The Rose of the World

by Alys Clare

  The child had courage, Helewise thought. Many girls of her age would have been out of their wits with fear, sobbing and screaming uncontrollably. And what would this Olivier de Brionne, who heard voices and believed it was appropriate to present an eleven-year-old child to a king, have done if Rosamund hadn’t been so calm and level-headed? She did not want to think about it. ‘But next day he didn’t bring you back,’ she said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He had packed up our blankets and stamped out the fire and we were about to set off,’ Rosamund said. ‘We’d camped in the middle of a stand of trees, up on a slight rise above a bend in the river. There were lots of bracken and bramble bushes, and you could hide in there among the trees. We heard a horse in the distance and quite soon I saw a rider approaching, although he was too far away for me to see his face. He had a dark cloak with a hood. He was riding really hard, spurring on his horse. When he saw us, he starting yelling something and waving his arm.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Helewise asked gently. ‘Did you think he’d come to rescue you?’

  Rosamund looked ashamed. ‘No. It was silly, but I felt really frightened of him, I don’t know why. Perhaps it was just that he was shouting so much, and I was worried because, although his horse was clearly very tired and doing its best, he was spurring it really hard. It had foam all round its mouth and blood on its sides,’ she added in a whisper.

  ‘Could this horseman have been Ninian?’ Helewise hardly dared ask the question.

  Rosamund stared at her in amazement. ‘Ninian? No, no, of course not! Ninian loves all animals and he would never treat a horse like that!’

  Helewise began to feel a warm glow of relief. But the story wasn’t told yet. ‘You said you weren’t afraid of Olivier,’ Helewise said. ‘It sounds to me as if your instinctive fear of this horseman was because you had no idea what he wanted, and he could have been more dangerous than Olivier.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps,’ Rosamund said. ‘He – Olivier – quickly told me to hide under the trees where we’d left Star. I ran and nestled down in the bracken. It was all dry and prickly, but I felt safe in there. I heard the horseman come galloping up the slope, and he must have drawn his horse up really harshly, because it gave a sort of yelp of pain, and I heard Olivier’s voice and another man’s. They were arguing. Then there was a thump, and then some sounds as if somebody was doing something strenuous, and some talking, then Olivier yelled something, and there was lots more angry shouting as the other man rode away.’

  Helewise felt the harsh disappointment run right through her. As Rosamund told her tale, she had really started to believe that she had been given proof of Ninian’s innocence. Just for a moment, she had wondered if the unidentified horseman could have been Hugh de Brionne, hurrying to check on how his brother was progressing with the scheme to take the gift of Rosamund to the king. She had imagined the two brothers arguing, falling out, fighting. In her mind’s eye she had seen Olivier land the blow that knocked Hugh backwards, so that he fell and struck his head.

  For one precious moment she had believed she knew what had happened. But she was wrong. The horseman could not possibly have been Hugh, for Hugh died there on the rise above the river and, as Rosamund had just so clearly stated, the horseman had ridden away, still arguing with Olivier as he did so.

  If he was indeed Hugh, then it was perfectly possible that, soon after leaving his brother, he had encountered Ninian, desperate to find Rosamund and none too fussy how he went about getting information from anyone he thought might be able to help.

  Proof of Ninian’s innocence was as elusive as ever.

  Helewise could have wept.

  FOURTEEN

  Josse reached Hawkenlye Abbey around the middle of the day. Meggie had come with him as far as the hut. Not seeming to mind repeating the journey she had earlier done with Little Helewise, she had asked if he’d like company and he had said yes.

  He guessed his daughter would stay in the hut for a while. She had wanted to go off with Ninian so very much. She had not said so, but he knew her well enough to read the yearning in her eyes as they parted from him. He wondered what he would have done had she simply fetched her horse and ridden after him. He was very glad he had not been put to that particular test.

  At the abbey, he went into the infirmary to find a crowd of men around the recess where the king lay. Sister Liese came to greet him.

  ‘He is impatient to be gone,’ she said softly, with a subtle jerk of her head in the direction of the king’s recess. ‘He demands incessantly for transport, for even he admits he is not fit to ride, and those who attend him here are torn between obeying their lord and listening to we who have the care of him, who insist he is not yet ready to leave us.’

