by Alys Clare
Happily ever after, Helewise thought. Just like a fairy tale. Appropriate, when this man and his wife were a pair of children. ‘You got angry,’ she repeated. ‘Lost your temper with her.’
‘It was frightening, her saying she wanted to tell him everything! I mean, how would it look? He’d never have believed I didn’t kill her, none of you would!’
‘But you did kill her,’ Josse said coldly. ‘You throttled her.’
Milon gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Yes, I know! I didn’t intend to, my temper got the better of me. I was just trying to stop her crying so loudly. But I didn’t mean Elanor. I’m not talking about Elanor.’
Helewise felt a small – a very small – song of triumph. I knew it! she thought. Knew it! She wondered what Josse was thinking.
‘Elanor,’ Milon was murmuring, smiling and humming to himself. ‘She’s my wife, you know,’ he said to the room at large. ‘My loving, clever, pretty wife. She’s going to have my baby. I’m going to go home to her, very soon now, and she’s going to take me into her bed and make me warm again. She’s going to light all the candles, and drive the dark and the shadow men away.’
Helewise made herself block it out.
Had Josse realised? she wondered. Did he know, before an answer was demanded of Milon, what it would be?
‘Milon?’ she said softly. ‘Milon, listen to me. If you weren’t talking about Elanor, what did you mean?’
‘I meant’ – Milon spoke as if to a dim child – ‘that I didn’t kill Gunnora.’
* * *
Helewise stepped back then, and Josse took up the questioning. I have no heart for this, she thought as she listened, this brutal hurling of words at someone who is already broken. Besides, I know that, even if Sir Josse carries on till Christmas, Milon will not vary his story.
Because he is telling the truth. We have to look elsewhere for the killer of Gunnora.
‘You ask us to believe,’ Josse was saying, with heavy sarcasm, ‘that, although you admit that you and Elanor cooked up a plot to separate Gunnora from her inheritance, yet you are innocent of her murder? When we know you were in the immediate vicinity at the time of her death, and she was killed only yards from your secret hiding place? With the marks on her arms where Elanor held her, and the slit in her throat which you made with that great knife of yours? Milon, give us credit for more sense!’
‘It’s true!’ Milon cried for the fourth time. ‘She was dead when we found her!’
‘You’re telling us that you and your wife – her own cousins, damn it! – found her, lying with her throat cut, yet did nothing for her?’
‘She was dead! What could we do?’
‘You could have run for help! Gone searching for the brothers at the shrine, come up to the Abbey and alerted the Abbess! Covered the poor lass up! Anything!’
‘But you’d have thought we killed her,’ Milon protested.
Suddenly Helewise had a mental image of Gunnora’s body, as they had found her. The skirts, so neatly folded. Without thinking, she said, ‘Elanor arranged her. She tidied Gunnora’s skirts, just as a nun is taught to fold her bedding, and then smeared the blood on her thighs. Didn’t she?’
Milon turned to her. He seemed to have gone a degree more ashen. His eyes held some sort of appeal; he said, ‘Yes, Abbess. She felt bad about it. We both did. But she said if we made it look like Gunnora had been raped, then even if anyone did start to think we’d killed her, they’d soon stop again, because we’d just have wanted her money. If she’d been raped and then killed, it couldn’t have been us.’
Helewise nodded thoughtfully. ‘Thank you, Milon. I understand.’
Josse was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Elanor did that?’ he said incredulously. ‘Gunnora’s own cousin? Turned back the poor woman’s skirts and spread her own blood on her? Dear God, what sort of a girl was she?’
‘A desperate one,’ Helewise murmured. Who, remembering the instruction she was being given in convent life – always fold your bedcovers like this, fold back, fold back again, just so – had, in some gesture of appeasement, tried to be neat in the arrangement of her dead cousin’s habit.
‘What of the cross?’ Josse demanded. ‘It wasn’t Gunnora’s own, and it wasn’t Elanor’s; hers was smaller. Did you drop it by her body?’
‘Yes.’
‘You brought it with you? Where on earth did you get hold of it?’
