Fortune Like the Moon

by Alys Clare

  ‘That it isn’t.’ Mathild leaned forward confidingly. ‘She was an odd child, though, even before it happened. And she never let him spoil her like he did her sister. Blamed him and his wealth for her mother’s death, I shouldn’t wonder. Stands to reason, really. The Lady Margaret shouldn’t have had another child, but, there you are, a man wants a son to inherit, and that’s an end to it. Except it wasn’t a son, it was Dillian.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Dillian never blamed him, but then she was so little when she lost her mother, under a year old, she can’t have any memory of the lady Margaret except what others told her. But in Gunnora, it came out in her rejection of all he had to give. And that, of course, is why she wouldn’t have Sir Brice. For one thing, it was her father planning for her again – she’d never have that – and, for another, it would have been more of the same. She’d have gone from being a rich man’s daughter to being a rich man’s wife. And it was that which she reckoned saw off her dear mother.’

  Yes. The reasoning was sound. It would be, Josse thought, in this observant old woman. ‘Poor Gunnora,’ he murmured.

  ‘Poor?’ Mathild put her head on one side as if considering. ‘Aye, to die at a murderer’s hand. But if she’d married Lord Brice, sir, she might have died like her sister did. As it was, Dillian died in her place.’

  And that, Josse thought, looking at the resentment in the old face, was, to Mathild’s mind, unforgivable.

  He said, ‘How did Dillian die?’

  If Mathild was surprised that he didn’t know, it was not apparent. ‘They’d been arguing again, her and Brice,’ she said quietly. ‘They were always at it. Well, it was him started it.’ She shot Josse a quick look, as if to assess how he would react to hearing a servant criticise her master. He smiled encouragingly. ‘I hate to say it,’ she plunged on, obviously not about to let that put her off, ‘but she wasn’t the same girl as what she was when she married him. He’s a tough man, the master, likes his own way. Used to being obeyed, he is, and, being that much older than Dillian, he thought all he had to do was say jump, and she’d jump. Didn’t allow for her spirit, he didn’t. She went along with him to begin with – I do reckon, sir, that she loved him, or leastways thought she did, which amounts to the same result – and she tried hard to please him. But there wasn’t any give in him – all the pleasing and the accommodating was one way. And, soon as she started standing up to him, that was that.’ Again, the sigh. ‘It was a shock, when she first realised what he was like. Shocked him and all, when she changed. The shouting began, then he started to knock her about. Many’s the time I treated her cuts and bruises, poor lass. And’ – she cast a quick glance around as if to ensure they really were alone – ‘he used to force her. You know.’ Josse was all too afraid he did. ‘Wanted a child, he did. A son. And her, poor Dillian, well, even if she’d have liked a child, she didn’t like what brings a child into being, not with him, anyway. That was what they were fighting about that morning. Ran out of the bedchamber in her wrap, she did, hair all over the place, marks of his fingers on her poor pale cheeks where he’d slapped her, and she was crying out, “I’m not staying here with you! I hate you!” Flew down the steps to the yard, she did, and, as evil chance would have it, the first horse she sees is the master’s, still standing there from when he came in from his early morning ride – he liked to ride early, sir, then come in and eat, then go up to Dillian.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So she pulls the master’s horse across to the mounting block, throws her bare leg over its back, picks up the reins and gives it a kick in the belly with her sharp little heels. Well, it had just been standing there minding its own business, looking forward to a bite to eat, I dare say, when suddenly this howling little thing starts mauling it about, and it doesn’t like it. It throws up its head, tries to buck a bit, then sets off out through the gates and away. She managed to stay on till it jumped the ditch down there, sir. Then she fell off.’

  The echoes of Mathild’s sad voice died. Josse could picture the scene, see that small figure in her wrap, bare legs trying to cling on to a horse far too big and strong for her.

  ‘Did she – was it quick?’ he asked. It seemed important to know that Dillian hadn’t suffered.

  ‘Aye. On the instant, they say. Broke her neck. They brought her poor body home on a hurdle. Laid her just here, by the fireplace.’

  Josse looked to where Mathild was indicating. ‘And Brice? How did he react?’

