by Alys Clare
‘Oh,’ said Josse.
Marie bent her head over her sewing; tactfully, Josse did not pursue the matter.
I’ll buy Theophania a gift, he resolved, and repeat my apologies. I was unforgivably rude, and to a woman to whom, even if I don’t actually like her, I owe respect.
But, when I’ve been forgiven, I shall go.
Even if the refurbishments to his new manor house were still incomplete, even if the rain came in and he had to sleep in a barn, it would be better than life at Acquin.
For the time being, anyway.
* * *
King Richard Plantagenet had given Josse his English manor house in the winter of 1189, in gratitude for a certain service which Josse had been able to do for the King.
Richard, in that cold January season, had been preoccupied with planning his great Crusade; Josse often thought that it was only because Richard’s mother, the good Queen Eleanor, had reminded her son of his obligation, that the manor had come Josse’s way at all.
The manor had formed part – quite a large part – of the rich estates of the late Alard of Winnowlands. Josse’s gift was a stoutly built but dilapidated house, which, so he was informed, had been constructed a good seventy years ago, some distance from the main hall, to accommodate a particularly sour-tempered mother-in-law. The house had a small walled garden, an orchard, and several acres of pasture, some of which gave on to a swift flowing river bordered by willow trees.
It was a splendid gift. Josse was thrilled with his new property, and thought it a more than fair exchange for swearing fealty to the new King; Josse was already a king’s man anyway. He had inspected the house with a builder, who came highly recommended by Josse’s neighbour, Brice of Rotherbridge. The builder, after sucking his teeth for most of the morning and gloomily shaking his head in the general manner of builders, finally announced that there was a great deal of work to be done, but that, yes, he agreed with Josse that the house was fundamentally sound. And that it would, in the fullness of time, make a fine dwelling.
Back then, almost eighteen months ago, Josse hadn’t quite realised just how full that time was going to be.
Over the months that the builder and his men had worked on the house and its outbuildings, Josse had made several visits to check on progress. It had been interesting to note how the character of the house had slowly changed; in the beginning, when there were gaping holes in the roof and spiteful draughts under ill-fitting – or totally missing – doors, the spirit of the miserable and moaning old woman for whom the house had been built seemed still to be hovering around. The very house had an air of dejection, as if it stood with slumped shoulders feeling sorry for itself. The place had been, Josse had to admit, quite depressing.
But, as the repairs and renovations progressed, it appeared to Josse that the house began to stand up tall. To hold its head up with a new pride, to say, as its original beauty was slowly – very slowly – restored, See! See what a fine place I am, fit for the knight who is to live here!
Those were not, however, the sort of thoughts a man mentioned to his builder. And, indeed, when Josse remarked to Brice of Rotherbridge that the house was beginning to welcome its new master when he visited, Brice had shouted with laughter and told Josse not to bring those weird and fanciful foreign ideas over here, thank you very much!
As well as taking over a part of the late Alard of Winnowlands’s estates, Josse also found himself taking over the man’s servant. Will, who had served and, latterly, nursed Sir Alard with quiet and efficient devotion as the old man slowly and painfully succumbed to the lung rot, had presented himself at the new house one morning when Josse was arguing with the builder about whether or not to turn the western tower into a small solar (an argument which, even though Josse wasn’t entirely sure what he would do with a solar, he won).
Waiting patiently until the matter was settled, Will then stepped forward, swept off his hood and said, ‘Sir Josse d’Acquin? You won’t remember me, sir, but—’
‘I do remember you, Will.’ Josse hurried forward to greet him. ‘How are you?’
Will gave a faint shrug. He looked thinner than Josse remembered. ‘I do all right.’
Josse doubted that. The man’s master was dead, after all. With Sir Alard had gone Will’s livelihood. ‘I see.’
Without preamble, Will said, ‘You’ll likely be needing serving folk for this here house, sir. I know the area, I know the people. I’d take care of you, and your property, if you’ll have me. Watch over your interests, like, when you were from home.’
