by Alys Clare
She allowed herself to be led only a few paces away from the steps where Tobias lay. Then, turning back, she murmured, ‘I do not want to leave him.’
‘You need not, lady,’ Josse said, ‘for now, we shall remain close by him, and—’
As if she had not heard, Petronilla said, ‘He cannot leave me now. He must stay here, in my hall, and I shall have his bright company all the time.’
A shock ran through Josse, the frightening sense that, suddenly, he was in the presence of madness. ‘He must be tended to properly, Petronilla,’ he said gently. ‘He cannot remain here long. It is not—’ He searched for a word with sufficient weight, gave up and ended weakly, ‘It is not fitting.’
She was still staring at Tobias. Crooning gently, a faint smile crossed her face.
‘Come, we’ll plan together where he is to be buried,’ Josse suggested. ‘Somewhere close, think you, so that you may often go to visit the place, and recall your happy times? Or—’
She had spun round, and now her attention was fully on Josse. ‘Happy times?’ she echoed. Some violent inner struggle evident in her face, she began to speak, then stopped. But, as emotion seared through her again, the words she was trying to hold in burst out of her.
‘There was pain in this house!’ she cried. ‘I told you that! Pushing her face close to his, her terrible anguish as readable as an illuminated script, she said, ‘You said you knew my husband visited the Great Forest, and you asked me why. Do you want to know? Do you?’ She was all but spitting at him. ‘Well, Sir Knight, you shall know! I will tell you what he did in the forest.’
She paused, drawing in a sudden sharp breath. As if bracing herself, she briefly shut her eyes, clasping her hands on her breast as if in silent prayer.
Then, quite calmly, she said, ‘He lay with a woman. A young and vivacious woman whose soft flesh yielded to his caresses, whose moist body opened to his, whose full lips kissed his eager mouth.’ A violent sob broke out of her, shaking the thin frame. She added, her voice a mere whisper, ‘A beautiful woman, who could give him all the passion he wouldn’t take from me.’
Josse was shaken to his very core. Was she right? Could she possibly know, for sure? He said, ‘How can you be certain of this?’
Her face took on a look of cunning. ‘You forget,’ she said. ‘You asked me did I still have him followed, and I said—’
‘You said, rarely.’ Josse concluded for her.
Dear God. Poor, miserable soul! Was it the womanising that she had suspected, all along? Had it only been Josse’s prejudiced view, already branding Tobias as being in league with Hamm Robinson, that had led him to misread her comments? To believe that she meant her husband had been a thief, when in fact, handsome and comely man that he was, his offence was that he had been unable to resist a pretty face?
I was wrong, Josse thought, guilt flooding through him. And, because I was wrong, a man lies dead in his own hall. He shot a glance at Petronilla. If I had guessed earlier, he berated himself, then maybe I could have spoken to Tobias. Persuaded him that it was folly to persist in what he was doing. Tell him that he must make a clean break from the loving bonds that held him, and be true to his wife. True to his promise to her.
But I didn’t.
He said, although it was not really relevant, ‘Whom did he meet?’
Petronilla looked surprised. ‘You ask me that, Sir Knight? For all your cleverness, you have not worked it out?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
A faint smile briefly quirked the thin lips. ‘I told you, did I not, that Tobias was raised by his old aunt?’
‘Aye.’
‘Yes. Well, the aunt lived a mean and penny-pinching life, but the one thing that shone like a jewel in her household was her maidservant. A jewel, indeed, that the old woman must herself have much appreciated. The girl was young and joyful, and she used to sing as she went about her work, even though, given that her days were long, the labour was hard, and the old woman gave never a word of praise, one would have thought she had little to sing about.’ A soft sigh. ‘She was irresistible to Tobias, naturally, and he to her. They fell for one another and they became lovers. In time, the old aunt fell sick, and, possibly in some gesture of repentance for her unkind ways, she demanded to go on a pilgrimage to take the holy waters. The girl took her off to Hawkenlye Abbey, where, in the Lord’s good time, He took her to himself.’ Another brief smile. ‘No doubt everyone was pleased to see the back of her, although the kind thoughts any good soul might have had about her would soon have flown out of the window when her will was read, since she left not a sou to Tobias, or to anyone else who had cared for her. She left the lot to that wretched Abbey.’
