Faithful Dead

by Alys Clare

  Josse felt his heart sink. How he would have liked to return to the Abbess and tell her that the mystery was solved! But it had been a faint hope; all along, the likelihood had been that his mission would prove that the dead man was not Sidonius rather than that he was.

  The Magister spoke again; there was, Josse had noticed, a faint accent: Welsh? He said, still regarding Josse with those dark eyes, ‘You had reason to wish that your dead man was Galbertius Sidonius?’

  ‘Eh? No, not really.’ It was too difficult to explain about the Abbess, and wanting to help her by identifying the corpse, so he didn’t try. In fact, he said nothing further.

  But the Magister had not finished with him. ‘You know of this man, this Sidonius?’ he probed. ‘For all that you told my lord the Prince that you do not.’

  ‘No!’ Josse protested vehemently. ‘Believe me, sir, I do not!’

  A smile broke the pale, solemn face. ‘I do believe you,’ the Magister said. ‘I know when a man lies to me, and you, I see, speak true.’

  Staring hard at him – the levity in his voice as he had made the reply seemed to permit a certain relaxation in his approach – Josse thought that there was something familiar about the older man. He said, ‘Forgive me, Magister, but have we met before? Were you perhaps at court when the King and his brothers were lads, in the time of King Henry, their father?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘They call you Magister,’ Josse pressed on, ‘but may I know your name?’

  ‘It is no secret,’ the older man said mildly. ‘My name is John Dee.’

  John Dee . . .

  The name, like the face, had a familiarity to it. Josse thought hard. Did he recall a man called Dee when he had attended the young princes? No. He did not believe he did. Brows descending in a frown of concentraton, he pushed his memory further back.

  And, from nowhere, remembered Geoffroi, his father, telling tales beside the fire to his young sons. Of a man who read the future in the stars, who warned of events that were to come, who saw the wind with his deep, dark eyes and whom sailors – always a superstitious bunch – feared as a sorcerer.

  Sorcerer. How the word had thrilled and scared the small boys crouched at their father’s knee! How they had both yearned for him to go on and tell them more, and prayed that he would stop before he frightened them so much that they would not sleep!

  The sorcerer’s name had been John Dee.

  ‘My father knew you!’ Josse exclaimed. But no, that wasn’t quite right; Geoffroi told stories not of someone he had met, but of a legendary figure from the past. A man who had advised kings and princes, yes, but many years ago. The courts to which the John Dee of Geoffroi d’Acquin’s tales belonged had been those of the first William and, later, that of his ill-fated, short-reigning son, the second William, and his brother, Henry.

  Kings who, or so it was whispered, kept at least one foot in the Old Religion . . .

  This man who now lay in the bed before Josse was far too young to be one and the same as that figure from the fireside tales! But he was probably a descendant.

  ‘I know of you, John Dee,’ Josse said, reverence in his voice; it was not every day you met the kinsman of a magician. ‘My father used to tell us tales of the John Dee who advised the first of the Norman kings, who, I would venture to conclude, was your ancestor?’

  The Magister said nothing for a moment. Then, softly: ‘John Dee was always there, and always will be.’

  Ah, yes, Josse thought. It was as he had thought; the post of court sorcerer, or magician, or seer, or sage, or whatever they called it, must be an hereditary one. Passed always from father to son, as was their traditional family Christian name of John.

  He sat back on his stool, regarding the man in the bed with pleasure. ‘John Dee,’ he said, awe in his voice. ‘John Dee.’

  Dee waited to see if he was going to add anything more challenging. When he did not, Dee said, ‘I do remember your father. For all that he told tales not of my present doings but of events from the past’ – there was a faint sparkle of humour in his eyes – ‘I did not hold it against him. A good man, Geoffroi d’Acquin.’ The humour vanished, to be replaced by a sharp, calculating look. ‘He lives still?’

  ‘No.’ Josse shook his head. ‘He died – oh, all of sixteen years ago, now. Back in ’76.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  Staring at Dee, Josse had the strange sensation that he had known all along that Geoffroi was dead.

  Why, then, ask?

