by Alys Clare
‘He is in good heart, they say,’ Brice remarked. ‘Although, given the circumstances, it is hard to see how that can be.’ His handsome face took on an expression of extreme indignation. ‘A Christian king, God’s own anointed one, to be a prisoner! Ah, Josse, the humiliation!’
‘I think we can be assured that now he is a prisoner in name only,’ Josse replied. ‘Since that traitorous rogue Leopold of Austria handed him over to the Emperor back in March, it’s said that his situation has steadily improved. The latest reports suggest that he is treated more as an honoured guest than a prisoner. Why, he holds court and conducts his business almost as if he were in his own stronghold!’
Brice waved a hand impatiently. ‘Aye, so they say, but he’s not free, man, is he?’
Josse had to acknowledge that this was true. ‘His health has improved,’ he offered. ‘He’s enjoying his food and drink again and he has even been hunting on more than one occasion, and that will build up his strength for sure.’
As if he had not heard, Brice said, ‘And what of us here in England? Eh? Kingless, rudderless, with that clever brother of his scheming to sit on our Richard’s throne!’
‘The Queen is on her guard,’ Josse said. ‘She knows John as well as anybody and she will do what is necessary to protect Richard’s interests.’ Both men knew, without Josse having to stipulate, that he spoke of King Richard’s mother and not his wife. ‘Back at Easter, she increased the guard on the coast and those Flemish mercenaries that John had hired received a tougher welcome than they’d bargained for. And she’s made the King’s men renew their oaths of fealty.’
‘What use will that be if he does not return? If– God forbid! – we have to have his brother in his place?’
‘We can do no better than hearken to the King’s own words. You recall? When they told him of John’s scheming, he said that his brother wasn’t the man to conquer a country if anyone offered him the slightest resistance. King Richard does not fear his brother, Brice, so we should not either.’
‘But we are here and he is far away,’ Brice said lugubriously. Then, fixing Josse with angry dark eyes, he added softly, ‘And now we’re going to have to find one hundred thousand silver marks to get him back.’
‘Aye, I know,’ Josse said heavily. ‘They say it’s twice England’s annual revenue.’
‘Will it be raised?’
‘Aye,’ Josse said, with more confidence than he felt. ‘Queen Eleanor will see to it that it is.’
‘We’ve already been bled white to pay for the Crusade.’ Brice, as if aware that his words might be regarded by some as next door to treason, spoke in a voice little above a whisper. ‘Now it’s a quarter of our annual income from every one of us!’
‘Not everyone,’ Josse protested. ‘The poor are only obliged to give what they can.’
Brice said something that Josse did not quite hear, which, given his allegiance to King Richard, he felt was probably just as well.
There was silence in the hall for some time. After discussing matters of such gravity, Josse thought, it was somehow not right to try to turn the talk to a more personal level. All the same, he was still very intrigued to know why he had been invited and even more so to find out just what it was that was making Brice pace restlessly as if his lean body contained too much nervous energy for him to be still. Before he could think of a way to satisfy his curiosity, a stout woman with a neat white cap over her grey hair and a crisp apron covering her brown gown bustled in and told them that dinner was ready.
Brice, acknowledging the brusque announcement with a smile, said lazily, ‘You remember Mathild, Josse?’
‘Indeed I do,’ he replied. If the woman’s food is as good as her ale, he thought cheerfully, then I’m in for a treat.
The meal was excellent. Mathild, who had a light hand with a pastry crust, served a hot pork pasty that was flavoured with some spice that Josse thought he recognised but could not place. Whatever it was, he hadn’t tasted it since he had attended the court of the Poitevins and it was a rare pleasure to encounter it again. He and Brice took their time, eating their fill of the savoury dishes. In addition to the pork pasty there was a tartlet of chopped meat in a cheese, egg and milk sauce; white fish in wine sauce flavoured with onions and spices; and a sort of solid pottage that Josse thought consisted mainly of peas. Then Mathild brought in sops-in-wine – generous pieces of her own sweet cake in a mixture of wine, milk and almonds – and her spice, sauce once more tantalised Josse’s taste buds with all but forgotten delights. He detected ginger … and cinnamon … and perhaps a touch of clove? … and then, with a smile and some earnest words of praise to Mathild, he passed up his platter for more.
