by Alys Clare
Now Will looked at him. ‘No, sir. She left some time yesterday morning.’
Anxiety burning through him like fire, Josse grabbed Will’s arm. ‘When did she leave?’ He felt Will wince and let go of him, muttering an apology.
Will’s deep eyes were screwed up tightly as he tried to think. ‘Well, it was after you and the abbess – you and the lady Helewise, that is – had ridden off to find the sheriff and the lady’s son.’ His frown intensifying, he added, ‘Reckon she was still here after you came back, though I couldn’t swear to it.’
Had she been at the house when he returned? Josse tried to think. So much had happened yesterday, and they had all been beside themselves with worry. Meggie had definitely been there before Josse and Helewise left for Tonbridge – he remembered her saying how Rosamund had been happily chattering to her. But he did not think he had seen her when he got home.
He tried to take it in. Meggie had left the House in the Woods yesterday morning and, according to Helewise, she had not gone to the hut. Nobody, it seemed, had seen her for well over a night and a day . . .
Will cleared his throat and said tentatively, ‘Sir?’
Somehow Josse knew he wasn’t going to like whatever it was that Will was preparing to tell him. ‘What is it?’ he asked tersely.
With a visible effort, Will met his eyes. ‘The lady’s mare’s missing.’
‘Daisy?’ It was a stupid and totally irrelevant question.
‘Daisy,’ Will confirmed.
‘She’s been stolen?’ It was not all that likely, since the House in the Woods was well hidden and some distance from the road. But then Gervase had said something about robbers . . .
Will sighed. ‘Reckon Meggie came for her,’ he said.
‘Why? What grounds do you have to say that?’ Josse demanded.
‘Because I’d put the mare’s bridle aside on my workbench ready to repair a bit of loose stitching, and whoever took the horse knew where to find it. So . . .’
‘So it could only be one of us,’ Josse finished for him.
There was a painful pause. Where are you, Meggie? Josse asked silently.
Somebody must know where she was.
He ran from the stables, across the yard and took the steps into the hall at a couple of bounds, the exertion giving rise to another groan of pain. He flung open the heavy wooden door and burst into the hall. A fire was blazing in the hearth, and around it sat Geoffroi, Gus and Tilly. Tilly’s younger children, subdued for once, sat in a corner quietly playing with their toys. The eldest child, a boy, sat close to his father, and Gus had an arm around the lad’s thin shoulders. Ella, presumably, was in her habitual place in the kitchen.
Just as Will had said, Meggie was not there. Josse repeated his question: ‘Has Meggie been home today?’
Gus looked up at him, surprised. ‘No! We thought she’d be over at the hut.’
‘She’s not. She hasn’t been there at all.’
‘Oh, no! Then where is she?’ Geoffroi looked wildly around, his expression anguished.
‘Will thinks she’s taken Daisy,’ Josse added. ‘Where can she have gone?’
‘She’s probably met up with one of the other search parties and gone back with them,’ Gus said reasonably. ‘Dominic was here earlier. He found nothing,’ he added quickly, in response to Josse’s unspoken enquiry, ‘and he said he was going to make his way slowly back to New Winnowlands and aim to be there as darkness fell.’
Dominic. Oh, Dominic. ‘How is he?’ Josse said gruffly.
Gus shrugged. ‘He’s holding up.’
Poor Dominic had to go home to Paradisa this night, Josse realized, and tell her the child is still out there somewhere. Dear Lord, help them both.
Tilly got up and went to stand beside Josse. ‘Come and eat,’ she urged. ‘Ella’s got hot food all ready, and there’s a jug of spiced wine just waiting for the hot poker to make it steam.’
Food. Wine. Josse realized how hungry he was. He subsided on to a bench by the fire and, looking gratefully at Tilly, said, ‘Aye, I like the sound of both of those.’
Tilly hurried off to fetch the food, and Gus prepared the wine. Josse took a deep draught – he felt the warmth and the alcohol hit his empty belly and for a moment his head swam – and he emitted a long, ‘Aaaah,’ of satisfaction. Presently, Tilly returned with a platter of mutton stew in rich gravy, with chunks of root vegetables and a generous hunk of bread, and Josse ate as if he hadn’t seen food for days. It did not take him long to clear the platter and, putting it down, he said, ‘I have some news. Not much, but I wish to keep you all informed. Gus, would you please fetch Will and Ella?’