Josse stared into the deep eyes for some moments. It was not that he did not trust Will; quite the opposite. What held him back from instantly engaging the man was a certain concern about Will’s temperament. Josse, in the main a light-hearted, optimistic soul, was not sure he could cope with someone as dour of mien as Will.
‘I—’ Josse began. Then, after an awkward pause, ‘Will, I – er – I mean, are you over your grieving for Sir Alard? I know that his death hit you hard, and—’
To Josse’s surprise, Will smiled. The smile broadened, quite altering the severe expression, and Will began to laugh.
‘Why not come right out with it, Sir Josse?’ Will said. ‘A cheerful fellow such as yourself doesn’t welcome the idea of having a miserable bugger like me tending to his needs. Isn’t that it?’
‘No! Not at all! I—’ But Josse, too, was laughing. ‘Very well. Yes, that’s it. Exactly.’
Will’s face straightened. ‘Sir, I’ll tell you straight, I thought a deal of Sir Alard, God rest his soul.’
‘Amen,’ Josse muttered.
‘But he’s gone. I did my best for him, and I’ve nothing on my conscience regarding his death. No nor his life, come to that – we had our ups and downs, did Sir Alard and me, but we understood each other. He knew I was his loyal man. Reckon that’s why he left me a tidy bit, when at last he left us what remains on this earth.’
‘Ah.’
‘But all that’s in the past,’ Will resumed, ‘and life must go on, like. So, Sir Josse, will you take me on?’
‘I will,’ Josse said, ‘right gladly.’
‘Hah!’ Will looked pleased. ‘Oh, and there’s my woman, sir, my Ella. Would you have need of her, too? She’s a good, clean soul, hard-working, can turn her hand to most work of a domestic nature, whether it’s making the butter come quick, turning out a room, milking a cow, sewing a fine seam or cooking a tasty stew.’
Josse grinned, slapping Will on the back. ‘Such a paragon of talents shouldn’t be allowed to sit idle, don’t you agree, Will?’
‘No, indeed, sir.’
‘We’d better have her, too, then. Your Ella.’ He paused. ‘But where will you live?’ He looked around. ‘I don’t think there’s anything suitable, I’d better—’
‘There is, sir,’ Will interrupted, looking slightly sheepish. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of having a look, and there’s a tidy little cottage tacked on the end of that row there.’ He pointed to a barn and several lean-tos, on the far side of the courtyard; Josse, who hadn’t had a close inspection, had imagined most of the row would have to be pulled down.
‘There’s a cottage? In that lot?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Aye. Run down right now, but it’s dry. The timbers are sound, it just needs a bit of work. Me and Ella’ll soon put it to rights. Given your permission, sir, naturally.’
Again, Josse started to laugh. In the space of a quarter of an hour, he had found himself a manservant and a first-rate domestic woman, and agreed to their refurbishment of a cottage he hadn’t known he had.
All in all, not bad going.
* * *
Now, riding towards New Winnowlands – he was quite pleased with the name – on a warm June afternoon, Josse felt for the first time a sense of coming home.
The house stood on its slight rise, walled courtyard in front, walled garden stretching out to the rear. All of those walls looked strong, and the manor itself was soundly roofed, wi
th a whisper of smoke from some cooking fire floating up on the gentle breeze.
It looked, at last, as if the house was almost finished.
Josse rode into the courtyard. As if he had been waiting, Will appeared from the barn, and came to stand at Josse’s horse’s head.
‘Shall I take him for you, sir?’ he asked. ‘Ella’s been baking, she can have food ready for you in a trice.’
‘Yes, thanks, Will.’ Josse dismounted, handing over Horace’s reins. ‘Oh, just let me get my pack. I’ll have to see to—’
‘Ella’ll see to your kit. If you’ll let her, sir, that is. Fine washerwoman, my Ella, and nimble-fingered with a needle, should any mending be called for.’
‘I had an idea she might be,’ Josse murmured. Then, out loud: ‘Please ask her, then, Will.’ He grinned at his manservant. ‘I must say, it’s quite a novelty, to be so well-received.’
