by Alys Clare
Ninian stood up and faced him. ‘I appreciate the offer, more than I can say, but I cannot accept it.’ He met Yves’s eyes. ‘I bring danger, Yves. One man is already dead because of me, and, as Patrice said, two women are heartbroken. That is hard enough to live with. I cannot take the risk that my continuing presence here would bring about similar tragedy in your household.’
‘But if you were to hide in the old mill—’
Ninian did not let him continue. ‘No, Yves.’ He grasped the older man by the shoulders. ‘I have a place to go.’
‘Where is it?’
Ninian shook his head. ‘I cannot tell you. It is better for all of us that you do not know.’
‘Let me at least provision you!’ Yves’s voice was anguished. Glancing down at Ninian’s belongings, he said, ‘Winter approaches, and you have not packed near enough warm clothes!’
‘I have, truly I have. There’s so much in my pack that I haven’t even reached the bottom yet!’ Ninian protested.
But with a muttered, ‘Wait here,’ Yves hurried off.
He returned quite soon with a heavy, deeply-hooded cloak, lined with fur. He also brought gauntlets, two warm wool tunics, thick hose and two more blankets, and a capacious leather bag for the spare garments. ‘I’ve got food for you for several days,’ he said, holding up another bag, ‘with wine, bread and a good supply of dried meat. That’ll keep you going. Now, have you money?’
‘I have, Yves,’ Ninian said with a smile. He was overcome by Yves’s kindness. He finished his packing, then straightened up. ‘I will leave immediately,’ he announced. ‘There are several hours of daylight, and I can be well away from here by nightfall.’ He took one last look around the room, then stepped out into the passage. He stared along it to the great hall. ‘Say goodbye to your family for me,’ he said softly.
‘I will.’
They walked quickly across the courtyard, and Ninian put the bridle and saddle on Garnet, fastening his packs and his bag. The he turned to Yves.
‘Thank you for all you have done for me,’ he said. ‘I wish I could stay. I like it here.’
Yves smiled. ‘We liked having you.’ He hesitated. Then, speaking in a low voice, he said, ‘You will not tell me where you are bound, and I appreciate that you have good reason, but, Ninian, consider this. You have kin in England who love you. Do you not think that, one day, they might come here looking for you? They know you were heading for Acquin, so it is naturally the place they would come seeking you. I could not face my brother, Ninian, when he asks where you have gone, if all I have by way of answer is to say I do not know.’
Ninian dropped his head. Yves was right; his position would be intolerable. But every instinct was telling him to keep his destination a secret, even from Yves. He thought hard and finally came up with a compromise. Looking up, he met Yves’s anxious face and smiled. ‘Tell Josse, if ever he asks, that I’m going to the place he suggested. He will know what I mean.’
Yves walked slowly back towards the house. He had tears in his eyes, and he paused to compose himself before going inside to face his family. He knew Ninian was right to leave, although he hated to admit it. He could not help but feel that he had failed the young man. But, as Ninian had said, where one man had come to seek him out, others would probably follow. Even now, the man who had paid Stephan to spy for him and then callously killed him was probably reporting back to the rest of the search party. They would be making plans to approach Acquin, go through every chamber, every barn and every storeroom until they found the man they were hunting for.
Yves had done all he could for Ninian. Now the young man was out of his reach. With a sigh, he turned his mind to how best to lay the smokescreen that would both throw the pursuers off the scent and protect his family.
SEVENTEEN
The day was drawing to a close, but Josse could not bear to wait until morning. He curbed his impatience for long enough to visit Abbess Caliste, explaining briefly what he had just discovered and asking if she would send someone over to the House in the Woods to take the news to Helewise. Then he ran back to where Alfred was tethered, mounted up and rode as hard as he could down the hill to Tonbridge.
Gervase was home, and Josse found him about to sit down to eat with Sabin and his three children. Sabin invited him to join them but, apologizing, he explained that he had come on a matter of urgency and must speak privately to Gervase.
‘What is so important that you must drag me from my food?’ Gervase asked lightly as they retreated to the far end of the hall.