  As if to distract him from that vaguely disturbing thought, Dee was speaking, a hypnotic note in his voice that, against his will, instantly grabbed Josse’s attention. ‘Ah, what sorrow that was,’ he murmured, ‘for a man of but fifty summers to die, cut down, like the Corn King, with the harvest.’

  ‘Aye,’ Josse said softly, remembering. ‘That he was. We––’ But then his head shot up as, with a shiver down his back, he stared at Dee. ‘How did you know?’ he demanded. ‘I never mentioned that he died in the summer!’

  But Dee was speaking again, the soft, lulling note stronger now; Josse, knowing himself to be disturbed over something but unable, for the life of him, to remember what it was, had no choice but to be quiet and listen.

  ‘His death was inscribed on the fabric of the past, present and future, as are those of us all,’ Dee whispered. ‘It is but as a book, to we who learn how to read it. Your father’s time came, and he was taken.’

  ‘Aye,’ breathed Josse. He felt as if he were dreaming, yet, at the same time, still awake. Awake sufficiently, anyway, to be aware of the smell of the herbs on the fire. The soft, comfortable padding of the stool beneath his buttocks.

  Dee’s strange voice.

  ‘Your father’s death is the reason,’ Dee continued. ‘The reason why I tell you that the stranger must come to you.’

  ‘Nobody has come!’ Josse protested; the effort of speech was hard, and he felt as if he were pushing his words out through thick, muffling cloth.

  Dee, appearing briefly surprised – was he not used to people answering him back when he held them in thrall? – made a smoothing, soothing gesture with his right hand. It wore, Josse noticed, a large, pale blue-green stone; in his head a distant voice said, aquamarine. The Seer’s stone.

  And the right hand, he recalled as if from nowhere, was the power hand . . .

  Either the hand gesture or the ring – or both – worked on Josse as, presumably, Dee had intended. Mute, receptive, he sat waiting for what would happen next.

  ‘I say again,’ Dee murmured, ‘the stranger will come to you. Possibly not he himself – the picture is unclear – but one who comes from him.’

  ‘But––’ It was no use; whatever skill or power Dee was using was now too strong for Josse to fight.

  ‘He will come,’ Dee said, waving his hand again. ‘Only wait, and he will come.’

  Josse felt his eyelids grow heavy. His head went down, chin tucked into his chest, and he saw darkness bloom before him. Then – he had no idea how long afterwards – he gave a sudden snort-like snore, and woke himself up.

  He sat up straight, rubbed his eyes and stared at Dee, who was watching him with amused eyes.

  ‘The herbs on my fire aid my breathing,’ Dee said, in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘But, to those unused to their smoke, they can induce sleep. I apologise, Sir Josse, for having caused you the embarrassment of nodding off when your intention was to cheer a sick man by your visit.’

  Josse, horribly confused, said, ‘Aye. No. Sorry, sir.’ Standing up, he managed to knock the stool over, and he tripped up over one of its legs as he lunged for the door. ‘Goodbye, Magister,’ he added.

  ‘Farewell, Josse d’Acquin! Go in safety!’

  Dee’s valediction was – there was no mistaking it – accompanied by rich, happy, slightly mocking laughter.

  5

  Josse was back at Hawkenlye long before the Abbess would have expected. As Sister Ursel brought her the news of his return, she was filled with a sen
se of foreboding; whatever he had found out, she thought, it could surely not have been the identity of the body in the new grave.

  It was late – too late for an audience, for the nuns were retiring for the night – so Helewise sent word back to Josse that she was glad for his safe return, wished him sound sleep and a restful night, and that she would see him in the morning.

  The fact that, all night, she burned with anxiety to know what he had found out was, she told herself firmly, another small penance for the sin of having neglected a dead body for six weeks.

  She received Josse after Tierce. She had been awake for hours, but word came from the Vale that Josse slept on, and she ordered that he should not be disturbed. When, at last, he stood before her, she could tell from his face that his mission had not achieved the result they had both hoped for.

  ‘The Prince had gone,’ he told her, after carefully closing the door against eavesdroppers, ‘but one of his party remained behind. He’s sick in bed with a bad cold. He told me that Galbertius Sidonius is not a young man.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ It was only when she knew for certain that the dead man had not just been tentatively identified that she realised how much she longed to give him a name. ‘There is no doubt?’