While they waited, Josse wondered idly how many other knightly households included their servants in family discussions. He smiled wryly to himself. His no longer felt like a knightly household – if, indeed, anywhere he had lived fitted that description, whatever it meant – and he had never been entirely sure where kin ended and kith began.
Geoffroi got up and came to sit beside him on the bench. Josse put his arm round the boy, just as Gus had done to his own son. It felt good.
When Will and Ella had settled – the diffident Ella so far to the back of the little group that Josse could hardly see her – he told them everything that had happened since he had been summoned that morning by the sheriff’s man, Tomas, and ridden off with him. His listeners made no comment beyond a few soft muttering among themselves, so Josse went on to outline Abbess Caliste’s thoughts on what might have happened.
It was Gus who spoke first. ‘It’s either a falling out among the two people who slept in the camp, then, and in that case probably nothing to do with our Rosamund.’ A frown creased his brow. ‘It could be that the man who took her was challenged by someone, who he fought with and who was killed in the fight. Or else maybe it was the dead man that took her, and somebody objected to that and went to try to take her back.’ His frown cleared. ‘I reckon that’s the most likely way of it.’
‘Aye,’ Josse said thoughtfully. ‘Aye, it’s possible.’
‘This other man got the better of the abductor,’ Gus went on, ‘and as a result of a particularly good punch, the man fell backwards and crushed his skull.’ He looked around the company. ‘So, assuming that if this other man attacked the dead man because he didn’t hold with him taking a little girl, what did he do?’
Josse had been wondering the same thing. ‘He might not know who she is and where she belongs,’ he said slowly. ‘He might even now be trying to take her back home, but unable to because he doesn’t know where home is.’
‘She’d tell him, surely?’ It was Tilly’s voice, and Josse looked at her in surprise. She had come a long way, he reflected absently, from the skinny, nervous, shy little tavern girl she once was . . . ‘Rosamund’s not slow to speak up, is she? When someone rescued her and asked where he ought to take her, she’d say, I live at New Winnowlands, and she’d be able to tell him where that was.’
‘Even if she couldn’t,’ Geoffroi put in, ‘and I could, and she’s the same age as me, she’d have said something like I know them at the abbey so you can take me there.’
Josse nodded slowly. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ he said vaguely. Something was troubling him. It had begun earlier as a small, dark suspicion right on the edge of thought, and he had been able to push it away without too much effort. Now it was back, insistently demanding his attention. And it wasn’t small any more.
Gus was looking at him. ‘What is it?’ he asked quietly. It was as if he already knew . . .
Josse let his eyes roam around the circle of faces lit by the flickering firelight. Will, and Ella crouched back in the shadows. Gus and Tilly, all three children now sitting close to their parents, as if they had been drawn there for security. Geoffroi, his round face turned up to Josse so full of trust.
Josse knew he had to tell them. ‘I have been thinking,’ he said heavily. ‘There is one set of circumstances I can envisage that would explain everythin
g.’
‘What?’ Tilly asked nervously. Gus dropped his eyes.
Josse took a deep breath, exhaled and then breathed in again. ‘Let us suppose that, indeed, the person who caught up with Rosamund and her abductor by the trees above the river had gone to fetch her back. He challenges the man who has her. They fight. The abductor strikes his head and he dies. The man who has come to rescue Rosamund sees what he has done and knows he will be judged a murderer. He has struck and killed a man, and he will probably hang.’ Josse’s voice broke on the word, but he made himself go on.
‘Who could this man be?’ he demanded roughly, staring round at the others. ‘Someone who cares about Rosamund, obviously, someone who will not sit by while evil is done to an innocent child. Someone who, having rescued her, cannot bring her back because he’ll be arrested and charged with murder.’
‘Is it Dominic?’ asked a small voice beside him. ‘You would kill a man who took me, Father, I know you would.’
Josse hugged his son to him. ‘Aye, Geoffroi, I’d do so willingly if it was the only way I could get you back,’ he agreed. ‘But it can’t be Dominic, can it? He was here earlier, you told me?’ He looked enquiringly at Gus, who nodded.