‘Aye,’ Brice said, finally pushing himself back from the table and easing a thumb inside his belt, ‘she may lack a certain finesse in her manners, my old Mathild, but she’s the best cook I’ve ever come across. More wine?’
Accepting another refill, Josse was thinking just what a pleasant way this was to spend a lazy sunny day when, draining his own cup, Brice sat up straight and said, ‘When you’re done, Josse, there’s someone I want you to meet. You may know of him. His manor is not far from here – an hour’s ride, certainly no more, even if we go very gently – and the day will be growing cooler soon.’
‘Someone you wish me to meet?’ Josse echoed stupidly, trying to focus his drowsy thoughts. ‘But—’
‘I should have explained,’ Brice said with a swift apologetic smile. ‘Only – well, I thought to surprise you.’
Just as Josse was reflecting on the odd comment, Brice corrected himself. ‘That is to say, I did not quite know how to say, come and dine with me and then we will ride out to introduce you to my friends, so I said nothing.’
Finishing his wine and reluctantly getting to his feet, Josse could not help but wonder what was so difficult about that.
The afternoon was indeed a shade cooler as Brice and Josse rode off from Rotherbridge. Brice kept to the higher ground and this, besides keeping their horses’ hooves out of the mud, also gave the men the benefit of the shade of the willows that grew on the top of the creek bank. As they rode, Josse observed how the narrow creek down on their right was steadily widening. Well, he thought, the water course itself is not increasing very much in size, it’s more that the valley through which it flows is broader now. He was about to make some comment to his companion when Brice turned in his saddle and said, ‘We have to descend here. We’re heading over there’ – he pointed across the creek to the higher land on the far side – ‘and this is the best way across.’
With a grunt of acknowledgement, Josse clicked to Horace and followed Brice as he rode carefully down the bank. He understood why Brice had chosen to cross here and not higher up, where the creek was narrower; here the sides of the bank were far less steep. And soon he had to admit that Brice knew exactly what he was about. Leading the way confidently towards what appeared to be a dangerously wet and boggy stretch of ground – the sort of place, Josse thought anxiously, where a man and his horse might flounder to a dreadful death – it became apparent as they drew nearer that a narrow path crossed the water. It was not continuous but interspersed in places with firm stepping-stones and, clearly, it would be covered at high tide. As he followed Brice across, Josse had the sudden thought that only a man who made this journey frequently would know his way so well.
The manor house to which Brice took him was pleasantly situated towards the east end of the Isle of Oxney. Beyond it the land fell away towards Rye Bay and, to the rear, it was sheltered by a thick band of woodland. The house was not new – no sign here of alterations and additions of the sort that both Josse and Brice had made to their dwellings – and it blended in so beautifully with its surroundings that it almost looked as if it had stood there, back to the woods, face to the water, for ever.
Shaking away that whimsical thought, Josse realised that Brice was speaking to him and he urged his horse forward. ‘Eh? What did you say?’ he asked.
‘Aye, Ambrose, it’s me,’ Brice called back. ‘And yes, Josse d’Acquin is with me. Wait while we attend to the horses, then we will come up.’
As if waiting for the moment, a young lad came running from the stable block and, with a brief nod of greeting, took charge of Josse’s and Brice’s mounts. Josse heard Brice give a couple of nervous coughs as he pulled at his tunic and arranged its folds and then they climbed the steps and entered the house.
Ambrose Ryemarsh entertained with a lavish hand. Although Josse had eaten well with Brice, the savoury and sweet delicacies daintily laid out on salvers in the cool hall tempted him to start all over again. With no effort at all he ate two venison pasties with cherry sauce, a small, sweet custard tart flavoured with bay leaf and lemon, and a frothy baked apple studded with dried fruit and flavoured with ginger. There was white wine to drink, and somehow whoever had charge of Ambrose’s household had contrived to keep it chilled. Josse had not tasted anything so delicious since he had left France.
