by Alys Clare
There was a connection; there had to be. Frowning, Josse puzzled away at it. Aebba had set out in the party that had escorted Galiena to Hawkenlye and Galiena had dismissed her and sent her back to Ryemarsh when they came into view of the Abbey gates. Then the woman had gone with Ambrose when he went to join Galiena at Hawkenlye, this time arriving at the Abbey and staying there. Then Galiena died – Josse had a sudden vivid memory of Aebba’s expression as she stared down at her young mistress’s face – and Aebba, in the absence of any other duties, set about caring for Ambrose. Josse himself had seen her when she brought clean linen down to her master staying in the Vale.
How, then, did she come to be here at Saltwych?
Perhaps, he mused, Aebba knew of Galiena’s true lineage and, on the girl’s death, had come on the same mission that Josse had tried to carry out: to inform Galiena’s people that she was dead. But there was something amiss with that reasoning … After quite a lot of puzzling, Josse worked out what it was. Galiena had not liked Aebba; he was sure of it. He recalled the girl’s mutinous expression when Ambrose had suggested that Aebba be one of the party to escort Galiena to Hawkenlye Abbey, and he also remembered his own surprise that Galiena did not dismiss the woman and find herself a servant more to her liking. Was it reasonable, then, to assume that Galiena had entrusted the secret of her true birth to this serving woman whom she had disliked? No. It was not.
Something occurred to Josse that he had not thought of until now: did Galiena actually know her true parentage?
He stood deep in thought for some time. He finally concluded that it was a question that he could not answer. Ambrose did not appear to know, for he had sent Josse to Readingbrooke, to break the news to the people there whom he believed to be his late wife’s family.
But Ambrose, he reminded himself, had cause to do harm to Galiena, for she bore another man’s child and jealous husbands had been known to kill their wives for less. So perhaps he had known about Saltwych but had chosen to keep his knowledge to himself.
I am fumbling in the dark, Josse thought in frustration. There is so much that I do not know – that, I believe, is being deliberately obfuscated and kept from me.
He would go down to Saltwych as soon as it was dark. He would leave Horace securely tethered at a safe distance and he would creep up on the settlement as cautiously as he knew how. He would spy on the inhabitants, eavesdrop, search around those outbuildings to see what was kept in them. Audra had told him the truth, he was sure – why should she not? – and Aelle had lied. They did know about Galiena at Saltwych and the more Josse thought about it, the more convinced he became that they were somehow involved – implicated? – in her death.
They had herbal knowledge, that was plain, for had he himself not been treated with a remedy that was swifter and more effective than anything that he had been given before? And, for an old soldier who had sustained his share of wounds and sundry hurts, that was saying a lot. So could one of those strange people have made up a poison designed for slipping into something that Galiena would consume? And, not having succeeded at Ryemarsh, followed her to Hawkenlye and put the poison into Sister Tiphaine’s potion?
No. Not there, for the potion had not harmed the Abbess Helewise when she so bravely – so recklessly – drank from it.
And, anyway, why? Why should Aelle’s people want Galiena dead? Ambrose was a very wealthy man and the Saltwych community lived in dire poverty, but how could they expect to benefit from Ambrose’s wife’s death if the lord did not even know of the connection? But then perhaps he did know …
Oh, it was hopeless!
Smacking a fist furiously against the trunk of a birch tree, Josse tried to stop the whirling thoughts. I cannot solve the puzzle until I find out more, he thought, massaging his bruised knuckles. And find out more I shall.
He sat down, made himself as comfortable as he could against the birch tree and waited for darkness.
17
It was night, and Josse had crept right up to the long hall. The Saltwych community appeared to be asleep and, as far as Josse had been able to ascertain, they did not post a guard during the hours of darkness.
He had left Horace some distance away, in a hawthorn brake where the stunted, twisted trees had provided both concealment and a stout trunk to which to hitch the horse’s reins. The sky was clear and Josse could see the stars, whose faint light was the only illumination; the moon had not yet risen. As he had made his stealthy way from the thorn brake to the Saltwych settlement, silver strands of mist had risen from the marsh to twine around his legs and feet as if they were silken bonds that tried to hold him back.