‘He’s called in more than once in the course of the day,’ Gus confirmed. ‘I don’t think he’d have let the rest of us go on searching and worrying if he knew the little lass was safe.’
‘I agree,’ Josse said. ‘So, who else could it be?’ With the exception of Gus, they were all looking stunned. ‘Gus?’
Gus shook his head. ‘I don’t want to say, sir. It’s murder, in the eyes of the law. I – no.’
Josse sighed. ‘Very well. We have not seen Meggie since yesterday, although I do not for a moment think that, strong as she is, she could have inflicted those punches on the dead man’s face. Who else is missing?’
They all looked round. On every face but Gus’s, puzzlement slowly gave way to realization, and then to deep dismay.
Geoffroi whispered, ‘Oh, no!’
Josse hugged him tightly. ‘We do not know for sure, son,’ he said. ‘But I fear we must prepare ourselves to face the possibility that the man who fought the dead man is the one person who ought to be here and isn’t. Who, if I’m right, none of us has seen since the evening we discovered that Rosamund was missing.’
He looked round at them all. In case anybody was still in doubt, he told them. Softly, he uttered the name: ‘Ninian.’
SIX
Gervase had almost run through the list of people he was summoning to the Hawkenlye infirmary to see if they knew the identity of the dead man. None of the nuns recognized him, and Gervase had no more success with the monks from the vale. Brother Saul had helpfully brought a party of visiting pilgrims with him but, to a man, they had briefly gazed at the dead man’s face and mutely shaken their heads.
The parties out searching for Rosamund were regularly reporting back to Gervase – and the long succession of: ‘Nothing yet, sir,’ was becoming extremely frustrating and very worrying – and he had paraded each and every one of his men past the body. Nobody recognized him.
The victim was a man of some means; that was evident by his clothing and the fine leather of his boots. Studying him now, Gervase looked at the hands. They were well shaped, reasonably clean and nicely kept. The dead man was no peasant dressed up in stolen garments. Gervase looked at the neatly-cut hair. That, too, indicated a man with the money and the time to look after himself.
Who are you? Gervase asked him silently. What were you doing out there by the river? Did you abduct the missing girl? If so, who fought you, killed you and took her from you? Where were you taking her? Where has he gone with her?
So many questions. So many uncertainties. Suppressing the urge to punch something, Gervase left the recess and strode out of the infirmary.
He decided to ride down to Tonbridge to see if his deputy had anything to report. The day was drawing on towards evening, and the light was fading fast. He wanted to speak to his deputy before it became too dark to search and everyone went home for the night. Another day had passed, he reflected anxiously, and Rosamund was still missing. And, always lurking behind all his pressing preoccupations, there was that other matter; he must not leave it too long before making the journey out to the House in the Woods to inspect Josse’s valuables . . .
He was entering the abbey’s stable block when he heard the sound of hooves. Turning, he saw Leofgar Warin riding towards him.
‘What news?’ Gervase demanded.
Leofgar held up a hand. ‘None. I am sorry, that is not why I have sought you.’
Gervase felt himself sag. Just for a moment, he had hoped . . . He looked up at Leofgar and said, more sharply than he had intended, ‘Why are you here, then?’
Leofgar’s expression suggested that he understood Gervase’s mood. ‘I have to go home,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I wish with all my heart that I could get out there again now, sleep here tonight and return to the search in the morning. She’s my niece, and I cannot imagine what my brother and Paradisa are going through. But I cannot stay. I have pressing concerns of my own.’
‘What’s more important than a missing child?’ The question burst out of Gervase before he could stop it. ‘I apologize,’ he said instantly. ‘I have no right to question your movements.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ Leofgar agreed, with the ghost of a smile. ‘But I’ll explain anyway.’ He slid off his horse and, coming to stand close beside Gervase, said quietly, ‘My wife and I are expecting an important guest. The king is on his way back to his palace at Westminster, and he is to honour us with a visit as he progresses north.’
Gervase was stunned. ‘You – King John is to stay with you? At the Old Manor?’
