by Alys Clare
‘You named him for Brice’s brother,’ Josse said.
‘Yes. I never met him, although you did, Josse?’
‘Aye.’ It was an old tragedy but Josse still remembered the tormented young man. ‘I hope his little nephew here will tread an easier path through life.’
‘Amen,’ Isabella whispered. Then, her smile breaking through, she said, ‘The omens are good, Josse. I know he is mine and therefore I am probably prejudiced, but I have never encountered a child with a sunnier nature.’
The maid brought in a tray containing mugs of warm, spiced ale and a platter of small cakes. ‘The cakes are Tilda’s speciality and quite delicious,’ Isabella said, dismissing the maid with a smile of thanks. ‘The main ingredient is dried marigold petals.’
Both children were eyeing the cakes and Josse decided he had better help himself quickly before they disappeared. He ate one, then another, then one more; they were indeed delicious. Then he brushed the crumbs from his tunic and said, ‘Where’s Brice?’
‘He has taken Roger and Marthe out for a ride,’ she replied, referring to her children by her previous marriage. ‘They’ll be back soon, for they set out early and have been gone some time. You wish to speak to him?’
‘Aye. I’ve a question for him but –’ he grinned at her – ‘there’s no reason why I shouldn’t ask you.’
She returned his smile. ‘Ask away.’
‘There’s an unpleasant business at the Abbey. Some people are hunting for a couple of men who have returned to England from Outremer. One probably went out to the East with a lord from this area, and I wondered if Brice – or you – knew of anyone locally whose family have interests in Outremer?’
Isabella considered. ‘I can think of families who sent a son or a husband off to the crusades,’ she said after a while, ‘but in each case save one the man has returned, and the one who did not died at Acre.’
‘Oh.’ It was disappointing.
‘Unless,’ Isabella added, ‘you mean the de Villières clan?’
‘The de Villières?’
She laughed. ‘Oh, Josse, I thought everyone knew about them! They’re famous and people have been known to commit murder for an invitation to one of their grand gatherings. I’m joking,’ she added.
He grinned. ‘Sorry, Isabella. I’m not much of a one for socializing.’
‘Oh really, Josse?’ The irony was unmistakable. Then she took his hand and squeezed it affectionately. ‘Don’t worry,’ she murmured, ‘as long as you don’t stop coming to see us, I shan’t complain.’
He returned the squeeze. ‘Thank you.’ Then: ‘Who are they, then, and what can you tell me about them?’
She settled Olivar more comfortably on her lap and said, ‘They hold estates to the west of Robertsbridge. They manage their land efficiently and carefully and their wealth has grown accordingly ever since Robert de Villières was awarded it back in the middle of the last century.’ This Robert, Josse thought, must have been one of the Conqueror’s Normans. ‘He went off to fight in the First Crusade,’ Isabella was saying, ‘and he won lands in Antioch. He married the daughter of a wealthy family of Champagne merchants who, like so many others, turned themselves into noblemen out in Outremer, and she and Robert settled down in Antioch and raised their family.’ She turned to look at Josse. ‘They say that Mathilde de St Denys was a woman in the mould of our own Queen Eleanor,’ she added, ‘a matriarch who lived to the ripe old age of eighty and died in Antioch after fulfilling her ambition of visiting the newly refurbished Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem.’
‘Quite a pilgrimage for a woman of eighty,’ Josse remarked.
‘Indeed it was, but apparently nothing deterred Mathilde once she had made up her mind. What was I saying? Ah, yes. Their elder son inherited the Antioch lands. The second son, whose name was Baldwin, was sent home to Sussex. He married the daughter of another noble family and they had several children, although the eldest son died young, I believe. Their son Guilbert inherited the Sussex lands and he was the father of Gerome de Villières, the present lord.’
‘And Gerome went to Outremer?’