  ‘Absolutely none. The Magister – that’s what they all call him, although his name is John Dee – is as sharp as they come. We can take his word for it, my lady.’

  ‘Oh.’ She could not think of anything else to say.

  Josse stood before her, brows knotted in a ferocious frown of concentration. ‘I wish I could have come back with something positive,’ he muttered, ‘instead of presenting us with another blank stone wall. I––’

  He was interrupted by a soft tap-tapping on the door. Helewise, startled, said, ‘come in!’ and, as the door was slowly opened, the lined, old face of Brother Firmin appeared in the gap like a tortoise poking its head out of its shell.

  ‘My lady Abbess,’ the old monk said, making a low and very formal reverence.

  ‘Brother Firmin,’ she replied. She restrained her impatience as he went through his usual litany of opening remarks – was she well? what a fine day it was, thank the Good Lord; how gracious it was of her to spare him a moment of her precious time, and he would be brief, he promised her.

  When he had finished, she said, forcing a smile, ‘What can I do for you, Brother Firmin?’

  ‘Eh? Oh, well, it’s not really me so much as him.’ He jerked his head towards the half-open door. ‘May I tell him to step into your presence, my lady Abbess?’

  ‘Yes, please do.’

  She did not have to wonder for long who ‘him’ might be; as soon as the old monk began to say, ‘You can come in, Brother Augustus,’ he was there before her table, and his bow was as deep and reverential as even Brother Firmin could have wished.

  ‘Brother Augustus.’ She could not keep the affection out of her voice. ‘You wished to speak to me?’

  ‘Aye. There’s something I’ve thought of.’ The young man shot a swift and apprehensive glance at Brother Firmin, who was watching him with a slightly accusing expression, as if he felt the youth should not be wasting his Abbess’s time. ‘I’ve been thinking, and––’

  Helewise held up her hand and, instantly, Augustus fell silent. She turned to the old monk. ‘Brother Firmin, I know that you love to pray in the Abbey church by yourself but that you rarely have the chance, so busy are you down in the Vale. But I believe there are few people within at present; would you care to take this opportunity for some private worship?’

  The old man’s eyes lit up, and she had a stab of self-reproof at her duplicity. ‘May I really?’ he whispered. She nodded. With another deep reverence, he was gone.

  She turned back to Augustus, who was smiling his gratitude. ‘Now, Brother Augustus,’ she said. ‘Will it be easier to tell just Sir Josse here and myself ?’

  ‘Aye, and thank you.’ He shot Josse a friendly grin then, taking a deep breath, said, ‘I woke early this morning, like you do when something’s niggling at you. I lay there, trying to think of nothing in particular and let the thought come to me in its own time, and eventually it did.’ He met her eyes and said, ‘Sorry. I’m being as long-winded as my dear esteemed Brother Firmin. Oh! Sorry!’ He blushed, apparently instantly ashamed of the mild criticism.

  ‘It’s all right, Augustus,’ Helewise said. ‘Please, go on.’

  ‘It just came to me, all of a sudden, and I thought, why are we all thinking the dead man was killed in the Vale? Is it not possible that the murder was done somewhere else, the body stripped and all, and then the killer put him in the bracken? I mean, if it was at night, and the murderer didn’t know the shrine and the shelter and that were there, he might have believed he was concealing the poor dead soul in a hiding place right out in the wilds, where he would never be found.’

  ‘But surely everybody knows about Hawkenlye Abbey,’ Josse said.

  Augustus turned to him. ‘Not strangers,’ he said. ‘Foreigners, like. Why should they?’

  ‘We receive many foreign pilgrims, Augustus,’ Helewise put in gently.

  ‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. ‘Why, Augustus, don’t you remember? Brother Erse was talking of someone who he claimed was a foreigner – who was it, now?’ He made a circling movement with his hand, as if this would somehow magic the memory out of the air.

  ‘He meant the young servant who came with the old man who died,’ Augustus said. ‘And yes, before either of you says it, I know. He was foreign, or at least according to Erse he was, and he knew about the Shrine and the Abbey.’

