by Alys Clare
And now there was this new thought, which had arisen from the deep recesses of her mind and given her no peace. Unable to suppress it, she had been driven to make a decision. It had been hard – so very hard – but she had realized she had no choice.
Not that it had made it any easier …
She turned away from the glass, suddenly unable to look into her own eyes.
Anyway, it made no difference now, for he was long gone, and by now would be far away. She’d obeyed the impulse, and there was no way she could undo what she had done even if she wanted to. She sighed. In all likelihood, she told herself, it would all come to naught and her misgivings – if that was what they were – were for nothing.
She felt herself relax.
Time would tell. If anything did happen, nobody would even begin to imagine she was involved.
She smiled.
SEVEN
At the Sanctuary, Helewise bent anxiously over her patient. Hadil’s fever had not abated, despite Helewise’s administration of several of the sovereign remedies. She had made an infusion of elder and yarrow to induce sweating, and kept one of sweet-smelling chamomile always ready. She had spent hours gently sponging Hadil’s face, neck, chest, arms and hands with fresh, cool spring water. Still the woman burned, her skin dry and tight, and she moaned as she threw herself from side to side in the narrow bed.
Sometimes she spoke in a language Helewise didn’t understand, but now and again she whispered a few words in the common tongue. Once, in the darkest pre-dawn hours, she suddenly sat up and said with perfect clarity, ‘We must locate the very last of it, for it is so very dangerous and it must leave the world …’ The unseeing eyes had lit upon Helewise, crouched beside the bed, desperate to put a flame to more than the single candle that burned all night like a sanctuary lamp, but frightened to leave her patient even for an instant. ‘It is evil, tainted, heavy with sin,’ Hadil insisted, her face filled with horror. There was a terrible sense of urgency about her and, pushing Helewise aside, she tried to get out of bed. Gently Helewise took hold of her shoulders and pushed her back against the pillows, tucking the blankets around her. ‘Stay here, Hadil,’ she said softly. ‘I will take care of you. You are far too weak to leave your bed.’
Hadil seemed to accept that and, for a while, lay back as if exhausted. But then, as Helewise was about to fetch fresh water to bathe her once more, abruptly – and making Helewise jump with shock – she began to shout in a voice so loud and strong that it almost hurt.
‘Why will you not help me?’ she roared.
‘I—’ Helewise began.
‘You promised you would do whatever I asked and yet now, when I need you most and all I am doing is trying to make you fulfil your oath, you will not do as I command! Ach, but I despair of you, for you are just like all the rest!’
Helewise realized she was addressing her son.
‘He is not here, Hadil,’ she said softly. ‘He has gone to—’
But Hadil wasn’t listening; did not, probably, even know where she was, who she was with, or that Faruq wasn’t there.
‘Why will you not help me?’ Hadil wept.
Helewise took hold of the hot, flailing hands in her own cool ones. The gesture – the very touch – seemed to calm the woman a little.
‘He can’t help you, Hadil, for he is not here,’ she said. ‘You cannot stand, let alone mount a horse and travel the roads all the way to wherever it is you were bound.’
Now Hadil turned to look at her, right into her eyes, and Helewise had the feeling that perhaps, at last, she understood. ‘He will come back?’ she asked pitifully.
‘Of course he will,’ Helewise assured her.
She stayed where she was, holding the hot hands, occasionally removing the soft cloth on Hadil’s brow to rinse it in cool water and replace it. After a while, she felt her patient relax. Soon the deep breathing and the steady snoring told her Hadil was asleep.
Helewise took the opportunity and crept away to her own bed. The Sanctuary was only one small room and she would not be far away if her patient suddenly cried out for her.
Before she gave in to fatigue, Helewise prayed for Faruq and Meggie. She asked the Almighty Father in whose loving solicitude she had absolute faith to watch over them, keep them safe and, above all, bring them home again. For I have promised his mother that Faruq will come back to her, she reminded God, and I beg your help so that I will not be proved a liar. Then, as she always did, she went on to pray for her family, and for all the many other people she loved and cared about, ending, as ever, with Josse.
