Alys Clare - The Enchanter's Forest

Sensing that Josse did not want to say more, Gervase tactfully ceased his questioning on the matter. Instead he said, ‘So you set sail from another port?’

‘Aye, St Cast. We were lucky and picked up a small, light craft that utilised every breath of a strong south-westerly and got us home as fast as flying.’

‘And after that-’ Again, Gervase stopped. Josse, who did not want to think about after that any more than he did about the attack in the forest, was grateful.

Josse broke the small silence. ‘What will you do about the death of Florian?’ he asked without much interest. ‘Will you go along with what everybody else seems to think and decide that, with the killer very likely miles away by now, there’s little point in doing anything?’

‘Josse, I hope you know me better than that.’ There was a mild reproof in Gervase’s voice. ‘Tomorrow I will visit the widow — what is her name?’

‘Primevere. She’s extremely lovely, pretty tough and she’s pregnant.’

‘Ah. And just bereaved, poor soul. I will tread carefully with my enquiries and try not to upset her.’

‘Her grief comes and goes,’ Josse said bluntly. ‘It may sound cruel, but I’ll wager she may well lament the loss of the money that her husband was bringing in rather more than that of the man himself.’

‘It does sound cruel,’ Gervase agreed. ‘You should not-’ But he bit back whatever reprimand he was about to issue, instead clapping a hand on Josse’s shoulder. ‘Come and eat, my friend,’ he said. ‘Sabin has done wonders for the fare on offer in my house and we have some delicious French wine. Then, if you wish, we will make up a bed for you and you shall stay the night.’

‘Thank you,’ Josse said. ‘The food and the drink I accept with pleasure but if you will excuse me, I shall ride back to the Abbey later. I have,’ he finished with a deep sigh, ‘much on my mind and a ride in the cool night air will do me good.’

The meal lived up entirely to expectations and, for the time that Josse sat at Gervase’s table, watching the sheriff’s benevolent smile as he listened to Sabin chattering away happily about their forthcoming wedding, some of the cheerfulness rubbed off on him and he felt his spirits lift. In order to keep Sabin talking — she had an entertaining way with her — Josse asked about the visit to her former mistress in Nantes.

‘The Duchess looked well,’ Sabin replied, ‘and there was no sign that the malady is accelerating in its progress through her poor body. When I explained my plans, she did not protest overmuch that she must lose me. Us, I should say,’ she corrected herself, glancing at Benoit. ‘Then I asked if I might present Gervase to her and he quite won her over with his charms!’ She laughed delightedly.

‘You exaggerate, sweetheart,’ Gervase protested.

‘Oh, no I don’t,’ Sabin flashed back. ‘Anyway, she said she was not a woman to stand in the way of love and she gave us her blessing.’

‘She has found another to help her in her sickness?’ Josse asked.

‘Yes,’ Sabin answered. ‘I was able to reassure myself that Grandfather and I leave her in good hands.’

‘And now I have my beloved books and equipment with me once more!’ Benoit put in with a cackle. Turning his all but blind eyes towards Josse, he added, ‘The books, I admit, are nowadays of more use to Sabin than to me and they will be hers entirely one day. But I still have skill in my hands and my sense of smell is as sharp as ever; I can be of use here, even in my infirmity.’

‘You can, Grandfather,’ Sabin assured him affectionately. ‘And I still have much to learn from you.’

They will be happy, Gervase and his bride, Josse thought. Even the presence of a blind and often crotchety old man under Gervase’s roof did not appear to be a drawback and, indeed, Gervase seemed genuinely fond of the old boy. But, pleased for his friend and his bride though he was, the contemplation of others’ marital bliss was a difficult one for him to bear just then.

He took his leave when the last jug of wine was empty. Benoit bade him farewell from where he sat; Gervase and Sabin went out into the courtyard to see him on his way.

‘I will call at Hawkenlye after going to see Primevere tomorrow,’ Gervase said.

‘We will expect you,’ Josse replied.

He swung up into the saddle and Horace took one or two steps towards the gateway. ‘Ride safely,’ Sabin said.

Expressing his thanks with a bow, Josse was about to depart. But then, perhaps prompted by all the empty hours of tomorrow with nothing much to fill them and so distract his thoughts, he looked down at Gervase and said gruffly, ‘I don’t mind coming with you to see Primevere if you like.’ Struck with the idea that the offer needed explanation, he said, ‘The Abbess Helewise and I have discussed Florian’s murder at some length and it might help were I to pass on our thoughts to you as we ride.’

Gervase, good friend that he was, seemed to pick up more than Josse’s words said. ‘Nothing I’d like better, Josse.’ He gave an encouraging smile. ‘I’ll ride along by the Abbey and collect you.’

Josse nodded briefly, then wished them both goodnight and, the familiar ache for Joanna already returning, rode off into the darkness.

Helewise knew that she could no longer put off sharing her suspicions with Josse. Early the next day she sent one of the nuns to seek him out down in the Vale and, very shortly after the summons, he tapped at her door and entered her room.

His face was grey beneath the suntan and his eyes looked sunken and dull, the lids slightly puffy. He said, his tone unenthusiastic, ‘My lady Abbess? You sent for me?’

She longed to speak of the subject that just had to be uppermost in both their minds but she held back. We are old friends and have deep affection for each other, she told herself. If he wants to ease his pain by sharing it with me, he will. All the time he chooses to keep it to himself, I cannot say a word.

Although it grieved her, she made herself smile and said, ‘Yes, Sir Josse. I am uneasy in my mind about several things concerning our visit yesterday to Primevere and I hoped you might be willing to discuss them with me.’

‘I am at your disposal,’ he said expressionlessly. Then, a very small amount of enthusiasm entering his voice, ‘That is, until Gervase arrives, for I have offered to go with him to Hadfeld today.’

‘I see.’ That’s good, she thought; he will at least have something positive to occupy him. ‘Then before he collects you, let us walk outside in the sunshine while we talk,’ she suggested, getting to her feet; the prospect of spending any time with this new, sad Josse within the confines of a small room was nothing short of awful.

She led the way across the cloister, around the end of the infirmary and towards the rear gate. Passing it on their left, they walked on, turned right when they met the far wall of the Abbey and, a little way along it, settled on a stone bench overlooking Sister Tiphaine’s herb garden. There, after a few moments’ contemplation of the sweet plant smells encouraged by the sunshine, she spoke.

‘Primevere did not wish it to be known that she is pregnant,’ she said. ‘She excused the pallor and the nausea by saying that the heat did not agree with her.’

‘Aye, I noticed that, too,’ he said, a faint stirring of interest in his voice. ‘For all that she said she was affected by standing outside in the sunshine watching the workmen, her vantage point on the mounting block is in fact in the shade. And people as dark as she, I have observed, tolerate the heat better than their fair-haired and light-skinned counterparts.’