by Alys Clare
‘Sister Euphemia, she must do less,’ Josse said. ‘She was busy writing in her ledger when I went to see her just now. Can you send some capable nun in to relieve her of that, at least? Just till she’s better? There must be someone suitable.’
‘Course there is,’ Euphemia agreed. ‘Leave it with me, Sir Josse.’
‘Could it be arranged for all her duties to be taken over by others? And it might be wise to have someone sitting with her,’ he said, aware as he did so that he was robbing Helewise of her precious and, as well he knew, limited solitude. ‘To make sure she rests.’
Euphemia shot him a look, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘As I say, leave it with me.’
He was, he reflected as he kicked Horace to a canter, quite fortunate to be making his escape. At least it wouldn’t be he who had to endure Helewise’s reaction when she learned what Josse and Euphemia had arranged for her …
* * *
He reached Tonbridge in the early evening, glad to be within its outskirts. It was now fully dark, and the temperature had dropped again. Despite his fur-lined hood, Josse’s ears were aching with cold.
He ordered a generous supper. Not, he thought, that he had earned it; his day’s labours had got him virtually nowhere. And now there was the Abbess to worry about, in addition to everything else.
Ah, well. At last she was in good hands.
Not wanting to face either Mistress Anne’s questions or Tilly’s anxious eyes when he had nothing to tell them, Josse finished his supper, drained his mug of ale and retired early to bed.
* * *
Mid-morning the next day, he set out for the castle.
It became clear, even as he approached up the steep track that led from the ford, that there were few, if any, members of the family about. The frosted ground bore little evidence of having recently been trodden, and the drawbridge had been raised halfway up. Only a thin trickle of smoke rose up from within the stout walls, and looked, Josse thought, more likely to be from an outdoor brazier than from the huge fire in some great hall’s hearth.
In answer to Josse’s call, a man appeared at the opposite end of the drawbridge. Making no move to lower it and allow Josse to cross, he shouted out, ‘Yes?’
‘Is the family in residence?’ Josse shouted back.
‘No.’
The man went to return inside, but Josse stopped him. ‘A moment!’
Reluctantly the man turned round again. ‘What do you want?’
‘I am looking for a stranger, a nobleman, possibly a friend of the family,’ he said. ‘I believe he may be lodging with them, or at least come to visit.’
‘We’ve had no visitors,’ the man replied. ‘Like I says, the family’s away.’
Where were they? Josse wondered. And what on earth had persuaded them to leave the comforts of home, in this freezing weather?
‘You’d be best advised to get away an’ all,’ the man was saying. ‘If you value your health, that is.’
‘Why?’ Josse felt a shiver of alarm run up his spine.
‘Sickness,’ the man said, with the self-satisfied air of one imparting news of some danger from which he feels himself immune. ‘There’s fever, down in the new Priory. Never should have built it, they shouldn’t, not down there beyond the ford, so close to where all them streams flow together. Marshy, it is, down there. There’s bad air, spreads all manner of pestilence. Family’s gone away to Suffolk, and I have my orders to keep this here drawbridge up.’ He gave the stout planks a reassuring slap with the flat of one hand. ‘You can’t come in, whoever you are, and I ain’t coming out.’
You could, Josse thought, see his point.
‘And you’ve had no callers? No visiting nobleman?’
The man gave a chuckle. ‘He’d have had to swim across,’ he said, pointing down into the sludgy waters of the moat, dark with unimaginably foul detritus and half-frozen over. ‘And that I wouldn’t recommend.’
Josse raised an arm. ‘I thank you for your time,’ he called, wheeling Horace and preparing to leave.
‘Time I have,’ the man replied, turning back into the deep shadow of the gatehouse. ‘Good day to you!’
Looking back over his shoulder to give an answering good day, Josse thought he saw a movement. Up high, on the battlements … a head, peeping over the sturdy wall, quickly withdrawn…?
He stared, holding Horace still. But there was nothing to see.
Probably a bird, he told himself. Nothing more sinister than that. After all, as that fellow said, any uninvited guest would have had to swim across.