But Isabella was going to tell her story in her own way. ‘Meanwhile,’ she said, ignoring Josse’s interruption with a smile, ‘in Antioch, Robert and Mathilde’s elder son had inherited the title and it passed down through his son to his grandson. He, however, was a sickly man who did not cope well with the climate of Outremer. His wife gave him two daughters, one of whom, Aurelie, was a redoubtable woman and the true descendant of her great-grandmother. She married the Count of Tripoli and produced two daughters and a son, but sadly the son died young. So’ – she had obviously picked up Josse’s impatience, for her eyes were twinkling with mischief – ‘when the redoubtable Aurelie and her count began to feel hard-pressed after Saladin’s victories, they sent home to Sussex to ask Gerome to come out with a company of men to help defend the family lands.’
‘So this Gerome had sons?’ Josse asked.
‘No.’ All levity had left Isabella’s face. ‘He and his wife – she was called Erys – had two girls, Editha and Columba. Columba died when she was a little child and Erys produced another baby girl late that same year. But Erys fell sick of a fever soon after the birth and both she and the baby died.’
‘Yet still he left his surviving child on her own and went off to Outremer!’ Josse cried. Such things happened, he knew full well, but still it seemed heartless.
‘Josse, all this happened fifteen years ago,’ Isabella said gently. ‘Editha – Gerome’s daughter – is a woman in her twenties now and she manages her father’s household with effortless efficiency, so they say. And what a household it is – Gerome may not have sons of his own but he maintains a company of well-trained knights and a number of foot soldiers drilled to perfection.’
‘And it was this company that Gerome de Villières took out to Outremer?’
‘Yes. Gerome led his knights into the fighting at Acre and then on the march south to Jaffa, although he fell ill and was taken to his kinsman’s home in Antioch to recuperate before taking ship home to Sussex.’
Dear Lord, Josse thought, but this is the very man! He heard Thibault’s voice in his head: The English monk encountered his former lord and he had been stricken with dysentery. It was decided that he should make his way back to Acre and thence to his kinsman’s estate in Antioch. The English monk was selected to care for him.
‘And when did he return?’ His mouth felt dry.
‘Oh – it must have been more than three years ago, in the summer of’93.’
Josse tried to take it in. He was in no doubt that Gerome de Villières and the English monk’s lord were the same person. He was wondering what Thibault’s reaction would be when faced with the news that he had discovered Gerome’s identity when something struck him.
‘Isabella,’ he said, ‘I am most grateful for this information. But how do you come to be such an expert on the de Villières family and their doings?’
She smiled. ‘Gerome de Villières is distantly related to my Brice; Gerome’s grandmother Hewisa was Brice’s grandfather’s sister. We know Editha de Villières quite well,’ she added, ‘she is Olivar’s godmother.’
Although Isabella pressed him to wait for Brice’s return and stay to eat with the family, Josse declined. He felt guilty; having extracted from Isabella everything she knew about the de Villières family, it was not good manners to bolt before he had, as it were, sung for his supper by staying to talk to Brice over a leisurely meal.
But Isabella seemed to understand. ‘This matter is clearly important to you,’ she said as she saw him out.
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘There have been two killings,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘and we have not seen the last of the violence yet, for something very important lies at its heart.’
‘Something that it is worth killing for must be important indeed,’ she whispered. Then, enfolding him in a sudden hug: ‘Be careful, dear Josse!’
He retu
rned the hug. ‘I will,’ he promised. ‘There’s no threat to me, Isabella,’ he added.
She muttered something under her breath. ‘Don’t tempt providence,’ she warned. ‘I shall keep you in my thoughts.’
He thanked her, kissed her and took his leave.
He raced back to Hawkenlye Abbey. He had been sorely tempted to ride straight for Robertsbridge, seek out the de Villières lands and speak to Gerome in person; however, in the end he had decided against it. For one thing, Gervase de Gifford could well be at the Abbey about to interview Akhbir, and Josse wanted to be present. For another thing, it would be better to think carefully rather than heading off like an arrow to the bull; a little more reflection might suggest that an approach to Gerome de Villières should wait until he knew exactly what it was that he wanted to ask the man.
He reached the Abbey in the middle of the afternoon. He was ravenously hungry – it seemed like hours since he had eaten Tilda’s marigold cakes – but he went first to seek out the Abbess. As he knocked and went into her room she said, before he had a chance to speak, ‘Gervase de Gifford is coming up to the Abbey this afternoon. I thought you were he.’