‘This is your home, sir!’ Will said, clearly surprised. ‘Should not a man be welcomed, in his own home?’
My home, thought Josse. Ah, how good it sounded!
* * *
He spent a lazy evening, and, replete after an excellent supper, retired early to bed. His chamber had been swept so clean that he could have eaten his food off the floor, and his bed had been made up with bedding that smelt faintly of lavender. The straw-filled mattress lay, he noticed, on a layer of dried tansy leaves; Ella had made sure he wasn’t going to be troubled by any small biting creatures.
He slept long and deeply, and awoke from a vivid dream in which he had been waving a hay fork violently above his head, to stop strange, black, winged creatures from alighting on a steep church roof.
Not very surprising, he reflected as he got up, that he should dream of a church. Because, as he’d been drifting off to sleep, he’d been thinking about his friend Abbess Helewise of Hawkenlye, whom he had not seen for almost two years.
And he had decided that, now he was installed as master of New Winnowlands, it was time to pay her a visit.
Ella served him a very substantial breakfast, and, when he had finished, rather shyly brought for his inspection his favourite tunic, whose hem had been coming down where he’d caught a spur in it. Not only had she carefully stitched up the hem, she had also brushed off quite a lot of mud and sponged away a gravy stain.
Rested after his good night, well-fed, dressed in his best, Josse set out in the sunshine for Hawkenlye, feeling in such good spirits that, presently, he began to sing.
Chapter Four
In the few days since the murder of Hamm Robinson, and Sheriff Harry Pelham’s dismissal of it, Abbess Helewise had found scant moments in which to dwell on the matter.
Life as abbess to a community of nigh on a hundred nuns, plus the fifteen monks and the lay brothers who tended the holy spring down in the Vale and cared for the pilgrims who came to visit it, was demanding at the best of times. Helewise’s everyday duties, on top of the hours spent each day in the Abbey’s round of devotions, meant that there was little, if any, time to spare. So that when, as now, a problem seemed to be looming, it was no easy matter for Helewise to find the occasion to give it due thought.
It was her custom, when there was something important demanding her attention, to slip into the awe-inspiring Abbey church on her own. And that – having the church to oneself – was not easily achieved, either.
Today, she was in luck; re-entering the church after the noon office, she found there was nobody else there.
She made her way towards the altar, then, moving into the shadow of one of the great pillars, fell to her knees. Praying quietly for some moments, soon she found she was sufficiently calm to put her troubled thoughts in order.
But the words, when they came, were not to do with poor dead Hamm Robinson and the problem of finding out who killed him. Another matter, perhaps less dramatic but, certainly, closer to Helewise’s heart, had taken precedence.
‘Dear Lord,’ she said softly out loud, ‘what am I to do about Caliste?’
* * *
Caliste, now a member of the Abbey community, had spent the first fourteen years of her life answering to another name. As a tiny infant, no more than a few days old, she had been found on the doorstep of a small and already overcrowded household, in the little hamlet of Hawkenlye. Wrapped in a piece of fine wool which had been dyed the dark purply-black of sloes, the baby was naked but for a beautifully worked wooden pendant, tied around her neck on a slim leather thong. On three sides of the wood – a long, narrow sliver of ash – there were strange, carefully incised marks. If they had a meaning and were not mere random patterning, then nobody in the Hawkenlye community either knew or could guess at what that meaning was.
Whoever had deposited the baby on that particular doorstep had known what he, or she, was doing. For the family who lived within, although equally as poor as their neighbours, equally as ignorant and equally as dirty, were loving people. Matt Hurst and his sons kept pigs, his wife Alison and her daughters tended their hens. Between them, the family also worked their strips of land, more diligently than did many of their neighbours, so that, although there was never an abundance of food on the table, the Hursts rarely went hungry.
The Hursts were God-fearing people. When, one summer’s night, a mysterious female infant was left at their door, they accepted that this was a duty put on them by the Almighty. Not only did they take the child in, they cared for her as if she were one of their own. They named her Peg.
