The Rose of the World

by Alys Clare

  He grinned. ‘Very well, I’ll do as you ask.’ Putting a hand in front of his mouth to indicate that he would keep silent, he nodded for her to begin.

  ‘We know that Olivier de Brionne took Rosamund from the track leading to this house,’ she said, ‘and carried her on his horse off towards the hunting lodge on the Ashdown Forest, spending the night on a rise above the river. As they were preparing to leave the next morning, they spotted a horseman approaching and Olivier ordered Rosamund to hide in the trees. He knew the horseman – it was his brother, Hugh, who had contrived the plot to seek favour with the king by taking Rosamund to him.’

  She could tell from Josse’s expression that he had something to say but, true to his word, he did not speak.

  ‘I don’t know what Hugh wanted with Olivier, but the matter was urgent, for Rosamund said that he was in a hurry and yelling out to Olivier even as he rode towards him. Perhaps Olivier should already have been at the hunting lodge, and Hugh was anxious in case something was wrong. Whatever it was, the brothers had angry words, and then, according to Rosamund, Hugh rode off again, with Olivier still shouting after him.’

  She paused. This was where fact ended and conjecture began. There was nothing to be gained by waiting, so she plunged on. ‘Josse, Olivier talks to people who aren’t there. Rosamund told me; it frightened her. What if it happened like this? Hugh and Olivier fought, and it was Olivier who left the marks of his fists on Hugh’s face. In the course of the fight, Hugh stumbled and fell over backwards, striking his head and receiving the blow that killed him. Olivier, horrified, realized what he had done, but couldn’t accept it. Perhaps acting on instinct, for I don’t suppose he was capable just then of thinking rationally, he slapped Hugh’s horse hard on the rump, cried out really loudly and frightened it into bolting. To Rosamund, hiding under the trees and unable to see what was happening, it would have sounded as if Hugh had ridden away. I don’t think it ever occurred to her that he never left the place, or that Olivier killed him only a matter of a few paces away from where she crouched. Then, once Olivier had hidden the body and made sure the horse was no longer in sight, he went to fetch her and together they rode off on his horse.’

  She stopped. She tried to judge from Josse’s expression whether or not he agreed with her version of events.

  ‘If you’re right,’ he said slowly, ‘then what became of Hugh’s horse?’

  ‘According to Abbess Caliste, a rather fine horse has just turned up at the abbey.’

  After a moment he said, ‘There’s one way to find out if you’re right.’

  Her heart leapt. ‘What is it?’

  He stood up. ‘I’ll ride over and have a look at Olivier’s hands.’

  Josse made the return journey to Hawkenlye more swiftly than Helewise had walked it, choosing to take his horse and keep to the main tracks. The distance was longer, but the going faster. Leaving Alfred at the gates, he sent word to the abbess to tell her what he was doing and hurried to the infirmary.

  On hearing his request, Sister Liese shook her head and said simply, ‘But Olivier has gone.’ She indicated the two recesses where Olivier and the king had been treated. ‘They have all gone, back to one of the king’s London residences. His apartments in the Tower, I believe they said.’

  Josse felt bitterly disappointed. But there was still one slim chance of finding out what he needed to know: ‘Did you treat him yourself, Sister?’

  ‘Yes, to begin with,’ she said, ‘and then I was called away to more pressing cases and I handed his care to one of my nuns.’ She gazed out along the infirmary. ‘Sister Bridget took over.’

  ‘Will you describe his wounds for us?’ Josse asked.

  Sister Liese looked doubtful.

  ‘Please, Sister!’ he urged. ‘It is very important.’

  ‘Very well. He had a deep cut over his ribs, beneath his right arm, and a long cut down his left forearm, extending on to the wrist and the back of the hand.’

  ‘Aye, I recall now that his left hand was heavily bandaged,’ Josse muttered. ‘Did you notice anything else, Sister Liese?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘I am trying to visualize him . . . Yes, there was extensive bruising to one of his hands. I remember asking the herbalist for a burdock poultice, and I did fear that a bone might have been broken, although in fact he had use of the hand and so that was unlikely.’

  ‘Do you remember which hand?’ Josse asked.