The conversation flowed easily but inconsequentially. Josse, still curious as to just what this visit was for, waited patiently.
Then three things happened at once.
There was the sound of light footsteps in the passage outside. Brice’s head spun round and, for the split second that Josse was able to observe him, his face wore a strangely excited, expectant look. Then, noticing Josse’s eyes on him, he replaced it with an expression of bland disinterest. Which he still wore when the hanging over the doorway was pulled back with a soft swish and a woman entered the hall.
Ambrose got up from his tall chair and held out both hands. The woman walked swiftly over to him and put her own hands in his. Then she leaned towards him and tenderly kissed his face, smiling up at him as she did so.
Ambrose, turning towards Josse, said, ‘This is my wife. Galiena, my sweet, I present to you Josse d’Acquin.’
Rising to greet her, swiftly Josse studied her, taking in her appearance. She was tall and slender, the cornflower-blue silk gown fitting her well and showing off the high, round breasts and the narrow waist. Her pale hair was braided into two thick plaits, coiled up on either side of her face. Over her hair she wore a small veil, held in place by a chaplet of flowers. Her eyes were as deep a blue as her gown and her rosy lips were parted in a generous smile.
She was, Josse recognised, a beauty. She was also very young: no more, he guessed, than seventeen or eighteen.
And Ambrose was a man well into, if not actually past, middle age.
Trying to put his tumbling thoughts aside, Josse bowed over the small, cool hand that she held out to him and said, ‘It is a great pleasure, lady, to meet you.’
Galiena laughed softly, squeezing Josse’s hand as if she knew exactly what he was thinking and was acknowledging his reaction. Then, turning so as to include Brice, she said, ‘You have taken refreshment, my lords? My husband has been looking after you?’
‘Aye, indeed he has,’ Josse hurried to say. ‘Wine of a quality I have not tasted these many years. And kept so cool!’
He heard his own words and felt a hot flush of embarrassment flood through him. For one thing, praising Ambrose’s wine so lavishly was hardly tactful to Brice, who earlier had entertained him almost as well. For another, he was gushing like a boy and, until he had encountered Galiena, he would have said he had left boyhood far behind.
She seemed to pick up his discomfiture. Without looking at him – for which he was extremely grateful as he was quite sure his face was scarlet – she glided back to Ambrose, pulled up a stool and sat down at his feet. Then, turning to Brice, she said, ‘Now, Brice, what news of Rotherbridge? Have Mathild and Robert resolved their quarrel? And did you give Ossie the clove paste for his tooth?’
As Brice replied, Josse studied his face. There was no sign now of that flash of tension that had briefly lit up his handsome features; he sat on a bench close to Galiena and, for all that his expression revealed, could have been chatting to an elderly aunt.
I was wrong, Josse told himself firmly. There is nothing there but friendship. I was wrong.
And yet …
But Ambrose was addressing him. ‘More wine, Josse?’ he said. ‘I rejoice that it is to your liking and it does but heat up, standing there on the table.’ He raised a hand in a firm gesture that suggested Ambrose was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. ‘Fetch it over here and we shall both fill our cups!’
Josse did as he was commanded. As he bent to pour wine into Ambrose’s cup, Ambrose said softly in his ear, ‘Come and walk outside with me, sir. I would speak with you on a matter of some delicacy.’
Then, standing up, he said aloud, ‘Sir Josse, let us leave these two to their gossiping!’ He shot a tender glance at his wife as she cried out in mock-protest. ‘Take a turn with me out in the sunshine,’ he continued, ‘and I will show you how Galiena has turned a wilderness into the prettiest garden in England.’
Taking hold of Josse’s sleeve in a surprisingly strong grip, Ambrose bore his guest out of the hall.
