by Alys Clare
Gervase nodded, but did not reply. In silence, they rode on to the abbey.
FIVE
Josse stood beside Gervase, watching Hawkenlye’s infirmarer work her way all over the dead man’s body. It had been taken to a curtained recess, then stripped and washed by two young nuns working under the close eye of their superior. Josse had studied the infirmarer as she stood there, her full attention on what her nurses were doing. He did not know her well, and his first impressions were favourable. When one of the young nuns – nervous, perhaps, under the infirmarer’s unwavering stare – dropped a bowl of dirty water all over the clean sheet on which the body was lying, Sister Liese had issued no sharp reprimand, but quietly told the girl to fetch another sheet and then mop up the mess.
Now, observing her as closely as she had watched her nuns, Josse’s tentative admiration for her grew. She handled the body as if it still lived, he observed, touching the wounds to the face and the hands as if the man could still wince at the pain. She was modest, too, and after a quick inspection of the torso, groin and legs, she had pulled up the sheet so that the body was covered as far as the waist.
‘He has been hit over his ribs.’ Sister Liese’s soft voice broke into his reflections. ‘There is bruising. See?’ She beckoned to them without turning round, as if she knew they were watching. Josse and Gervase stepped forward, and Josse saw the dark discolouration over the lower half of the man’s rib cage.
‘Left side again,’ he muttered.
Sister Liese turned to look at him. Her eyes – light, and halfway between blue and green – fixed on his. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘and the damage to the face is worse on the left. The man who punched him favoured his right hand.’
She turned back to the body. Now she raised the head with one gentle hand while she slipped the other beneath it. She felt around for some moments, and Josse knew what she would find.
He waited and, after a short time, Sister Liese smiled briefly and said, ‘Ah, yes.’
‘He fell flat on his back,’ Josse said. ‘There must have been a stone, or a rock, that his head struck.’
‘Yes, I agree.’ Sister Liese reached out and took Josse’s wrist in a surprisingly firm grasp. She raised the dead man’s head again and placed Josse’s fingers on the base of the skull. He felt a deep dent, and over the spot the thick hair was sticky with blood.
‘Not, strictly speaking, murder,’ Gervase said. ‘What do you say, Josse?’
Josse was thinking. ‘He and the other man were fighting ferociously, exchanging hard punches, and we know from our man’s knuckles that he landed several hits. Then his opponent struck a particularly effective blow – perhaps the one that damaged our man’s nose – and he staggered backwards.’
‘He might have been knocked out,’ Sister Liese suggested. ‘Even if it does not kill him, a hard blow can render a man unconscious.’
‘Unconscious or driven back by the blow, either way he tripped or fell, landing flat on his back and striking his head on a stone.’
‘A rock.’ Sister Liese spoke with conviction. ‘The wound is a hand’s breadth across, and so too large for a mere stone.’
Josse suppressed a smile. Such precision, he thought. ‘His head hit a rock,’ he amended, ‘and the force of the impact shattered his skull and killed him.’ He looked at Gervase. ‘Whether or not that is murder is not for me to say.’ He turned back to Sister Liese. ‘Thank you, Sister. We are most grateful for your help.’
She bowed her head. ‘It is what I am here for,’ she said. She looked down at the body. ‘Will you wish to visit him again?’
Once more, Josse noticed, she had spoken of a man, not a corpse. ‘We will,’ he said quietly. ‘There is the question of identity. Somebody knows who he is, and we shall—’
But she had understood. ‘I will brush down his garments and dress him,’ she said. ‘Lying on his back, his visible wounds are not horrifying, and if he is clad in his habitual tunic, he will look much as he did in life.’
‘You wish to spare this somebody further distress,’ Joss murmured.
She met his eyes. ‘The knowledge that he is dead will be sufficient,’ she agreed. ‘Now, if you will excuse me . . .’
‘Aye, of course.’ Josse nodded to Gervase, and the two of them left the recess and walked away down the long infirmary.