  ‘Angry, to begin with. Yelling about her foolishness. Then, when it dawned on him she was dead, remorse. He’s not a bad man, sir,’ she said earnestly, repeating, did she but know it, what Will had said about Alard. ‘Hasty, like all of his family, and thinking more of his own needs than anyone else’s, but, there, show me a man that’s different.’ Josse could have showed her quite a few, but wisely held his peace. ‘Still, he’s sorry enough now. He’s taken the blame on himself, says he shouldn’t have been so rough with her, and that if he hadn’t, if he’d kept his hands to himself and been kinder, she’d never have rushed out like that and she’d be alive now. That’s why he’s gone to Canterbury. Stands to reason, someone like him, a man of action, full of energy, won’t feel he’s washed the stain of sin out of his soul till someone beats it out. He’ll be under the lash right now, I shouldn’t wonder. And those monks lay it on with a strong right arm.’ She didn’t look as if that were anything to be sorry about; quite the contrary.

  She noticed Josse’s empty mug, and, reaching for the jug, poured him some more ale. ‘Thank you,’ he said. Then, after a sip, ‘Is the Lord Olivar here? Perhaps I could give my message to him.’

  ‘You could, aye, if he were. But he’s not. He’s gone to Canterbury too.’

  ‘Has he also got a death on his conscience?’ Josse said lightly, and Mathild smiled in response.

  ‘Nay. He’s gone to keep his brother company. Make sure he doesn’t go too far in this penance thing. Leastways, that’s what he’d like us all to think.’ She winked at Josse. ‘Fact is, our young Lord Olivar doesn’t pass up an opportunity to go to the city. Hot-blooded, he is, if you take my meaning.’ Another wink. Josse thought he knew exactly what she meant.

  ‘I see.’ He drank some more of the ale. It was a good brew, and cool from standing in the hall. He let the conversation run through his mind. He had learned a great deal, but was there more he could elicit from this willing informant?

  Possibly there was.

  ‘So, with both Gunnora and Dillian dead, Sir Alard has no heir,’ he ventured. ‘Will he leave his estate to Brice, do you think?’

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, not he. Blood’s thicker than water, and, anyhow, he must have heard the rumours. People talk, you know, sir, and it was common knowledge hereabouts that Brice was too ready with his fists when it came to his wife. Sir Alard loved her, in his way. No, I reckon it’ll all go to Elanor and that worthless new husband of hers.’

  ‘Ah.’ Elanor? Josse held back the enquiry; surely Mathild wouldn’t disappoint now?

  She didn’t. ‘Surrounded by women, Sir Alard,’ she said, with a rueful smile. ‘Two daughters, two sisters, only one of them’s dead. And the surviving one bred girls, like her brother. Only the one, in her case, and, to make a bad matter worse, the girl’s just gone and married a man like Milon d’Arcy. And her silly mother let her! I ask you!’

  Milon. Milon? Yes! Josse saw again the young man with his kiss-curl and his skin-tight hose. So he was married to Alard’s niece! That made it quite clear what he’d gone to see Alard about. No wonder Will had shown him the door.

  Josse thought he might complete his visits to Gunnora’s family by paying a call on the cousin and her husband. Although he couldn’t immediately see any likely benefit, other than that it would widen his knowledge of Gunnora’s circumstances. He was just wondering how to find out where this Elanor and Milon could be found when Mathild spoke.

  ‘He’s fond of Elanor, Sir Alard is,’ she said. ‘Well, it’s hard not to be, she’s a
lively little thing. Bright, full of fun.’

  ‘More like Dillian than Gunnora.’ It seemed a safe comment.

  ‘Aye, though she hasn’t the kindness of Dillian. There’s a ruthless streak lies underneath the laughter and the lightheartedness, of that I’m sure. She’s always had an eye on the main chance, that one – made sure she was around when Sir Alard was dishing out largesse. Why, he’d quite got into the way of treating her like one of his daughters when it came to presents. When he had those crosses made for his own girls, he didn’t hesitate to order one for Elanor as well. And now she stands to inherit the lot.’ Mathild shook her head, as if such sudden and unexpected good fortune were quite incomprehensible. ‘Well, good luck to her, I say. No doubt that foolish young flower she’s married to will run through it all in double-quick time.’ She gave a sudden loud laugh.

