Fortune Like the Moon

by Alys Clare

  This time the rueful head shaking went on for some time. Josse said gently, ‘May I dismount?’ And instantly Will looked up at him, dismay on the blunt features.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, that I am! Of course, of course, here, let me help.’ He leapt to take Josse’s horse’s bridle, and Josse swung down out of the saddle. ‘I’ll put him here for you, in this nice patch of shade,’ – efficient man that he was, he acted as he spoke – ‘and take off that saddle. Like some water, eh, my fine fellow?’ He patted the horse’s neck affectionately. ‘Bet you would!’

  The horse secured, Will returned to Josse. As if he had been turning it over in his mind in those few moments, now he seemed to have reached a decision. ‘You come in with me and see the master, sir, if you will,’ he said firmly. ‘Can’t do no harm. Nothing can make him any worse than he is, not now. Nor any better, seemingly.’ The features drooped briefly. ‘A good man, he was, sir, in his way,’ he said earnestly. ‘Don’t let how he’s fetched up deceive you. He has his faults, like all of us, but he was never all bad.’

  With this ambiguous introduction echoing in his head, Josse followed Will up into the hall and went forward to meet the lord of Winnowlands.

  * * *

  Gunnora’s father, it was immediately apparent, was dying. He was lying on a bed as close to the great fireplace as he could be placed, despite the fact that, in the sun-warmed hall, the fire hadn’t yet been lit. He barely stirred as Will quietly spoke to him – ‘Sir Alard? Be you awake?’ and announced Josse, other than to turn his head towards them. He wore a fur-trimmed gown of heavy wool, over which a rug had been arranged. At his neck could be seen the collar of a linen shift, quite clean; dying he might be, but those who were looking after him were tending him devotedly.

  His face was pale grey, without so much as the suggestion of colour. The flesh had all but gone, making the strong nose the more prominent. The eyes were dark, made more so now by the fact of lying deep within their sockets. In the dimness of the hall, as Josse’s eyes adjusted from the brilliance outside, he could, he thought, be looking at a skull.

  ‘What do you want, Josse d’Acquin?’ Alard of Winnowlands asked, in a voice that cracked on the words.

  ‘I come from Hawkenlye, Sir Alard. From the Abbess Helewise, who requires of you to know what are your wishes regarding the body of your late daughter, Gunnora.’

  ‘My late daughter Gunnora,’ Alard echoed. Astoundingly, the words were infused with bitter, mocking irony. ‘My late daughter.’ There was a pause. Then he said, this time quietly and expressionlessly, ‘With Gunnora, do what you please. Bury her with the nuns. She wished to be with them in life, let her stay with them in death.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Josse said. ‘Abbess Helewise and the sisters will be relieved to have your decision.’ He hesitated. ‘Sir, may I—’

  ‘Get out.’ The words, said in the same toneless way, at first failed to register. Then, as Josse stayed where he was, Alard raised himself slightly, fixed Josse with those burning black eyes and yelled, ‘Get out!’

  Josse had scarcely begun to move when the coughing began. At first quiet, it grew so swiftly to its violent, prolonged climax that Will only just had time to thrust a square of linen to Alard’s lips before the blood spurted out. The linen, washed and smoothed, was soon covered with fresh stains to lie alongside the old. Josse watched, transfixed and helpless, while the master of Winnowlands coughed away some more of what remained of his lungs.

  * * *

  Will joined him outside some time later.

  ‘It’s a pity you had to witness that,’ he said, coming to stand beside where Josse leaned against the sunny front of the house. There was a scent of lavender from bushes growing against the undercroft; Josse had been breathing in the good, clean smell.

  ‘Aye,’ Josse said. ‘Has he long been like that?’

  ‘The sickness grew slowly in him,’ Will replied. ‘At first no more than a cough that persisted, gradually growing till he was troubled constantly. He began to grow weak, didn’t want to eat. Then, last winter, he began to cough up blood.’

  ‘Ah.’ And that, Josse knew, invariably meant life would not go on much longer.

  ‘He’d have gone afore now,’ Will said, ‘only he’s so strong. Used to be, anyhow. There was plenty of him to waste away, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘Aye.’ Josse had seen the same in other men.

