by Alys Clare
Oak predominated, interspersed with birch and beech. Some of the giant oaks must, Josse reckoned, be centuries old. Massive in girth, their upper branches high up above merged to form a thick canopy which entirely blotted out the sunlight. Many of them were thickly wreathed with ivy, which trailed down to ground level to merge with bramble, hazel, holly and thorn in an all but impenetrable thicket.
In places, he came across evidence of better-defined tracks through the forest, some of which, judging from the height of the banks on either side, were possibly as ancient as the old oaks. Were they the vestiges of roads made by the Romans, built straight, built true, built to last? Or were they what remained of the old iron ways, made by men before history began? Men who knew the forest like a brother, understood its nature and penetrated to its very heart, men who worshipped the oak as a god, in whose name they carried out unspeakable violence.
And who, according to some, still did …
Already apprehensive, it was not, Josse told himself, the best moment to let his imagination run free.
Coming to a clearing, he drew rein and sat staring about him. For the first time since he had left the sunshine of the world outside, there was evidence of human occupation. Not much, to be sure, just a huddle of mean-looking huts, simply constructed, scarcely more than a pole frame draped with a covering of branches and turves. Shelter enough, perhaps, to keep out the rain. There was evidence that charcoal-burning had been going on, although not, apparently, for some time; the patches of ground where fires had been set were no longer totally bare, but covered with small green tendrils as nature began to reclaim her own.
Josse dismounted and, tethering his horse, approached the largest of the huts. Bending his head, he went inside. There had been a small fire in there; putting his hand over it, Josse detected faint warmth. On a raised bank at one side was a mattress of bracken. Freshly cut.
It could have been anyone, Josse reflected as he remounted. All manner of fugitives and itinerants would know of these old huts, and it must be a common occurrence for someone to come and lie up here for a few days, while the heat died down and they planned their next move.
It didn’t have to be Milon.
But, as he set off back to the outside world – which, he had to admit, had rarely seemed so attractive a prospect – Josse couldn’t help being quite certain that it was.
* * *
He told Abbess Helewise what he had in mind. He saw her instinctive reaction before she could dissimulate: she didn’t want him to do it.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said quietly. Was it impertinent to assume she was worrying? ‘I can cope with Master Milon. And he may well not turn up!’ He tried to laugh.
‘He’s a murderer,’ Helewise said, equally quietly; it was as if neither of them wanted to speak aloud of such matters in the sanctity of the convent. ‘He has killed, if you are right. And, having done so once, he will not, I think, find it so difficult to do so again.’
He was surprised at her perspicacity, at a nun having the experience to understand the mind of a murderer. ‘Indeed, Abbess, it has often been observed that murder is easy after the first time.’ Suddenly he realised what they were saying. ‘But we speak of only one killing, whereas there have been two, surely!’
‘Two deaths, yes.’ She glanced at him. ‘But we do not yet know if both victims died by the same hand.’
We do! he wanted to shout. He restrained the impulse. ‘Whether he killed them both or not, Abbess, I am determined on this,’ he said instead.
‘I know.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I can see. But, Sir Josse, will you at least let me send some of the lay brothers to wait with you?’
‘No.’ The reply was automatic: Josse liked to work alone. ‘Thoughtful of you, Abbess, but the paramount need will be for silence. Any warning that he is expected and he will take to his heels.’
She tutted briefly. ‘I do not propose a band of gossiping, fidgeting old monks complaining about their aching bones and moaning at having been dragged from their sleep, although it might do some of them good to make the sacrifice. No. I propose only that you enlist the aid of Brother Saul, and perhaps one other lay brother selected by him. He knows who is sound, have no doubt.’
‘I’m sure he does.’ Josse was impressed by Brother Saul. ‘But—’ He had been on the point of refusing when it occurred to him that the Abbess was talking sense. Milon, terrified at being exposed as the killer of Gunnora, hadn’t hesitated to kill again. Even though the person he’d had to dispose of to ensure his safety had been his own wife. Under the circumstances, would it hurt to have Saul at his side in his vigil?