  ‘Perhaps she needs some advice,’ Josse said, seeing his opening. ‘I have experienced a similar situation within my own family,’ he improvised, ‘and possibly I might be of some help?’

  Mathild gave him a very long look. Then she said neutrally, ‘Possibly you could, sir. Only Elanor’s from home. Been away a month or more. Staying with kin of her husband’s, they do say, down Hastings way.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He sensed her suspicion. Was she regretting having been so forthcoming? Did she think he was plotting, by some devious means, to get a share of Alard of Winnowland’s fortune? He couldn’t be sure. But it seemed an opportune moment to remind her gently of why he had come, and where he had come from.

  He stood up, placing his empty mug down on the side table. ‘I must be going,’ he said. ‘I am sorry to have missed Sir Brice. Thank you for the ale, Mathild – it has refreshed me for my long ride back to Hawkenlye Abbey. The Abbess will be anxious for the tidings I take her.’

  It did the trick. Mathild’s expression cleared, and she jumped up from the bench she had been perched on to see him to the door.

  The boy, Ossie, had secured Josse’s horse in the corner of the yard. Noticing the mounting block, Josse had a sudden vision of Dillian, throwing herself on to her husband’s horse and racing off to her death.

  Riding away from the house, feeling Mathild’s eyes on his back, it was a considerable relief to leave Rotherbridge Manor behind.

  Chapter Eight

  Josse got back to Hawkenlye Abbey in the late afternoon. He hadn’t hurried; for one thing, it was too hot, and, for another, he had a great deal to think about.

  There was no one around when he rode up to the gates, which were closed. But then, hearing the sounds of a horse’s hooves, a lay brother appeared from within the stable, and hurried across to undo the stout chain. He had apparently recognised Josse – which was useful if unexpected, since Josse didn’t recognise him – and he took Josse’s horse as Josse dismounted, volunteering the information that the sisters were at their devotions.

  Josse’s heart sank. He was tired, hungry, and thirsty, and, for the last five miles at least, had been looking forward to sitting with the Abbess in her cool and peaceful little room, expounding at length on the subject of the family background of the late Gunnora of Winnowlands, while Abbess Helewise, after plying him with a mug of some cold and delicious wine and a chunk of bread, listened with rapt attention.

  Well, it always had seemed somewhat unlikely an image. But a man could dream.

  With time on his hands, Josse decided that this might be his chance to go down into the vale and have a look at the holy spring.

  * * *

  He followed the path which he and Abbess Helewise had taken the day before. The sun was still hot enough to suppress animal and insect activity in the long grass on either side of the track, although, when he paused to listen, he could hear a soft, distant humming, as if a thousand bees were busy somewhere out of sight in the shade.

  This time, he stayed on the main path, and, after only a few minutes, was standing outside the small and fairly basic dwelling where the monks lived. The wattle-and-daub house, low and quite small, was in deep shade beneath its thatched roof. A nearby trio of chestnut trees spread their branches over it, increasing the gloom. As in the Abbey above, there was nobody about; presumably the monks were at prayer with the sisters.

  Curiosity getting the better of him, Josse peered in through the open door. The floor of the room was beaten earth, and on it stood a roughly made table with benches along both sides. A hanging divided off the sleeping quarters, but, for the daytime, it had been tied back. The quarters themselves were further divided, presumably so that the professed monks slept slightly apart from the lay brothers. Both monks and lay brothers, Josse observed, slept on thin straw pallets, and the neatly folded covers looked as if they would provide scant warmth and absolutely no softness. Even now, in the middle of a hot summer, the room felt damp and smelt slightly of mould. Underlying the mould was another, even more unpleasant smell. Either the monks had not situated their necessarium far enough from their sleeping quarters, or the warmth of the day was heightening the stench of the dung mixed in with the mud of the walls.

  It must, Josse thought, backing out of the room, be even worse in winter. Particularly for any monk who had the misfortune to suffer from that crippling curse of damp-engendered pain in the joints. And, down in this grassy, shaded vale with the water source so close, the air would never feel dry.