Leofgar’s smile held genuine amusement now. ‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ he said mildly. ‘We do have a bed or two to offer, and my household can rise to a grand occasion and turn out quite acceptable fare.’
‘I did not mean to imply otherwise,’ Gervase said stiffly.
‘No, I know you didn’t,’ Leofgar replied. ‘Between you and me,’ he added, lowering his voice still further, ‘I wish he was returning to London via a different road. I’m not looking forward in the least to entertaining a demanding king and however many hangers-on he happens to have with him. As my wife so perceptively remarked, it’s nothing to be proud of as he’s only staying with us because our house happens to be conveniently situated.’
‘I am sure it is more than that,’ Gervase said politely.
Leofgar looked at him, his mouth twisted in an ironic grin. ‘You are?’
‘I – er, I—’
Leofgar waved a hand. ‘It is of no matter.’ He gathered up his horse’s reins and put a foot in his stirrup, preparing to mount.
‘Wait!’ Gervase exclaimed, remembering. ‘Can you spare me a moment longer before you leave?’
Leofgar glanced up at the twilight sky and nodded. ‘Yes, if you’re quick. What is it?’
‘We have an unidentified body in the infirmary.’
Leofgar tethered his horse and, as the two men hurried over to the infirmary, Gervase explained how and where the dead man had been found. ‘So nobody knows who he is?’ Leofgar asked.
‘No,’ Gervase replied in a low voice, leading the way to the curtained recess. He stood back, letting the curtain fall behind him, and Leofgar approached the body.
After a moment he said, ‘I do.’ He turned and met Gervase’s eyes. Very quietly he went on, ‘His name is Hugh de Brionne. His father was close to the king’s brother and very readily changed his allegiance to John as soon as Richard died. Josse, I believe, is acquainted with the father, although clearly he did not recognize the son.’ He glanced back at the still face. ‘This death will sorely grieve Felix de Brionne.’
‘Hugh was his only son?’
‘He – Felix’s wife bore him a daughter and two sons. This is the younger son.’ He put a hand on the dead man’s shoulder.
Something about Leofgar’s manner did not seem right. ‘What else?’ Gervase asked in a whisper. ‘What is it that you do not tell me?’
Leofgar shot him a glance, then looked away. ‘Nothing,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s gossip, no more, and I do not believe it is right to spread rumours.’
‘Rumours?’ Gervase demanded.
Leofgar expelled his breath in an angry sound. ‘It is to do with the brother. It is said by those with nothing better to do than wag their idle tongues that he is not Felix’s child.’
‘Ah. I see,’ Gervase murmured.
Leofgar spun round. ‘Do you?’ he hissed. He parted the curtains, looked out and, apparently finding that nobody could overhear, said urgently, ‘I have met Felix de Brionne and his wife several times. Béatrice is a very lovely woman and she was only thirteen when she was wed. Felix was more than twenty years her senior. Her first child was a girl and Felix was not pleased.’ He paused. ‘I tell you this not because it satisfies me to discuss the intimate dealings of another man and his wife, but to make you understand,’ he went on. ‘If indeed Béatrice took another man to her bed – and I am by no means convinced that she did – then the affair was short-lived, for when later she bore Hugh, her second son, there was no doubt who had fathered him for he is the image of Felix.’ He stopped, looking down at the body. ‘He was,’ he corrected himself. He sighed. ‘Poor Felix. Poor Béatrice.’
‘Where do they live?’ Gervase asked. ‘They should be informed that their son is dead.’
‘Their manor is to the east of Tonbridge, on the slope of the North Downs,’ Leofgar said heavily. ‘Felix is old now and his comprehension comes and goes. He will not, I think, understand. It will be Béatrice on whom the blow falls most cruelly.’
Béatrice who has another son who is probably not the offspring of Felix, Gervase thought, in whom it is hoped she will take comfort. But he did not say it aloud.
Tiphaine was heading back to the hut deep in the woodland. She had observed the sheriff and Helewise’s elder son speaking together by the stables and, unseen by either, she had slipped into the infirmary after them. She had heard Leofgar identify the dead man, although the name meant nothing to her. It might to Helewise, however. She increased her pace. Darkness was falling fast and she still had some way to go.