No. In fact Josse welcomed the idea.
‘Thank you, Abbess,’ he said. ‘May we ask Brother Saul if he is willing?’
She was, he thought, about to make further mention of a second brother. But, as if knowing she had won from Josse all the concessions he was prepared to give, she merely nodded and said, ‘I will send word to Brother Saul. And now, Sir Josse, I have ordered food for you. At least I can ensure that you begin your night’s work on a full stomach.’
* * *
Milon d’Arcy, product of a comfortable home, indulged by his mother over her other, worthier sons, was living a nightmare.
It was not the fear of the great, sinister Wealden Forest where he had hidden away that threatened to unhinge him – or so he was managing to convince himself – nor the fugitive’s need to survive on his wits; a loaf of bread stolen here, a fat roast chicken off the spit there, an apple scrumped while nobody was looking that proved only to be half-bad, these were, for Milon, minor triumphs that it quite pleased him to think about.
He was, he had reassured himself not a few times, proving to be pretty good at looking after himself.
Sometimes he would forget. For a whole morning, once, he had been happy. Lying on his stomach over a stream on the fringe of the forest, staring down into the clear, cool water and trying to catch tiny, slippery, silver fish in his fingers, he had thought himself back in the life that used to be his. Had, when he stood up and brushed off the fine tunic – now damp, stained and showing distinct signs of wear – been on the point of thinking cheerfully ahead to what might be on the table for the midday meal.
To remember, at that particular moment, had been cruelly painful.
His mind increasingly shied away from the pain. He was, he knew, finding it easier and easier not to remember. To go on living in that pleasant land where it was always nearly dinner time and Elanor was waiting for him.
Elanor.
Red hair, strong, unruly, full of life. Just like her. Lusty and passionate, her ardour matching his own so that, when all the family and friends had said what a good match it was, how suited the young couple were one to another, he and she had turned their faces aside and sniggered.
That – their mutual physical hunger – they had discovered immediately. But there were other compatibilities, which had taken a little longer to surface. Such as their shared, strong sense of what was owing to them. Which, if not handed to them on a plate, they would stretch out their hands and grab.
What a clever brain she had, his Elanor! What an excellent accomplice! What fun they’d had together! Until—
No.
His mind closed down on that. Refused to let him go on.
When that happened, he would go back to his stream, and get down to something useful such as cleaning and sharpening his knife. Or he would creep into his hiding place. But there, very often, he would have to endure another attack of the terrors.
Because, one night, not long after he had first come there, a night of clear skies and brilliant moonlight, he had seen a man. Thought he’d seen a man, he kept having to correct himself. A man in a long white robe who bore a sickle-shaped knife in his hand. A man who spoke to the trees.
Cowering right at the back of his pitiful shelter, shaking, sick with fear, Milon had watched as the man, chanting in a soft, hypnotic monotone, circled the clearing.
As,
at last, the man approached the huddle of huts, Milon had closed his eyes and, terror turning his bowels liquid, covered his head with his arms.
When, after what seemed like an eternity, he gathered what little remained of his courage and looked up, the man had gone.
It was a dream, he told himself, then and on many occasions since. Nothing but a dream.
But, sometimes when he was very tired and very low, when the moonlight came filtering down through the branches black against the night sky, he thought he saw the man again.
And, each time, the terrors took a little longer to overcome.
So far, he was winning. By concentrating his mind on the past, where it was sunny and people were kind to him, he could make the horror go away. And, after a while, the door to the pleasant land would open again.
Sometimes he would sit up with a start and ask himself what he was doing there. It was quite nice, yes, a bit of an adventure to be off on his own in his camp, but why not go home? Why not return to Elanor, waiting in their bed for him with her white breasts and her smooth rounded hips, as ready for lovemaking as he was, wetting her lips, legs languidly apart, arms out to …
But, of course, she wasn’t waiting. Not in bed, not anywhere.
And he couldn’t go home. There was something he had to do, something important.
By concentrating very hard, he could make himself remember what it was.