If there had ever been any idea in Matt and Alison’s minds of keeping Peg’s strange provenance from her, then they had to abandon it, because Peg herself seemed to know. Knew, at least, that she was not their child, although, in truth, that would not have taken any particular psychic powers. The Hursts, both the women and the men, were short and dumpy, with reddish or lightbrown hair, pinkish, freckled skin, and pale eyes fringed with almost colourless lashes. Peg was slim and willowy, with a smooth, cream complexion, dark hair, and eyes like the midsummer sky at dusk.
Peg was, in short, quite exceptionally beautiful.
But, despite her awareness of all that separated her from her adoptive family, she was an obedient and hard-working child, doing what was asked of her without complaint, ever grateful to the kind-hearted people who had taken her in. Throughout her early childhood she fed chickens, mucked out their smelly runs, collected their eggs and went to market to sell what the family would not use. She also learned to cook and clean. But it was only when Alison Hurst began to teach her garden lore that Peg seemed to come alive; from that time on, from the exciting spring when the Hursts discovered that Peg had a green thumb, she was excused all other duties and put solely to cultivation.
But even that was not enough.
When Peg was fourteen, she presented herself at Hawkenlye Abbey and asked to be admitted as a postulant.
Helewise, who made it her policy to try not to turn anyone away, had grave misgivings about Peg. For one thing, the girl was very young. For another, she had seen nothing of life outside the small confines of Hawkenlye: how could the child be sure that convent life was for her?
The Abbess’s most important doubt, however, was that she could detect little of a religious vocation in Peg.
She did her best to discover it – sometimes, she had found, a woman kept her love for God very close to her heart, so that it was not readily apparent to an outsider – and she spent many an afternoon walking and talking with Peg. She also visited Alison Hurst, who, when asked a direct question, replied, after considerable thought, ‘The lassie’s what you might call spiritual, and no mistake, Abbess. That I’ll swear to right willingly. But as to whether she worships the same Holy Spirit as you and me…’
She had left the sentence unfinished.
Helewise, after much thought, had decided that it would do no harm to accept Peg for a trial period, but with the condition that her postulancy should continue for a year instead of the usual six months. She gave as her reason Peg’s youth.
But Helewise h
ad accepted postulants of fourteen before, many of whom had grown up to be good nuns. The true reason for her decision regarding Peg was that a full year would give Helewise more time to assess this strange spirituality of the girl’s. To decide either that it was truly Christian in inspiration – or Christianity in some other similar guise – or whether it was something else.
That something else Helewise did not define, even to herself.
Thus, right from the start, there was a difference about Peg.
* * *
Within a few weeks of being in the convent, Peg’s talents in the garden were being put to work. She was apprenticed to the elderly Sister Tiphaine, who grew the herbs which Sister Euphemia used in her tonics, medicines and ointments. Sister Tiphaine took a shine to the girl, and reported favourably on her to the Abbess; but Helewise took Sister Tiphaine’s enthusiasm with a pinch of salt, since the old woman herself had always verged on unorthodoxy.
Then, one morning in late autumn, when there was little to occupy her outdoors, Peg knocked on the Abbess’s door and asked to be taught to read.
Amazed – for few of the sisters either read or had the least desire to – Helewise demurred. Thought about it for a couple of days, saw no earthly reason to refuse. Finally agreed, and took on the task herself.
Peg was an apt pupil, and was reading simple words within a few months; she would have reached that milestone earlier, had her Abbess had more time to spare for lessons. By the following spring, Peg was begging to be allowed to read the precious manuscripts kept in the Abbey’s scriptorium; despite the vehement objections of the young, aesthetic and highly intellectual Sister Bernadine, who had the care of the valuable books, Helewise gave permission.
From then on, Peg could be found most mornings, seated on a bench in a corner of the Chapter House, poring over one of Sister Bernadine’s manuscripts, with Sister Bernadine tutting and sighing close by. Peg would, Helewise thought, have read all day, had she been allowed to; but, both for Sister Bernadine’s peace of mind and because no nun, especially a postulant, could be permitted such a luxury, Helewise limited Peg’s study time to the short period between Sext and the midday meal.