  ‘The right,’ she said instantly. ‘I could not have put a poultice on his left hand, for the cut in it had been bandaged.’

  Josse visualized the dead man. ‘The damage to Hugh’s face was on the left side,’ he said quietly. ‘Where a right-handed man would have hit him.’

  At Acquin, Ninian was beginning to relax and enjoy himself. He had settled very happily with the family. Josse’s brothers and their wives were avid for every last little detail of life in the House in the Woods, and in the evenings, when work was done for the day and the family relaxed together, they all plied him with endless questions.

  ‘How I should love to see him again,’ Yves sighed one evening, wiping away tears of laughter after Ninian had excelled himself in describing Josse’s attempts at herding the household’s small flock of sheep off Meggie’s herbs and back into the sheep fold. One ewe, which Josse claimed was unique among the creatures of the earth in having been born without a brain, had frustrated him so severely that he had tried to pick her up by the back legs and drag her, upon which she had kicked him soundly in the groin. ‘England is not so far away,’ Yves went on sadly, ‘yet the years pass, the days are so full and it is easier to sit here and reminisce than to get up and set out on a visit.’

  ‘Josse would say the same,’ Ninian replied. He had warmed to Yves and did not think it was fair for him to take all the blame on himself. ‘Besides, there are four brothers here, and Josse is only one. It’s up to him, really, to come to you.’

  Suddenly, he experienced one of the strange moments which happened occasionally, when he saw something that was going to happen. He had learned not to worry about them; it was, he had decided, probably a gift inherited from his mother. He had also learned to trust them.

  What he saw, as he sat across the fire from Yves, was a perfectly clear image of Josse sitting beside his brother.

  He decided not to tell Yves. If he was right – and he knew he was – then the visit would come as a lovely surprise.

  Yves insisted that Ninian be shown all over the Acquin lands. On several successive mornings, they saddled up their horses and, sometimes accompanied by one of the other brothers, sometimes just the two of them, they would set off on a long morning ride.

  On the fourth day of Ninian’s stay, he was riding back towards the house with Yves and Patrice and looking forward to the meal which would be waiting for them. Patrice was pointing down to the little river that ran through the valley, telling him where the best spots to fish for a trout or a perch could be found, when they heard voices on the road ahead. They were not far from Acquin and, up a narrow path that led up to the right, a group of alders grew around a pond. The voices came from under the trees.

  Somebody was weeping, loudly and uncontrollably.

  Yves spurred on his horse, Ninian and Patrice in his wake. They dismounted at the end of the path, tethered their horses and ran up the gentle slope to the huddle of people.

  They were all local people; Ninian recognized quite a few of the faces. Seeing Yves approach, most of them stood back and some bowed their heads to their lord. As a gap opened up and the pond became visible, Ninian, just behind Yves, saw what was causing the commotion.

  A body lay on the edge of the water. It was that of a man, clad in down at heel boots, darned hose and a jerkin that seemed to be made out of sacking. His dirty hair was pale blond. A woman was crouched over him, patting at his face, weeping, crying out a name: ‘Stephan! Oh, Stephan!’

  It was Yves’s stable lad.

  Yves was already on his knees in the mud besi
de the young man’s mother. He had his hand on the lad’s throat and, as Ninian watched, he bent down to put his cheek beside the open mouth. He glanced up, and Ninian saw him catch his brother’s eye and briefly shake his head. Then he stood up, ran his eyes over the gawping villagers and, selecting a couple, told them to escort the wailing, shocked woman back to her home. Two more were sent to fetch a stretcher for the body. There were still four or five people hanging about and, with a swift, impatient gesture, Yves said, ‘Get back to your work. There is nothing anyone can do for him now.’

  When everyone had gone, Yves beckoned to Patrice and Ninian, and they approached the body.

  ‘How did he die?’ Patrice asked. ‘Did he drown?’

  ‘I do not think so, for his hair is dry,’ Yves said. He was running his hands over the body, searching for the fatal injury. With a soft exclamation, he pointed to the neck. On the left side – the side on which the body lay – there was a short, deep cut beneath the ear. The young man’s life blood lay in a great pool beneath it. ‘See,’ Yves said softly. ‘A stab to the neck.’ He touched the dead cheek with a gentle hand. ‘Such a small wound, to bring about a man’s death.’