But Josse was hardly listening. He was thinking, remembering. In his head he heard the Abbess Helewise’s voice … She arrived with her late mistress, who died when she was with us.
Esyllt was left with nowhere to go.
‘He was in love with Esyllt!’ he said. ‘It was she who had been the old aunt’s servant, wasn’t it? And it was to visit her, the love of his youth whom he couldn’t forget, that Tobias kept going up to the forest!’
Carried away by the lovely, romantic picture, he hadn’t paused to think that it would scarcely appear lovely to Petronilla. Hastily he said, ‘Lady, forgive me, I forgot, for the instant, that it was of your husband that we speak. He was, of course, false to you, an adulterer and a liar. And that was a sin, a grave sin, both against holy law and against you, madam.’
But she wasn’t listening. She was humming to herself, an incongruously bright little tune which Josse thought he recognised, although the good Lord alone knew from where.
‘“It is love he doth bring, And the sweet birds do sing, And my love he loves me in the spring,”’ the faint, reedy voice sang. Petronilla’s eyes turned to Josse. ‘She sang that to him, you know, and I would hear him singing it when he thought I couldn’t hear. But I could. Then I knew he had been with her again.’ Tears were running down the ashen face. ‘He promised,’ she whispered. ‘After the last time, he promised.’ She grasped Josse’s sleeve. ‘He did love me, you see, really he did, and, when I said he must stop seeing her or else I would turn him out, he promised that he would.’ Her face softened suddenly. ‘I couldn’t have turned him out, though. I loved him far too much.’
Josse patted the hand knotted tightly in his sleeve. ‘I understand, lady.’ He did, all too clearly. The elderly wife, knowing her husband’s nature, trying to pen him into a bargain, only to find he was unable to keep to its terms. Reneging, being found out, promising to do better, tempted back again to the sweet and joyous young woman waiting for him.
Had Tobias really loved Petronilla? Seen her as a woman – a wife, indeed – and not just as a wealthy provider?
It seemed as unlikely as it had always done.
But then Josse recalled the young man’s face as he had looked at his wife, smiling at her so affectionately as he spoke of how he had comforted her when her father had died, how, together, the two of them were having such a grand time improving her late father’s house.
I don’t know, he confessed to himself. I just don’t know.
‘He told me this morning that he had been with her again,’ Petronilla said softly. ‘He had just come in, and I imagined he had been out riding in the cool of the early morning. He summoned me to the breakfast table, and I remarked on the glow in his face.’ She sobbed, choked on her emotion, then, after a pause, went on. ‘A terrible dread took me, and I said, oh, Tobias, tell me it isn’t true! Tell me I’m wrong, and that you haven’t been back to her! And, at first, he swore he hadn’t, and I believed him, believed all was well, so I threw myself into his arms and hugged him, and – oh – and I – he—’
For a moment, she couldn’t go on. Then, as if she knew she must, she said, with a touching dignity, ‘He did not return my embrace. He tried to, but his arms were so stiff, and he held his beautiful body away from me. As if, despite his best efforts, he couldn’t hel
p but compare my thin bones with the luxury of her warm, soft flesh. And, finding me wanting, be unable to hold me to him as he had done her. And then I knew.’
The tears were now drenching the breast of her dark gown, but she did not try to mop them up. And, Josse thought, she could no more have stopped them than flown through the air.
‘My lady, I am so sorry,’ he murmured.
She looked at him. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It is, I dare say, a matter for sorrow.’ She sighed. ‘I could not stop myself, Sir Knight. All those broken promises, all those times when he had sought his joy with her, and now – oh! now! – he was turning away from me.’ Belatedly she drew a tiny, embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and, although it was clearly inadequate for the task, began to wipe her eyes, her nose and her wet face. ‘I picked up the footstool that stood beneath table, and, as he moved out of my arms and went to go down the steps, I hit him with it.’