He stood in the shelter of the long hall’s thatched roof for some time, perfectly still, listening. Other than the calming sounds of animals’ and humans’ snores and deep regular breathing as they slept, not a sound. Finding a gap in the warped planks of the wall, he peered through it and, by the last glow of a torch set in the wall that was slowly spluttering to extinction, made out the sleeping forms of men and women. If one of the women were Aebba, there was no way of knowing. The chieftain’s area had been closed off by a hanging that had been drawn across the doorway; presumably he and his immediate circle – including, no doubt, the man with the silvery eyes – were within, but Josse did not think it necessary to confirm it. Necessary or not, it was far too dangerous; the very idea of sneaking inside the hall and peering around the heavy hanging made sweat break out on his back. If he were to be caught, there would be no mercy and he was beginning to think he had made a bad mistake in coming.
It was not a good thing to think. Still, he was here now and he might as well try to accomplish what he had set out to do. Moving silently along the length of the hall, he stepped out from under the thatch and made his careful way to inspect the huddle of outbuildings. There were four of them, as far as he could see, and all were circular in shape, quite small – about three or four paces in diameter – and in an even worse state of repair than the long hall. One smelt of woodsmoke – the bakehouse? – and another seemed to be a workroom of some sort; Josse thought he could make out a workbench through the partly open door. He stepped inside and felt along the rough wood of the bench. His fingers touched the cold metal of tools, then something that gave a faint clink as his hand knocked against it, the tiny sound magnified by his fear. Feeling the links of a chain, he waited for his heartbeat to slow down.
The last hut, furthest away from the hall and set apart from the others, was empty. Or so he thought, stretching up to look through a knothole in the planking. But it was dark inside and he went round to the door to see if he could open it. The door was bolted on the outside with a heavy wooden bar that had been thrust through four iron hoops, two on the door and one on each of the walls on either side.
He was turning away when it occurred to him that you only bolt a door on the outside to keep somebody in.
It could, of course, be livestock; a sickly hound, a farrowing sow. But there was no animal smell and Josse did not think that whatever was inside walked on four legs.
Standing right up against the door, as if he hoped to muffle any sound he made by his body, he took hold of the wooden bar and slid it slowly and carefully to the right. Despite its weight, it moved easily, as if this action were a frequent occurrence. When it was clear of all four hoops, Josse placed it very carefully on the ground. He had, he was almost certain, made not a sound.
He pulled the door towards him, opening it just enough to cast a little of the night’s soft radiance within. The light fell upon a beaten earth floor – not very clean – and upon a dark shape, perhaps a bundle of old sacks, lying against the wall on the far side of the hut. He was just wondering why it should have been thought necessary to bolt the door on a heap of sacks when the sacks gave a low, mournful groan.
His heart gave a great lurch of alarm. As the shock subsided, he knelt down and put out a hand …
… and touched a bare ankle, around which was the chill clamp of a shackle attache
d to a chain. Following the chain upwards, Josse found its other end, securely fastened to a ring set in the wall.
Whoever the prisoner was, he – or perhaps she, for the ankle felt slender – was clad in sacking and lying on the bare floor. Muttering quiet words of assurance, Josse felt for where he thought the shoulder ought to be and gave it a gentle shake. There was a wad of some rough cloth beneath her head and, stuck to her cheek, it moved with her.
There was no response and so he shook her a little harder and, hating himself, gave the soft flesh quite a hard pinch. Again, nothing, other than a soft moan. Getting his arm round behind the girl’s back – he was sure now that it was a girl – he propped her up and said, right into her ear, ‘Can you hear me? Do not be afraid, I wish only to help you.’