He could tell from her expression – carefully neutral – that she was not best pleased. ‘Is Akhbir well enough to answer questions?’ he asked.
‘Sister Caliste says no; he is still lying with his face to the wall. Sister Euphemia has been down to the Vale and she says shock, grief, dehydration and hunger have sent him half out of his mind.’
‘What shall we do, my lady? I am prepared to try to reason with Gervase.’
‘I do not see that your reasoning with him should influence him more than a command from the Abbess of Hawkenlye,’ she said frostily. Then, instantly: ‘I apologize, Sir Josse. That was unforgivable and untrue. It’s just that . . .’ She paused, collecting her thoughts. ‘We here at the Abbey have a duty of care for those who come to us sick in body and mind,’ she said more calmly. ‘It goes against our purpose to sit by and watch while a man suffering as deeply as Akhbir has questions hurled at him by an angry sheriff.’
‘There have been two terrible deaths, my lady,’ Josse said quietly. ‘It is Gervase’s duty to seek justice for the dead just as it is yours to care for the sick.’
She sighed. ‘I know. I know.’ She looked up at Josse. ‘I have sent Sister Caliste down to the Vale to fetch Akhbir,’ she said. ‘I will permit Gervase to ask his questions, but it will be in here, and you, Sister Caliste and I shall be here while he does so. It is the best I can do,’ she muttered. Then she said, ‘But Sir Josse, what of your mission? Did Brice supply the names of local men with kin in Outremer?’
‘Aye,’ he admitted. ‘It was Isabella that I spoke to. She told me of a certain Gerome de Villières, who surely is our man.’
‘The timing fits? Our knight turned runaway monk might have been of de Villières’s company?’
‘Aye, he might well.’
‘De Villières,’ she repeated, half to herself. ‘The name seems vaguely familiar. Where is their manor?’
‘Near Robertsbridge.’
‘I will think about it. Robertsbridge is not so very far from where I grew up. I shall endeavour to recall where I have heard the name before.’
Sensing himself dismissed, Josse went out and quietly closed the door.
Her head was thumping as if a demon were hammering at it with a red-hot hammer. She tried to set an imaginary boundary around it and isolate it in a corner of her consciousness; it was something the infirmarer had taught her. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. It helped if she had something else on which to concentrate. Visualizing herself walking away from her contained pain, she thought about the name de Villières.
And presently she remembered.
Her father had at one time wanted to unite his family with that of the de Villières; it made sense, for Ralf de Swansford’s lands were quite close to those of Guilbert de Villières and a marital tie between the families would strengthen both. He suggested a meeting between his elder son Rainer and Guilbert’s second daughter, Maud. The pair were introduced and Maud appeared keen but it was too late for Rainer, already dreaming of someone else; every other woman had become invisible. The de Villières party swept off clutching their dignity to them like a cloak on a windy day and relations between the two fam ilies were ever afterwards cool.
Helewise thought about that embarrassing time. Rainer was perfectly polite to the pretty, over-eager Maud but Helewise knew that his good manners were automatic. He was already deeply in love with Egelina Rich and he had in fact married her not long afterwards. They had enjoyed a particularly happy life together until her death in childbed. Dear Rainer, she thought. Memories of their childhood together, and with her younger brother and sister making up the quartet, flooded into her mind and she smiled. It had been a fine upbringing, and she—
No. She made herself stop. It was not the moment to lose herself in an indulgent visit to the past, however happy it had been. She had a problem on her hands and her duty was to deal with it to the very best of her ability. So, having done what she set out to do and remembered why the name of de Villières was familiar, she put the matter from her mind.
She heard the tramp of footsteps outside her door. There was a knock and at her response the door opened and Gervase de Gifford came in. Akhbir walked behind him, Sister Caliste at his side, watching him anxiously. Behind them came Josse, who closed the door and then stood with his back against it. For an instant he met her eyes and she gave him a quick smile.
She looked up at Gervase, who was stating formally that while the man Akhbir’s condition had been explained to him, nevertheless he must speak to him and so had agreed to do so in her presence and that of Sir Josse and Sister Caliste. Helewise turned to regard Akhbir. He stood with bowed head, his arms hanging limply by his sides. She said, ‘Akhbir?’ and for a moment he looked up at her. His skin was ashen and the flesh of his face seemed to have collapsed against the bones of the skull. ‘Would you like to sit down?’