  ‘And, besides, he can’t go yet.’ Will paused, glancing sideways at Josse as if wondering how many more family affairs to reveal to this stranger.

  ‘Oh, no?’ Jesse tried to sound casual, disinterested.

  Will’s quick smile indicated he wasn’t taken in. But, nevertheless, he went ahead. ‘No. He can’t die, not afore he’s decided.’

  ‘Decided?’

  ‘He’s not got long for this world, as well he knows, what with the priest and the physician either side of him with their long faces and all that telling him so. Prepare your soul, priest says, make a good confession, arrange your earthly affairs so as you have credit in heaven. But it ain’t as easy as that, is it, sir?’

  ‘No,’ Josse agreed. It seemed sensible not to lead Will off at a tangent by asking, what isn’t?

  ‘And there’s the living to consider, too, along of the matter of credit in heaven, ain’t there? The living as has their needs, too.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘See, it all looked so straightforward, year or so back,’ Will said, leaning confidingly close to Josse.

  ‘Before Gunnora entered the convent?’ Josse guessed. The timing was right, anyway.

  ‘Aye, that. But that weren’t the start of it.’ Will was shaking his head again. ‘Sir, I tell you straight, I’m glad I’m a simple man. I’ve my little house, my woman, and that’s that. My house ain’t mine to leave to nobody, and as for the rest, what I own I wear on my back, mostly.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ Josse did. Began to see, at last, where this was leading. It all began to fit together.

  ‘There was the two of them,’ Will began suddenly. ‘Gunnora, she was the eldest, and there was Dillian. Lovely lass, Dillian, but she was his second-born. Gunnora had to come first, that’s only right and proper, so she it was Sir Alard offered for the match. But, sir, she wouldn’t have him! Wouldn’t marry him, and all the reasoning, all the threats and the punishments in the world, wouldn’t make her change her mind. So Sir Alard, he says, go on, then, go to your nunnery! But you’re no more daughter of mine! And then it’s Dillian’s turn, because, sir, you can’t say you’ve overlooked an elder sister, now, can you, not when you’ve offered it to her and she’s said, no, thankee just the same, I’m going to be a nun?’

  ‘No, indeed.’

  ‘So Dillian, she marries my Lord Brice instead.’ Abruptly Will stopped, face working with some deep emotion. After a moment he recovered sufficiently to say, ‘I’m sorry, sir, that I am, only it’s such a recent pain, see. I still thinks as how she’s going to come riding up the track like she used to, calling out, laughing, playing her little tricks, only she didn’t, of course, all that stopped, when she married him.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Naturally, they all say it was an accident. She fell off the horse, that’s for sure, and I know there’s witnesses to say so, good, honest souls who mean no harm, who are just telling the truth. But why did she get up on that great beast and gallop off like that? That’s what I’d like to know! And I know him, sir, I know that Brice. I tell you, I don’t blame Miss Gunnora for refusing him. I only wish my lovely Dillian had had the wisdom to do the same, but, there you are.’ He gave a deep, gusty sigh. ‘The ways of women always were a mystery, weren’t they? Always will be, too, I reckon.’

  There seemed nothing to add to that remark, with which Josse was tempted to agree. Respectful of Will’s evident sorrow, Josse let the silence continue for some time. There was no need, anyway, for hurry. Not now, when he had guessed what had happened. Knew, or so he thought, what had caused the abiding misery of Winnowlands.

 
; Not the death of an elder daughter, an unappealing woman whose departure into a convent hadn’t really dismayed anyone, but the death of her sister. My lovely Dillian, with her laughter and her tricks.

  ‘So he lost them both?’ he prompted eventually.

  ‘Hm?’ Will seemed to have forgotten Josse was there. ‘Aye. One after the other, not a sennight between them.’ Another deep sigh. ‘No more daughters. No female heir, securely married to a good man.’ He raised his head and met Josse’s eyes. ‘And the master’s every breath threatening to be his last. What’s to become of us all, sir? That’s what I’d like to know!’

  ‘Aye,’ Josse said absently. His brain was working hard, and, despite the depressing circumstances, there was an elation in him, at having surmised correctly.

