The Rose of the World

by Alys Clare

  ‘It is not for me to criticize or condone, lady,’ he said quickly. ‘I am not here to judge you. None of my children, natural or adopted, was born in wedlock,’ he added with a smile.

  ‘I would judge that your own children were born in love,’ she replied.

  ‘Aye, that they were,’ he agreed. Again, he could see Joanna. He smiled at her, and she blew him a kiss.

  Lady Béatrice was watching him. ‘I have come to the conclusion that knowing he or she is loved matters more to a child than anything else,’ she said slowly. ‘I love Olivier and always have done, even when—’ She stopped. Then: ‘But he has always sought the love of the parent who withholds it. When he was little and did not understand, he suffered greatly from Felix’s coldness. By the time he was old enough to know the truth, it was too late.’ She sighed. ‘Sir Josse, Olivier seeks constantly for approval. Never having been given any by Felix, he seeks it elsewhere. Now that he has managed to gain advancement and grow close to the king’s private circle, it is his one aim to make himself indispensable and gain the position with the king that he has never enjoyed with Felix.’

  Josse tried to imagine one of his own sons suffering in the way Olivier had done. He compared the two of them, seeing straight away that Lady Béatrice was speaking good sense. Geoffroi, who had known since he first became aware that his father loved him and was always there to support and protect him, was typical of a child brought up in a secure, warm household. He was confident, independent, outgoing and transparent. Ninian, on the other hand, had been forced to live the early years of his life with a cold and vicious man who had mistreated both his young wife and her son. Then, after Joanna had run away and taken Ninian with her, the boy had only just got used to life alone with his mother when she, too, had disappeared from his life. He was, Josse had to admit, a young man who believed he must prove his worth in order to be loved.

  Olivier de Brionne, his mother seemed to be implying, was, in this crucial way, remarkably similar.

  Josse wondered why he should feel quite so frightened by that realization.

  FIFTEEN

  Ninian blotted the departure from everyone he loved out of his mind. It was just too painful. There was plenty to think about to distract him, and for the first few hours he concentrated on ensuring he kept off the road, making his way along little-known tracks and trails and keeping to the forest fringe wherever he could. He decided not to make for one of the big channel ports. Josse had said the search parties would explore the road to the coast, and it seemed reasonable that they would also hunt for him in places such as Hastings and Pevensey. It did not matter. Ninian knew of other ways of getting a man and a horse across to France.

  He had dismissed the idea of going in disguise. If he tried to make himself look like a peasant, they’d spot him instantly because poor men didn’t ride horses like Garnet and they’d arrest him as a horse thief. He wore his good boots and, under his old leather jerkin, good-quality but well-worn tunic and hose. His heavy travelling cloak went over the top, its hood drawn forward to throw a shadow on his face, and there was nothing to distinguish him from any other traveller.

  He crossed the South Downs on paths that were little more than animal runs. Descending towards the sea, he kept a lookout for a small jetty that he knew of where the fishermen went out into the deep water for cod and whiting. Spotting it, he was relieved to see that two boats lay in the shallows. He haggled briefly with the skipper of one of them and arranged his passage across to Boulogne.

  The boat was going to sail on the evening tide. With the skipper’s help, Ninian got Garnet safely aboard. Then he found a sheltered spot on deck, wrapped himself in his cloak and, exhausted by fear and emotion, went to sleep.

  He woke to find that the boat was in mid-Channel. The water was rough, but not enough to trouble him. He leaned his elbows up on the deck rail and stared out. Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, and land was visible ahead. His belly gripped tight with apprehension. Soon he would have to disembark and head off into the unknown. Would he be able to find Acquin? Josse had given him directions, but Ninian had scarcely taken them in. Perhaps he would be able to ask . . . But then another anxiety rose up. Josse had been utterly confident that his brothers would take Ninian in, but what if he was wrong? On his own admission, it was years since Josse had seen them. Supposing they closed their doors against him and refused to have anything to do with him? Supposing they had gone away? Supposing they were all dead?