‘We should speak to Abbess Caliste,’ Josse said as they emerged into the cold, clear air. Helewise always used to come to witness old Euphemia’s inspection of a victim’s body, he thought before he could stop himself. Abbess Caliste, he knew, would have her own good reasons for not being present, and it was not for him to judge her. Cross with himself, he increased his pace. ‘Come on.’
Gervase tapped on the door of the abbess’s room, and her soft voice bade them enter. Observing her, Josse felt even guiltier over his brief disloyal thought. Her table was groaning under its load of heavy, bound ledgers and piles of vellum, and her eyes were bloodshot and ringed with the grey of extreme fatigue.
‘Sir Josse, my lord sheriff, I deeply regret that I was not able to be there when the poor man was brought in,’ she said, getting to her feet to greet them. ‘I have been praying for his soul, and a mass will be said for him.’
She did not, Josse observed, give any excuse to exonerate herself, as well she might have done. ‘You are busy, my lady,’ he said, indicating the table.
‘The king’s agents were here two days ago,’ she replied tonelessly.
There was no need for her to explain. ‘Will the abbey survive?’ he asked.
The lines of anxiety in her lovely face deepened, and she shrugged. Then, with a lift of her chin, she said, ‘If I have anything to do with it, yes.’
Touched, Josse went forward and briefly took her hand. ‘We have a little surplus at the House in the Woods,’ he murmured.
She looked up at him with a smile. ‘You have your own people to think of, dear Sir Josse. They are your responsibility, just as the abbey is mine.’
But I am not subject to the iron fist of a greedy and selfish king, Josse thought. Nobody has come to Hawkenlye Manor to demand we hand over all our produce and all our income, to be given back to us if we do as we are told.
He could not, of course, say it aloud. Gervase was an old friend, and Josse would have trusted Caliste with his life, but such a comment was treason and walls had ears. Even – or perhaps especially – abbey walls.
He leaned closer to the abbess. ‘We have enough,’ he whispered. ‘If you ever reach your wits’ end, we are there.’
He was still holding her hand, and now she gave his a firm squeeze. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed. ‘I know.’
He let go of her hand and, embarrassed suddenly, stepped back to stand beside Gervase.
‘So, the dead man,’ Abbess Caliste said, sitting down in her great chair. It seemed to Josse as if she had briefly stepped out of her role as head of the abbey and now had re-entered it, for all at once it was undoubtedly she who held authority in the little room. Helewise, your successor was wisely chosen, he thought. Abbess Caliste was speaking, and he made himself pay attention.
‘You do not know who he is, I imagine, or else you would have called him by his name,’ she said.
‘Correct,’ Gervase said. ‘We can say, however, that he is a man of quality, judging by his clothes and his general appearance.’
‘I understand that he was found out to the west of here, close by the river.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ Gervase said. ‘There is a track that leads along the river valley and then on to the hamlet of Hartfield, where the ground begins to rise up to the open heathland of the forest. It appears that the dead man made camp in the place where he died, although of course it is impossible to say in which direction he had been travelling.’ He glanced at Josse. ‘He rode a good-sized horse and he had someone with him, for there were signs that two people had lain beside the little fire that he made.’
Abbess Caliste did not reply. Her elbows were on the table, and s
he had propped her chin on her clasped hands. Her expression was serene, but Josse had the impression that, behind the calm features, her mind was working fast.
He was right. After a short time, she said, ‘Two people and a horse spent the night in that camp. One is now dead. The horse and the other man have disappeared. It seems there are two possible explanations: one, the second person killed the man and rode away on the horse. Two, someone else arrived, fought the man in the camp and, having laid him out, left him for dead and rode away with the other person who was in the camp.’
Gervase was looking puzzled. ‘Why should there have been anyone there besides the two who fought?’ he demanded. ‘There was only one horse there overnight and, if two people had rested there, surely there would have been a second one?’
‘The pair might have ridden on one horse,’ the abbess said.