‘I am sorry, Gervase, I—’
‘No need to explain, old friend,’ Gervase interrupted with a smile. ‘I know you would not be here, out of breath and mud-spattered, if it were not vital. What has happened?’ Abruptly, his expression changed, his face growing tense. ‘Is there news of the lad?’
‘No,’ Josse said shortly. Gervase’s relief was evident.
He explained, as succinctly as he could, everything that had led him to conclude that Olivier de Brionne had been responsible for Hugh’s death. Gervase listened, occasionally asking Josse to elucidate some point, and, when Josse stopped speaking, stood deep in thought.
‘Well?’ Josse demanded. ‘What do you think? Am I right?’
Gervase turned to him. ‘It would appear so, yes, although the evidence is far from conclusive. But,’ he added firmly as Josse opened his mouth to speak, ‘I do believe the case against Olivier is stronger than against Ninian, who was only suspected of the murder because Olivier suggested it. As, indeed, he would, if it was in truth he who killed Hugh.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Josse could hardly bear to ask.
Gervase punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Josse, for the past few days I have gone on sending my men out on a manhunt for someone they have no chance of finding, for, as you and I both know, the man in question is by now safely across the Channel.’ He hesitated, frowning. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more than to tell them tomorrow morning that the search parties may stand down, with the explanation that another suspect has turned up. However, there is still the matter of the wounding of the king and Olivier, for which Ninian stands accused.’
‘It was a fight at close quarters!’ Josse protested. ‘Who can say who wounded whom?’
‘I know, Josse, but we still have to convince the king of that,’ Gervase replied. ‘In the meantime, the pretence that we are still looking for Ninian here in England must, I am afraid, continue.’ He grinned at Josse. ‘If you will now accept my wife’s invitation to come and eat, we will offer you a bed for the night, and tomorrow you and I will go and present this tale of yours to the king. If he reacts as I fully expect him to, he will no doubt command us to arrest Olivier de Brionne, inspect his right hand and accuse him of killing his brother.’
Late that night, leaving his wife asleep, Gervase crept out of their bed and fell on his knees beside it, burying his face in his hands. Had he been a more fervent believer, he might have said he was praying. He was used to deception – in his role as sheriff, he often spoke blatant untruths in pursuit of a greater good – and normally his conscience did not bother him.
But, as he was so painfully discovering, apparently it all depended on who was being deceived . . .
Gervase was looking his usual elegant self as he and Josse set out early the next morning, and Sabin had done her best to spruce up Josse, even to the extent of trimming his ragged hair. Gervase’s groom had prepared their horses, and the coats of both shone in the autumn sunshine. It was not every day, Josse reflected, that a man rode off to seek audience with his king, and it was worth a bit of effort.
They crossed the Thames around noon, via the newly-completed stone bridge that, the previous year, had finally replaced the successive wooden versions which had spanned the river there for a thousand years. Trying not to look like an overawed country bumpkin, Josse stared at the impressive structure. Its many pointed arches slowed the flow of the river, so that white water constantly b
oiled and splashed against the piers. In the middle of the bridge stood a chapel dedicated to St Thomas Becket. Josse would have liked to stop and look, but he was not there for his own entertainment.
The White Tower loomed higher and higher above them as they steadily approached. As a symbol of the king’s power, Josse reflected, it was hard to beat. Regular coats of whitewash kept it shining bright and impossible to ignore, and its forbidding appearance was like a constant, unspoken threat.
Josse and Gervase were stopped by several sets of guards before finally, having left their horses, they were permitted to climb the external staircase that soared up to the entrance, high above the ground. There were further challenges, and then at last two heavily-armed guards led them up to the king’s apartments on the top floors. They were led through a great hall, the roof of which soared high overhead, then into the chamber where, they were told, they must wait for the king.
He did not keep them long. He came into the chamber alone, dressed in a scarlet tunic with extravagant, fur-lined sleeves and edged with panels of embroidery worked in real gold thread and sparkling with jewels. He wore a heavy gold chain around his neck, and on each of his fingers and one of his thumbs there sparkled a precious stone set in more gold. He looked, as he always did, so clean that he appeared to shine.
