by Alys Clare
With a sigh, he turned over on to his side and, to distract the natural drift of his thoughts, went back over everything that the Abbess had told him about Florian of Southfrith, his wife and his mother-in-law. Not that he could make himself care greatly, but then he had offered to go with the Abbess today and to give her what help he could in her noble attempt to find out who had killed the young man. The least he could do, he reasoned, was to try to appear interested. It would serve as a distraction, even if nothing else.
He presented himself outside her room after Tierce. The day was already hot and promised to become hotter; the sooner they began, the better.
He walked beside her across to the infirmary and waited while she sought out Sister Euphemia. There was a muttered conversation between the two women and at one point the infirmarer waved a hand to indicate the many empty beds. Then she called out to Sister Caliste, who appeared from a recess at the far end of the room. The infirmarer spoke to her, the young nun nodded eagerly, and then all three women came back to Josse.
Sister Caliste and Sister Euphemia were both looking at him with love and compassion in their eyes: God’s boots, he thought, do they all know? But instantly he regretted the moment of anger. Kindness was, after all, not that common a commodity and a man should be grateful when offered it. He bowed briefly to the nuns.
‘Both the Sisters will accompany us, Sir Josse,’ the Abbess was saying, ‘since neither has any pressing duties that require their presence here and both may be of assistance to Primevère, if indeed she is sick.’
‘I shall be pleased of your company, Sisters,’ he said gravely. ‘Come, let us be on our way.’
But the infirmarer held back. ‘The Abbess tells me you bear a wound, Sir Josse.’ She nodded at the bandage on his right arm. ‘May I tend it for you and see how it heals?’
He drew back his arm as if she had tried to grab hold of it. ‘No you may not!’ he cried. Too loudly and too forcibly; the three nuns were all staring at him.
But Joanna had wrapped that piece of linen around his arm; Joanna had stitched the wound after Meggie had bathed it and he knew, from the steady reduction in discomfort, that it was mending well. The sutures would have to be taken out some time but until then he didn’t want anybody else to touch it, no matter how well-meaning they were.
He could not, of course, explain all that.
‘I apologise for my rudeness.’ He gave Sister Euphemia a curt bow. ‘It’s just that . . .’ He stopped, at a loss.
But she gave him a loving smile and said quietly, ‘It’s all right. I understand.’
And he realised that there was no need for explanations after all.
Probably out of deference to Josse’s feelings, they left Honey in the paddock. The Abbess rode the Abbey cob, Sister Caliste had the pony and Sister Euphemia was left with the mule which, before mounting, she had fixed with a very firm eye as if to say, now I’ll have no nonsense from you. It must have worked for as they set out, Josse observed with a faint smile that he had never seen the mule behave better.
They rode along the track that circled the forest, staying in the shade of the trees whenever they could, and quite soon they came to the place where the road branched off south-east towards Hadfeld. Soon after that, the Abbess led the way through the gates into Florian’s courtyard.
Josse noticed that the building work had progressed well since his previous visit. No doubt, he thought, because of that slim and rigid figure who habitually stood on the mounting block keeping an eye on proceedings. As she was doing this morning; today, she was dressed in a gown of violet silk whose tight, high waist accentuated her full breasts. She turned at the sound of their mounts’ hooves and stared out at the quartet with imperiously raised eyebrows.
‘Yes? Oh, it’s you, Abbess Helewise. And – Sir Josse? That is your name, as I recall?’
‘Aye.’
‘And here is Sister Caliste’ – the Abbess indicated the younger nun – ‘and this is my infirmarer, Sister Euphemia.’
Primevère’s dark blue eyes turned to the infirmarer and the hint of a smile quirked at the corner of her mouth. ‘And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’
‘When we came to see you a few days ago, it was to bring the dreadful news that you had lost your husband,’ the Abbess said gently. ‘In addition to having to bear your grief, you were already sick and in bed. I have come, with these my trusted companions, to see how you are.’
There was a flash of something in Primevère’s eyes, almost too brief to catch, but Josse, who was best positioned to see, thought that the swift expression looked like impatience, as if the young woman regretted having to be distracted from the task that currently absorbed her while she dealt with this nuisance that had just arrived in her courtyard.
