by Alys Clare
‘To share Ambrose’s wealth with her family, you mean!’ Josse shouted. ‘But, as I said before, her family gave her away! Why was she obliged to do anything for your people?’
The man shrugged. ‘It was always a possibility that she would refuse to recognise the obligations that she owed to her blood kin,’ he said. ‘It has happened before,’ he added in a murmur.
Aye, Josse thought, the other woman he spoke of. But, his mind still firmly on Galiena, he said, ‘And what did she think of these plans that you had for her child? Did she agree to her and Ambrose’s son being pushed into a position of influence?’
‘She appeared to accept it, yes,’ the man replied calmly. ‘But, all the time that she did not conceive, it was a plan that remained hypothetical.’
Josse wondered suddenly if that was why Galiena had not become pregnant. She was a herbalist, they all said so, and so perhaps, knowing what her child’s destiny would be if her blood kin had their way, she had made sure he would never be born …
No, that could not be right. Because she had gone to Hawkenlye to ask for help in conceiving. And anyway she had already been carrying a baby when she died.
With a sense of defeat, Josse leant his back against the wooden wall of the hut and slowly sank down to a sitting position. He had done so much, he thought miserably, to trace Galiena. He had even found the very place where she had been born and discovered who her father was. But, despite all that, still he was no nearer to solving the mysteries of who had fathered her own child and who had poisoned her.
He put his face in his hands and rubbed hard at his eyes, which were still smarting from the smoke. But the silver-eyed man must have misinterpreted the gesture, for he said in a hypnotic voice, ‘Soon you will sleep, Josse d’Acquin. And sleep will bring dreams and oblivion.’
Peering through his fingers, Josse saw the man walk stealthily to the door, which he pushed closed behind him. There was the sound of a latch of some sort being dropped home.
And Josse heard the soft thump of the man’s footfalls as he strode away.
He found a spy hole in the plank wall and sat for some time breathing in the sweet air from outside. The swimming sensation cleared and his eyes, nose and throat, although still feeling red and raw, began to smart less.
After a time he stood up and went to try the door. It was firmly fastened. He had his short knife in his belt and, inserting the blade in the crack between door and frame, he eased it upwards until it encountered the latch. I believe, he thought with excitement, that I could get out of here.
But there seemed little point at present, for surely someone – the silver-eyed man – would instantly put him back inside again, possibly more firmly secured and perhaps even chained like the poor girl in the other hut was. No. It seemed better to wait for darkness. Or, if providence looked down kindly on him, a nice, thick, concealing blanket of mist.
In the meantime, the best he could do was to go on breathing in the mind-clearing fresh air in the hope that by the time he was called upon to anything more active, he would be fit and ready.
He could hear voices. There had been the sound of a fast horse arriving, then the rider had called out to someone in the settlement. A voice had answered – Josse thought it sounded like the silver-eyed man – and then there had been an exchange which finished with something about the hunters being engaged on the far side of some boggy ground and held there by the mist.
Providence, it seemed, was on Josse’s side.
He waited to hear if the rider would leave again but there was nothing. Maybe he was seeing to his horse – he had come into the settlement at quite a pace.
He put his eye to the knothole and peered through it. Aye, he could see the mist for himself now, swirling up from the marsh and beginning to obscure the trunks of the trees and the feet of the scrubby undergrowth. Soon, he thought. And silently he spoke to Brice: come soon.
He stood up and went back to the door. He inserted the knife blade again and this time went on pushing steadily even after he began to feel resistance. There was a sudden clank – too loud in the silent encampment! – and, as the latch came free of its holder, the door opened.
Holding the edge of the door tightly, Josse pushed it open just a crack. The mist was inching around the buildings now and growing deeper by the minute; he watched a woman on the far side of the enclosure pulling a child by the hand, urging it to hurry up and get indoors. The woman appeared to be wading in creamy milk and the only part of the child that was visible was its head.