But it was getting more and more difficult each time. Today, lying by his stream, the few rays of sunshine that managed to penetrate the trees warm on his back, he could hardly concentrate at all. The water was so cool, so pretty, rushing along over the stream-bed and …
Think!
No.
Yes! THINK!
Reluctantly, moaning aloud, he thought. And, when he did manage to remember, wished that he had not.
But act he must, before the whispering darkness, and the magical, dream-like pleasant place that was his escape from it, became his only reality.
He must do it now.
Tonight.
Then he could go home, and Elanor would let him back into her bed.
* * *
Josse and Brother Saul had been hiding in the undergrowth for what seemed like most of the night when Milon came.
It was Josse’s turn on watch. Seeing the slight figure coming carefully along the path by the pond, at first Josse had thought he was seeing things. It wouldn’t have been the first time, in those long hours. But this was no trick of the light: it was Milon.
He moved well, Josse thought detachedly, smoothly, silently, using all available cover, keeping to the deepest shadows. And he had chosen a cloudy night. Josse was surprised by the young man’s skill; he looked such a shallow, feckless fool, with his pointed shoes and his fancy clothes. With a part of his mind, Josse wondered what sort of desperate need had led to the development of these survival skills. Skills that included the dreadful final resort of murder, when someone had got in his way.
He stepped silently back to the little clearing and beckoned to Saul, who had been lying on the ground. Not sleeping, or he wasn’t when Josse summoned him. He got to his feet, eyebrows raised. Josse nodded, pointing in the direction of the path. He moved back to the edge of the undergrowth, and sensed Saul quietly following after him.
They stood side by side on the edge of the path, in the deep shade of a vast oak tree.
And Milon, using that same tree to provide his next patch of shadow, walked right into them.
As Josse’s arms closed around him, he let out a shriek of terror. Struggling with him – he was trying to reach down to his belt, where, no doubt, he had a knife – Josse spared him a moment’s pity. To be creeping along like that, already afraid, and have someone grab you! No wonder the youth’s heart was hammering so hard, hard enough for Josse to detect it.
Saul must have been able to see Milon’s weapon, for, with a sudden gasp, he shot out his hand. Josse was aware of the two of them, Milon and Saul, wrestling grimly, grunting with effort, and then Saul was holding something up in the air.
It was a knife.
The blade was long and quite broad, tapering to an evil point. It was double-sided, and – as Saul tested it on the hairs of his forearm – quite obviously honed to a vicious sharpness.
Josse was in no doubt that he was staring at the weapon that had slit Gunnora’s throat. His moment of pity for the youth vanished as if it had never been.
‘Milon d’Arcy, if I’m not mistaken,’ he said grimly, twisting the youth’s arms behind his back and taking a firm grip on his wrists. ‘And just what are you up to, creeping along here in the dead of night?’
‘You’ve no right to apprehend me in this way!’ Milon cried, his voice thin with fear. ‘I’m on my way back to my camp, I’ve done no harm!’
‘Done no harm?’ Josse was momentarily so angry that he gave the boy’s wrists a savage jerk, causing him to cry out. Brother Saul muttered, ‘Easy, now!’ and Josse relaxed his hold slightly. ‘Where is this camp?’ he demanded.
‘Up in the forest,’ Milon said. ‘Where the charcoal burners go.’
‘Aye, I know it. And what are you doing there?’
‘I have come to these parts to see a friend,’ Milon said with surprising dignity. He had clearly recovered some of his courage. ‘And you, whoever you are’ – he tried to twist round to look at Josse – ‘have no right to prevent me!’
‘I have every right,’ Josse said. ‘Brother Saul and I are here at the express wishes of the Abbess of Hawkenlye Abbey. Another quarter of a mile, my fine young man, and you’ll be climbing up to her convent walls.’
‘I will?’ The attempt at innocence did not convince.
‘Aye. As well you know.’ Josse hesitated, but only for an instant. Then said, ‘Hard, was it, seeing a beautiful young bride go inside those walls pretending she wanted to take the veil?’