He stopped before his visitors and extended his hands. Josse and Gervase approached and made their reverences. Then, as if suddenly impatient, the king waved away their attentions and, fixing Gervase with a hard blue stare, said, ‘You are here, I hope, to tell me that you have made an arrest.’
Josse winced on his friend’s behalf. Had it not been for Gervase’s first loyalty, to Josse and his kin, then his answer would undoubtedly have been yes. However, Gervase was a man of authority in his own right, and it soon became apparent that he was not going to be cowed, even by a king. With admirable brevity, he outlined his reasons for believing that Hugh de Brionne’s killer was not the madman from the clearing by the chapel – whom he now named as Ninian de Courtenay – but Olivier. ‘With your permission, my lord king,’ he concluded, ‘I will see Olivier de Brionne to verify what the Hawkenlye infirmarer has stated concerning the bruises on his right hand and, once I am convinced, I will charge him with being responsible for his brother’s death.’
The king, congenitally unable to stand still for longer than half a minute, had begun slowly pacing to and fro as Gervase spoke. Now, coming to a halt in front of the two men, he turned and fixed his eyes on the sheriff. ‘Admirably deduced and utterly reasonable,’ he declared. He glanced at Josse, stabbing a finger in his direction. ‘Of course, this conviction that Olivier is guilty has nothing at all to do with the fact that, if he is, then your lad will no longer be wanted for murder.’ Josse made to speak, but the king had not finished. ‘Oh, Josse, Josse! I have known for some time exactly who this man is.’
‘My adopted son is no murderer, sire,’ Josse said steadily.
‘So you do keep saying,’ the king murmured. His eyes hardened. ‘Nevertheless, he attacked Olivier and me. I have the scar on my shoulder to prove it, although already it is fading.’
Josse steeled himself to speak. He knew the risks – so much depended on the king’s mood, for he could switch from genial host to furious tyrant in the blink of an eye – but, for Ninian’s sake, he had to speak up. ‘Sire, I would speak concerning that fight in front of the chapel,’ he said, wishing his voice sounded more authoritative.
‘Yes?’ The one cold syllable seemed to hang in the air. Josse sensed Gervase go tense, and he could all but hear the sheriff’s warning: take care!
‘Sire, Ninian was deeply concerned for the little girl, Rosamund Warin, who Olivier had brought to you. He had followed your party from the hunting lodge to Hawkenlye, and when he saw two of the group break away and take the child up towards the woods, he was very afraid for her safety.’ Steady, he told himself. He wanted to put it into the king’s mind that Ninian’s anxiety had been justified but, if he went too far and hinted that the king had been about to seduce an eleven-year-old child, then the king would lose his temper and he and Gervase would probably end up in the grim dungeons all those floors below.
He eyed the king, trying to gauge his reaction, but John was giving nothing away. ‘I do not know the details of what occurred,’ he plunged on, ‘but, from Ninian’s point of view, he believed Rosamund was in danger, and he launched himself against the two men who were with her. He did not know your identities,’ he said, ‘and had no idea that one of the men in the clearing was his king.’
John watched him intently. ‘Do you think,’ he said silkily, ‘it would have made any difference if he had?’
That, Josse realized, was the point on which his whole defence of Ninian really hung, and it was typical of the king to have pinpointed it. He made himself meet the king’s eyes. ‘I do not know, sire,’ he said. Then – for it was not wise to treat the king like a fool – ‘Probably not.’
There was a long silence, broken only by the swish of thick, costly silk as the king resumed his pacing. Finally, he stopped, turned and faced Josse once more. ‘I am of a mind to be generous,’ he said. ‘You speak with passion and eloquence for your son, Josse – yes, very well, your adopted son – and, indeed, your picture of a man rushing in to take on two armed men because he fears for the safety of a young woman has echoes of the deeds of the chivalrous knights in the tales so beloved by my late mother.’ He paused, clearly thinking hard. Then he said quietly, ‘Rosamund was as safe in my company as in that of her mother, whoever she is. But I will not pretend that I am unaware of the wagging tongues; indeed, one of my close circle believed he would greatly please me by his gift of this pretty child.’ His expression hardened, and he said icily, ‘I will not add fuel to this particular fire; I want this matter to remain between those few people who are already aware of it.’