‘I didn’t bring it! It was Gunnora’s! It must have been, she was wearing it – she had it round her neck. Elanor said she’d have it, since the rubies were better than the ones in her cross, but I wouldn’t let her. Well, she realised, soon as I said, that it’d be a daft thing to do, it’d lead people straight to us if Elanor was seen with Gunnora’s cross. So we just dropped it.’ He sniffed. ‘That’s what I came back for. Elanor’s cross. She didn’t have it on her when I – She didn’t have it that night, or, if she did, I couldn’t find it. I was going to have another look down near our secret place, then follow the path she’d have taken down from the dormitory, searching all the way. Not that I had much hope of finding it there. I was going to come into the Abbey and try to get into the dormitory, then have a look in her bed.’ He seemed to slump suddenly. ‘I had to get it,’ he said wearily. ‘You’d have known who she was, if you’d got your hands on her cross. And then you’d have come straight for me.’
Josse turned away from him then, paced back to the door of the little room and stood, arms folded, shoulder leaning against the wall, staring down at the dusty floor.
Helewise watched Milon. He seemed surprised at the sudden cessation of the questions. Looking from Helewise to Josse and back again, he said, ‘What will happen to me?’
Helewise glanced at Josse, but he did not seem about to answer. So she said, ‘You will remain here until the sheriff and his men can be summoned. Then you will be taken under escort to the town jail, and, in due course, you will be tried for murder.’
‘It wasn’t murder,’ he said, hardly above a whisper. ‘I didn’t mean to kill her. I loved her. She was carrying our baby.’
Then, once again, he began to weep.
Chapter Fifteen
Josse and the Abbess walked side by side back to her room. Neither, it seemed, wanted to be the first to break the silence.
Josse wondered if she was experiencing the same feelings that he was. From what he could see of her face, and from the slump of her normally squared shoulders, he guessed so.
He was feeling – he was at a loss to name the emotion searing through him. It was a mixture, and, indeed, a mixture of elements which did not normally go smoothly together. There was anger – yes, anger was still there. But also an undermining, growing pity. And, to his distress, guilt; although he fought it, reminded himself again and again of those two pathetic dead bodies, he had the unwelcome sense that, by manhandling Milon up to the Abbey and throwing him in that cell, he had acted like a bully.
It was the lad’s weeping that was so disturbing, damn it! You couldn’t even call it that, really – it was like no crying that Josse had ever heard before. It was a quiet, high-pitched keening sound, like the wind blowing through thin reeds.
And, although the cell and the undercroft were now a considerable number of paces behind, it seemed to Josse that he could still hear it.
As much to drown out the echo of the sound as for any other reason, he said to the Abbess as they approached her room, ‘I still think he did it. Killed Gunnora as well as Elanor, I mean. Whatever he says.’
He heard the Abbess’s small tut of impatience. ‘He didn’t,’ she said firmly. ‘Whilst I am the first to agree that it would be a tidy solution were he responsible for both deaths, he isn’t.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Josse demanded angrily. God, she was a stubborn woman!
‘I—’ Slowly she went round to the far side of her table, as slowly seating herself and indicating for him to do the same. He had a suspicion she was using the time to gather her argument together, wh
ich was quite a daunting thought. ‘It’s all wrong,’ she said eventually. ‘I can imagine him putting his hands round Elanor’s neck and gripping just that bit too hard. He’s frightened, let’s say, desperately worried because the careful plan seems to be falling apart. And, by his own admission, he’s cross with her. He’s not entirely in command of himself. They have just made love, and that can leave people in a vulnerable emotional state, especially the young.’ He was surprised that she should speak so matter-of-factly on the subject. Equally surprised that she should speak so accurately.
He realised she was watching him, a slight suspicion of irony in the large eyes. As if she knew exactly what he was thinking. ‘But,’ she went on, ‘no matter how I try, I cannot believe he coldly drew a knife across Gunnora’s throat and made that appalling cut.’
‘I can,’ Josse said heatedly.
But could he really? Now that she was making him look at it rationally, he began to wonder. Did he believe in Milon’s guilt, or was it merely convenient for the youth to have killed both women? Because it would save Josse looking any further for a second murderer?
Interrupting his thoughts, the Abbess said, ‘Have you the stomach for food, Sir Josse? It is the hour for breakfast.’
