Girl In A Red Tunic

by Alys Clare

  They were deep out in the wilds now, riding along what appeared to be a little-used track that wound along just above the marshy ground that lay on the river’s margins. There were willows and alder and, underfoot, a sort of wiry grass grew in tussocks. Here and there smaller paths – perhaps animal tracks – led off to right and left. The very air smelt wet from the nearness of the water.

  She was about to question her guide again but then, pointing forward to what looked like a length of tumbledown hurdle fencing extending from a wildly overgrown bramble hedge, he said gruffly, ‘We’re here. That’s the sheriff’s house up ahead.’

  She strained to see but the dwelling was as yet still concealed by the bramble thicket. It could, she thought, be but a single storey, hardly a house for a man such as Gervase de Gifford. And why on earth did he opt to live in such apparent neglect and squalor out here in this moist, misty, damp wilderness?

  As if her guide felt that her unspoken question required an answer, he said, in the same low and slightly husky voice, ‘Sheriff has his official residence in the town, see. He likes to get away here whenever he can a’cause of it’s quiet and folk don’t come a-knocking on his door.’

  Well, that made sense, Helewise thought. Didn’t it? Gervase de Gifford would very likely be at everyone’s beck and call in the course of his day’s work so why should he not choose to have a house right away from the hurry and bustle of Tonbridge and get away to it when his duties permitted?

  Yes, she thought, chewing at her lip, but why has he brought Josse here? Why did Gervase choose this place for our meeting?

  Again the man seemed to read her mind, for his next remark gave her the explanation she needed. Turning round in the saddle to look back at her – he was now a short distance ahead – he said, ‘Sheriff’s brought that Sir Josse d’Acquin along here to show him something what some man’s brought him. It’s evidence, they say, and nobody’s to see it as doesn’t have to.’

  Ah, now she understood! Somebody had found something – oh, dear God, let it not be anything to incriminate Leofgar; amid her tension, the old familiar dread reared its head – and, since this something, whatever it was, had to be kept from prying eyes, de Gifford had wisely had it brought to his house out here. What a diplomatic man he was!

  Trustingly, in anticipation of seeing Josse and the sheriff again very soon, Helewise kicked Honey’s smooth sides and hurried to catch up with the man.

  Three things happened almost simultaneously. Riding on had meant that de Gifford’s house came abruptly into view and instantly she knew it could never have been a dwelling of that fastidious man for it was little more than a hovel, the damage of years left unrepaired, the walls breached and bowing outwards, the reed thatch of the lowering, overhanging roof rotting and dark with age. And, just as she cried out and would have turned Honey’s head and put heels to her, galloping off in her fear back along the way they had come, the man leaned out and put a strong hand on Honey’s bridle.

  Then as he led her captive around the end of the bramble hedge and across the filthy, rubbish-strewn and mud-ridden yard to the low door of the dark little hut, she realised what it was about him that had not been right. It was when he said Josse’s name, as he had done when first he came for her and as he had just done again now. Other than the educated, people usually referred to him as ‘That Sir Josse’ or, if brave enough to make a stab at the rest of his name, ‘That Sir Josse Daikin.’

  Why, then, should a sheriff’s man with dubious grammar and a common man’s speech know how to say ‘D’Acquin’ with perfect intonation and be careful always to do so? It was almost as if, despite the disguise, he would not lower himself to the depths of pretending to be quite that ignorant.

  Her heart thumping with fear, Helewise heard the man give her a curt instruction to dismount. He grasped her wrist in a firm hand and took Honey’s reins, tethering the mare with his own horse to a post set in the mud of the yard. Then, still holding Helewise’s wrist, he opened the door of the hut and pulled her through into the odorous darkness beyond.

  Josse and de Gifford reached the Old Manor in record time. It was as if, Josse thought, feeling Horace’s great strength beneath him as the horse stretched himself to a full gallop, we expect to find her there and cannot bear to wait an instant longer than we have to for the reassurance that she is safe.

  But the Abbess was not at the Old Manor. Wilfrid came out to meet them; he would have heard us coming, Josse realised, for we made no attempt to ride quietly. Wilfrid reported that no visitors had been received since Josse and de Gifford last came by and no word heard from the master. Josse put out his hand and briefly touched the man’s shoulder; ‘I cannot tell you much,’ he said softly, ‘but be assured that your master is well, as I believe are your mistress and the child.’