Josse waited until there was nobody about outside. Then he opened the door more widely and edged carefully through the gap. Naked without his sword, he looked around in the hope that the silver-eyed man had stowed it somewhere near. He thought at first that his luck had failed this time but then he saw the sheath, lying across the top of a wooden barrel placed a short distance out from the end wall of the hall, presumably in a spot where rain water channelled down off the reed thatch.
With a quick prayer of thanks, Josse tiptoed over and carefully retrieved both sheath and sword, buckling on his sword belt and clasping it for a moment, as if for reassurance.
I must act quickly, he thought. If Brice has taken his cue from the mist’s descent and is on his way, then I need to be ready for him.
He made for the other hut and, as he had done before, eased the wooden bar out of its supports. He opened the door and went inside. The girl lay in almost the exact same position that she had done before; with a stab of alarm he put his fingers to the place in her neck where there should be a pulse and, relief flooding him, felt a faint beat. There was no time to check further on her condition; he bent instead to examine the shackle on her ankle.
His enforced spell of waiting in the other hut had allowed him to have a look around at its contents. It had indeed been a workroom and he had helped himself to a stout pair of pincers and a small adze. Calculating that a girl with a shackle on her ankle was not as much of an impediment to freedom as a girl still chained to the wall, first he attacked the chain. Using the adze, he flattened the chain across a large stone on the floor and brought the thick iron blade down hard on a link of the chain. It bent, but did not break. Josse hammered away at it repeatedly and, at last, it gave. Hastily he pulled the crushed ends apart with the pincers, then turned his attention to the shackle.
It consisted of a wide bracelet of iron, hinged on one side and fastened on the opposite side by a bolt thrust through two pairs of loops. The bolt was firmly bent over at each end to hold it fast and, without the pincers and Josse’s strong hands, it would have been quite impossible to remove.
The atmosphere seemed oppressive, somehow. Alert to every small sound, he had to concentrate hard in order to keep his hands steady. The providential mist could disappear as quickly as it had crept in and then—
No. He must not think about that.
He worked on the bolt until both ends were straight enough for it to be slid out from the loops. When at last it gave, he was distressed to see that the girl’s narrow ankle was raw from where the iron shackle had bitten into it. It looked, he thought, as if she had been chained in the hut for several days, an impression that was heightened by the full bucket of human waste that stood on the far side of the hut. Someone must have been coming in regularly to help her squat over the bucket to relieve herself. Had the same person fed and watered her, putting another dose of whatever was keeping her comatose into her drink?
It was no way to treat a girl.
Putting his pity aside – that emotion was no help to her now, when what she needed from him was action – he extended his arm behind her shoulders and lugged her into a sitting position. Her head lolled forward and the dirty, tangled hair fell like a curtain, concealing her face. ‘Come on, my girl,’ he whispered encouragingly, ‘I’ll get you out of here!’
She stirred, mumbled something, then slumped against his chest. ‘Can you not stand up?’ he muttered. ‘No’ – he answered his own question – ‘I
will have to do it for you.’
He straightened up, still holding her to him, and got her on her feet. But her legs were like rope and seemed to fold up beneath her, so he picked her up, one arm round her shoulders, one under her knees, and carried her out of the hut.
The mist was heavy now and small droplets of water settled on Josse and the girl, soaking into the rough sacking of her single garment and the filthy hair. Every inch of her flesh left exposed by the makeshift smock was as dirty as her hair and she smelt dreadful. She was going to get very cold, he realised, and that might be dangerous to her in her semi-conscious state. Slipping back inside the hut, still with the girl in his arms, he stretched out a hand and picked up whatever it was that her head had been resting on and shook it out. There was a strong aroma of wet dog but he could ignore that; he wrapped the old blanket securely round the girl like a hooded cloak, covering her head and face. It would have to do. Then he fastened the door of the hut and, trying to look in every direction at once, he crept away.