I don’t know where he is, dear Lord, she prayed, but I entrust him to your care.
Then, a faint smile on her face, she fell asleep.
She was awakened by the quiet little noises of somebody moving about the Sanctuary and trying not to wake the occupants. Opening her eyes, she saw the tall, stooped figure of the strange woman who had once been the Hawkenlye herbalist and now lived in solitude in the forest.
Sensing eyes upon her, Tiphaine turned round. ‘Good morning, my lady,’ she said, making the reverence that she had performed daily when both women had lived a different life and Helewise had been her superior.
‘It’s just Helewise now,’ Helewise muttered, pushing back the blankets and sitting up. ‘How many times must I tell you?’
Tiphaine handed her a welcome drink; hot, aromatic, with the promise of bringing invigoration and optimism to one who hadn’t had enough sleep. Tiphaine’s morning infusions were legendary and they never failed. She grinned. ‘It could be a thousand times,’ she said in answer to Helewise’s question, ‘and it’d make not a scrap of difference.’
She crouched down on the floor as Helewise sipped at her drink. Helewise looked across at Hadil, still sleeping, and Tiphaine followed the direction of her eyes. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked quietly. Helewise told her. ‘And what ails her?’
Helewise shrugged. ‘I suspect it is mainly exhaustion, for it appears she and her son had travelled a very long way before she collapsed. She took a fall from her horse and broke her arm, and in addition she had a nasty blow to the head.’ Tiphaine nodded, all her attention on Helewise. ‘I think, however, that the overall source of her disquiet is anxiety,’ Helewise went on. ‘It seems that she and Faruq – that’s the son – came to England to fulfil some dangerous mission, and she is finding it very hard to find any peace all the time she doesn’t know if Faruq is succeeding or not.’
‘He’s gone off with Meggie, you said?’
‘Yes, and it’s no use asking me where, as I have absolutely no idea.’
Tiphaine smiled. ‘Then I won’t bother.’ With one strong, graceful movement, she got up. ‘Best thing I can do is examine the patient and see if I can come up with anything you haven’t thought of.’ She stopped in the middle of moving over to Hadil’s bed. ‘That is, I’m quite sure there won’t be anything,’ she went on in a very different tone, almost obsequious, ‘because you—’
Helewise burst out laughing. ‘Tiphaine, stop it!’ she said. ‘You no longer have to treat me as your superior, and the timely reminder that you know far, far more about herbs and remedies and the best treatment for virtually any ailment or condition under the sun won’t have me trembling in outraged fury, I assure you.’
Tiphaine studied her in silence for a moment. Turning away, she said calmly, ‘I’d better have a look at her, then.’
She was some time studying the sleeping woman. Eventually, straightening up, she said, ‘There’s a few things we could try.’ She paused. ‘Like me to stay, would you?’
And, on a grateful and relieved sigh, Helewise said, ‘Yes.’
Meggie and Faruq were nearing their destination. They had ridden in silence for some time. Meggie, noticing Faruq’s deep frown, had been reluctant to interrupt whatever worrying thoughts preoccupied him. She had, moreover, quite enough anxieties of her own.
But as Corfe Castle came into view, high on its headland and ringed by its strong, well-mai
ntained walls, she sensed him jerk out of his reverie and, turning, saw his frown deepen as he stared ahead. ‘Is that it?’ he asked, and she could hear the disappointment in his voice.
‘Yes.’
‘But it’s—’
‘Impenetrable? Yes, of course it is; what did you expect?’ She heard the echo of her voice and realized she’d spoken too critically. ‘King John made it one of his regional treasuries a few years ago,’ she went on in a gentler tone. ‘He strengthened the castle massively then, and made sure it’s perpetually guarded, because he keeps money at the ready so that he doesn’t have to beg for it from the Exchequer and explain endlessly why he wants it.’
Faruq nodded. ‘Very wise,’ he remarked. Then, flashing her a look: ‘How do you know? Is it common knowledge?’
Stung at the implication that she would only know if it was, she said, ‘I have no idea if it’s commonly known or not. I know because my father told me.’
