that his intent had been foiled, then I should have thought he would be furious. He might have thrown back the bed covers to make sure, then possibly thrust a knife into the sack to vent his anger. I am sorry, my lady.’ He had noticed Sabin’s shudder of horror. Hastening on, he said, ‘In fact he did not even have a close look in the bed. He simply stood staring down at the shape lying in it, then, after some time, turned and quietly stepped away. I had scarce enough time to race back down the stairs before he came out of the chamber, slid down the steps and collapsed at my feet.’
‘He fell?’ Benoît asked.
‘I believe so,’ de Gifford agreed. ‘I think he must have injured himself in some way in falling for, when he felt me grab at him, instead of resisting he seemed to sink into my arms.’
‘I should like to see him,’ Sabin announced.
De Gifford looked at her. ‘Is that wise?’ he asked. ‘He is a violent man and—’
‘He tried to kill Grandfather and me in Troyes,’ she flashed back. ‘It is almost certain that he came here tonight to achieve the task in which he previously failed. Would you not want to look your killer in the face, given the chance?’
‘My lady, I am responsible for your safety,’ de Gifford insisted. ‘I do not think that—’
Benoît chuckled. ‘You’re wasting your breath, sheriff,’ he said. ‘Once Sabin has made up her mind on something, she’s like a terrier with a rat.’
De Gifford and Sabin stood eye to eye. Hers were steely blue and hard with res
olve. ‘Well, I suppose it is perfectly safe now that he is in chains,’ he murmured.
Sabin smiled at him and the change in her was startling. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed. Then, sweeping up her long skirts, she strode off down the passage, across the hall and out into the courtyard. De Gifford quickly set off after her but a plaintive cry from Benoît – ‘Oi! Just you come back and help me! I’m blind, you know!’ – called him back.
By the time he and the old man reached the courtyard, the four guards were standing a few paces off, all looking slightly shamefaced, and Sabin was on her knees beside the huddled form of the prisoner.
Before de Gifford could say a word she turned, glared up at him and said, ‘This man is very sick! He has a dangerously high fever and he is in agony. You must remove the shackles and take him somewhere where he can be cared for properly.’
‘But—’ de Gifford began.
Again, Benoît interrupted him. ‘What a short memory, sheriff,’ he observed. ‘What was I just telling you? This man might have been set on killing us as we slept but he’s sick and my granddaughter is a born healer. She will not stand aside and see someone suffer, even one such as he.’
Cursing her for her stubbornness, de Gifford thought hard. If the prisoner was truly that sick, then to throw him in gaol would likely finish him off. And, the fair-minded Gervase told himself, there is as yet no real evidence that he has committed any crime. Somebody tried to kill Sabin and Benoît in the Troyes lodging house – unless the fire was in fact no more than an accident, which is quite possible given the normal urban overcrowding and people’s inherent carelessness with fires and torches and the like – and somebody killed both the Hastings merchant and Nicol Romley. This man came here tonight and I believe that his intention was to curtail the spread of this dangerous secret by silencing Sabin and her grandfather. Yet, when he had the chance to attack the body in the bed, he did not.
In short, he concluded, as yet I cannot prove that my prisoner has done anything worse than to break into my house. If that is the sum of his crimes, then I have no business signing his death warrant by refusing him healing care.
‘Very well,’ he said curtly. ‘Prepare a cart,’ he ordered, turning to the guards, ‘wrap the prisoner warmly and put him on it. We’ll take him up to Hawkenlye.’
‘Should we chain him?’ one of the guards asked.
De Gifford glanced at Sabin. Then, answering the guard, he said, ‘Manacle one wrist and fasten the end of the chain to the cart.’
Sabin rewarded him with another dazzling smile.
When the small procession was ready to set out, Sabin presented herself at de Gifford’s side. ‘I shall fetch my mare,’ she said, ‘and accompany you.’
But this time – for he had guessed she would want to go up to Hawkenlye with him – he was ready with an answer.
Taking hold of her gloved hands, he looked down into her eyes and said, ‘Please, lady, no. For one thing, your grandfather is chilled and miserable and surely needs your attentions. For another, we shall wait only to deliver our prisoner into the hands of those who will tend him. I will leave two of my men on guard and then I shall come straight back.’ Improvising but guessing he had it right, he added, ‘They do not allow anyone into the infirmary unless there is no choice so you would not be able to stay with him. And I shall leave instructions that I am to be informed the moment he is capable of talking to me. Believe me, I am almost as anxious as you to hear what account he will give of himself.’
Her eyes steady on his, she said, ‘May I come with you then, when you question him?’ Sorrow crossing her face, she whispered, ‘I do need to know about Nicol, you see. I have to – that is, until I know what became of him, his memory keeps me from proceeding with my life.’
‘I understand,’ he said gently, although he was not entirely sure that he did. ‘You have my word, lady. When – or perhaps if – I am able to ask the man to explain himself, I shall do my utmost to make sure you are with me.’