  Very firmly, he told himself not to be so stupid. One of Josse’s oft-repeated sayings was: don’t hunt troubles out; wait and deal with them if and when they come looking for you. It was sound advice. Ninian was going to take it.

  The skipper brought his craft to shore at a small port to the south of Boulogne. He helped Ninian ashore, wished him well and set off back to sea even before Ninian was out of sight. Ninian had never felt more alone in his life.

  He pressed on all day, although his progress was slow. Unnerved by other travellers, frequently he slid off Garnet’s back and led the horse off the road to hide until they had passed. When darkness fell, he had no idea how far there was still to go. He found a sheltered spot in an apple orchard, bedding down in the corner furthest from the road and making a small fire to keep him warm and to heat water for a comforting drink. On the boat he had shared the fishermen’s supplies, so he had not yet touched the food Josse had given him. The bread was dry as bone now, but he was so hungry that he ate every last crumb. He was glad he had good teeth.

  He woke at first light. There were people passing on the road, and the sound of their voices had disturbed him. He lay perfectly still, his heart hammering. Had they seen him? Had they come from the coast? Against all logic, he found himself almost certain they had been sent by the king and, with unbelievable speed and efficiency, had found him after less than a day . . .

  The tramping footsteps went straight past, and the cheery voices faded in the thin air. Rebuking himself for his folly, Ninian got up, rolled up his blanket, saddled Garnet and rode on.

  He found Acquin late that afternoon. He had taken several wrong turns, and the people he had asked for directions hadn’t heard of it. He had envisaged a large village or even a small town, well known and much frequented, but the truth was different. There was little to the place but a church and the fortified manor itself. His first glimpse was of the tops of two high watchtowers and, as he rode closer, he made out the long, low roofs of the buildings within the strong outer walls. He passed a church and a few meagre dwellings sheltering beneath the high walls. Then, following the walls, he turned up to the left and soon found himself in front of imposing gates, firmly closed.

  There was a small opening in one of the wooden gates, presumably to allow those within to see who had come calling. He peered through it. Storerooms, workrooms and stables lined the courtyard on two sides, and on the third was what must be the family’s accommodation. The short day was already darkening, and lamps had been lit. Smoke rose up from the slate roof.

  Ninian was cold and lonely. He reached out and rang the heavy rope that worked the clapper of a big bell, and its deep note rang out.

  A young man with light-blond hair emerged from the stables, wiping his hands on a sacking apron. He stared out suspiciously at Ninian. ‘Who are you?’

  Ninian had forgotten they would speak French. It was Josse’s native tongue. Ninian had been forced to learn and speak it when he had lived with the terrible man his mother had married. He thought briefly, bringing to mind the right words, and replied in the same tongue: ‘My name is Ninian de Courtenay. I have come from the house of Sir Josse d’Acquin, in England. If you please, I would like to speak to Sir Yves d’Acquin.’

  The lad looked at him in surprise. Then he nodded and hurried away. Quite soon afterwards he returned, accompanied by another man. He was shorter and less heavily built than Josse, but he had the same dark eyes and thick brown hair. He had a round, pleasant face and laughter lines around his eyes and mou
th. He looked at Ninian and said, barely suppressing the excitement, ‘I am Yves. Is it true? Have you come from Josse?’

  ‘I have,’ Ninian agreed. ‘He sends his greetings to his brothers and their families –’ quickly, he reeled off all the names of the brothers, the wives and the children – ‘and he asks that you take me in, for I am his adopted son.’

  Yves was already shooting back the bolts and opening one of the gates. ‘Come in!’ he cried. ‘I felt sure that you were who you said you were, even before you proved it by your recital of every last one of my immediate kin. Stephan, take his horse –’ Ninian slid down and handed the lad Garnet’s reins – ‘and tend him well, for he looks as if he has ridden all day.’

  ‘I got lost,’ Ninian admitted as Garnet was led away and Yves ushered him inside. ‘I left in a hurry, and I didn’t listen properly to Josse’s instructions.’

