Alys Clare - Heart of Ice

For a moment nothing happened; Josse thought he caught a snatch of whispered conversation but decided that it was probably his imagination, stimulated by the susurration of the wind in the bare branches of the trees. Then out of a long, low building to the left, roofed with thatch and totally unadorned, a man appeared. He was clad in a simple white habit of coarse wool tied at the waist with a length of rope.

He walked over to Josse, staring up at him out of bright, round eyes that reminded Josse of those of an inquisitive bird. He said, ‘I am Stephen. What do you wish to speak to me about?’ As Josse hesitated, he added, ‘Please, dismount, and your companion too.’ The shiny brown eyes turned to Augustus and Stephen gave the lad a nod of greeting.

‘I am Josse d’Acquin,’ Josse said, sliding down from Horace’s back, ‘and this is Brother Augustus of Hawkenlye.’

‘Good day to you both,’ Stephen said. Then, with a sudden radiant smile, ‘Welcome! I will see to your horses and then we shall take food and drink together; simple fare, I fear, but what we have you may freely share.’

Waving away Josse’s thanks, Stephen took the horses’ reins and led the animals in the direction of the track branching off towards the buildings in the forest; he called out, ‘Bruno! Come and take these horses and tend to them!’ A boyish figure dressed in brown appeared from behind the church where, to judge by the way he was brushing earth from his hands, he had been engaged in some gardening task. He gave Stephen a reverential bow, then took the horses and hastened off with them down the track, making a quiet sound in his throat that sounded remarkably like a horse’s soft whinny.

Stephen gazed after him, shaking his head. ‘Poor Bruno is short of wits,’ he said very softly, although the lad was too far away by now to have heard even a voice speaking at normal pitch. ‘He is dumb and cannot talk to his fellow man, but God has compensated by bestowing upon the boy the ability to communicate with animals and, if it does not sound too strange, with plants.’

‘Plants?’ Josse and Augustus said together.

Stephen smiled. ‘Aye. Bruno’s vegetables, herbs and flowers put those grown by the rest of us to shame. He treats his plants as if they were little creatures and we cannot but conclude that it is the boy’s very breath that encourages such extraordinary growth.’ Shaking his head at the vagaries of the natural world, Stephen led the way into the long, low building from which he had earlier emerged.

Josse saw that it was a very rudimentary refectory. The long tables were of plain wood and the benches either side of them so narrow that being seated on them must have been like sitting on top of a fence rail. The candlesticks were simply made, and of undecorated iron. Stephen had called out as he entered the room and in response another white-robed monk now appeared bearing a wooden tray on which were a pottery flagon, two tankards and some hunks of what looked like rather coarse bread.

‘Small beer is our usual beverage,’ Stephen said, filling the tankards. ‘And I fear the bread may be dry to your taste for we do not use animal fat.’

Josse, who had taken a mouthful of bread and was now trying to summon sufficient saliva to chew it, had to agree, but good manners made him say, as soon as the bread was under control, ‘We are grateful for your hospitality, Stephen, and the victuals are most welcome.’

Stephen nodded in satisfaction. He watched Josse and Augustus eat and drink and, when they had finished, he said, ‘You have ridden some distance to speak to us here. Now that you are refreshed, will you explain why?’

Josse had been rehearsing what he would say; monks and nuns were not, in his experience, people to waste time with unnecessary words and so he tried to be brief. ‘A young woman came asking for help at Hawkenlye Abbey,’ he said. ‘Her name is Sabin de Retz and she was in fact looking for a friend. She came to Hawkenlye because she had been told he had gone there. We — Augustus and I — rode to Newenden, the town where the young man, Nicol Romley, lived, and we discovered that Sabin had also been there asking for him. It was there that she was told he had gone to Hawkenlye.’

Josse had the distinct sense that he was making the explanation more complicated than it need be and was fleetingly surprised to see that Stephen was nodding his understanding. ‘Did she not speak to you at the Abbey?’ he asked.

‘No, for I was not there,’ Josse replied, ‘and, indeed, since she had not heard of me, she could not have asked for me by name. She did not find Nicol Romley either,’ he added. ‘In fact, Nicol is dead.’

‘Dead!’ The monk’s eyes widened dramatically. ‘Dear me!’

‘Ever since I learned that Sabin de Retz was looking for Nicol,’ Josse continued, ‘Augustus and I have been trying to find her. She’s not staying in Newenden nor, as far as we can ascertain, anywhere along the road to Hawkenlye, and it appears she’s not in Tonbridge either.’ Glancing at Augustus, he said, ‘Brother Augustus here had the bright idea that she might be enjoying the hospitality of a monastic house and, yours being the obvious choice, we have come here to ask you if you know of her or have had any word of her.’

There was quite a long pause. Then Stephen said, ‘She is not here, Sir Josse.’

Josse’s heart sank. It was not until he heard Stephen’s denial that he realised how much he had been banking on finding her here. ‘And-’ He swallowed and tried again. ‘You do not even recognise the name? She’s young, as I say, well-dressed, apparently, and mounted on a good mare.’

Stephen gave a shrug. Cursing monks for their habits of economy of speech, Josse turned away before Stephen could read his expression; it was not, he thought fairly, the monk’s fault that he could not provide the happy solution that Josse so badly wanted.

Stephen’s voice broke the uncomfortable silence. ‘You say that the young man is dead,’ he said. ‘Forgive my curiosity — very little happens in our daily life here, Sir Josse, and we enjoy the occasional scrap of news of the outside world — but how did he die?’

Josse studied the monk’s face. He wore a bland smile but there was a certain avidity in the round eyes, as if he were hungry for a good gossip and a few gory details. ‘Nicol Romley was suffering from a pestilence that we believe was brought across from the continent,’ he said, speaking more curtly than was polite. ‘But he didn’t die of the sickness; someone struck him over the head and rolled his body into the lake in Hawkenlye Vale.’

Stephen had gone white.

Josse said, after a moment, ‘Do not fear contagion from Augustus and me, for the nuns and monks of Hawkenlye have arranged matters so that the sick and the healthy are kept well apart.’

Again, Stephen seemed to weigh his words before speaking. Then he said, ‘I thank you, Sir Josse, for the reassurance.’

Eyes on those of the monk’s, Josse had the sudden quaint thought that Stephen’s intent stare meant he was trying to convey something about which he would not speak. Perhaps he wants to know more about the foreign pestilence, Josse thought, but fears to ask in case Gus and I condemn him for his morbid curiosity. ‘The disease takes the form of a high fever with a deadly looseness of the bowels that leaches every drop of fluid from the body,’ he began, but Stephen put up a silencing hand.

‘I pray to the merciful one above that I shall not need to know the symptoms,’ he said. ‘We shall include the sick of Hawkenlye in our prayers.’

‘Thank you,’ Josse said gruffly.

‘Well,’ Stephen said after a moment, ‘if there’s nothing else, I will send Bruno for your horses and see you on your way.’ With a beaming smile, he edged Josse towards the door. ‘We live a life of hard work, you know, and these lands that we wrested back from the wild need our constant vigilance to keep them productive.’