  He did a swift résumé of Sir Alard’s dilemma. Both daughters dead, one immediately after the other. No more children, and this Dillian, apparently, had herself borne no child. And a son-in-law who, according to Will, was held by popular opinion to have been at best a poor husband, at worst responsible for his young wife’s death. The sort of man, surely, to whom a father-in-law would scarcely leave his undoubted wealth.

  No wonder the peasants of the manor seemed so dismal and dejected. There was, in Josse’s experience, nothing more guaranteed to lower the spirits than uncertainty about the future.

  And, with the succession of Winnowlands undecided and threatening to remain so, how much more uncertain could the future of everyone on this particular estate be?

  Chapter Seven

  Will, preoccupied with his own worries, barely raised his head at Josse’s casual request as to where he might find the Lord Brice. He gave brief instructions – which proved to be easy to follow and totally accurate – and, as if as an afterthought, mentioned that Josse was unlikely to find the master at home since, so it was rumoured, Brice of Rotherbridge had gone to Canterbury. ‘You’ll likely find his brother, though.’ This with a sniff which could have been interpreted as disparaging. ‘The young Lord Olivar’s usually around.’ Will shot Josse a knowing look. ‘Keeping an eye on things, like.’

  Suspecting he wasn’t going to learn any more – indeed, Will had turned and was heading back to whatever task he was working on down in the undercroft – Josse set off to search out either, or both, of the brothers Rotherbridge.

  * * *

  The Rotherbridge manor adjoined the Winnowlands estate on the east and on the south. Brice had his share of ridge-top pasture and arable land, but the majority of his acres were on the marshlands; he must own enough sheep, Josse mused, to make him a man of considerable means. English wool was obtaining a fine reputation in the markets of France and the Low Countries; there were fortunes to be made, and, from the look of the newly extended manor house, Brice of Rotherbridge was busy making his.

  No wonder, Josse thought as he rode up the track to the house, Alard wanted an alliance with this man. Not only are they neighbours – and Alard may well have cast an occasional covetous eye on Brice’s acres of sheep pasture – but Brice is the sort of husband a father would welcome for his daughter. As regards his money and his position, anyway. Would it have weighed with Alard, that other aspects of Brice might make him less desirable? Would he have known about them, even, other than as servants’ gossip?

  Yes. He’d have known. Gunnora would have told him. Wouldn’t she? Surely, during one of those protracted arguments between furious, determined father and stubborn daughter, she would have said something on the lines of, I’m not marrying him, he’s a brute.

  Or perhaps she hadn’t. For Dillian had needed no persuasion to marry the man.

  There was a tale there, Josse reflected as he rode into the shady yard of Rotherbridge manor house. And, hopefully, he’d find someone to tell it to him.

  ‘Hello?’ he called, still sitting his horse. ‘My Lord Brice? My Lord Olivar?’

  There was no reply for some moments, although he thought he heard sounds of movement within. ‘Hello?’ he called again.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’ shouted a female voice, suddenly loud in the still warmth. ‘Can’t be doing two things at once, and that fool of a boy’ll ruin it if I don’t tell him exactly what to do, you’d think he’d have more wits, but there you are, some are born stupid and stupid they remain. Now, sir, what can I do for you?’

  She had emerged from the house talking, and the outpourings had continued as she made her way over to Josse. She was getting on in years, stout, and walked with a limp that threw her with a jerk over to her right at each step. She wore a plain brown gown, and over it a clean white apron, on which she was wiping work-worn hands.

  Hoping fervently that her flow of words indicated a character disposed to hob-nobbing with strangers, Josse said, ‘I have come in search of Brice of Rotherbridge.’ Improvising, he added, ‘To pay my condolences on the death of his wife.’

  The leathery face, which had been screwed up into a deep grimace of interested enquiry as she stared up at him, instantly slumped, into lines of sorrow. ‘Aye, aye,’ the woman murmured. Then she sighed deeply, and repeated, ‘Aye.’

  Josse waited. Would a gentle prompt be in order? ‘I have come from Winnowlands,’ he began, ‘and I—’

  ‘That poor old man!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘First Dillian, then Gunnora! If this double tragedy doesn’t tip him over into his grave, I’d like to know what would. How is he, sir?’

  ‘Not well. He—’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t be. Nor will any be among them what has the misfortune to depend on him, neither. The master isn’t here,’ she said, abruptly changing to the practical. ‘He’s gone to Canterbury, sir.’