‘The garden is hidden away on the far side of the house, where from the higher ground we look down over the valley,’ he said as he ushered Josse along a path bordered with rose bushes. ‘Along here … wait … there! What do you say? Am I not rightly proud of what my wife has accomplished?’
Josse stood and stared. He knew nothing about gardens, his only limited experience being with the Hawkenlye herb garden so carefully tended by Sister Tiphaine. And, back in his own manor, Will and his woman grew vegetables in a muddy plot behind their small cottage. However, neither Will nor the Hawkenlye herbalist had the inclination or the time to grow plants merely for their beauty.
Whereas here, that seemed to have been the main consideration.
His eyes ran over the clipped grass, the rich brown earth of the beds, the spinney of nut and fruit trees. Then he looked again at the flowers and did not think he had ever in his life seen so many different colours, shapes and textures all in one place.
Ambrose, he sensed, was eagerly waiting for his opinion. ‘It is a paradise,’ he said eventually. ‘A true Eden. Your wife has made each flower surpass itself in its loveliness.’
‘Ah, and the garden is not merely decorative!’ Ambrose had taken hold of Josse’s sleeve again and was propelling him down one of the paths that led out across the grass. ‘She grows herbs, you see.’ He paused, sniffing deeply. ‘Look, here is rue, there is rosemary, there garlic, there … oh, I forget its name, something she uses in one of her special concoctions. She does tell me, she always explains what she is growing and for what purpose, but my concentration is apt to lapse and I forget.’ He gave a faint sigh. ‘I do not like to ask her too often to repeat herself since it can only serve to remind her of the reason for my forgetfulness.’ He turned his face towards Josse. ‘She is beautiful, is she not?’
‘Aye, she is,’ Josse said quietly.
‘And, as doubtless was your first thought on seeing her, young enough to be my granddaughter.’
‘Ah, no!’ Josse protested, feeling himself redden again. ‘I thought only …’ He could not summon up a lie, and, his flush deepening, he fell silent.
Misunderstanding him, Ambrose smiled faintly and, looking away, said, ‘Well, perhaps not quite my granddaughter. But, for sure, my daughter.’
‘She – er, it is clear that she cares for you lovingly and t
enderly,’ Josse said. Since that was true – or so he believed, on such brief acquaintance – he said it with conviction. He felt his hot face begin to cool down.
‘She does, she does.’ Ambrose sighed again, more deeply. ‘As do I for her. I love her, Josse, and it is my greatest wish to make her happy.’
‘She seems happy to me,’ Josse said. ‘She has the air of a contented woman.’ That, too, he believed to be the truth.
But Ambrose, turning to face him and fixing him with faded hazel eyes, said sadly, ‘But Galiena is clever at dissimulation. She wishes me to believe that I satisfy her in every respect. She does not like me to think that she sorrows and therefore she pretends that she is happy, with not a care in the world.’
Josse was beginning to dread what might be coming. ‘She – er, she has a beautiful home and a loving husband,’ he said, wishing himself anywhere but there in the sunny garden and apparently about to hear some highly intimate confidences. ‘Many women would give much to be so comfortably situated.’
‘Aye, that is what she, too, says.’ Ambrose lowered his eyes. ‘Yet that, sir, is all she has. We live very quietly here. I do not care for company and, save for Brice and, today, yourself’ – he gave an acknowledging nod in Josse’s vague direction – ‘we have few other visitors other than family. And indeed I am often from home when there is business to attend to or when I am summoned to court. Life with a man who now prefers the peaceful country life is, I fear, dull for Galiena. How can she be satisfied with it?’ He breathed deeply once or twice, keeping his head down, then, as if he had been gathering his courage, abruptly raised his eyes towards Josse again and said rapidly, ‘Sir Josse, I need your help. Brice tells me that you are acquainted with the good sisters at Hawkenlye Abbey?’
‘I – er, aye, that I am.’ The sudden change of tack had totally confused Josse and he stumbled over his response.
‘Then tell me, if you will, are they skilled in women’s matters?’