The head lolled heavily forward and sticky rats’ tails of ill-smelling hair fell across the face. Was she unwell? Was that why she had been isolated in here? Suddenly fearful that he had done something foolishly rash that might result in some dread sickness developing in his own body, he cursed under his breath. Then reason came back; for one thing, you did not normally chain up a sick person – unless they were mad and dangerous – and for another, she was cool to the touch with no hint of fever.
Why was she chained there all alone? And why, if she were not ill, was she so unresponsive?
The thought came to him that she might be drugged.
Carefully he laid her heavy head back down on the hard earth. How was he to get her out? The first problem would be how to get that shackle off her ankle and he remembered the workroom with its array of tools. If he could find something that he could use, then he—
From somewhere quite close, somebody coughed.
Josse froze.
Dear God, he had left the door of the hut ajar! There was a watchman after all and he was doing his rounds, would any moment now be outside the hut!
But then there came the blessed sound of water falling on the earth. There was a grunt of satisfaction – a deep grunt, so it was a man – then he must have finished urinating for there was silence once more. Then, faintly, there came the sound of a wooden door closing.
Josse crouched for some time, utterly still. Then, when his cramped legs could stand it no longer, slowly he stood up.
He stared down at the girl, who had not stirred. There was nothing he could do for her just then, he realised that now. Any attempt to free her would make a noise, and then he would probably end up chained in there beside her.
I won’t leave you here, child, he told her silently. I don’t know what you’ve done but, whatever your crime, it’s inhuman to chain a child away in the darkness and drug her to insensibility. I will come back for you.
Then he crept out of the hut, carefully closed the door and replaced the wooden bar and hurried away.
As he ran, crouching, back to the thorn brake, he realised that the mist had thickened considerably while he had been at Saltwych. He could make out the hawthorn trees – just – but they were disappearing fast into the milky whiteness. Breaking into a sprint, he raced over the last fifty paces and gained the shelter of the trees. Horace, moving his feet in restless unease, gave a soft whicker of greeting; patting his neck, Josse unfastened the reins, swung up into the saddle and said, ‘You are not near as relieved to see me as I am you, old friend.’ Then, giving the horse a cluck of encouragement, they hurried away towards the track that led up to the top of the escarpment.
The way up through the trees was even more sinister by night and darkness reduced the visibility almost to nothing; Josse and Horace went by instinct alone. Reaching the top, it was a relief to emerge into the relative brightness of the starlight. Dismounting, Josse was about to find himself some sheltered spot in which to sleep away what remained of the night when they jumped him.
There were at least two of them, he knew that because he saw someone grasp Horace’s reins just as another man threw a length of cloth of some sort over his head and flung him to the ground. He opened his mouth to yell out his protest when a large hand was clamped across his lips and a voice – a man’s – hissed in his ear, ‘Do not make a sound! They are abroad and they must not find us!’
Josse gave an almighty lurch and the man pinning him down almost lost his grip. But, powerful though Josse was, his assailant had the strength of desperation and Josse realised after a moment that he was not going to escape the man’s hold. Relaxing, Josse gave a nod, which he hoped the man would take for assent, and waited.
The man got off him. The cloth was pulled off his head and he found himself face to face with Brice.
‘I am sorry, Josse,’ Brice whispered, ‘but we had to stop you making any sound. We have been waiting for you to warn you. They are looking for you.’
‘Why? What—’ Josse began, but Brice shook his head.
‘Not now. We are not safe here. Come with me.’
Horace, Josse saw, had been led away by Brice’s companion – was it the huntsman? It looked as though it was – and was already some distance down the road. He was heading eastwards, along the cliff-top road and towards the distant sea. Of Brice’s and the huntsman’s horses there was no sign. Urging Josse to hurry, Brice set off at a run after Horace and the huntsman.
Soon the man turned off the road and led the way up a narrow and overgrown track that wound through thick undergrowth into a copse of ancient beech and oak trees. They came to a small clearing and the man led Horace over to a makeshift corral where two other horses were tethered. Brice said, ‘Do not worry – your horse will be fed and watered,’ and, taking Josse’s arm, led him into a rough shelter made of woven branches and roofed with bracken. Motioning him towards a seat made from a length of log, he said, ‘Please, sit down. I will fetch food and drink for us as well.’