It was a direct order. Josse and Gervase both bowed their heads in acknowledgement.
‘Revenge would have been singularly sweet,’ the king murmured, ‘but, perhaps, unjustified. Besides,’ he added after a moment, ‘my wound is, as I said, all but healed, and, in the melee before the chapel, I cannot put my hand to my heart and swear it was Ninian who inflicted it. It seems, Josse –’ some change in the king’s voice made Josse look up and meet his eyes – ‘that your son is safe.’
Gervase said, ‘Sire, have I your permission to send for Olivier? There is no reason to delay the resolution of this sad business, and faced with our suggestion of what really happened, he may realize that there is no point in protesting his innocence.’
‘Well he might,’ the king replied, ‘and I would not prevent your summoning him, except that it would serve no purpose. He is not here.’
‘Not here!’ Josse exclaimed. ‘But he left Hawkenlye when you did, sire, and we thought he had ridden here to London with you.’
‘He may have left with us, although I do not recall seeing him,’ the king said. ‘He certainly did not arrive with us.’
‘Then where is he?’ Josse was looking wildly around.
‘Stop that, Josse, he’s not hiding behind the wall hangings,’ the king said sharply. ‘I do not know where he is. I will send word that I wish to see him and, when he arrives, I will let you know. Is that good enough for you?’ The irony was unmistakable.
‘Aye, my lord king, of course,’ Josse muttered.
There was an awkward pause. Then Gervase cleared his throat nervously and said, ‘Hugh de Brionne paid a high price for his insolent scheme, and—’
‘You think the plan was Hugh’s?’ the king interrupted.
‘Well, Olivier claims it was,’ Gervase said. Josse nodded his agreement.
The king sighed. ‘Hugh would never have come up with anything as dangerous and misguided as abducting a child as a present for his king,’ he said softly. ‘Everything about this matter smacks of Olivier. He is unbalanced, you see.’ He sighed. ‘We should have taken better care of him, but he was tucked away down ther
e in the house on the downs and it was all too easy to forget his existence. By the time I invited him to come and join the circle of my close companions, it was already too late.’
Josse did not understand. ‘Sire?’
‘Hugh de Brionne was already of my company,’ the king said. ‘His father, as you will know, Josse, was a friend of my brother’s, and, indeed, of my father’s as well, and it followed, as these things do, that Hugh in turn would be one of my companions. Then, later, Olivier came too.’
‘But Olivier is not Felix’s son,’ Josse whispered. Despite everything, it was still hard to speak Lady Béatrice’s secret out loud.’
‘No,’ the king said softly. ‘He is mine.’
Ninian wondered how far he would have to ride before he felt safe. The exhilaration of escaping from Acquin kept his spirits high for many miles but, as the hours went on, he began to be haunted by the feeling that someone was following him.
He decided that, reluctant as he was, it was time to put his fears to the test. In a stretch of wooded, hilly country, he kept an eye out for a suitable location and soon found one. He dismounted, led Garnet under the cover of the trees and then took up the position he had picked out. It was on top of the steep side of a long stretch of the road that ran almost straight – Ninian had heard it said that such roads had been left by the Romans – and thus afforded a good view back the way he had come. The road was enclosed on the east by the high stone cliff on the top of which Ninian now stood. On the opposite side, the ground fell away to a valley where a river ran, its water glinting silver in the thin light.
He waited.
Some time later, he saw what he had dreaded: a horseman was approaching. He was still a long way off, but it was clear even from a distance that he was following a trail. He would ride a few paces, then draw in his horse and bend over towards the ground. Ninian guessed he was checking for the marks of Garnet’s hooves.