‘Caught him right on the back of his head,’ Josse murmured. ‘Aye, lady. I know.’
She eyed him steadily. ‘I killed him,’ she said. ‘Did I not, Sir Knight? I killed the love of my life, because he could not be true.’
There was a long silence between them. Josse stared down at the dead man lying at their feet, then, furtively, up at the wrecked face of the man’s widow.
She had suffered, poor soul. Would go on suffering, bereft as she was of her handsome young husband, left alone to grieve. And, combined with the grief, the guilt. The blow to the back of the head might not have been the one which killed him, but it had led to that terrible fall on to the corner of the step. Enough reason, surely, to give rise to a guilt powerful enough to eat away at mind, soul, and, eventually, body.
Surely that was punishment enough.
Briefly he allowed himself to imagine what would lie ahead for her, if he did as he ought and summoned a sheriff. Arrest, imprisonment, trial. And, after a terrible time in some foul jail, she would, if they found her guilty, be led out one bright morning and hanged.
No.
It was unthinkable. And, besides, it wouldn’t bring Tobias back.
Josse had, throughout Petronilla’s quietly spoken confidences, been standing on her left side. Now, with growing ostentation, he began tweaking at his right ear.
‘Dear me,’ he said, quite loudly ‘this ear of mine!’
After some time, she turned to look at him. ‘What ails you, Sir Knight?’
He met her eyes, held the gaze. Would not let her look away. Then, very carefully, he said, ‘It’s funny, but I just don’t seem to hear well on my right side. Do you know, lady, I haven’t picked up a word you’ve said, not since you entered the hall and thanked me for coming.’
She looked astonished. ‘But—’ she began.
He held up his hand. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Lady, let it be.’
For a moment, the grief, the shock and the horror left her face, and she looked as she must have done long ago, before the doomed love for Tobias had awakened in her. She whispered, ‘Oh, Sir Josse. There is still some kindness in this world.’
Leaning forward, she put a light kiss on Josse’s cheek.
Then, straight-backed and dignified, she turned, crossed the hall and disappeared through the doorway that led to her chamber.
* * *
He stood in the hall for a long time after she had gone, staring down at Tobias.
Then, abruptly, he, too, left.
Going out into the soft, late sunshine of evening, he called for Paul, and, when he arrived at the foot of the steps, told him that Tobias had died as a result of his fall down the steps, and that, in the summer heat, Paul should now make all haste to have the body coffined and buried.
Advanced though the hour was, Josse decided to set out for Hawkenlye. He was tired, hungry, and faced a long ride, but that, he thought, was preferable to the alternative.
He would have endured far worse, in order to escape from the corpse and the desolate widow he had just left behind.
Chapter Twenty-one
Hawkenlye Abbey was in total darkness when Josse got back, which, given the hour, was hardly surprising. Heading down into the vale, he unsaddled Hector, put a hobble on him to stop him roaming far, then, slapping the horse’s rump, turned him out into the sweet grass of the little valley.
Then he made straight for the bed-roll he had abandoned in such a rush all those hours before. Wrestling around till he’d got himself comfortable, he closed his eyes and was soon deeply asleep.
* * *
Brother Saul woke him with bread, a slice of salty cheese and a mug of weak ale.
‘You were late back last night, Sir Josse,’ he said as Josse ate.
‘Aye.’
‘I have taken your horse up to the Abbey stables,’ Saul went on, ‘where Sister Martha is again tending to his every whim.’
Josse grinned. ‘A fine touch with horses, that woman.’
‘And with a particular fondness for yours,’ Saul agreed.
‘Thank you, Saul,’ Josse added, ‘both for seeing to old Horace and for bringing me my breakfast.’
Saul bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Sir Josse, I also bring a message from the Abbess, who says that, when you are ready, would you please—’
‘—go and see her,’ Josse finished, getting up and brushing food crumbs off himself. ‘Aye, Saul, that I will.’
He found the Abbess seated at the table in her room. She looked up at him, compassion in her face. ‘You look tired,’ she observed.