  Yves stopped, turning to look at him. ‘You left in a hurry,’ he repeated worriedly. ‘There is trouble?’

  ‘Josse is perfectly well, as is everyone else,’ Ninian said quickly, cross with himself for causing this affectionate, friendly man anxiety. ‘Something happened. They – er, some quite important people think I killed someone and injured two others. I was in a fight with the two men, but any injury I inflicted was in defence of myself and others. I swear to you that I have killed nobody.’

  Yves was looking at him intently. ‘It’s not every man who can claim that, in these troubled times,’ he observed. He went on staring at Ninian, who found himself steadily becoming uneasy under the scrutiny. Eventually, Yves spoke again. ‘My brothers say I am too quick to trust my own instincts, but all the same I intend to do precisely that,’ he said. ‘I like you, Ninian de Courtenay. I know a little of who you are and how you come to be Josse’s son, and I would judge that you are a man who tells the truth, at least to those he cares about. Finally –’ he started to move on as he spoke, leading Ninian along a passage towards an arched doorway – ‘I do not believe that my brother would have sent you to me unless your credentials were impeccable.’ He waved a hand, inviting Ninian to go on into the room beyond the arch. ‘Come and meet my family.’

  Back at the House in the Woods, Josse and Helewise sat on by the fire after the rest of the household had gone to bed. Before she retired, Tilly had returned and quietly left a jug of spiced wine beside the hearth. Josse had just stuck a hot poker into it, and the fragrant steam was scenting the hall.

  ‘I wish Meggie was here,’ Josse said, breaking the companionable silence.

  Helewise thought she knew why. She had observed how, when young Geoffroi had gone to sit beside his father after supper, Josse had at first clutched the boy convulsively to him, swiftly releasing him when he realized the grip was too tight. Having just been forced to wave goodbye to one of the people he most loved, Josse obviously wanted to keep the others close.

  ‘She will be home soon, I expect.’ She tried to make her tone calm and reassuring. ‘We all mourn Ninian in our own way,’ she added softly.

  ‘Don’t use that word!’ he snapped.

  She rose and went to sit beside him. Taking his hand, she bent to kiss it. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I only meant we mourn his presence here with us. No more.’

  With a tentative hand, he reached out and lightly touched her cheek. ‘I know,’ he said gruffly. ‘I didn’t mean to shout at you.’

  She got up and poured wine for them both. She handed one of the pewter goblets to him and, raising her own, said, ‘To Ninian, wherever he is. May God keep him safe until he can return to us.’

  ‘Amen,’ Josse muttered, instantly taking a gulp of the wine.

  Helewise went back to her seat on the opposite side of the hearth. Earlier, she and Josse had shared what sparse information their day’s enquiries had discovered. Something that he had told her concerning his visit to Lady Béatrice was puzzling her. She thought about it – years as a nun had taught her to think before she spoke, so as not to waste time on idle chatter – and then said, ‘Josse, I have been worrying about this scheme of Hugh’s to use our Rosamund as a gift with which to gain the king’s favour.’

  ‘Aye, it’s shameful,’ he agreed. ‘I—’

  She interrupted him. ‘It is, of course, but that wasn’t what I meant. You paint a picture of Olivier as the outcast, the son whom his mother’s husband tolerated but did not love. Surely, if one of the brothers had such a burning desire to gain the favour of an older man, it would not be Hugh, who already had a father’s love, but Olivier. Yet Olivier claims the whole idea was Hugh’s.’

  ‘Aye, and Hugh is dead and cannot tell us otherwise,’ Josse replied.

  ‘I was so sure, when I spoke to Rosamund, that I had guessed what happened,’ she said bitterly. ‘Yet I was wrong, for this horseman whom Rosamund heard but did not see rode away again.’