Inattentive, he didn’t notice that his horse had picked a different track for the descent. About to pull him up and return to the track they’d gone up by, suddenly Josse noticed something.
Hoof prints.
Someone had gone up that smaller, half-concealed track. Quite recently, too.
The man, whoever he was, returning from having gone out for supplies?
No. He’d made it quite plain he intended to stay shut away safely inside the castle until the danger was past.
Then who?
Telling himself he shouldn’t jump to conclusions didn’t seem to be working. Resigning himself to the prospect of several hours in the cold, Josse dismounted, led Horace into a grove of hazel trees which, full in the weak rays of the February sun and protected from the wind, provided at least a small amount of shelter, and prepared to endure a long wait.
* * *
He should, he thought late in the afternoon, have brought food with him. And he’d have to give up soon, if nothing happened, for Horace’s sake if not for his own. The sun was low on the horizon, its light and its paltry warmth even weaker now. It wouldn’t be long till darkness.
He made himself wait a little longer.
As the light faded, there was a noise from above, from the direction of the castle. A mutter of voices, quickly cut off, and a long, low rumbling sound, terminating in a heavy thud. After the briefest of pauses, the rumbling noise was repeated.
And there was the faint sound of a horse’s hooves – unnaturally faint, surely? Could they have been muffled somehow? – coming down the narrower of the two tracks.
The one that passed right by Josse’s hiding place.
Pulling back deeper into the hazel grove, he put a quieting hand on Horace’s nose. The horse from the castle came closer, closer … Josse could hear a tiny jingle of harness.
He held his breath.
The horseman rode straight past.
It was a man, Josse was certain, even from the brief glimpse he’d had through the hazel trees. Heavily muffled in a voluminous cloak.
Waiting until the man was out of earshot, Josse then led Horace out from beneath the hazel trees, mounted, and rode off in pursuit.
* * *
It was difficult to judge a safe distance, where Josse would be able to keep his quarry in view yet not be detected. The poor light was both help and hindrance.
Josse followed the rider for a few miles, then, as he suddenly drew his horse to a halt, quickly pulled Horace into the shadow of an oak tree. The rider had dismounted and, as Josse watched, he bent down to remove covers of some sort – they looked like pieces of sacking – from his horse’s feet.
A departure at twilight, Josse thought, and one whose very sound is minimised.
Now who was going about – what had the Abbess’s word been? – nefarious business?
The rider entered a thick band of woodland, a part, Josse thought, of the great Wealden Forest, although, in this cloudy and starless night, he had lost his bearings. Riding on, he realised quite soon that he had also lost sight of the horseman.
Hellfire and damnation!
He urged Horace on, peering through the trees, trying to make out any movement among the winter-bare branches.
Impossible! He just couldn’t see anything.
Pulling Horace up, he sat and listened.
Not a sound.
After a while, he
dismounted. The hard ground might yield a hoof print, you never knew. Crouching down, he took off one of his gloves and, fingers spread, felt around the forest floor for any sharp indentations indicative of recent passage.
It was hopeless. He couldn’t see anything now, and any vague thoughts he’d had of following the track, it being the most likely route taken by the horseman, faded. He couldn’t make out the track anymore.
He took a desultory pace or two forward, bending down to have one last try at seeking out a hoof print. Then suddenly Horace gave a whinny of alarm and, jerking his head back, pulled the rein out of Josse’s free hand. Just as Josse began to straighten up, he heard a thin whistling sound by his right ear.
In the same instant as alarm began to surge through him, the blow fell.
Intense pain, concentrated on a point in the middle of the back of his head. A vague awareness of the cold smell of the forest floor, and shards of ice from some small puddle pressing against his cheek.
Then nothing.
* * *
He woke to feel something tickling his nose. Something soft, but which smelt very strongly. What was that smell? Goat? No, sheep.
A piece of sheepskin.