And Josse, she guessed but didn’t add, had probably acquired his knowledge from Leofgar. While it was true that Helewise’s son was now in sympathy with the rebel barons, it hadn’t always been so. Leofgar – married to a difficult woman who had tired of country life and wanted more sophistication, more importance, more wealth, more everything (Meggie didn’t much like Rohaise) – had encouraged her husband to penetrate the outer royal circles, and by so doing become aware of what went on in the King’s court.
‘And you’re sure that the Queen is here?’ Faruq demanded.
Meggie shrugged. ‘Possibly. Probably,’ she amended.
Isabella, living there either as a prisoner, according to John’s enemies, or for her own safety, according to his loyal supporters, couldn’t really be anywhere more secure, Meggie reflected. According to Josse, John had put a trusted constable, Peter de Mauley, in charge of Corfe Castle; in addition, Queen Isabella also had her own personal protection detail under the command of Terric the Teuton, another man whose loyalty to the King was absolute.
Faruq had let his horse slow to a stop and now he sat in the saddle, looking up at the castle in dismay. ‘We’ll never be allowed in,’ he said in an almost inaudible whisper. ‘Oh, why ever did I come?’
Meggie shot him a scathing look. Now was no time to give up, she thought crossly, for they hadn’t even tried yet.
She said bracingly, trying to mask her irritation, ‘You – we – have come here to help. You want to warn the Queen and those who guard her safety, you say.’
She had not meant it to sound like a question, but it did. He turned a furious face to her and hissed, ‘I do! Of course I do!’
‘Yes, all right, I believe you,’ she said. ‘Well, we must tell them so. We’ll say that we have information that there may be a danger to the Queen—’ as if they don’t already know that, she added silently, beginning to have doubts of her own – ‘and that we’ve come to reveal what we know in the hope that it, whatever it is, can thus be averted.’ She looked at him questioningly, but if she had hoped he might now, at this last moment, give in and tell her why they were there and what this was all about, she was to be disappointed.
He gave a curt nod, put his heels to his horse’s sides and rode on.
Queen Isabella, bored of her sumptuous quarters, bored of the rich food and fine wine, bored of the simpering women who attended her and their constant, sycophantic remarks (My lady is so beautiful! My lady’s hair is like spun silk! My lady’s most gorgeous and costly gowns are barely fit for one so perfect as she!), bored of the male attention and admiration that was her life’s breath, flung out of her chamber and banged the door behind her as hard as she could, causing the heavy, solid oak to crash against the frame with such force that she imagined the walls shook.
Ha! she thought. Take that, serfs, servants, slaves. I wish your heads had been in the way and your stupid skulls were now crushed like eggs!
She made her way along the chilly, ill-lit passage – there was only one thin, slit-like opening; yet another of the many drawbacks of living in a fortress – and the leather soles of her little slippers echoed off the stone walls. Where was everybody? She stopped suddenly, listening. Silence – no sound of voices …
Yes, there was. From somewhere far below, someone – more than one person – was arguing.
Arguments and quarrels always drew her. Lifting her long, heavy skirts, she hurried to the spiral stair, leapt nimbly down it and came to the inner hall. Crossing it at a run – there was no one to observe the undignified scurrying – she went under the low arch and, slowing her pace now, glided down the wide and elegant stone steps leading to the enclosed courtyard that opened outside the huge, iron-bound doors to the King’s private quarters.
Half a dozen steps from the bottom – height lent dignity and importance – she stopped. Resting one elegant, bejewelled hand on the rope that ran down the wall beside the stairs, smoothing the glorious gown, lowering and drawing back her shoulders so that her breasts stood out, extending her neck and raising her chin, she waited for the people in the courtyard to look up, notice her and perform their obeisance.
Peter de Mauley stood with his back to her, hands on his hips, sword at his side and dagger in his belt. Flanking him on each side were two of the bodyguards. In a doorway across the yard stood Terric, Isabella’s personal protector. He was watchful, his expression carefully neutral, and obviously biding his time.