  Ninian had seen something else. The lad’s right hand was tightly clenched, but the edge of a small leather bag was visible, sticking out between the thumb and the forefinger. He reached down and opened the fist, extracting the bag. Opening it, he saw that it was full of coins. Silently, he handed it to Yves, who quickly counted the coins, his eyes widening.

  ‘There’s several months’ income here!’ Yves whispered. ‘However did Stephan come by so much money?’

  ‘Perhaps he stole it,’ Patrice suggested.

  Yves frowned. ‘I would have said Stephan was an honest man, but recently he has changed. He wishes to marry,’ he went on, looking at Ninian, ‘and he has not the means.’

  ‘Someone desperate for money may turn from his former honest ways,’ Ninian said.

  Still Yves looked doubtful. ‘Who could he have stolen from, though? We see few strangers here, and nobody local carries this sort of sum around with them.’

  Patrice stood up. ‘I will go and ask among the villagers,’ he said. ‘I’ll take Ninian with me, unless you wish him to stay with you until they come for the body?’ Yves shook his head. ‘Then I would be grateful for your company,’ Patrice went on, turning to Ninian with a smile. ‘Your eyes are a lot younger than mine, and you may well spot something that I miss.’

  Not many of the villagers had obeyed Yves’s order to return to work. Stephan’s mother had disappeared, presumably now pouring out her grief inside her house, and a group of the men who had stood around the body were gathered close to the church. They had been joined by several more. A man stood in the middle of the group, speaking urgently. Seeing Patrice, he fell silent. As one, the men turned to look at Patrice and Ninian.

  ‘Stephan was murdered,’ Patrice said. There was a low rumble of comment, although Ninian was almost sure the men had already known. ‘He was clutching a bag of money. We don’t know how he came by it. If any of you has anything to say that might help us find out what happened, you must tell us immediately.’ One or two of the men exchanged glances. ‘If you prefer to speak privately, come to the manor house.’

  He waited. Ninian looked around the group. Nobody made any move to speak. ‘Very well,’ Patrice said. ‘We will return to the manor.’ He paused. ‘Remember, all of you, that a young man who was one of the Acquin community has been brutally slain. He leaves a widowed mother, who depended on him. He leaves a pretty young girl who was expecting to marry him. Both women will be heartbroken.’ He turned his horse, nudged it and moved off, Ninian behind him.

  ‘Do you think anyone will respond?’ Ninian asked once they were out of earshot.

  Patrice smiled grimly. ‘I fully expect it,’ he replied. ‘The man who was addressing the crowd – his name is Pierre – makes it his business to know everything that goes on among the Acquin peasantry. He might have spoken just now, but he likes to make himself important by adopting the role of spokesman for the village.’ They were back at the house, and Patrice reined in to let Ninian ride ahead into the yard. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘Pierre knows there’s always a mug of ale and a sweet cake to be had when he comes here with useful information.’

  They had not been back long when Yves arrived home. He assembled the household and briefly told them all what had happened. There was a cry from one of the kitchen women, quickly stifled, and several of the younger servants looked pale and shocked.

  The family sat down to eat and had almost finished when a servant came into the hall and spoke quietly to Yves. He nodded, stood up and then glanced at Patrice and Ninian and jerked his head in the direction of the passage that led along to the kitchens. Both got up and followed him out.

  ‘Pierre?’ Patrice asked.

  ‘Aye.’

  Pierre was waiting for them in the small covered area between the main house and the kitchens. He was a wiry, thin-faced man with restless eyes set close together. He doffed his cap when they approached, twisting it in his hands.

  ‘You have something to tell us, Pierre,’ Yves said.

  ‘I have, sir.’ He glanced at Ninian.

  ‘You may speak in front of him,’ Yves reassured him.

  ‘Er – thank you, sir. It’s not that, not exactly.’

  Yves frowned. ‘What, then?’ he demanded.