But then she smiled widely and, stepping carefully down from her mounting block, holding her skirt high to avoid treading on it, she approached the Abbess and said, ‘How very kind. Please, all of you, come into the hall and I will send for refreshments. It is a very hot day, is it not? Me, I do feel the heat so badly – it makes me feel weak and nauseous. As I am now well, as you will have observed, I have in fact attributed my previous indisposition to nothing other than too much sunshine.’
The four of them dismounted and Primevère clapped her hands to summon a groom. The lad – he was small and had the narrow chest and pale skin that spoke of malnutrition – took the reins of the horses, the pony and the mule and, with one or two apprehensive glances at Horace, led them off to the stables.
Josse hurried after him: ‘He’s a big horse but, treated with kindness, he’s very well-mannered,’ he reassured the boy. But his remark was met with a look of fear, swiftly replaced by stony-faced apathy.
All is not happy here, Josse thought. The lad is afraid, and here is the mistress, a very recent widow, who far from welcoming her well-wishers, seems almost irritated by their presence . . . He resolved to keep his eyes open and his senses alert.
Primevère led the way up the steps into the cool hall, where the woman in black – Melusine, Josse recalled; that was what the Abbess said she was called – sat on a bench under an open window. She was sewing some piece of embroidery in gloriously rich colours and talking in abrupt and rather curt tones to a man standing beside her.
She looked up as her daughter led the four visitors towards her. ‘Abbess Helewise,’ she said, nodding up at the Abbess, ‘and you I recognise . . .’ Her eyes had swivelled to Josse and she was frowning. ‘You came before, non?’
‘Aye,’ Josse said.
For a moment Melusine looked almost anxious. Then her face cleared and she said with evident relief, ‘But of course, sir knight, you have come to offer your condolences on the death of my son-in-law! N’est-ce pas?’
Primevère said something very swiftly in French. As far as Josse could tell, for the young woman had sat down close to her mother and spoke very softly so that he could barely pick up the words, she was telling her that the Hawkenlye party had come to see how she was faring in her grief.
‘Ah, but how very kind!’ Melusine said. ‘The charity of the sisters, is it not famous far and wide?’
The man at her side spoke for the first time. ‘Indeed,’ he said smoothly, ‘and of all religious foundations, the reputation of Hawkenlye and its good people is the most highly esteemed of all.’
Josse turned to him, taking in the man’s air of strength contained within an elegant and well-dressed body; the man’s garments simply shouted expensive, from the closely fitting tunic of very fine wool to the soft leather boots and the hint of scarlet-died fur at the ends of the wide sleeves. Feeling Josse’s intent eyes, the man met them and, smiling widely, said, ‘I am Ranulf of Crowbergh, family friend to Florian and his household.’ Josse might have been mistaken but he thought he heard a sudden intake of breath from the Abbess, standing close beside him. ‘Sir Josse—?’
‘Josse d’Acquin.’ Josse gave a formal bow.
‘Sir Josse.’ Ranulf
of Crowbergh returned it.
Primevère had moved across to and through an arched doorway at the far end of the room and her voice could be heard giving instructions to whoever was working there. She returned and, still the epitome of good manners, Ranulf of Crowbergh made a show of pulling up a seat for her and settling her upon it.
Primevère, after a swift look up at him, gave a little cough and said, ‘You are most kind to concern yourself, my lady Abbess, over my grief and my sickness. The former nobody can help me with, although Maman assures me it is but a matter of time.’ She gave a little sigh. ‘As to my sickness, as I said, it was a simple matter of the heat. Now, why, you can see for yourselves that I am well!’ She beamed around at her four guests and indeed, Josse thought, she looked the picture of health, from her glossy dark hair, shining like the coat of a well-groomed horse, to the clear eyes and the faint flush of pink in her cheeks.