  Wilfrid did not utter a word but the expression in his eyes was answer enough.

  De Gifford was speaking to Wilfrid now, explaining that they had come to look for something that might well help to put matters to rights so that everything could return to normal. Josse gave Wilfrid a wink behind de Gifford’s back – the sheriff had sounded a little pompous – and was rewarded with the first real smile he had seen on Wilfrid’s handsome face.

  De Gifford strode on into the hall, Josse on his heels. They approached the long table and de Gifford ran his hands over its smooth surface. ‘Oak, d’you think, Josse?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. ‘Plain but well made.’ He bent to look at the frame that supported the table top but if there were any concealed drawer or space there, he could not see it. Then, lying down on his back, he looked up at the under surfaces; again, nothing.

  De Gifford was feeling up and down the table legs. They too were plain and unadorned; this was a workmanlike piece, there to serve a purpose and do its job, and nobody had wasted their time beautifying it with carvings and mouldings. Nevertheless the sheriff went on looking and so did Josse.

  It was de Gifford who was first to speak the obvious. ‘There’s nothing, Josse,’ he said. ‘If this damned table holds a secret, then it keeps it too close for us to find.’

  Josse was looking around. ‘Perhaps there’s another table,’ he said hopefully. ‘Do you remember noticing one when we searched the house with Fitzurse?’

  De Gifford shook his head. ‘No. On the contrary, I recall thinking how little the young Warins possess. The Old Manor is but sparsely furnished.’

  Josse privately agreed – he had received the same impression – but all the same the two of them had a quick look around the other rooms of the house.

  They did not find another table.

  ‘The trouble is,’ de Gifford mused as they set about a desultory hunt of the chest in the hall and the hangings on the walls, ‘that we don’t know what we’re looking for and so may very well have missed it.’

  ‘Fitzurse knew, if we surmise aright,’ Josse replied, ‘and he did not find it either, although both you and I watched him search.’

  ‘Hmm.’ De Gifford straightened up, rubbing at his back. ‘What now, Josse?’

  ‘I confess I am very disappointed,’ Josse said. ‘I had really thought that we should find a hidden drawer or panel and within it some object to explain what Fitzurse is about.’

  ‘Well, we didn’t,’ de Gifford said somewhat curtly. ‘We should return to Tonbridge, Josse. There is nothing more we can do here and we may get back to find that there is news of the Abbess.’

  With that hope high in his heart, Josse followed him outside. Wilfrid came to see them off; observing their expressions, he remarked, ‘You didn’t find what you came looking for, then.’

  ‘No,’ Josse said. With an optimism he was far from feeling, he added, ‘But we will!’

  Then he kicked Horace and rode off behind de Gifford back to Tonbridge.

  Chapter 18

  Inside the hut it was as dark as midnight. The man put a flame to a wick lying in a shallow bowl of animal fat and in the small amount of light that it gave
off, Helewise looked about her.

  There was just the one room and it was crammed with the detritus of years. A narrow bench was set against one wall and, towards the back of the room, there was a small hearth surrounded with stones, although it looked as though nobody had ever cleared away the ash and it had spilled out in a wide area extending well beyond the circumference of the circle of stones. A black cooking pot rested on a trivet beside the hearth. Along the walls, piled up quite high in places, were what looked like bundles wrapped in sacking and on a shelf set up under the roof were bunches of dried herbs and leaves. On a panel of wood that had once been painted white someone had drawn the rough outline of a bulky and indefinable animal. In a rear corner was a thin straw-filled mattress and some pieces of sacking, presumably a bed, and over this hung a strange cross with equal arms, roughly formed and made out of wood that was almost black. Belying the filth and the unkempt air of the hut, a besom stood beside the door, its twiggy hazel brush pointing upwards and the smooth handle stuck into the beaten earth floor. The room stank of burning fat from the oil lamp and, beneath that stench, Helewise’s sensitive nose could detect the smell of unwashed bodies and human waste receptacles that had been spilled and were habitually not emptied before they overflowed.