Still clutching at Milon, he was close enough to feel the momentary tension. But Milon was a better actor than Josse would have given him credit for; he said mildly, ‘A bride – my bride – taking the veil? I think you are mistaken, sir. My bride would not do anything so foolish, certainly not now that she is my bride.’ The sexual innuendo was unmissable. Gaining confidence, Milon added, ‘And if, sir, you are aware of who I am, then it is possible you have been looking for me in my own home, where, I am perfectly sure, you will have been told that my wife stays with kin of mine, near—’
‘Near Hastings. Aye, that’s what they said.’
Milon gave an exaggerated sigh, as if to say, well, then! ‘In that case, might I be allowed to continue on my way?’
‘I went to your kin at Hastings,’ Josse said tonelessly. ‘They knew of no visit. Elanor d’Arcy was neither with them nor expected there.’
‘You went to the wrong place!’ Milon cried. ‘Fool!’ He had begun to struggle again. ‘Go back, sir! I’ll tell you the right place, then you can go and check! She’ll be there, my little Elanor, sitting in the sun of the courtyard, waiting on my return, lovely as a summer day, she is, you know, a fairer bride no man ever had.’ Twisting round, he put his face closer to Josse’s. ‘And in our bed when the lamps are blown out, sir, well, if I say I’ve had not a full night’s sleep since the day my Elanor and I were wed, I’m sure you won’t need any further detail to make your own pictures!’
Was the man raving? Josse felt strangely uneasy, as if he were in the presence of madness as well as evil. ‘Stop that, Milon,’ he ordered. ‘It will do you no good. Your wife Elanor d’Arcy came to the convent as a postulant, assuming a false identity and calling herself Elvera. She met up with her cousin Gunnora, who, once Dillian was dead, stood between her and the inheritance of Alard of Winnowland’s fortune.’
‘No!’ Milon protested. ‘Oh, no!’
‘Between the pair of you,’ Josse continued relentlessly, ‘Gunnora’s brutal death was planned and executed. When I arrived, Elanor took fright and, fearing she would give you away, you strangled her.’ Holding Milon in
his grip, so close to a man who had ruthlessly done away with two defenceless women, suddenly Josse’s temper boiled over. Shaking Milon like a terrier with a rat, he shouted, ‘You bastard! You foul, murdering bastard!’
Screaming with the agony of having both arms twisted up behind his back, Milon wriggled like a hooked fish and wrenched himself out of Josse’s grip. Turning a furious face on him, he screeched, ‘Don’t call me that!’
Then he collapsed, weeping, on to the ground.
Chapter Fourteen
For some moments Josse and Brother Saul stood staring down at him in stunned silence. Then Saul said, ‘I suppose we’d better get him up to the Abbey, sir. There’s nowhere down here in the valley where we can secure a prisoner.’
A prisoner. Aye, Josse thought, that’s what he is, from now on. And, once he has been tried and found guilty, his imprisonment will only have one end.
‘Let’s get him to his feet,’ he said, and he and Saul each took hold of one of Milon’s arms. As they dragged him up, Josse heard the thin, fine cloth of the young man’s shirt start to tear. Again, Josse felt the painful mixture of emotions surge through him; so proud, Milon had been, of his appearance, so careful of his fashionable clothes. And now look at him. In the pale pre-dawn light, he was revealed as a sorry figure, dirty, stinking, the daringly cut tunic stuck with burrs and covered in grass stains, the shirt with a sleeve all but ripped out …
Cross with himself – the youth was a double murderer! – once again Josse found that he was having to fight down his compassion.
And, with Milon as silent and unresisting as if he were walking in his sleep, they made their way up to the Abbey.
* * *
Dawn was breaking when they closed the door on Milon. Saul had suggested putting him in an end chamber of the undercroft beneath the infirmary, which was empty but which had a stout lock.
The young man kept up his silence until they were descending the steps into the undercroft. Then, as the dank darkness wrapped itself around them, he started to emit a thin, high screaming. An awful sound: Josse felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to prickle.