  ‘The wound is severe, then?’ Josse asked anxiously.

  ‘No, it is quite shallow and it heals well,’ the infirmarer replied. ‘However, we fear the dreaded infection, which can make a man’s blood burn like fire in the space of a day. He is more at risk if he sets out on a journey.’

  Josse nodded. ‘How long before he can go?’

  Sister Liese considered. ‘Perhaps tomorrow, all being well.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He stared at the curtains around the king’s bed.

  ‘He already has five men with him,’ the infirmarer said. ‘If you wished to speak to him you would have an audience, I fear.’

  Josse made a grimace. He wanted to discuss the very delicate matter of Ninian’s innocence, and that was not a conversation to have when a handful of the king’s sycophants were listening avidly. ‘May I see Olivier de Brionne?’

  ‘You may,’ she said. ‘He is awake, although much disturbed.’ She gave Josse a sweet smile, lightening her serious face. ‘Perhaps you will do him good, Sir Josse. You usually appear to do that when you come visiting in here.’

  Glowing from the unexpected compliment, Josse crossed the long ward towards the recess where Olivier lay. He heard voices as he approached, which, when he parted the curtains to look inside, resolved into a single voice. Olivier, his face screwed up with tension, was muttering agitatedly to himself.

  He looked up and, in the first instant before he recognized Josse, there was abject terror in his eyes.

  Josse walked up to the bed and said swiftly, ‘It’s me, Josse d’Acquin. I came to see you before, remember?’ He smiled, opening his arms in a vaguely benevolent gesture, hoping to reassure the young man.

  Olivier’s lips were moving, but Josse could not hear what he was saying. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked kindly. ‘Will you let me help you?’

  A fleeting smile crossed Olivier’s face. ‘Are you strong?’ he asked. ‘Can you combat devils?’

  Devils. What in God’s name was wrong with him? Josse sat down on the end of the bed. ‘I have fought many an enemy,’ he said, ‘although I must confess that they have all been resolutely human.’ He grinned, and there was a faint response from Olivier. ‘What ails you?’ he asked.

  Olivier twisted away from him, his face anguished. ‘They will not leave me alone,’ he muttered. ‘They talk to me all the time, giving me orders, telling me I have made bad mistakes.’ He shot Josse a sly look. ‘They warn me, too. They tell me I must be on my guard, for my enemies surround me and all the time they close in on me.’ He shot out a hand and grasped Josse’s wrist, his fingers digging in painfully. ‘Are you my enemy?’ he hissed. ‘The voices are unclear . . .’ Violently, he shook his head.

  Josse wanted very much to pull away. Olivier seemed to have lost his reason, and Josse felt the deep, atavistic fear of insanity flood his mind. Trying to keep his voice calm and friendly, he said, ‘I am not here to harm you, Olivier. I merely wish to ask you if there is anything you can tell me about your – er, your journey with the girl, Rosamund. You have been told of the tragic death of your brother, Hugh, and I am attempting to discover how he died.’ He thought quickly. Was there any harm in being more forthcoming with this poor young man? He did not think so. Leaning closer, he lowered his
voice and said, ‘You see, Olivier, someone very close to me is suspected of having fought your brother and caused his death, and I do not believe he is responsible.’

  Olivier was watching him, the blue eyes wide. The resemblance to Ninian was quite marked, although this young man was more heavily built. He withdrew his hand, slipping it beneath the covers. He muttered something inaudible. ‘What did you say?’ Josse asked.

  More muttering. Then Olivier said, ‘They tell me I must not talk to you. They tell me that you will twist my words and use them against me. That madman did it – they say he killed Hugh, and they are right! I saw how he attacked my lord the king and me – he is as wild as they say! Leave me alone! I will speak no more to you.’ He clamped his lips closed and turned away.

  ‘Olivier, you do not help yourself by this silence,’ Josse said. ‘I give you my word that I will not do what you suggest. I merely ask you to help me.’