Smelly it might be, but it was beautifully warm. Josse wriggled his toes. They were warm, too. Bliss! From somewhere nearby, he could hear the soft hiss and crackle of a fire. Fire. Sheepskin. Warmth. Ah! This was good. Better than standing in the cold below Tonbridge Castle, trying to keep Horace from pacing in circles and giving them away …
Horace!
Josse sat up.
His head seemed to explode and, all thoughts of Horace flying from his brain, he groaned aloud.
A voice said urgently, ‘Lie back!’
For a moment, Josse thought he was back with Helewise and that, by some strange mirror-imagery, she was now nursing him, persuading him to rest. Had he taken on her head pain? Not that he’d mind, not really, only it did seem weird …
No. He couldn’t be in Helewise’s little bed. Helewise would not lie beneath a cover that smelt like this one did.
Gathering himself for a huge effort, Josse opened his eyes.
By the greyish light of morning, he could see that he was lying in a shack, crudely made of wooden posts tied together with woven willow withies. Cold air was coming in through the many gaps in the walls. He seemed to be in a bed of bracken, and the stinking cover was indeed a sheepskin, not very well cured.
A movement caught his attention. Turning his head – very carefully – he saw a figure standing in the low doorway.
A small figure, this one. By his dress, a boy. Eight? Nine? Josse, despite being uncle to several young nephews, was not very good with children’s ages. As he watched, the boy came into the shack and knelt beside Josse. He held a cup and, raising Josse’s head with a gentle hand that was careful to avoid the wound, he held the rim of the cup to Josse’s lips.
Some sort of warm liquid, flavoured with something reminiscent of onions, trickled into Josse’s mouth.
Mmm. Not bad.
‘Mmm. Not bad,’ Josse said aloud.
‘It’s onion broth,’ the light voice said. ‘Anyway, it’s meant to be. I don’t do very much cooking. Still, it tasted all right to me.’
‘Possibly a tad more salt,’ Josse remarked.
‘Yes! But, actually, I haven’t got any salt.’
‘Oh.’
There was a silence. The lad settled himself on the floor of the shack, close by Josse, and then said, ‘I’m Ninian. Ninian de Lehon. I’m not supposed to tell people, but you won’t say I did, will you?’
Josse twisted round so that he could look up into the boy’s innocent eyes. They were bright blue. Rare, he thought, to see such an intensity of colour. Recalling the trusting question, he said, ‘Of course I won’t.’
‘I’m seven years and five months old,’ Ninian went on, ‘I like riding and I like making camps – this is my camp. It’s my latest one and my best one. I like hounds – I’m going to have a hound of my own when I’m ten – and I don’t like lessons.’
‘Nor do I,’ Josse agreed.
The boy giggled. ‘You’re too old for lessons.’
‘Aye. But I remember well enough I didn’t like them.’
‘My pony’s called Minstrel,’ the boy said, ‘and—’
Pony. Horse. Horace! The memory came back again. ‘Where’s Horace?’ Josse demanded.
‘Is he your horse? He’s fine,’ Ninian said. ‘I’ve put him in the shelter with Minstrel. I took off his saddle and put Minstrel’s spare cover on him, only it’s a bit small. I would have taken off his bridle, but I didn’t know how to tether him if I did, the shelter’s not very strong and he might have pushed his way out. So I didn’t.’
‘Thank you for looking after him,’ Josse said gravely.
‘That’s all right.’
Silence fell again. With the fingernail of one forefinger – a filthy nail, Josse observed, on an equally filthy hand – Ninian picked at a scab on the back of his opposite wrist. The scab came away, leaving behind a drop of blood, which the boy sucked up. Then he ate the scab.
‘Nice?’ enquired Josse.
Ninian put his head on one side. ‘It could do with a tad more salt.’ He laughed. ‘You didn’t go, eugh!’ he said. ‘My mother always does. She—’
Suddenly his expression changed. Leaping up, he said, ‘Got to go. I’ll come back, I promise.’ He bent down over Josse, and, spitting into his right hand, held it out. ‘But you’ve got to promise not to follow me,’ he said, anxiety in his voice.