‘You were sick enough to be in your bed when last we saw you,’ the Abbess reminded her kindly. ‘And you were very pale; as I said, I was concerned for your health, which is why I brought with me our two nursing nuns here. Would you not like to speak privately to Sister Euphemia, or perhaps Sister Caliste, to discuss your—’
‘No,’ said Primevère very firmly. Then, with an apologetic laugh, ‘You are so kind, mes soeurs, to have made the journey, but it is all for nothing for, as you see, today I am no longer the least bit pale! It is the heat, nothing but that, which occasionally makes me sick. As I told you just now, it does not suit me, yet I am forced to spend much time outside under the sun because, with no husband to bear the burden, it is I alone who must ensure that the builders do as they are told and do not try to take advantage of a poor, helpless widow.’ She cast her eyes down and put a hand to her eyes as if wiping a tear.
Josse, on whom not one nuance of the speech was lost, reflected that the place where Primevère usually stood was, as he had noticed on his first visit, the one place in the courtyard that was not in the sun. But, bearing in mind all that this young woman was having to cope with, it would have been churlish to mention it.
Ranulf of Crowbergh was speaking, saying something about helping out Florian’s widow and her mother whenever he could but, in addition, having the demands of his own household to see to. ‘And, the dear Lord knows, it always seems that there are just not enough hours in the day for all that has to be done!’
A servant arrived with a jug of ale, so cold that droplets of water were condensing on its sides. He poured out mugs for the visitors and, after a swift enquiry, one for Ranulf of Crowbergh as well. The ale, Josse discovered, was excellent, light but very refreshing. He drank almost the entire contents of his mug and then, feeling awkward, held it in such a way that his hostess could not see how much had gone. She, however, watched him with observant eyes and gave him a little smile.
Neither the infirmarer nor Sister Caliste had spoken. Both stood a respectful couple of paces behind their Abbess. They too, Josse knew, had observant eyes. He wondered what impressions they were gaining of Florian’s household.
Melusine was getting to her feet. A glance passed between her and her daughter and Primevère gave an almost imperceptible nod. We are about to be very courteously sent on our way, Josse thought. Putting down his now empty mug, he said, addressing Primevère, ‘My lady, one thing puzzles us. We have heard that Merlin’s Tomb is now closed and that visitors are being turned away.’
‘Ah, I expect some of them have gone instead to Hawkenlye,’ Primevère said with an understanding nod.
Neither confirming nor denying that, Josse went on, ‘We are asking ourselves who, in the absence of your late husband, has made and implemented the decision to shut down the site? It had proved extremely popular, I am given to understand, and was clearly fulfilling a need for the people in these difficult times. Why, then, close it?’ He looked from Primevère to her mother, then, finally, at Ranulf.
Whom he caught in what appeared to be an intense exchange of glances with Primevère. ‘It was my decision, naturally,’ she said calmly after a moment. ‘The tomb was Florian’s project and I had nothing whatsoever to do with it. It is no task for a woman and although it is possible that I might have engaged someone to run the place – why, my neighbour here has offered his help’ – she looked up and gave Ranulf a smile – ‘I do not care to go on being associated with it.’ Meeting Josse’s eyes she said, with a moving catch in her voice, ‘Sir Josse, how could I possibly wish to take over a matter that was the cause of my beloved husband’s death?’
She made a good point, he conceded, and he made her a swift bow in acknowledgement. ‘I quite understand,’ he murmured.
But I’ll wager, he thought, that you have no such qualms over spending the vast amounts of money that the tomb has brought you.
The Abbess had also put down her mug. ‘We must be going,’ she said. ‘But remember, please, that we are not far away. If, Primevère, you continue to be troubled by the heat, come and see us and I am quite sure that my infirmarer will be able to prescribe a tonic.’
‘Thank you, you’re most kind,’ Primevère said. ‘Now, let me see you on your way.’
She got up from her seat and, stepping forward, raised her chin and preceded the party out of the hall.
The groom was waiting in the courtyard with the horses and the Abbess, Josse and the two nuns quickly mounted. Primevère bade them farewell and, just as they rode off, Josse saw Ranulf of Crowbergh hurrying round to the stables. They had gone only a short way up the road when there was the sound of hooves from behind them and he trotted up to join them.