  This man lived here?

  She turned her head to look at him. He had paced the length and breadth of the small room almost as if looking for something and, from the way he darted back to the door and peered outside, she wondered if he had expected to find someone here waiting for him.

  Oh, had it only been Josse!

  She was afraid. But I shall not show it, she resolved firmly; seizing the initiative, she said frostily, ‘You are not who you pretend to be. Why have you brought me here?’

  He spun round and stared at her. He was slightly shorter than she was and she felt a moment’s pride at this small advantage. Not that it would do her any good, she realised, for he would no doubt prove the stronger if she tried to wrestle with him and make a break for freedom.

  He did not answer her question. But, after a moment’s scrutiny, he said, ‘No, my lady Abbess, I am not a sheriff’s man. I serve nobody but myself.’

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

  ‘You do not know?’ He looked amused. ‘You are an intelligent woman, I have been given to understand; I had thought that you might have guessed my identity.’

  Swiftly she thought. Someone was threatening her son, someone who seemed to know that he was her son and who had sent a vicious man to Leofgar’s house to search for something that had not been found. This someone was presumably still desperate to finish what he had set out to do and must feel that taking captive the Abbess of Hawkenlye was in some way going to help ... There was really only one person who this man could be.

  ‘You are Arthur Fitzurse,’ she said coldly.

  He pulled off his dirty cloak, revealing an expensive-looking tunic whose braid, she noticed when the light briefly caught it, was actually of poor quality and beginning to fray. And now he has brought me to this – this place, she thought, which, even if not his home, must be the best that he can find to fill his need, lowly and foul though it is. This man, she thought, with what felt like a surprising stab of compassion, tries too hard to achieve his illusion of respectability, education and wealth.

  She wondered why. She thought she could probably guess.

  ‘Please, my lady, be seated.’ He stepped forward and flicked at the surface of the narrow bench and she moved towards it and sat down as elegantly as she could manage, back straight and head held high, spreading her wide skirts gracefully around her.

  He watched her closely for a moment. Then he said, ‘I would tell you a tale, my lady, if you have ears to hear it?’

  He sounded as if he could only just control his eagerness. Feeling again that strange impulse of pity, she inclined her head and said, ‘You have employed deception to bring me here, from which discourtesy I deduce that your motive, whatever it may be, is of great importance to you. Very well, I will listen. What would you say to me?’

  He watched her for a moment longer then, as if he needed to concentrate and the sight of her was a distraction, turned away and, staring out through the mean little door, began to speak.

  ‘I am the only child of my mother,’ he said, ‘and for much of my life believed my father to have been a soldier killed in battle before I was born. As young fatherless children are wont to do, particularly if they are imaginative and male, I formed a secret picture of this man. He became in my eyes a hero, an Achilles, a Lionheart, and I told myself tales of his exploits in the Crusades and before the gates of Troy. I saw him as very tall, broad of shoulder, deep of chest, with a noble face like a Greek god. He was honourable, brave, modest in victory and considerate of his enemies and, naturally, he never lost a battle in his life.’ Arthur smiled briefly. ‘You will appreciate how childish was the mind that made up this comforting story, for had my soldier father truly never lost a fight, how was it that he came to die before I was born? I revised my tale as I grew older and decided that he had died of a single and totally painless sword thrust through the heart while in the act of saving the lives of an entire company of his loyal men, and that they gave him a hero’s funeral out in some beautiful oasis where the soft wind sighed in the trees and a huge moon rose over a flat plain.’

  He paused. Then, his voice tight, went on, ‘I took great comfort from these imaginary scenes, for in truth my childhood was wretched. What paltry wealth there was soon disappeared and the triple spectres of poverty, hunger and disease stalked me constantly. There was never enough to eat and we – I did not spend my youth as do other boys, for I was a solitary child and had no friends other than the creatures of the wild.’

  Again he paused. Helewise burned to question him – who looked after him? Where did they live? Surely not here! – but she held back. Intuitively she knew that the telling of his story caused him pain and she was loath to interrupt and perhaps risk irrevocably halting the flow of words.