She bowed. ‘Thank you.’ Then she disengaged her hand, stepped back and walked back into the house.
It was long after midnight; the dead hours of the night that hold sway before dawn.
The Abbess had all but slipped away.
Earlier – some time late the previous evening – Father Gilbert had stood over her pleading with God to forgive her her sins and explaining that she would of course have confessed them and humbly asked for his indulgence, only she could not speak.
Now Josse sat alone on a bench outside the Vale infirmary. He had begged and begged to be allowed to see her – ‘You let Father Gilbert in!’ he had shouted at the infirmarer – but Sister Euphemia was adamant and would not break her rule, even for him. Especially for him, she had thought, for when the Abbess goes, we shall have need of his strength while we learn how to manage without her.
The moon had come up and the night was bright. All was quiet.
It seemed to Josse, half out of his mind with mental fatigue, physical exhaustion and grief, that he was aware of her soul hovering somewhere near. Turning his head as if trying to catch some faint essence of her through eyes or ears, it seemed to him that he felt her light touch on his shoulder.
He spun round so fast that he felt dizzy.
Sister Tiphaine stood over him. She said, ‘Sir Josse, there is something that I must tell you.’
‘She’s dead?’ He could hardly get the words out.
‘No, but death is very close.’ Tiphaine sat down beside him. ‘You are aware of this new draught that we have been giving to the patients?’
‘Aye, and you’ve been using the Eye of Jerusalem to prepare it. I already know, Sister, and you’re welcome to the jewel. It’s done her no good,’ he added bitterly.
‘No,’ Tiphaine agreed, ‘although you may be pleased to know that after drinking it, several others have been brought back from the brink.’
Josse supposed he should be glad for those others but, try as he might, he could not manage the charity. As if she knew this and shared his thought, Tiphaine reached out and took his hand. ‘I know,’ she murmured.
After a time she said, ‘It was not in fact our use of the Eye that I wished to discuss with you.’
‘No? What else, then?’ He could not imagine – and didn’t much care – but it was only polite to ask.
Tiphaine took a breath, then said, ‘Sister Caliste and I have had some help this time in our use of the stone. We have been into the forest and fetched Joanna.’
Joanna.
Amid the swirling emotions of that endless night, here was yet one more.
‘And precisely why are you telling me this, Sister?’ His voice emerged sounding far angrier than he intended. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
She squeezed his hand. ‘I am telling you because she has become a very powerful healer. I wondered what you might think if I suggested we – you and I – went to find her and asked her if she would come to see what she could do for our lady Abbess.’
At first Josse could find no words with which to reply. Then he said, ‘Is she willing?’
‘I have not yet put the question to her,’ Tiphaine replied. Then, with a small smile: ‘I thought the request might have more chance if it were you that made it.’
Josse managed an even smaller smile in response. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, getting to his feet.
He found that, as he and Sister Tiphaine approached the forest fringes, he was holding his breath.
‘Do you know where she is?’ he said in a very audible whisper to the herbalist. ‘Will we be able to find her hut in the darkness?’
Sister Tiphaine did not reply. Half turning, Josse saw that she had stopped a few paces behind him so that, beneath the first great oaks of the forest, he stood alone.
He seemed to know what was required. His heart hammering, he strode on.
There was a narrow clearing some dozen paces within the forest where the undergrowth was thin and where low hazel trees were interspersed with holly. As Josse
stepped into it she emerged right in front of him. In the moonlight shining down on the clearing, he could see her quite plainly.
He stared at her.
She was Joanna, of course she was. But oh, how she had changed!
He stood and drank her in, from the glossy brown hair above the high forehead to the feet in their gold-clasped sandals. The wide folds of the cloak that she wore disguised her body but he had the overriding sense that she looked . . . stronger, was the only way to describe it.
Her face had a new serenity that enhanced her strange beauty. The eyes, dark under the arching brows, were fixed on his and, as he stared at her, she gave him a smile.
‘Hello, Josse.’
‘Joanna, you look—’ He shrugged, grinning. ‘I can’t begin to describe it.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said kindly, ‘I think I know what you are trying to say.’
‘What’s happened to you?’ he burst out. ‘Where have you been and what have you been doing? Tiphaine says you’re a great healer now?’ He could not prevent the remark turning into a question; he wondered if she knew how much hung upon her answer.
She was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘It is true that healing is my destiny and I have already put my feet upon the long path that will allow my powers to emerge.’ Observing his puzzled look, she laughed softly. ‘Josse, I apologise – in short, the answer is, yes, I am a healer. Of sorts.’
‘You have been taught by – er – by your own people?’
‘My own people,’ she repeated, half under her breath. Then, again picking up that he was not following her, said, ‘Yes, that’s right. I have been far afield, Josse, and I have seen sights that have frightened, inspired and greatly affected me.’