  There was no answer. After a moment, Olivier reached down for the bed covers and drew them right up over his head.

  Josse stood up and quietly left the recess.

  He tried to see the king, but two large men stepped in front of him and barred his way. ‘Tell him that Josse was here,’ he snapped angrily. ‘Tell him I do not believe his so-called madman is guilty of any crime, and that I am setting out to prove it.’ Then he spun round and strode away.

  Left alone, Olivier emerged from under the covers and peered out. He had been very afraid when the big man had sat down on his bed. The big man looked kindly and said he wanted to help, and Olivier had wanted so much to believe him. Could he call him back? Everything had gone wrong, and Olivier very much needed to talk to someone. The big man said he had fought many enemies. He would be a good person to have on your side. Olivier took a deep breath, about to call out.

  With the speed of diving hawks, the voices joined together and shouted him down with such deafening volume that his head rang. He whimpered in pain. ‘All right!’ he whispered. ‘All right!’

  He lay back against the pillows. The voices were still nagging at him, although they were quieter now. They told him he was a fool, and they were right, because he had forgotten something very important. Something he had found out because he was skilful and cunning, adept at creeping around and listening to other people talking, so that he usually knew a great deal more than people thought he did.

  They had all thought he was unconscious but he hadn’t been, or at least not for long. They had discussed what had happened up by the chapel. They had called the madman by name or, at least, somebody must have done, for Olivier knew his identity. He had listened some more and, even before the big man had told him, he had discovered that the madman was somehow related to him. Not his son, but there was a bond of love between them, that was for sure. The big man would protect the young man. He had just said as much: someone very close to me is suspected of having fought your brother and caused his death, and I do not believe he is responsible. Oh, it was all very confusing, and Olivier found it hard to think about it. His head hurt.

  The voices saw their chance and started on at him again. They don’t like you. They will try to harm you. You have to do something. They told him what that something was.

  He wondered if he could do it. Carefully, he inspected his wounds. The long cut on his left forearm and down across his wrist hurt quite a lot if he used the arm, but he was right-handed, and he could rest it. The nuns had bandaged it heavily, so it was well protected. The wound under his right arm ached constantly, and if he coughed or sneezed, a red-hot pain shot through it. He would have to be very careful.

  He did not want to obey the voices. He wanted to lie there in the bed with the nice clean sheets, having the young nun with the pretty face bringing him dainty little meals and the older one who looked calm and dependable coming to check on him twice a day. He felt safe in the infirmary and, for the first time in as long as he could remember, people seemed to like him and spoke to him with a smile. But the voices said he couldn’t stay. He thought the voices were probably right; they usually were. And even he could see that his lord would not be staying there much longer.

  He was clad in his shift, which the nuns had laundered to get the blood out and then given back to him. He wondered where his outer clothes were, and then he remembered. Of course – the nuns had put them under the bed. Cautiously, he eased over and peered into the dim space. There were his boots, and there was his tunic and cloak.

  You have no excuse, the voices said coldly.

  He was all alone. He had nobody to turn to. Everything had gone wrong.

  He knew he must do as they said.

  Josse stood outside the infirmary, undecided as to what he should do next. He wanted above all to talk to Helewise and discuss with her this fresh evidence of Olivier’s strange state of mind. In the past, his footsteps would have set off for the abbess’s little room without his volition. It was not that he had no faith in her successor – far from it. Josse had the utmost admiration for Abbess Caliste, but just now only Helewise would do.

  But Helewise was not there. In addition, Gervase, no doubt busy organizing his search parties out looking for Ninian, was also unavailable. Josse was on his own.

  His thoughts returned to Olivier. The young man’s father had known his son was not right. There’s something wrong with the other one, old Felix had said. Lady Béatrice, too, had spoken of her sons. They are not close, she said. And, when Gervase had asked if Hugh might have gone to the place where his body had been found because he was looking for Olivier, she said she doubted it.

  They are not close. Josse thought it over. Yet, when Hugh de Brionne had hatched his plan to abduct Rosamund, his choice of conspirator had been his brother. Had they deliberately maintained the semblance of distance between them, so as to set a smokescreen around their actions? Or was it simply that their mother did not know them as well as she thought she did?