  Presently he resumed his tale. ‘This is an unwholesome place, for it is permanently damp and the river seeps underground, turning firm green grass to a quagmire whenever there is rain; and rain, it seems, falls ever more frequently here than elsewhere. The mists creep about like living things and the very air is wet and foul, bringing phlegm to the throat and rheum to the chest. One’s bones ache, my lady, almost all the time. But this place has one advantage: nobody comes here unless they must. For certain, nobody but the outcast and the desperate would choose to live here.’ He sighed. ‘For those like me who are both, it is ... convenient.’

  ‘Then this is indeed where you live?’ she whispered.

  He turned to consider her. ‘It touches you, that this might be so?’ he asked.

  ‘I – it is an unwelcome thought to think of anyone making their home here,’ she replied guardedly.

  He smiled faintly. ‘It is, isn’t it? Well then, my lady, be assured that I do not in fact live here; not all the time, at least, although it is, as I have implied, a most convenient place when one is concerned with matters of a clandestine nature.’ Again, she observed, that careful use of words and of grammatical constructions, as if he were very keen to demonstrate that he was – or was pretending to be – an educated man. ‘Which, of course,’ he was saying, ‘brings us to my purpose in bringing you here.’

  ‘It does,’ she agreed, ice in her voice.

  ‘Soon, my lady, soon,’ he soothed. ‘Let me first continue my story.’

  She seemed to have no choice but to listen and so she gave him a curt nod of encouragement. Smiling again, he turned back to his contemplation of the dismal scene through the door and picked up the thread of his narrative.

  ‘The word that was most often used to describe my lot in life,’ he said slowly, ‘was unjust. I certainly employed it myself in my thoughts, for I was the son of a soldier, a hero, was I not? Did I not deserve better than to live in wretchedness on the very fringes of society? Y
et there I was, dressed in rags, sleeping on mouldy straw, always hungry, frequently verm inous and usually dirty unless I saw to my cleanliness myself which, I might tell you, I began to do as soon as I was able.’ With what appeared to be an almost unconscious gesture he smoothed his tunic and ran a hand over his hair. ‘By making myself presentable, I was able, as I grew out of childhood, to find myself employment. Nothing much – never the sort of task for which I believed myself fitted – but at least I earned a little money and, by spending it wisely, steadily I improved my lot.’ He turned to look at her briefly, then said, ‘Not all of my dealings were strictly honest, my lady, for I burned with resentment and did not hesitate to take from those who had plenty. They were living the life that I should have had and I saw no reason why they should not donate to my cause, even though they might not know that was what they did.’

  He is a thief, Helewise thought, although it would seem an honest one, for here he is confessing to me his past misdeeds.

  ‘I might have satisfied myself with what I managed to achieve,’ he went on, ‘for I reckoned that, for a boy of my upbringing and with my disadvantages, I had done pretty well. But ...’ He paused. Then, as if he had thought about it and had, after consideration, decided to go on, said quickly, ‘But my own thoughts and opinions were not all that I had to cope with. Whenever the edge wore off my hunger for advancement, I was instantly reminded of the place – the position – which I ought to occupy, which it was my right to occupy. I was never allowed to forget!’ His suddenly raised voice startled her. As if he realised it, he turned and said, ‘I apologise, my lady. An honourable and courteous man does not shout.’

  She inclined her head briefly but did not speak; she felt that he was on the brink of a further revelation.

  After a moment he spoke again, and his voice was now distant and cool as if he needed to detach himself from some strong emotion. ‘When I was sixteen I learned the truth about my past. I was not the posthumous son of a soldier. My mother had not even been married to my father; I was the result of a quick and animal mating when a lascivious man’s blood ran too hot for him to control himself and he grabbed the nearest compliant female. My mother,’ he added, very quietly, ‘enjoyed sex.’ He shot Helewise a swift and somehow sly glance, as if he knew he spoke of forbidden things. ‘Or so they took pleasure in telling me.’ Flinging out a hand in a despairing gesture, he said passionately, ‘From the taunts and the beatings I received because of who and what my mother was, you’d think she was the first woman who ever sold her body in order to feed herself. But she would not have been driven to it if those who stood in judgement over her had had the smallest drop of compassion in their cold and stony hearts! She had other skills but they persecuted her for those too because they were afraid, and their fear served to increase their cruelty.’