He looked at her. ‘Have you?’
The clear grey eyes met his. ‘No, but I intend to make myself eat.’ The wide brow creased momentarily. ‘We need our strength, you and I, and going without food will not supply us with it.’ She gave a faint sigh. ‘This business is not yet over.’
* * *
He went down to his quarters in the vale after the meal, and, stretching out on his hard bed, went almost instantly to sleep. He was awakened by a tap on his shoulder; Brother Saul stood over him, and beside him, looking somewhat grubby and travel-stained, stood Ossie.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, Sir Josse,’ Saul said, ‘but the messenger here said it was urgent.’
Josse sat up, rubbing at his eyes. It felt as if someone had thrown a handful of small, sharp grit into them. ‘Thank you, Saul,’ he said, getting stiffly to his feet. ‘Ossie, good morning.’
‘Sir,’ the boy muttered, grabbing the floppy cap from his head, and twisting it between his hands.
‘You have a message for me?’ Josse prompted.
Ossie’s face closed down into a frown of concentration and he said, ‘My Lord Brice of Rotherbridge sends word to Sir Josse d’Acquin, presently residing with the sisters at Hawkenlye.’ He paused, then went on, ‘My Lord says Sir Josse called on him twice while he was from home. Will he try a third time, now that my Lord is here?’ The frown deepened. ‘Now that he is there,’ he corrected himself.
Josse smiled at the boy. ‘Thank you, Ossie. You have carried the message well. Aye, I will come.’
Ossie gave him a quick grin. ‘I’ll go and say to Master,’ he said, beginning to turn away.
‘I shall be behind you on the road,’ Josse called after him.
Saul was still hovering, face alight with curiosity.
‘May I have water for a wash and a shave, Brother Saul?’ Josse asked. ‘It appears that I have to go on another journey.’
* * *
He covered the now familiar miles to Rotherbridge in good time. The weather had turned, and was slightly cooler; it was a lovely morning for a ride.
Crossing the river where he had tactfully turned his head away from Brice’s grief, he wondered how the man fared now. Was he becoming accustomed to his wife’s cruel death? Was he beginning to believe that, for a true repentant, there was forgiveness? Josse fervently hoped so; the prospect of being the guest of a man in such straits as Brice had been, that day, was not a happy one.
He reached Rotherbridge Manor, and rode into the yard. This time, it was not Mathild who came out to meet him, but a man. Well-dressed, in plain but good-quality tunic, hose and boots, the man was dark-haired and had a look of Brice about him. But, whereas Brice’s hair had had that distinctive badger-stripe of white, this man’s was smoothly dark brown throughout.
It must be the brother. What was his name? Yes; Josse had it.
‘Good day, my Lord Olivar,’ he called out. ‘I have come at your brother Brice’s invitation – I am Josse d’Acquin, and he sent me word at Hawkenlye Abbey, where I am lodging with the monks in the vale, and—’
The dark man was smiling. ‘I know who you are,’ he interrupted. ‘Please, Sir Josse, step down. Ossie will tend to your horse. Ossie!’ The boy, Josse reflected, was having a busy morning; he appeared out of the stable block, broom in hand, nodded to Josse and took away his horse. The dark man watched, then turned back to Josse. ‘Come and take refreshment.’
He led the way up the steps into the hall, and waved a hand at the chair where Josse had sat before, when he talked to Mathild. Of her, there was no sight; probably, with the master and his brother at home again, she had her hands full down in the kitchen.
‘Have you any idea, my Lord Olivar, why your brother wished to see me?’ Josse asked, more for the sake of conversation than any urgent desire to know. Obviously, having summoned Josse, Brice would no doubt soon arrive, and explain himself to Josse in person.
The dark man was smiling again, as if amused at some private joke. Offering Josse a mug of ale, he said, ‘I think, Sir Josse, that I must correct a misapprehension into which you have somehow fallen.’ He raised his own mug, took a drink, then said, ‘I am not Olivar. I am Brice.’
Josse’s immediate, foolish impulse was to say, No you’re not! You can’t be, I saw Brice, down by the river, in the deepest distress over the death of his young wife!
He held the words back. Clearly, he’d made a mistake. Jumped to a conclusion on purely circumstantial evidence. Wrong!