‘I’ll do,’ he replied, grinning. Then, straightening his face, he told her what had happened in the Durand hall.
‘Tobias dead!’ she whispered. ‘By such a mishap!’
He had been trying to decide all the way home the previous night if he would tell her the truth. Now, looking down at her, this wise, understanding woman, with whom he had shared so much, he decided he couldn’t have her go on believing a lie.
So he told her how Tobias Durand had died.
She made no comment. He felt strangely robbed, as if he had been expecting her affirmation that, in not revealing Petronilla’s part in the death, he had acted right.
As if, perhaps, he had needed that affirmation.
But, after a silence that he, for one, was beginning to find uncomfortable, she said, ‘It just goes to show, Sir Josse, does it not, how unwise it is to have unruly hounds free to trip a man at the top of his own steps?’
And he had all the affirmation he could have wished for.
* * *
Then he told her of Esyllt’s involvement.
‘A lover!’ she said, astonished. ‘Dear Lord, Josse, why didn’t we – I beg your pardon, why didn’t I – think of that? A young woman such as she, so lovely, so ripe, so at ease with life, why, it stands to reason that she was as she was because she both loved and knew herself to be loved in return. That, with him out there in the forest, she—’ Abruptly she stopped. With a faint blush, she said, ‘Well, best not to think of that, with the poor young man dead.’
‘It is charitable of you, Abbess, to think kindly on him, considering how he sinned,’ Josse said.
She looked up at him. ‘Who are we to judge?’ she asked. ‘And, in truth, he has paid dearly for his sin.’ She shook her head. ‘Such a waste, and—’ She stopped. Aghast, she whispered. ‘Does Esyllt know he is dead?’
‘Good God!’ Josse had uttered the blasphemy before he had stopped to think. ‘Your pardon, Abbess, I did not mean to offend.’
Frowning, preoccupied, she waved her hand in dismissal. ‘I know that, Josse, I know. She – Esyllt – was absent from the Abbey yesterday, and, as far as I know, has not yet returned. Sister Emanuel is gravely concerned about her, as indeed am I. She gave him a brief but sweet smile. ‘May I prevail upon you once more, and ask you if you will go and look for her?’
‘Of course.’ He smiled back.
‘Naturally, I will help,’ she said, getting up. ‘As soon as we have said Sext, I will set out.’
* * *
But Josse, who did not have to wait until after Sext, began to look for Esyllt straight away.
They met, those two lovers, up in the forest, he thought, walking out through the Abbey gates. In some clearing, probably not very far in, just far enough to be safe from the world’s eyes.
And—
He would not, after all, have to go back into the forest. For, walking slowly down one of the smaller tracks, on a route that would take her round the side of the Abbey and in at the rear gate, was Esyllt.
He ducked back through the front entrance, turned, and started walking, in no special hurry; it would take the girl more time to reach the old people’s home than it would him. At the far end of the infirmary he stopped, and, his body hidden by its stout walls, peered round to look out at the rear gate.
A few moments later, she appeared.
She still moved slowly, almost like a sleepwalker. Her head was bent so that he couldn’t see her face, but her whole demeanour spoke of misery and dejection.
As she drew level with the infirmary, he emerged from his hiding place and fell into step beside her.
Hearing his footsteps, she looked up.
‘Hello, Sir Josse,’ she said. Her voice was low.
‘Hello, Esyllt.’
They walked on towards the door of the retirement home.
‘Have you come to see my old dearies?’ she asked, with a faint shadow of her former sparkle. ‘You promised, you would, you know. And a true man doesn’t break his word, unless he cannot help it.’ A spasm crossed her face.
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he said. ‘I will come, Esyllt, but not today. For now, I have to talk to you.’ He took hold of her arm, and they went round to sit on one of the sun-bathed stone benches.
He said gently, ‘I have come from Tobias’s house, Esyllt. I know about – I know what you and he were to one another.’
She nodded slowly. ‘Yes.’ Then: ‘What we were.’ Her eyes flew to his. ‘Oh, dear sweet Lord, then I was right!’