Gervase muttered under his breath and Josse caught the words blasted Templars again. Addressing the abbess, Gervase said, ‘As I said, why raise the possibility of a third person? I—’
Josse understood. He flashed an anxious glance at Abbess Caliste and said, ‘She’s thinking of Rosamund. Aren’t you, my lady?’
Slowly, the abbess nodded. ‘I am. Somebody took her away, but we know she did not have her own horse with her. Unless her abductor brought along a mount for her, then he must have borne her on his own horse. They rode off westwards, heading for some unknown destination, and, overcome by darkness, they stopped to rest for the night. Some time during the night or the next day, someone else came across them. He attacked the man and the two of them fought. The man was killed, and – and—’ She stopped, her face pale.
‘And took Rosamund?’ Josse asked softly. ‘If, indeed, it was she who slept beside the camp fire that night, then where is she now?’
Abbess Caliste held his eyes. ‘I do not know, Sir Josse,’ she said. ‘It is little enough to go on, but it would seem we have nothing else. If we agree that it may have happened in that way, does that not give us a focus in our search for her?’
‘Of course it does!’ Gervase said eagerly. Josse could sense the energy building up in him, bursting for release. ‘We must gather all our men together and head out to the west, towards the Ashdown Forest. We—’
But Josse interrupted. ‘He was taking her in that direction,’ he said gently. ‘The man who abducted her. It does not necessarily follow that whoever now has her has the same objective in mind.’
The horror that lurked beneath his words overcame him briefly. He put a hand to his face, hoping to hide his expression. He was too slow. Abbess Caliste’s voice said calmly, ‘Sir Josse, we must maintain our strength and go on trusting that she will be found safe and unharmed. We are praying for her constantly, and God will hear us.’
He looked up. There was such certainty, such absolute faith in her expression that for a moment he believed her. Then he thought of that lonely, desolate spot where the dead man had been found, and of the miles of empty countryside that stretched away all around it. It was the end of October, and the nights were cold. Rosamund was little more than a child.
He managed a smile. ‘I am comforted, my lady. Meanwhile, we must do everything we can to help ensure this happy outcome.’
Gervase’s impatience had got the better of him. ‘You must excuse me, my lady,’ he said, bowing to Abbess Caliste, ‘for I have much to do if we are to pick up the trail while there yet remains any freshness in it. Now, in addition, there is the problem of how we are to discover the identity of the dead man.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Go, my lord.’
‘I also must leave you,’ Josse said, backing out in Gervase’s wake. ‘I wish to break the news of this death to my household before they hear it from others and – er, and fear the worst.’
‘I understand,’ the abbess said. ‘Give them my love and tell them they are in my thoughts and in my prayers.’
He bowed. ‘I will.’ Then he hurried away.
Josse watched as Gervase shouted instructions to his men. Then they all rode off, the ground vibrating under the pounding hooves. He mounted Alfred, hurried out through the abbey’s main gates and, setting a good, fast pace, took the slope up towards the dense woodland at a canter and headed off beneath the trees. Very soon the track became too narrow and overgrown to ride, and he dismounted, leading Alfred behind him.
He met Helewise on the path that led from the hut in the clearing. She was walking towards him and drew to a halt as he came into view.
‘Josse!’
He was gratified that she looked both relieved and, he thought, happy to see him. ‘Aye. I’ve come from the abbey.’ He told her about the discovery of the body, explaining, as delicately as he could, Abbess Caliste’s theory concerning Rosamund.
She took in his words without speaking. She squeezed her eyes shut at one point, and he feared she would break down, but she regained control. ‘Thank you for coming to tell me,’ she said after a moment. ‘Tiphaine has returned to the abbey – she was heading for the vale, so that’s probably why you missed each other – and she may have more to report when she comes back.’
‘Would you like me to stay with you till she returns?’
He watched her as she considered the offer. It was hard to read her expression, but eventually she shook her head.