He was gone for only a short while, returning with bread – rather dry – and some strips of dried meat. He also brought ale in a flask. Setting these offerings out neatly on the grassy floor of the shelter, he said, ‘Again, I apologise, Josse, for treating you so roughly and I thank you for coming here with us. You had only my word that there was danger in remaining exposed out there on the cliff top.’
Josse studied him. Then he said, ‘I have no reason to doubt your word, Brice. I do not now believe that you mean me harm.’
Brice dropped his head. He said quietly, ‘Thank you for that.’
‘But,’ Josse went on, ‘be that as it may, I need an explanation.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Brice sounded distracted. Getting up, he went to the entrance of the shelter and looked out, returning with a glum expression. ‘I had hoped to have help in this tale that I am about to tell you,’ he murmured, ‘but it seems that it is to be left to me.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Which I suppose is only fair, since much of what has occurred has come about because of my own insistence in having that upon which I had set my heart.’
‘Ah,’ Josse said, and even to him the brief syllable sounded knowing. He was beginning to think that he understood.
Brice looked up at him sharply. Then he said quietly, ‘Aye, Josse d’Acquin. They do say that little escapes your notice.’ Then, after a short pause as if he were gathering his words, he said, ‘You are aware, I know, of the tragedy that befell my wife.’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, I felt much guilt over the manner of her death and, until I did penance with the good monks at Canterbury, I was near to drowning in remorse and self-pity, neither of which was going to bring Dillian back. Did you ever wonder how I picked myself up and got on with my life, Josse?’
‘I—’ The truth was that Josse had barely spared Brice’s private life a thought. They had met from time to time, as neighbours tend to do, exchanged greetings, made small talk. ‘No,’ he said honestly.
Again, Brice smiled. ‘Well, men are not in the habit of searching their souls concerning their own or one another’s emotions. We consider, do we not, that sensitive and complicated things of that nature are best left to the womenfolk?’ Not waiting
for an answer, he plunged on, ‘I did mourn my wife, sincerely and for a long time. But then I met someone else and I fell in love with her.’
You met Galiena, Josse thought, although he did not speak.
‘She was – matters were delicate,’ Brice went on. ‘We were not free to be together, to enjoy a steady fostering of our feelings for each other; in short, not free to admit our love. We could only meet by careful arrangement and we were helped in this by a sympathetic friend who did us the great kindness of relaying messages between us. She – my lady – liked to ride and it was known that she often set off alone to hunt with her falcon.’
‘Indeed?’ Josse had not known that Galiena enjoyed such pastimes but then, he thought, why should he have been told?
‘Indeed,’ Brice repeated. Misunderstanding Josse’s query, he said, ‘It sounds unlikely, perhaps, for one who does not know her, and I suppose that it is unusual for a woman to hunt alone. But that is her way.’
He spoke of her, Josse noticed, as though she were still alive. It touched him profoundly for, even though the man’s love for her had been adulterous, it also appeared to have been deep and sincere.
‘We spent many happy hours out in the wild country together,’ Brice was saying, ‘and our urgent need not to be seen caused us to find lonely places where men do not go.’ He raised his eyes to Josse, his own naked with the emotions that were driving him. ‘We became lovers, Josse, for we could not wait for matters to work out so that we could ask the Church for her blessing on our union. We—’
But Josse could not contain himself. Even if the two of them had truly loved each other, Galiena was wife to Ambrose; what of him? Were his feelings not to be considered at all? ‘And just how were you expecting this working out of matters to be accomplished, eh?’ he demanded. ‘Were you waiting for Ambrose to die so that you could marry the mistress whom you had already impregnated?’
Brice stared at him, his mouth open. He shook his head as if in disbelief, then said, ‘Ambrose? Why should we wish that Ambrose—’