  He headed on towards the shrine, and the simply made, lean-to shelter that adjoined it. Within the shelter he could make out benches, a small hearth, at present swept out and empty, and a wooden shelf bearing roughly fashioned earthenware cups and jugs. There were more of the straw pallets, but these ones were rolled up and tied neatly, pushed out of the way underneath one of the benches. Pilgrims to Hawkenlye, Josse observed, were cared for adequately, but with not the smallest touch of luxury. Well, those who came as supplicants, with sincere and devout hearts, doubtless expected no more. Would not the healing powers of the sacred water be gift enough?

  Another lay brother came out from behind the lean-to shelter on hearing Josse approach, broom in hand, cuffs rolled back, feet bare and long brown robe hitched up. Again, he appeared to know who Josse was; at any rate, he neither asked him to state his business nor assumed him to be a pilgrim in need of the miracle water. Instead, with a vaguely approving nod, he simply said, ‘You’ll be wanting to look inside Our Lady’s shrine. Go ahead, sir, you’ll have the place to yourself,’ before turning back to the obviously dirty task of sweeping out whatever detritus had accumulated behind the shelter.

  Josse went on down the well-worn path to the shrine. Although he didn’t know what he was looking for, he had the strong feeling that he must be alert, all senses aware.

  He stood for a moment outside the little building, staring up at the tall wooden cross on the roof, noticing how the shrine had been made. The spring, it seemed, issued out of a small and steep-sided depression in the ground, and the shrine was scarcely more than a roof and two walls, the remaining walls being formed by the natural rocky outcrops that bordered the spring. The walls had been economically made, again, of wattle and daub, but, unlike the monks’ quarters, this time fortified with pillars of stone, and a wooden door with a solid-looking lintel stood partly open.

  Josse pushed it further open, and stepped into the moist coolness of the shrine.

  The only light came through the door, and, since he was standing in the doorway, he was blocking most of it out. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dimness, then took a couple of paces forward. The ground beneath his feet was of the same beaten earth as the monks’ house, and the rock walls appeared to have been untouched; the result was that there was a great sense of naturalness about the shrine, a pleasing effect that seemed to say, this is the Holy Virgin’s place, we do but tend it.

  The water seeped up out of a crevice right at the back of the shrine, where the two rock walls met. Over the countless years that it had welled up out of the ground, it had formed for itself a pool; the soft sound of running water w
as soporific, relaxing, and for a brief moment Josse was tempted to lean against the wall and rest.

  No. He had work to do.

  He moved forward again, and noticed a short flight of steps going down to the edge of the pool. They had been hewn out of the rock, and were wet with condensation. They were, he found out as he started his descent, extremely slippery. He put out a steadying hand to the rock wall beside him, and had a fleeting sense of fellowship with the countless other visitors who, momentarily unsteady just like him, had grasped at the same hand-hold.

  He stopped on the third step from the bottom, and looked up at the statue of the Virgin.

  The only man-made element in the shrine, someone had done his best to make sure that it was a good one. Carved of some dark wood, indeed it was. The Virgin stood above the spring, her feet at eye level and her outstretched hands palm-upwards, as if to say, come, drink of my healing waters. Her slim, graceful silhouette was elegantly draped in a hooded robe, and she inclined her head forward, a distant but welcoming smile on her lips. Above her head was a halo, a perfect circle, generously proportioned as if to emphasise her holiness.

  As Josse stared at her, he noticed that the platform on which she stood had been cleverly designed to echo the shape of the halo, and had a gently reflective surface; it looked, he observed, as if, staring down into the waters of the pool, the Holy Mother could see her own halo-encircled face smiling back at her.

  It was a most original and effective concept. Descending the last couple of steps, Josse had a closer look. The platform had been let into the rock, out of which it jutted some four or five hands’ span; to support the weight of the wooden statue, it had been braced underneath, although this was not apparent from above. It was made of the same dark wood as the statue, but the upper surface had been faced with a skin of silver. The Virgin’s delicate bare feet made a pleasing contrast with the bright metal; Josse found himself staring at her toes, and, without any great surprise, discovered he was smiling.