  Pierre gave a faint shrug, as if of resignation. Then he said, ‘There’s been strangers in the village. One man in particular, asking questions. He knew the name d’Acquin, and he was looking for a young man who had come to stay with the family here.’ He waved a hand, indicating the spreading manor house.

  Ninian felt as if a cold fist were closing around his heart. He made as if to speak, but Yves put a hand on his arm, restraining him. ‘This man was offering to pay for information, I imagine?’ he said coldly.

  ‘That he was, sir, and I hope I need not say that, almost to a man, we were having none of it.’ Pierre managed to form an expression with his sharp features that was a perfect mix of indignation and hurt loyalty.

  ‘No, Pierre, you do not,’ Yves said. ‘You are decent people, I know that.’

  Pierre acknowledged the comment. ‘Well, Stephan, he was the exception,’ he went on, ‘but then, as we all know, Stephan is in love and that can turn a man’s head, and when he was offered more money than he sees in half a year, just for passing on what was no deep secret anyway, he thought to himself: where’s the harm?’

  ‘He has been reporting to this stranger concerning the movements of my nephew?’ Yves demanded.

  ‘That he has, sir,’ Pierre answered.

  ‘You did not think to come and tell me?’ Yves sounded angry. ‘Had you done so, Stephan’s death might have been averted.’

  A crafty look came over Pierre’s face. ‘Well, now, it might and it might not,’ he said. ‘Trouble was, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so, that, according to what I heard, this stranger told young Stephan that your – er, your nephew here was a wanted man back in England. Killed a man, they say.’ His eyes shifted to Ninian, then back to Yves. ‘Now, I don’t necessarily believe it, but it wasn’t my place to come here repeating such accusations to you, now, was it, sir?’

  ‘I—’ Yves bit back whatever he had been about to say. Instead, he fixed Pierre with a steely stare. ‘What my nephew may or may not be accused of is no business of anybody here,’ he stated firmly. ‘The full story is known to me already, and there is to be no speculation. Do you understand?’ Pierre nodded. ‘Now, tell me everything you can about the man who paid Stephan for information.’

  Pierre shrugged. ‘There’s not much I can say, sir, for I never met him. Nobody did – only Stephan.’

  ‘Was the man who paid him for information alone?’

  ‘I can’t say, sir. Stephan seemed to think there was a group of them in the area, fanning out on their manhunt, but he only dealt with the one.’

 
Yves was silent for some moments, evidently thinking hard. Then he said, ‘Thank you for coming to speak to us.’ He handed a coin to Pierre, who grasped it and tucked it away with a conjurer’s speed. ‘Tell Stephan’s mother that we will do what we can for her. As for the rest of the village, it would do no harm to point out that, whatever happiness Stephan hoped to buy for himself by his betrayal, it has come to naught.’ He stared at Pierre. ‘Men who are willing to pay other men so well to spy for them are not in the habit of leaving them alive to tell the tale.’

  Pierre bowed. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You may go,’ Yves said. Pierre looked up hopefully. ‘Via the kitchens,’ Yves added.

  With a muttered, ‘Thank you, sir,’ Pierre turned and scurried away.

  Ninian went straight to the sleeping space that he had been allocated and, kneeling on the floor, began to pack his belongings. Yves watched him for a while and then said, ‘You know who this man was, don’t you?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Ninian replied. ‘It’s obvious who has sent him, though.’ He sat back on his heels, looking up at Yves. ‘I did not think the king would act so swiftly. I even wondered if he would think that it was not worth hunting for me this side of the Channel.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps Hugh de Brionne was very close to him. I don’t know.’

  ‘The man you are accused of killing?’

  Ninian nodded.

  ‘Hm. They say King John is quick to anger and slow to forgive.’

  ‘They say right,’ Ninian replied grimly. ‘Now it seems he’s sent a search party to comb northern France till they find me and take me back.’

  Slowly, Yves shook his head. ‘It is the act of a vengeful man.’

  ‘Yes, and unfortunately one with many men at his disposal.’ Ninian rolled up his spare garments and tied the bundle with a sharp jerk of the string.

  Yves frowned. ‘There must be somewhere we can hide you. There’s an old disused mill on the road out of the valley to the east, and we could—’