He knew where the guard had taken Horace and, skirting the boundary of the settlement, steadily he edged his way around to the rail where the horse was tethered. He did not believe that his run of luck would extend to permitting him to get the girl on to Horace’s back, mount up and ride away, which was just as well as it didn’t. He had got as far as freeing Horace’s reins from the hitching rail and flinging the girl across the horse’s back when the guard leapt out at him.
There was not much time for consideration. Josse believed that both his own and the girl’s life were in danger – there had been an ominous ring to until we reach agreement on her fate – and Josse drew back his right arm and punched the guard in the face without pausing to think about the predictable results of a large, strong man hitting someone much younger and slighter as hard as he could. There was a sharp click of breaking bone, a brief gasp from the guard as he fell, and then nothing.
Josse leapt up behind the girl, put spurs to Horace and they flew out of the settlement and away across the marsh.
He had not taken the poor visibility into consideration. At a walk, it would have been possible to look ahead and make out enough detail of the ground to move on safely. But Horace was cantering, breaking into a gallop, and very quickly both the horse and his rider realised that this was sheer folly; they could have hit disaster before they had the time to register that it was there.
Reluctantly they slowed to a walk.
Josse thought he heard something. Another horse. No, horses – more than one animal, and voices calling out.
Was it Brice and Isabella? Or was it Aelle’s hunting party making their way home?
Out of nowhere came a brief flurry of wind. The mist tore apart briefly and Josse saw that it was both. Brice was riding towards him from the escarpment, which was over on his right and behind him; Isabella sat on her horse a short distance up the track leading to the cliff top.
Ahead of Josse, riding in hard from the left, came Aelle. He had drawn his sword and he was whooping like an animal. Behind him rode five other men, their fair hair streaming as they galloped over the marshy ground.
Josse did not hesitate. Rough ground was the lesser threat now and, in any case, the rent in the mist was still there and, for the time being anyway, he could see. Heels digging into Horace’s sides, he urged the horse round to the right and, trying to steady the girl’s motionless body with his left hand, rode as fast as he could for the track up the cliff.
Brice galloped to meet him, wheeling around in a circle and coming in to ride close to Josse’s left side. Josse spared a moment to be thankful that Brice knew better than to take up his position on Josse’s right flank, since this was his armed side. Neck and neck, they flew towards the inland cliff.
Josse spared a glance behind them. Aelle had outrun his men and was gaining on Josse and Brice. Dear God, but he moved fast! His teeth were bared and he looked as if he were half out of his mind.
Josse reached the track a bare nose ahead and Brice reined in to let him set off up it first. He urged Horace into the shade of the trees and up the dark tunnel that their branches formed over the path, hearing the sounds of Brice starting out on the ascent behind him. Horace plunged valiantly up the track, moving quickly until he reached the very steep section right at the top, where he checked, then went on at a slower and more careful pace. Now Josse could see Isabella, who had gone on ahead up the path and was waiting for them on the road above. Her hawk was on her wrist.
Turning hastily, Josse had time to register that Brice was just riding out from the concealing trees when a stumble from Horace drew his attention back to more crucial matters. Steadying the horse, he leaned his weight forward across the inert girl, encouraged Horace on and very soon they were safe on the road.
He was saying something to Isabella – he could not later recall what it was – when he saw her face change. A look of horrified recognition twisted her features and with a quick, decisive gesture she flung her fist in the air and her hawk took off in swift, graceful flight. The bird gained height and then, falling like a dead weight from the summer sky, dived down on Brice.
Watching helplessly, Josse called out a warning …
But it was not Brice who rode after them up the track. It was Aelle.
He was on the steepest part of the slope now. The hawk shot down straight at his face, her talons outstretched for the kill, and there was a sudden flash of scarlet as she opened up deep cuts through his eyes and down his cheeks. Then she flew up again and fell on the horse, and a sudden shrill whinny of pain and terror made a discord with Aelle’s screaming.