  No explanation followed – indeed, Josse thought, why should it? – so he repeated, with a delicate note of enquiry, ‘Canterbury?’

  ‘Aye. To bare his soul before the good Brothers, do an honest penance, take his punishment and say Mass for her, God rest her soul.’

  ‘Amen,’ Josse said. What, he wondered, mind seething, had Brice to do penance for? But it wouldn’t do to ask – wasn’t it likely that he’d get more confidences from this old soul if he pretended he was already in the know? ‘He’ll rest more easy in himself after that, I dare say.’

  She gave him a swift look, as if assessing how much of the background he really knew and how much he was guessing. After a fairly uncomfortable pause – the deep-set brown eyes were disturbingly penetrating – she appeared to accept him at face value. ‘Well, I dare say,’ she agreed grudgingly. ‘No knowing how these things affect a man, that’s what I say.’ Another long, considering look, under which Josse did his best to make his expression bland and faintly earnest. The picture, he hoped, of a distressed family friend come to pay his respects.

  It must have convinced her. Turning back towards the house, she yelled, ‘Ossie? Get yourself out here, lad!’ Too soon for him to have been anywhere but eavesdropping behind the door, a boy of about fourteen appeared, gangly, slightly spotty, hanks of greasy hair hanging limp over the low forehead, the epitome of young adolescence. ‘Take the gentleman’s horse,’ the woman ordered, ‘see to it’ – it! she obviously didn’t concern herself overmuch with such equine matters such as gender – ‘and then get you back to the stove. Don’t you dare let it stick, or it’ll be you as cleans my pan!’

  ‘No, Mathild.’ The boy flashed a quick grin at Josse – he had, Josse observed, a broken and discoloured front tooth, which must surely soon start giving the boy agonies, if it wasn’t doing so already – and Josse dismounted and gave the boy the reins.

  Then, with a jerk of her head as if to say, this way, Mathild led Josse into the cool hall of Rotherbridge Manor.

  ‘You’ll take some ale, sir?’ she offered, going to where a covered pewter jug stood ready on a long side table. A hospitable house, this.

  ‘Aye, thank you.’

  She filled a mug, and watched as he drank. ‘Thirsty day,’ she remarked. ‘You’ve come far?’

  She was probing, he decided. ‘I put up las
t night at Newenden.’

  ‘Hm. Found a place to lay your head that didn’t make your skin crawl, did you?’ Then, before he had a chance to answer, ‘You knew her well, my lady Dillian?’

  ‘I didn’t know her at all,’ he replied honestly. ‘It was Gunnora I knew.’ That was not so honest. In fact, it wasn’t honest at all.

  ‘Gunnora.’ Mathild nodded slowly. ‘Went in a convent, she did.’

  ‘Aye, Hawkenlye Abbey. I know the Abbess.’ That, anyway, was truthful. ‘My mission here is primarily to discuss with Sir Alard the disposal of the poor girl’s body.’

  ‘Aye, and he’ll have told you, do what you please,’ Mathild said with devastating accuracy.

  ‘More or less,’ Josse agreed. Then, taking a step in the dark, ‘A shame, that they never made it up before she died.’

  ‘Aye, aye.’ He’d got it right. ‘No one should die with bad blood between them and their kin, sir, should they?’

  ‘No,’ he agreed gravely.

  ‘Not that it was entirely his fault, mind. She were a difficult girl, Gunnora. Wouldn’t have liked the care of her, I wouldn’t. Now Dillian, she were different.’ The creased face took on a softer expression.

  Mathild, Josse thought, was at the stage of mourning when there is a great need to talk endlessly about the deceased, singing their praises as if that might weigh with the delicate business of the judgement of their soul. Like an ongoing prayer for those in purgatory.

  But it was not to discuss Dillian that he had come. Not entirely, anyway.

  When Mathild paused for breath – she didn’t seem to need to do so all that often – he interjected mildly, ‘Gunnora was – let me see – two years older?’

  ‘Four.’ Mathild took the bait. ‘But you’d have said more, I reckon. Old in her ways, she was. Mind, she had responsibility put on her young, what with her mother dying like that.’

  ‘Aye,’ Josse said, nodding as if he knew all about it. ‘Never easy, for a young girl to lose her mother.’