  ‘Aye, and in any case, had it been Hugh, and had he died there at that time, then what happened to his horse? Olivier would have had to take it away with him, and Rosamund would have told us had that been the case. She loves horses, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Indeed she does,’ Helewise replied. ‘Besides, she said that she rode with Olivier on Star. She’d certainly have described in great detail any horse she’d been loaned to ride by herself, especially the sort of mount ridden by a wealthy man.’

  Neither of them spoke for some time. Then Josse sighed heavily and said, ‘We still have no proof that it wasn’t Ninian who fought Hugh.’ He drained his goblet and set it down beside the empty jug. He straightened up and looked at her, his expression so sad that she almost leapt up to take him in her arms.

  Something in his eyes held her back. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said shortly. ‘Sleep well, my lady.’

  She listened as his heavy tread faded to nothing. My lady, she thought. Perhaps it was unconscious, brought about by the stress of the moment, but he had called her by the formal name that had been her right when she was abbess of Hawkenlye.

  Slowly, she got up and went through to her own quarters. She made her preparations for the night, then went into her small sleeping chamber, quickly removing headdress and outer tunic and lying down. The bed was soft – far softer than the hard plank bed she had slept on for so long in the Hawkenlye dormitory – and the blankets were thick, soft wool. She even had a fur bedcover for when the weather was very cold. It was so luxurious, and Josse had provided it all for her.

  She wanted more than anything to go to him. She loved him, and she knew he loved her. Even though she had made the vast break away from the cloister and Caliste had succeeded her at Hawkenlye, she seemed somehow to have brought her former life with her. People still sought her out for help and advice – well, she didn’t mind that at all, since in leaving the abbey she’d had no intention of ceasing to serve God, in whatever way he dictated – and apparently, in the minds of almost everyone around her, she was still a nun. Still an abbess.

  And Josse had just called her by her old name.

  She turned on her side, sad and hurt, and tried to still her thoughts so that she could get to sleep.

  That same evening, Hawkenlye infirmary’s most illustrious patient finally reached the limit of his tolerance. He was a restless man by nature, his quick and able mind ever flying on to the next thought or challenge and his body swiftly leaping to follow. For far too long these well meaning but stern women had made him lie in bed because of a wound that really was not very serious. He knew he should respect them, for they were nuns and he had always been taught that the brides of Christ were to be honoured. The trouble was that they made him feel like a child again. He found himself automatically obeying when the infirmarer said do this, don’t do that, for no better reason than that the sister’s smooth-skinned, handsome face within the close-fitting wimple and headbands was so like his mother’s. As was her air of serene confidence that the person to whom she had just given a command would do just as she said, even if he was the king of England.

  He was sick of the infirmary, sick
of the abbey, sick of this tour of the religious foundations, watching the work of his agents as they milked everything they could from the monks and the nuns. Yes, he managed to slip away and go hunting at times, but those times were not nearly frequent enough. Anyway, there was no need for him to involve himself with the group inspecting the abbeys; he had able servants who were as enthusiastic for this work of legalized plunder as he was himself. Coming out into the field of operations to see for himself had been a mistake, in hindsight. The trouble was that he had been bored and more than ready for a distraction. His wife had borne him two children in quick succession and, for the time being, she was too tired, plump and slack to hold much allure. She had ways of making it quite clear she did not want him anywhere near her – not that that would have stopped him had he desired to bed her – and he had decided that life was more pleasant without her sharp tongue and her endless complaints. Let her amuse herself with that half brother of hers. There were plenty of prettier women to be had.

  His boredom had stemmed from an additional cause: life had seemed strangely flat ever since he had returned from his triumphant expedition to Ireland. Whatever the rumours might say – and if he knew who had started the mutterings that he had left the country in a ferment, he would have them put lengthily and unpleasantly to death – he knew, in his own mind, that he had outplayed the lot of them and ought to have the undiluted praise that was his due.

  Tomorrow he would return to London. He would ride his own horse – he would have no truck with this suggestion of a litter – and he would set a fast pace. He had a vague memory of having told his people to arrange overnight accommodation on the way, but he had changed his mind and now wanted nothing more than to be back in his own sumptuous surroundings.