Aelle’s horse reared and then shied so that its forefeet came down slewed over at an angle and missed the track. In alarm it tried to find firm ground but, panicking now, it failed. Overbalancing, it fell off the path and dropped down over the almost sheer cliff. Aelle, blood pouring down his face and frantically trying to get his feet out of the stirrups, did not release himself in time. The horse fell on its side straight on to the rock-strewn ground at the foot of the cliff with its master beneath it.
Aelle was dead. He had to be; no man could survive when his head had been burst open and the white and red matter of his brains was already mingling on the short grass.
Now Brice came thundering up the track, eyes only for Isabella. She sat on her horse, the hawk once more on the heavy gauntlet. Meeting Brice’s anxious look, she nodded and said, ‘I am unhurt. So, I believe, is Josse, and he has the girl with him. But what of you?’
‘Aelle outmanoeuvred me at the foot of the track,’ Brice said grimly. There was a vivid mark on the side of his head that would soon turn into a spectacular bruise. ‘I could not stop him – he was possessed.’
Brice nudged his horse with his knees and the animal stepped off the track and on to the level ground of the road. Josse, still feeling the shock, said, ‘What of his men?’
‘The mist has closed in again,’ Brice said shortly. His eyes had followed the direction in which Isabella was staring and he, too, took in the sight of the chieftain’s dead body. Then he looked from that grisly spectacle to Isabella, and Josse did too.
To his amazement, she was smiling. ‘It was necessary,’ she said. ‘I will explain, but not now.’ Then, her smile widening as if at some secret joy that was spreading like sun’s warmth through her whole body, she cried, ‘Oh, Brice, my dearest love, at long last all shall now be well!’
Then, without another word, she put her heels to her mare and led the way off along the road into the west. She did not stop – and neither did Josse, burdened with the unconscious girl, nor Brice – until they reached Rotherbridge.
21
At Rotherbridge, Josse, Brice and Isabella hardly spoke as they saw to the horses and then went inside. The girl seemed to be recovering a little. She had been muttering during the ride from Saltwych and Josse had moved her so that, for the latter stages of the journey, she had sat astride in front of him, leaning back against him. He hoped that perhaps
the fresh air, and being outside in the beautiful day after her long confinement in the hut, had helped her. She had suffered bouts of shivering, and Josse had contrived to fasten the old blanket more securely around her.
Inside Brice’s hall, it was cool and shady. Brice headed straight for the door to the kitchens and hollered for wine and, as soon as it was brought, poured out deep mugs of it for himself and for Josse. Isabella had declined; she insisted on first attending to the girl and so, helped by Josse, the two of them took her through into a smaller room that led off the hall. Brice was sent to fetch warm water, washing cloths and towels; Josse was commanded to collect Isabella’s saddlebag, in which she said she had spare clothes. The sacking garment and the blanket, Isabella said firmly, she would throw out to be burned.
Josse and Brice were on their second mugs of the cool wine when a sudden cry shot them both to their feet. Brice in his alarm threw his mug on to the flagstones and rushed for the door of the little side room.
He yelled, ‘Isabella! Isabella!’ And, with a shout of alarm, flung his weight against the door.
On the journey to Ryemarsh and in the course of the day and a half that she had spent there with Ambrose, Helewise felt that she had learned a great deal about him. He was, as she might have predicted, unfailingly courteous and considerate and, as soon as they were ensconced in his house, he was revealed as a man of authority who knew exactly what he wanted and usually got it instantly. His household seemed to be both deeply in awe of and genuinely fond of him which, in Helewise’s experience, was rare enough to be noteworthy.
She had not known how wealthy he was. His house spoke loudly of his means, from the finely carved wooden furniture in his hall and the richly worked tapestries on the walls to the high standards of his board.
But all the money in the world could not help him in the moment when he first set foot into the home that no longer included his wife. Helewise, walking beside him, felt him falter and she heard him mutter something under his breath. He dropped his head and put a hand up to his face, as if to conceal his emotions from the servants who stood in the hall to welcome their master home.