  ‘But Augustus may still quite well be right,’ Helewise put in. She could see the disappointment in the eager, intelligent young face. ‘Just because one supposed foreigner knows of our existence, it would be supreme folly to assume that we are known to every single one.’

  ‘That’s what I was getting at, Abbess Helewise!’ Augustus cried. ‘I mean, maybe I shouldn’t speak of it, not here in the Abbey, but’ – his voice dropped to a whisper, as if he did not want to hurt God’s feelings – ‘not every foreigner is a Christian!’

  ‘No indeed,’ she agreed, ‘and – Sir Josse? What ails you?’ Josse’s face had creased into such a scowl of concentration that it almost looked as if he were in pain.

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘It’s just that I’ve just had one of those moments that young Augustus was describing, when you know there’s something worrying at the back of your mind and you can’t think what it is, or why it’s important . . .’ He trailed off, still frowning. ‘Never mind. It’ll come, in its own good time.’

  ‘Try going through the names and ages of all your relations,’ Augustus advised. ‘That’s what I did, and when I got to my mother’s Auntie Meg’s husband’s mother, who claims to be a hundred, though nobody believes her, I remembered what I was trying to bring to mind.’

  Josse chuckled and, reaching out, ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Happen I don’t have as many relatives as you, lad,’ he said. Then, after a moment, ‘I don’t know, though.’

  Helewise looked from one to the other, affected by their ease in one another’s company. They were almost like father and son. It crossed her mind to wonder briefly why Josse had no family; no sensible, affectionate wife, and no son to follow in his footsteps.

  Then she remembered something. Something she was trying very hard to forget. No, she told herself firmly. Do not dwell on Joanna de Courtenay, and of what may or may not have passed between her and Josse. You do not know for certain, and it is none of your business.

  But, despite herself, she thought: February, it was, when Joanna was hiding out in the Forest. And now it is nearly October. If Sister Euphemia was right . . .

  No.

  Firmly putting the speculation from her, she turned her attention back to Josse and Augustus, who were laughing helplessly at something Josse had said about his sister-in-law’s mother. Helewise cleared her throat and both men jumped; Josse, looking abashed, s
aid quickly, ‘Ah, but I should not make fun at her expense, she means well, I dare say, although––’

  There was another tap on the door. Wondering if it might be Brother Firmin, cutting short his prayers for some reason of his own, again Helewise called out, ‘Come in.’

  It was not Brother Firmin but Sister Anne.

  Round eyes alight with the fascinated interest of someone whose daily round did not include very much excitement or even variety – Sister Anne, none too bright but well-meaning, scrubbed pots in the refectory – the nun said, ‘Ooh, Abbess Helewise, Sister Ursel sent me, she’s busy attending to the man’s horse and didn’t want to leave him, not that there’s anything amiss but––’

  ‘Sister Anne?’ Helewise prompted.

  ‘Yes, sorry.’ Sister Anne shot at Josse a glance that, in any other woman, might have been called flirtatious. Then: ‘It’s another man called d’Acquin, see. Just like Sir Josse here, only this one’s a bit smaller and a bit younger and he says his name is Yves.’

  The Abbess, to Josse’s relief, took the startling announcement in her stride. She must have noticed his amazement – hardly surprising; he felt as if his jaw had dropped at least to his knees – and she said calmly, ‘Sir Josse, what an honour for us to receive a visit from your brother! Let us go out straight away to greet him.’

  He and Augustus stood back to let her precede them out of the room, Sister Anne bobbing along beside them like a rowing boat attending a sailing ship. Watching the Abbess’s straight-backed figure gliding along just ahead of him enabled him to regain something of his composure so that, by the time they were approaching the little group at the gate – Sister Ursel, Sister Martha, Yves’s bay and, naturally, Yves himself – Josse was ready – eager – to rush forward and take his brother in his arms.

  ‘Yves, Yves!’ he said against the warm and slightly sweaty skin of his brother’s neck; he must have been riding hard, for the bay, too, was lathered. ‘How good it is to see you!’