She was not sure whether he understood; he did not reply but went on staring at her. She turned to Sister Caliste. ‘Sister, has he accepted any food or water?’
‘A little water, my lady. He refuses food.’
Helewise’s instinct was to send the poor wretch back to wherever he had been curled up and tell him to rest and recover his strength. But she knew she could not do that. ‘Gervase, proceed,’ she said. ‘Ask your questions.’
Gervase turned to Akhbir. ‘Five days ago a man was murdered on the fringe of the forest.’ He spoke slowly, enunciating his words clearly. ‘You and your late companion were hunting a man of similar appearance to the dead man; a man who had stolen something from your master. It is our belief that you mistook the dead man for the man whom you were hunting; that you tormented him to make him tell you the whereabouts of the stolen treasure, and when he could not, you killed him and stole his clothes and belongings.’
Akhbir said nothing. With a brief, exasperated exhalation, Gervase went on, ‘There has been another death. A fire was deliberately started in the guest quarters at the priory in Tonbridge, its purpose to disguise the fact that one of those within was already dead. The victim and his two companions were Knights Hospitaller who, like you and Kathnir, had come to England from Outremer to search for someone; in their case, a monk. We believe that the monk and the thief who stole from your master are travelling together and we further believe that you and Kathnir were—’
‘Not fire!’ Akhbir’s voice rang out so loudly and unexpectedly in the small room that they all jumped. ‘Not fire,’ he repeated more quietly. ‘Do not know of fire.’
‘Then you admit to knowing of the murder of the Saracen?’ Gervase instantly demanded.
Akhbir took a long, slow look all around him, as if searching for a means of escape. Then, his shoulders slumping, he nodded.
‘Why did you attack him?’ Gervase spoke quietly.
‘Kathnir believe him man we hunt. Thi
s –’Akhbir lifted a fold of his robe and then touched his headdress – ‘this was like.’
‘You mean he was dressed in the same way as the man you were hunting?’ Josse put in.
Akhbir nodded. ‘Kathnir say to follow. Wait for quiet place, then jump. We fight him, overcome him, bind him, take him under trees. Kathnir—’ He swallowed, his face screwed up. ‘Kathnir must follow orders. Kathnir must find master’s precious treasure and take back.’
‘But you had caught the wrong man,’ Gervase said. ‘No matter what Kathnir did to him, the man you had attacked could not tell you what you wanted to know.’
Akhbir nodded. ‘He die.’
Josse had moved forward and now he faced Akhbir. ‘The man you killed was a Turk,’ he said. ‘We found his broken bow. You were hunting for someone like him whose name was Fadil, weren’t you?’
Helewise, closely watching Akhbir’s face, saw that he knew the name. But instead of fear or apprehension at hearing his quarry named, he just looked puzzled. ‘Fadil?’ he repeated. ‘Not Fadil!’
And for just an instant he smiled, as if the mistake amused him.
‘But you do know who Fadil is?’ Helewise said.
Akhbir turned his large dark eyes on her. ‘Fadil was prisoner,’ he said. ‘Fadil was beloved of my master and my master pay any price to have him back. There was meet in desert but men do not act true. Many killed and my master wounded. Fadil taken away. My master lost that which he valued above all else.’
He hung his head.
‘And your master sent Kathnir and you to follow the thief and regain the treasure?’ Gervase said.
‘Treasure . . .’ Akhbir put a hand to his head. Then: ‘Yes. Kathnir given order: succeed or die. Now Kathnir is dead. Kathnir die but he not succeed.’
‘This fire,’ Gervase began.
But a low howl was starting to echo round the walls and Akhbir slumped to the ground. Instantly Sister Caliste went to him, supporting his head before it could crash onto the stone floor. She looked up at the sheriff, eyes narrowed. ‘Enough!’ she cried. Swiftly turning to Helewise, she added, ‘My lady, I am sorry to speak out of turn, but this man is in my care.’