‘No. Thank you, but no.’ She took a step closer to him and reached up to touch his cheek. ‘Dearest Josse, there is nothing I would like better than for you and I to walk hand in hand along the track and settle down together in the little hut, fastening the door against the wildwood and all the threats of this world, but it would be selfish in the extreme because everyone in the House in the Woods looks to you for guidance and leadership and they need you.’ She paused. ‘Besides, they know no more of this latest dreadful event but that a man’s body has been found, for, indeed, that was all you knew when you left Geoffroi at the house and collected your horse.’ Absently, she patted the horse’s sweaty neck. ‘You’ve been riding hard,’ she observed.
Josse sighed. ‘Aye, and I’m not done yet,’ he said heavily. He knew she was right, and he must hurry on to the House in the Woods.
There was sympathy in her eyes. ‘Poor Josse.’ Then, brightening, she said, ‘Perhaps there will be news at home! Many resourceful and determined people have been searching for her, and why should not one of them have found some clue as to where she is?’
‘Because—’ He stopped.
‘Because?’
‘They’re all looking in the wrong place!’ he blurted out. His frustration and his anger boiled over. ‘Everyone who has gone out from the House in the Woods, Dominic’s party out to the east and Leofgar’s to the north, they’ll find no trace of her because the accursed, bloody bastard who took her rode off to the west!’ he shouted. Then, hearing the echo of his furious words: ‘I apologize, Helewise.’
‘For calling the man who took my granddaughter an accursed, bloody bastard?’ she asked spiritedly. ‘Josse, I could not have phrased it better myself.’
He opened his arms, and she stepped into his embrace. For a moment they stood pressed together, and she was holding him as tightly as he was holding her. But it was their common distress that united them, and he knew it.
It was he who broke away. He dropped a kiss on her forehead – he was tall, but so was she – and said, ‘Farewell, Helewise. I will return soon, and sooner if there is any news.’
‘I, too, will come to find you if I learn anything,’ she replied. ‘Please explain to Meggie why I’m using her hut.’
He was surprised. ‘You mean you haven’t told her yourself?’
‘No. I haven’t seen her since you and I set out for Tonbridge –’ she paused – ‘yesterday morning.’ Her face fell. ‘Dear Lord, is it only a day? It seems like months.’
But he hardly heard. ‘She has not been to the hut?’
‘No, Josse.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be back at home. Where else would she be?’
‘You’re right,’ he muttered, turning Alfred and pulling on the rein to get him to move off. He tried to squash the twitch of unease that was coursing coldly through him. ‘Come on, Alfred, lift your feet.’
The horse reluctantly got going. Josse turned to look at Helewise, standing alone on the path.
‘Don’t worry,’ she repeated. Then she gave a small wave, turned round and walked away.
The afternoon was drawing to a close as Josse led Alfred into the stable block at the House in the Woods. Will came out to meet him and silently took the horse’s reins from his hand.
‘He’ll need a deal of attention tonight,’ Will observed lugubriously. He glanced at Josse. ‘Like his master,’ he added.
‘I’m all right,’ Josse snapped, twisting round to scowl at Will. The movement tweaked his sore back, and a pain like a red-hot needle flashed right up his spine. ‘Ouch,’ he moaned.
Will watched him sympathetically. ‘Tilly’ll do you a hot poultice for that,’ he said. ‘Good at hot poultices, is Tilly.’
‘Yes, Will, I know.’ She ought to be, Josse reflected, since Meggie was teaching her. ‘Thank you for your concern,’ he added, ‘and I’m sorry I snapped at you.’ His face as impassive as ever, Will nodded an acknowledgement.
Then Josse understood the implications of what Will had just said. Tilly will do you a hot poultice. Tilly was the apprentice; Meggie was the teacher. So why hadn’t Will said Meggie would do it?
He spun round to face Will, sending another knife point of fire through his lower back. ‘Where’s Meggie?’ he asked urgently. ‘Is she here? Is she?’
Will did not meet his eyes. ‘No.’
‘But she’s been here, hasn’t she? She’s come and gone, along with the rest?’