In front of Peter de Mauley stood two people, a man and a woman. The man was bare-headed, and his thick, black hair had an almost blueish sheen. He was young – about twenty, perhaps a little older – and he stood with the assurance of one born to privilege, his back straight, his clear eyes firmly on those of his interlocutor. His tunic was well cut and fitted him as if it had been made for him, and the light travelling cloak he wore over it – the hood down and the generous folds thrown back over his shoulders – was of a sufficient quality to protect its wearer from all weathers.
So much for the man. Now Isabella turned her attention to the woman.
She too was young; maybe a few years older than her companion, but not many. She was dressed in a simple gown in a nondescript brownish-grey shade; the sort of colour that didn’t show the dirt of travel. But the fabric was good; narrowing her eyes, Isabella studied it more closely. It had the soft sheen of the finest wool … Hmm. The woman wasn’t a peasant or a pauper either. She too, Isabella noted, wore a travelling cloak, also thrown back.
Belatedly Isabella realized that nobody had noticed her.
They were all too intent on their conversation to look up.
It stung, as anything that undermined her self-importance always did.
She was on the very point of issuing some sharp command or reproof when – almost as if she’d known, although that was surely impossible – the young woman looked up and met Isabella’s eyes.
In an instant Isabella took in a broad, deep forehead under soft, wavy brown hair, wound in a practical, unfussy style that nevertheless managed to enhance the woman’s attraction. Her face narrowed to a firm chin below a wide mouth. But Isabella was drawn, irresistibly, unavoidably, to the eyes.
They were brown – a very rich brown – but lit as if from within by bright, golden lights; like the clear, lively water of a peaty forest stream, Isabella thought, at the moment when the sun brings it to life …
Isabella liked a fine, descriptive phrase.
She narrowed her gaze and prepared a suitably crushing comment.
But then the young woman smiled.
Their eyes locked together, sparkling brown to hazel, and just for a heartbeat Isabella felt a surge of power pulse against her. She wasn’t afraid, for she detected even in the instant she felt it that it was no threat. It was more as if she had been languishing, tired, dispirited, dejected, and someone had just given her a fine, crystal glass of the best chilled white wine …
Then, before she could dwell on this strange phenomenon any further, it had gone. Vanished, as if it had never been, and Isabella forgot all abo
ut it.
She went on down the imposing steps until she was at ground level. She walked calmly across the courtyard until she stood just behind Peter de Mauley. Then, in a voice that all who knew her later remarked was quite uncharacteristic of her, she said courteously, ‘And who, may I ask, are these visitors? Might I know their names?’
Peter de Mauley and the two bodyguards spun round, already bowing deeply even as they did so. The young man, too, touched a hand to his brow and lowered his head. The woman with the bright eyes dipped in a graceful curtsy.
She was still smiling.
Meggie had been aware of the tall, slim, elegant figure in the beautiful silk gown as she slowly descended the steps and came to a halt, posing, waiting for those below to notice her and give her the recognition – adulation – she considered her due.
From the first instant that the Queen had come into view, Meggie had been sending out tentative mental sensors and, even before that powerful moment when their eyes had met, she had already begun to form a picture. Isabella was irritable, restless, resentful, impatient, bored. That would have been evident to a novice in the art of studying people and Meggie, experienced healer that she was, was far from that. The lines that drew the beautiful face downwards; the little cleft of a frown between the dark, arched, perfect eyebrows; the slight slump of the narrow shoulders; they all told their tale, for those prepared to read it.
But Meggie had seen a great deal more.
In a series of images – flash, flash, flash, somewhere behind her eyes and in some secret, mysterious place deep in her mind – she’d seen the Queen with the King. Seen that stocky, sturdy, irascible, unreasonable man of power and the wife he had at first adored, then doubted, then mistrusted and finally driven to … To what? It was as if a heavy curtain had fallen, so that Meggie had not seen the most recent scenes. She pushed harder, and just for an instant she saw another picture: in this one, the Queen, tense, watchful, was alone in a dark room and intent on some task she did not wish anyone else to know about. A task that brought with it terrible danger to—