Alys Clare - The Enchanter's Forest

She kept her eyes closed, trying to maintain the state of deep and clear-sighted concentration. At first it seemed to her that she had convinced herself that the obvious solution was the right one. But then, like the first fluffy cloud in a clear sky that heralds a storm, the face of the guard at the tomb to whom she had spoken slid into her mind, swiftly followed by that image of the pale-faced Primevere reclining against her pillows.

Someone at the tomb might well know more than has yet been revealed; she would send Augustus and Saul over there to ask around. As for herself, she would give Primevere a little time to recover from the shock and the grief of Florian’s death, then she would ride back to Hadfeld and, with an experienced nurse beside her such as Sister Euphemia if she could be spared and Sister Caliste again if she could not, visit the young widow on the pretext of trying to help her in her sickness and her sorrow.

She was just thinking resignedly that in truth she had not yet finished with this killing when a new realisation seared across her mind, temporarily driving everything else out: with Florian dead, Merlin’s Tomb would surely now be closed and the pilgrims would come back to Hawkenlye.

The great surge of relief that this happy thought brought with it was swiftly and very thoroughly displaced by a flood of guilt. How can I of all people, she demanded in silent anguish, be glad of anything that comes about because of such a death? That poor young man had his neck broken and his body thrown into the bushes to rot, and here am I feeling happy ! She was horrified that, even after all her years as a nun and a Christian, still such a thought could have got through her guard. Getting up, she left her room and went across to the Abbey church where, in its empty and lofty silence, she prostrated herself before the altar and begged first for forgiveness for her wicked thought and then for the Lord’s mercy on the soul of Florian of Southfrith.

In the small hours of that morning, Josse knelt over the body of Joanna as she lay on her back in the dell in the Broceliande forest, biting down on the keening howl of grief that was trying to burst out of him. She lay pale and unmoving just where she had fallen and he was not sure that he could detect any signs that she was breathing. Meggie was watching him from the snug burrow of her blanket, her brown eyes wide; she did not speak and had made no move to rush to her mother’s side.

Josse did not know what to do.

He had been crouching there above her for an immeasurable time that could have been hours or just a few moments and, as the light of dawn waxed around him, he noticed that blood from the wound on his right forearm had dripped down on to Joanna’s cheek, running down her neck to pool in the hollow above the place where her collar bones met. My blood, he thought distantly, staining her pale skin. He tore his eyes from her and looked at his arm. The blood was beginning to congeal.

He thought, I must do something to help her.

He laid his sword and his dagger carefully down on the mossy grass and then, using his left hand in an effort to spare himself any more pain from his right, very gently he edged his fingers behind her head.

There was a large lump at the base of her skull. Feeling around, he discovered that by bad luck she had fallen on to a boulder lying in the grass. Her head seemed to have been jerked backwards, the boulder pushing her neck forward while her head fell back behind it. His exploring fingers went on across her head, tangling in her thick, soft hair, but he found no other wound.

He put his cheek to her mouth, trying to detect any drawing-in or expulsion of air. He thought he felt a very faint breath, but it could have been a product of his own fierce need. Bending down further, he laid his ear against her breast, just over her heart. .

. . and, after a few unimaginably terrible moments, heard a heartbeat.

It was faint and worryingly irregular, but it was there.

His world had just begun turning again.

He leapt up and hurried across to where Meggie lay beside the remains of their fire. ‘Meggie, I need your mother’s blanket because she’s hurt and we must keep her warm,’ he said to the wide-eyed child, trying to keep his voice cheerful. ‘Then when I’ve made her comfy, you and I will build up the fire. Will you help me do that, Meggie?’ Solemnly Meggie nodded. ‘That’s my good girl,’ Josse said approvingly. Then, catching up Joanna’s blanket and his own as well, he went back to her.

He did not think he ought to move her, tempting though it was to draw her closer to the fire. He had seen people with concussion before and he knew from experience what could happen if an unconscious man unable to say where he was hurting was dragged along the ground. Once in his soldiering days a man had fallen from his horse and landed on his head. The troop had been in a hurry and the commanding officer had snapped out to two of the man’s comrades to pick him up and sling him across his saddle. When the man had rapidly recovered consciousness, it was briefly to scream out with agony before the blood in his lungs drowned him: his fall had broken three ribs, one of which had, as he was lifted and put on his horse, punctured a lung.

I will not let such a fate be Joanna’s, Josse told himself. Very tenderly, disturbing her as little as possible, he tucked both blankets around her prostrate body. He felt her bare feet — they were icy — then, as he began to rub them, called out softly to Meggie.

‘Sweetheart, come here,’ he said. ‘Mummy’s feet are cold and she needs them to be warmed up. Will you kneel here — just here, aye, that’s right — and put her feet very carefully in your lap? Aye, like that — very good. Now, put your hands around them and, very, very gently , rub some heat into them.’

He knelt back and watched as his daughter did exactly as he had ordered. Then, satisfied, he gave her a smile, bent down and kissed the top of her head and then hurried away to see about building up the fire.

Not long afterwards he was back by her side. Meggie had done her job well and now Joanna’s feet were far less chill to the touch. ‘Well done, Meggie,’ he said approvingly. In addition, the fire was now blazing and the warmth from its flames could be felt even from where the three of them were, some four or five paces away.

‘Hungwy,’ Meggie announced.

‘You’re hungry?’ She nodded. Of course you are, Josse thought, wondering if he could steel himself to leave Joanna’s side to prepare some food. What could he fetch that would take the least time? Their provisions were low but there were some strips of dried meat, the last of the flat bread and a couple of apples. Not much for a hungry child, but at least she could have all of it; Josse didn’t think he’d ever want to eat again.

He leapt up, fetched the bag in which Joanna carried the victuals and was back again in an instant. He delved in the bag and, extracting some meat and a hand’s-span-sized piece of bread, gave them to Meggie. She chewed her way rapidly through the food, swallowed and said, ‘More.’

From the grass Joanna’s voice said, ‘More, please .’

And Josse, knowing better than to fling himself upon a possibly wounded woman, had to content himself with saying gently, ‘Joanna. Welcome back.’

As she struggled to sit up, telling the anxious Josse very firmly that there was nothing wrong with her but a headache and she would mix up some herbs and soon put that right, she felt something damp on her face and neck. She put up her hand and it came away coated with blood. Oh, Great Mother, I am wounded after all and, if it gives no pain, it must be deep and grievous indeed. .

But Josse, eyes watching her every move, spoke quickly. ‘Joanna, it isn’t your blood — there is no wound to your head or neck except the bump on the back of your skull.’