Josse pulled his own right hand out from the sheepskin, spat in the palm and smacked it into Ninian’s in a firm clasp. ‘You have my word.’
Ninian nodded. Then he rushed out through the doorway and was gone.
* * *
Some time later – early afternoon, to judge from the light; Josse, who had been asleep, hadn’t been aware of the progression of the hours – Ninian came back.
He was carrying a cloth bag, out of which he took bread, a piece of hard yellow cheese, a flask of water (‘I wanted to get you some wine, but they would’ve seen me so I didn’t’), a somewhat overripe apple and a small cake with a nut on the top. Josse, who hadn’t been aware he was hungry, ate the lot and instantly began to feel better.
‘I brought this, too.’ The boy undid a length of rope from around his waist. ‘I thought we could make Horace a head collar, then we could take his bridle off.’
‘How very considerate,’ Josse said. He took the rope from the boy and quickly knotted it. ‘There. This length over his ears, then tighten this loop a little, and the loose end to tie him up by.’
Ninian stared down at the improvised halter. ‘Oh.’
Oh indeed, Josse thought. Horace was a very big horse and Ninian a rather small boy. ‘Would you like me to see to it?’ he offered.
Ninian’s blue eyes shot to Josse’s. ‘No, you must go on lying down, you’ve had a severe blow to the head.’ He sounded, Josse thought, amused, as if he were quoting some overheard remark. ‘I’ll manage.’
He was on his feet before his courage failed. In the doorway, he turned round and said ‘Er – he doesn’t bite, does he?’
‘Never.’
Josse waited. Horace was, despite his size, a well-mannered horse, especially towards those trying to help him.
In a very short time, he heard Ninian’s racing footsteps returning.
‘I did it! I did it!’ the boy yelled, doing a little dance, no easy feat in the limited space of the hut. ‘He almost said thank you when I took off his bridle! The halter went on fine, I didn’t make it too tight, and now good old Horace can have a rest, too!’
‘That was bravely done,’ Josse said. ‘Thank you, Ninian de Lehon.’
Ninian grinned. ‘That’s all right – I don’t know your name, so I can’t be formal back.’
‘Josse d’Acquin,’ Josse said.
‘Acquin,’ the boy repeated. ‘Is that in France too?’
‘You remember you promised not to tell, don’t you?’ Ninian said warily. ‘About my name, I mean.’
‘Of course.’
‘I won’t tell anyone yours either, if you like,’ he offered. ‘That’ll make it fair. Won’t it?’
‘Aye, it would.’
Josse, who had drunk most of the flask of water, was beginning to feel an urgent need to relieve himself. But he wasn’t sure if he could stand unaided. Staring up at Ninian, he said, ‘I believe I need your help over something else. As well as the food, I mean, and taking care of Horace.’
‘Anything!’ the boy said generously.
Josse grinned, feeling awkward. ‘I need to –’ what phrase would a child use? He had no idea – ‘I need to make water,’ he finished lamely. ‘Is that how you’d say it?’
‘I’d say, I need to do pipi,’ Ninian said. Pipi, Josse thought, transported back to the nursery at Acquin, faire pipi. Well, the lad does have a French name, even if he speaks fairly accentless English. ‘But that doesn’t matter,’ Ninian went on. ‘Because I don’t, anyway, and you do, so I’d better help you up…’
It took quite a long time to get Josse outside, relieved – he made Ninian go away while he urinated, leaning against a tree – and back on his bracken bed again. The effort made Josse feel terrible. Ninian, with the tact of a much older person, made no comment but tucked him up under the sheepskin, put a full water flask beside him together with the last crust of the bread, then made himself scarce.
Daylight faded and Josse’s second night in the shack loomed. Ninian managed another visit before full darkness fell, thoughtfully bringing a lantern with him, and then Josse was left alone.
In the morning, Josse woke early. He felt better and the improvement increased as he drank from the flask and consumed the bread. He managed to crawl outside to his tree by himself this time.