‘I too must be about my work,’ he said to the party in general, ‘back to home, hearth and the bosom of the family, you know!’
‘Indeed,’ said the Abbess politely.
Then, surprisingly, Sister Euphemia spoke up. ‘My lady,’ she said to the Abbess, ‘may I make a request?’
The Abbess looked surprised. ‘Of course, Sister. What is it?’
‘I ought to have asked the lady back there’ – she jerked her head back towards the house they had just left – ‘but somehow, what with her very recent bereavement, I didn’t like to. I would so love to see for myself these bones we’ve been hearing so much about. May I ask you, sir’ – she turned eager eyes to Ranulf – ‘if you think it would be all right for us to make a detour to Merlin’s Tomb before we return to Hawkenlye?’
Josse, wondering what was behind the request, studied Ranulf as he thought about it. The man seemed doubtful, which could, Josse acknowledged, be for a very good reason, if he had guessed that Florian’s site in the forest was a fake. Any decent man would do his best to protect his dead neighbour’s widow from such harmful gossip about her late husband. And on the face of it Ranulf of Crowbergh did indeed appear to be a decent man . . .
But then Ranulf’s face cleared and he smiled. ‘Of course it will be all right! Wait here – I will ride back and request to borrow the keys so that I may unfasten the chains. We can’t have you shinning up over the fences, Sister!’ And he gave her what was almost a flirtatious wink.
As he hurried back to the house, the Abbess was eyeing Sister Euphemia. ‘Why do you want to see the tomb, Sister?’ she asked.
The infirmarer shrugged. ‘I can’t really say, my lady. Just a feeling I have . . .’ She didn’t elaborate.
Josse, recalling those observant eyes, suddenly felt sure that the wise infirmarer, with her vast experience of people, had spotted something that the rest of them had missed. He spoke up, addressing the Abbess: ‘My lady, I too would dearly like another look at those bones,’ he said, ‘especially since it’s apparent that it will likely be the last chance for any of us to do so.’
‘Although I too must confess to a certain curiosity concerning this place about which we have heard so much,’ the Abbess said, frowning, ‘we really should get back to Hawkenlye.’
‘It’s not far and it won’t take long,’ Josse said persuasively.
The Abbess smiled thinly. ‘
Very well. Since Sir Ranulf has already hurried off to see about accommodating your request, Sister Euphemia, I suppose that it would be discourteous now to say we have changed out minds and do not wish to visit the tomb after all.’
They sat and waited in a rather stony silence for Ranulf to return; Sister Euphemia caught Josse’s eye and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’
Presently Ranulf rejoined them and, still acting as if this were a cheery midsummer outing, led the way up to the forest fringes and along the track that led to Merlin’s Tomb.
One guard remained, a yellow-haired youth whose thin shoulders suggested he was hardly up to the job. He was on duty at the gate in the outer fence, where presumably his orders were to turn away any last hopefuls, and he slumped in a half-crouch with his back against a post. Seeing and obviously recognising who was leading the approaching group, he instantly straightened up, brushing at his tunic and trying to kick the mug from which he had just been drinking away into the grass. ‘Sir!’ he hailed Ranulf. ‘All quiet, sir!’
‘Good, good,’ Ranulf purred. ‘I will pass on the news. Now, man, these good people wish to view the bones, so kindly open up’ – he threw down the keys – ‘and admit us.’
The guard leapt to do as he was ordered, opening the first gate and then hurrying ahead of them down the path to unfasten the second, higher barrier. As they drew level with him he offered to hold their mounts while they went on into the clearing.
They dismounted and Ranulf of Crowbergh led them across the short turf to the open scar of the tomb. Then, stepping away, he waved a hand as if in invitation and all four of them approached.
Like a punch in the chest, Josse felt again the power of those huge bones. It was none the weaker for being experienced a second time; if anything, it was stronger. But then I am not the man I was last time I stood here, he thought. I have spent two weeks with a woman of the forest and some of her beliefs and her spirit – quite a lot of her spirit – seems to have rubbed off on me.