But, if this were indeed Brice, then who was the grieving man? There was a resemblance, yes – it was perfectly possible they were brothers.
He said, ‘My Lord Brice, I apologise.’ Brice shook his head, still smiling. Josse continued, ‘If it is not impertinent, might I ask if your bother Olivar resembles you?’
‘They do say so, yes, although I do not really see it myself. We are both dark, however. Only he has a streak of white, just here.’ He indicated above his left ear. ‘He’s had it since he was a lad of fifteen. It grew after he’d had a bad fall from his horse when we were out hunting. The physician said it was shock, but I’ve always doubted that. It takes more than a fall to shock my brother, Sir Josse.’
‘Ah. Oh. Yes, I see.’ Josse, aware of making the right responses, was thinking. Not a man to shock readily? Perhaps not, when it was a question of physical fortitude. But the man Josse had seen down by the river had been in shock all right. He’d been grieving so deeply that it had seemed he would never stop.
Olivar of Rotherbridge, then, had a secret heartbreak which, or so it seemed, even his elder brother was unaware of.
‘I asked you to visit me,’ Brice was saying, ‘because I wish to make a donation to Hawkenlye Abbey.’
‘You do?’ With some effort, Josse pulled his thoughts together.
‘I do. I was planning to pay a call on Abbess Helewise, but there are matters here at Rotherbridge requiring my attention, and I have already been away for some time.’
‘Aye.’
‘I was with the holy brothers at Canterbury,’ Brice went on. ‘Doing penance.’
‘Aye, I know.’ Josse felt compelled to admit it; there was no need for this man to punish himself further by giving the details to a stranger.
But Brice, it seemed, wanted to. ‘I did love Dillian,’ he said, leaning forward and fixing earnest brown eyes on Josse. ‘We had our difficulties, as no doubt do all married couples. You are married?’ Josse shook his head. ‘She could be wilful and over-frivolous, and she would not address herself to matters of importance. But I was at fault, too. I dare say I was too old and serious for her, God rest her soul, and I admit that I was not always kind to her.’
He was relating his story, Josse thought, with an ease that suggested acceptance. If th
at were so, then the heavy-handed monks had done their job well.
‘Her death was an accident, I’m told,’ Josse said.
‘Accident, yes. I know it was. But it was my rash anger which led to it. I have made my confession, and done my penance.’ He gave a grim smile, as if at the memory. ‘I am reliably informed that for me to go on heaping ashes on my head would amount to self-indulgence. And I am only to wear the hair shirt on Sundays.’
This time the smile was open and unrestrained. Josse, wondering if possibly he were being deliberately charmed, found himself liking the man. And, if Brice had won himself God’s forgiveness for his part in his wife’s tragic death, then who was Josse to go on condemning him?
‘You spoke of a gift to the Abbey,’ he said.
‘I did. I was explaining why I asked you to visit me, which was purely because, unable to make the journey to Hawkenlye, I could scarcely ask the Abbess to ride over here. So, Sir Josse, I asked you.’
It was reasonable. ‘I have no objection,’ Josse said.
‘Good. In that case, let us proceed to the business. My late sister-in-law, Gunnora of Winnowlands, would have been left the greater part of her father’s fortune had she and the old man lived a little longer. He disinherited her on her entry into Hawkenlye. Alard wanted her to marry me – it was a sound match, both families would have felt the benefits, and I was not unwilling. But she wouldn’t have me, Sir Josse, shouted out to all who would listen that life as a nun was preferable to being my wife. There was a degree of blackening of my name, or so I gathered. But she had her reasons.’ He spoke lightly, and Josse detected no hint of pain or of resentment. ‘That was her story,’ he murmured, half to himself. ‘By God, she needed a good one. So Alard made Dillian his heir’ – he was addressing Josse again now – ‘but, when Dillian was killed, Alard had to think again. Initially he left the lot to his niece Elanor and her stupid little boy of a husband, but I am told he was about to reconsider. I imagine it is likely that, even with Gunnora dead, he would have made some gift to Hawkenlye. However, death intervened, and his unamended will stands; Elanor will inherit. Good news awaits her, on her return from her visiting.’