  The last time Josse had been to the de Brionne manor had been the day after the discovery of Hugh’s body. The household had had a little while to get over the first shock; Josse decided it was time he went back.

  He drove Alfred hard, riding into Felix de Brionne’s courtyard in the early afternoon. He was ushered into the hall where, as before, Lady Béatrice sat alone.

  ‘I have come from Hawkenlye Abbey,’ he said when he had greeted her and accepted her offer of refreshments.

  She studied him, her face unmoving. ‘And how is my son? Word was sent,’ she added, ‘that he has been wounded. I would very much like to go to him, but my husband lies abed and I cannot leave him.’

  ‘Of course, my lady,’ Josse said. He pitied her, that she had had to make such a decision. ‘Olivier’s wound is not life-threatening and, indeed, I have just come from speaking to him.’

  Now she looked wary. ‘Speaking to him?’

  He wondered what thoughts were running through her head. Disturbing ones, from her expression. ‘My lady, he is deeply troubled,’ he said. ‘It may be that his mind has been affected by his injury. Such things do happen.’

  ‘Troubled? In what way?’ she asked cagily.

  ‘He hears voices and he talks back to them,’ Josse said bluntly. ‘I am sorry if my words alarm you, lady. I know no other way of expressing what I have seen.’

  She had bowed her head. ‘Olivier is not like others,’ she murmured. ‘He – life has been hard for him. I told you before of the rivalry between him and Hugh. What I did not say is that my husband never made a secret of his preference for Hugh.’

  Josse waited. He understood – or believed he did – Felix’s reason. Leofgar had reluctantly mentioned the rumours concerning Olivier’s parentage. Felix himself had referred to having forgiven his young wife. The world was cruel in many ways, he reflected, but it was particularly bitter that a man should be disliked for who had or had not fathered him. It was scarcely his own fault . . .

  He wondered if Lady Béatrice would confide in him. He hoped she would. He thought he had alread
y guessed her secret, but he did not know for certain if he was right. Perhaps, if he opened his heart to her, she might reciprocate. ‘My lady, I too have troubles,’ he said. ‘A young man whom I love as much as the son of my blood is accused of something that I know he did not do, and I am trying to find out the truth of the matter. I have—’

  ‘This young man is your wife’s but not yours?’ she interrupted.

  Josse realized that he had inadvertently provided the perfect prompt. ‘He was born to the mother of my other two children, but at a time before I knew her,’ he said. Joanna flowed easily into his mind, momentarily taking all his attention. She was smiling, her dark eyes full of laughter and love. He caught his breath. Then, forcing himself to continue, he said, ‘She was taken to a court Christmas by a cousin and she was seduced by one of the lords there.’ There was no need to name Ninian’s father. ‘They married her off to an old man she hated, and in time her son was born. He and I met when he was a child and a deep affection sprang up between us. Later, after his mother died, I adopted him.’

  She studied him for some time. Then she said abruptly, ‘Your son is more fortunate than Olivier.’ He thought she would say no more, but she took a deep breath and, the words tumbling out as if she had longed to release them, she said, ‘The first child that I bore my husband was a daughter. He was displeased and chose to punish me by – never mind. I was unhappy and, when temptation came, I readily surrendered.’ Her dark eyes were misty. ‘For a time I was ecstatically happy, for my lover was a wealthy and important man and, until he tired of me, there was nothing that he would not give me. When I told him I was carrying his child, he gave a wry laugh, totted up in his head the new total of his bastards and told me that he did not bed pregnant women.’ She paused. ‘I never saw him again,’ she said quietly.

  Josse ached for her. ‘Your husband forgave you.’ It was a statement, not a question, for Felix had implied as much when Josse went to see him.

  ‘He did. He was also good enough to allow me to raise my son as his. Olivier was provided with a home, and he was brought up in much the same way as my other children. Quite soon I conceived again, this time in my own marital bed, and I gave birth to Hugh.’ Her eyes returned to Josse. ‘I do not expect you to understand or condone my actions, Sir Josse.’