Alys Clare - Heart of Ice

It appears, he told himself, that we have found our link. .

I must visit the home of this Martin Kelsey, Josse decided, and find out, if there is anybody there who can tell me, where he went and whom he met, particularly after his return home. ‘Thank you, Master Morton,’ he began, already impatient to be off, ‘I shall-’

But the apothecary was frowning and did not seem to hear. ‘There was something odd about young Nicol when he returned from France,’ he said slowly.

‘Odd?’ Josse was instantly on the alert. ‘But he was sickening with the disease. Would that not make a man seem odd?’

‘No, it wasn’t that.’ Adam Morton rubbed a hand across his jaw. ‘I’d say it was more that the lad was afraid. And it wasn’t the threat of the sickness that scared him, sir — er, sir knight, for he was acting in a strange way before he fell ill.’

‘What was he doing?’

‘He seemed to think that somebody was after him,’ Adam Morton said slowly. ‘He kept opening the door and peering out and one evening when I told him to deliver a basketful of simples to some of my customers, it was all I could do to get him out of the house. Then he came scurrying back in double-quick time, bolted the door behind him and raced up to his room where he shut himself in and wouldn’t come out till morning.’

‘To what did you ascribe this peculiar behaviour?’ Josse asked.

The apothecary smiled thinly. ‘I thought perhaps he’d involved himself with some young lass and that her father was after him with a horse whip.’

‘Was that likely?’

‘Oh, yes. Nicol was a well-favoured lad and he had the girls queuing up.’

The apothecary bowed his head, but not before Josse had caught the expression on his face. Gervase, I wish you could witness this, he thought; for, at long last, Adam Morton was acting like a human being and grieving for the young man whose life had been so suddenly and so violently ended.

‘You have been very helpful, Master Morton,’ Josse said gently. ‘I do not think it was any enraged father who was looking for Nicol; I think it was the man who killed him. And I shall do my best to track him down and bring him to justice.’

Adam Morton raised his head. ‘Do that, sir knight,’ he said. ‘I shall dance at his hanging.’

Such was his fervour to follow this new and promising lead that for a moment Josse considered setting out for Hastings there and then. But he soon changed his mind; for many reasons, only a fool willingly rode through the night and Josse was not a fool, even if Adam Pinchsniff had called him one.

He rode instead to New Winnowlands, where he was fed by Ella and brought up to date by Will with the few noteworthy things that had happened in his absence. Will took the cob away to restore the animal as best he could for the next day and, quite soon, Josse retired to bed and slept dreamlessly until the early morning. Soon after the sun had risen, he was on his way to Hastings.

He made good time, for the tracks and roads were hard with frost and the cob was frisky. Reaching Hastings around midday, he made his way through steep and narrow streets to the port, where he found a tavern, took a mug of beer and enquired after Master Martin Kelsey. He managed to feign surprise on being told that the merchant had died a week ago and, explaining that he would like to pay his respects to Kelsey’s family, asked for directions to the merchant’s house.

A burly, dark-haired man standing beside him gave a snort. ‘If you’re expecting victuals and a mug of good wine in exchange for your sympathy, you’ll be disappointed,’ he said. ‘Majorane Kelsey keeps her larder locked up tight as a cat’s arse.’

The tavern keeper shook his head at the irreverence but Josse noticed that he was grinning. ‘Martin’s widow is not popular?’ Josse said, keeping his voice down.

‘Majorane’s his sister; she ain’t nobody’s widow,’ the dark man said. ‘No man with eyes and wits in his head would have her, not unless he were intent on increasing his sufferings here on earth.’

‘I see.’ Josse stored the remark for future reference. Finishing his ale — which was very good — he thanked the two men for the information, bid them good day and set off to find the merchant’s house.

Martin Kelsey had done well, Josse thought as he approached the place. His house was soundly constructed and well maintained, the roof in good repair and the doorstep swept. The wooden shutters over the windows looked quite new. He tethered the cob to a hitching-ring and, straightening his tunic and brushing a stray lock of hair off his face, he knocked at the door.

It was opened by a long, thin woman whose face wore the expression of one who was constantly on the look-out for misdemeanours and usually found them. Her eyes were pale blue and her hair was forced back so tightly under the stiff white headdress that it seemed to lift her eyebrows and open up her eyes, giving the impression that she was wide-eyed with horror at the unpleasant surprises that the world constantly threw at her. The mouth was small and the lips were barely perceptible, pursed up into a tight circle of disapproval.

Summoning his most courteous manner, Josse said, ‘Have I the honour to address Mistress Kelsey?’

‘If you’re after settlement, you’ll get the same as everybody else who comes knocking,’ she snapped. ‘Go and consult my brother’s lawyer!’

She was about to slam the door, very forcefully, but Josse put his foot in the gap. ‘It is not on a matter of business that I wish to speak to you, Mistress,’ he said, suppressing a gasp as the heavy door closed on his foot. ‘I am Josse d’Acquin and I have come from Hawkenlye Abbey. The matter is — well, in fact it is somewhat delicate. Might I. .?’ He jerked his head towards the interior of the house, putting on his most winning smile.

Majorane Kelsey glared at him for a few moments. Then she grunted and said, ‘Oh, very well. You had better come in; there’s far too much interest being taken in my affairs already and I don’t want to set my neighbours’ big ears flapping again.’

With a scowl up and down the street that would have frozen most of the curious in their tracks, she opened the door just enough for Josse to pass through the gap and led the way into a pleasant but chilly room with shining stone flags on the floor, two stout wooden chests against one wall, a table, two chairs and a bench. There was a fire of sorts in the hearth but the wood was damp and it was giving out more smoke than heat.

Majorane settled herself on one of the chairs but she did not invite Josse to be seated. ‘I advise you not to remove your cloak,’ she said, ‘I’ve no maidservant at present and the idiot boy who does the outside work cannot tell seasoned wood from green.’ She, Josse observed, wore a man’s heavy fur-lined over-tunic on top of her woollen robe.

No maidservant, Josse was thinking. Aye, I know, Mistress, what became of her .

‘I have heard of the death of your brother,’ he said, ‘and I am sorry for your loss.’

‘You knew Martin?’ she asked sharply.

‘No.’

‘Then why should you be sorry?’

‘I am sorry for you , Mistress. To lose a close relative is always painful.’

She considered this for a while and then said, ‘Perhaps, perhaps.’ Eyes raised to meet Josse’s, she went on, ‘I am angry, Sir Josse, as well as aggrieved. Do you know’ — the pale eyes were suddenly bright with passion — ‘even as poor Martin lay dead in his bed and before I found him there, somebody had broken in and ransacked the house! Today is the first time that all this’ — she indicated the tidy room and the spotless floor — ‘has looked as it should since he died! Muddy footprints all over the place, a broken panel in the door, everything taken out of the chests and strewn on the floor!’