Alys Clare - Girl In A Red Tunic

Grinning tolerantly at the ‘old’ — Gussie could be no more than seventeen, and anyone over thirty would doubtless be so described — Josse observed Saul’s reluctant muttered reply, although he could not make out the words. But Gus said, ‘Saul, you only need carry the stick and look as if you mean to use it. If there’s any thumping necessary, I’ll do it.’

It was as well that Josse already knew Augustus and had learned a little about the youth’s good nature. Otherwise he might have found such eager anticipation of thumping quite disturbing in one who lived in an Abbey, even if he was but a lay brother. Still smiling to himself at the exchange, he led his party up the path to the Abbey and went in search of Leofgar.

He was not in the guest chamber. Nor were Rohaise or Timus; nor were any of the young family’s belongings. Running across to the stables, Josse found that Leofgar’s horse and Rohaise’s mare had also gone.

Wondering just how he was going to word the announcement, he went to find the Abbess.

She said, as people so often do when given tidings they would prefer not to hear, ‘Are you quite sure?’

‘Aye. Quite.’

She did not press him for details, bless her, but just sat there behind her great table as if turned to stone. His heart going out to her, he said, ‘My lady, I am quite sure there is some simple explanation.’

She rounded on him furiously. ‘Such as what?’ Then, instantly regretting the little outburst, added, ‘I am so sorry, Sir Josse. I did not mean to shout at you.’

‘It’s all right, I understand.’ Again he had the impulse to go and stand beside her and give her a comforting touch and this time, with no de Gifford to witness, he did so. For some time she sat in her chair and he stood with his hand on her shoulder. Then she said weakly, ‘What shall we do?’

‘Hm.’ He had no immediate answer; he had not been thinking ahead, contenting himself for that short time with trying to reassure her by his touch that she had his unquestioning support. Now he said, ‘Well, I suppose we should try to guess why they left in the night without telling us they were going. It suggests-’ He stopped. There was no tactful way of saying what was in his mind.

‘It suggests guilt,’ she murmured. ‘Does it not?’

‘Well, I’m not sure that I think …’ But he had always been honest with her. ‘Aye. It does.’

‘Why should they be guilty? Concerning what? What can they have done?’ Her distress was palpable.

‘One thing occurs to me, my lady.’ He was not at all sure if he should say what it was, but then again he had to say something.

‘Yes?’ she said eagerly.

‘It isn’t much!’ he protested, distressed by the sudden flare of hope in her eyes.

‘Please, tell me anyway.’

So he did. ‘Yesterday when we found Teb Bell hanging from his tree, I noticed that Leofgar seemed badly affected. He was pale and sweaty-faced, despite the cold, and could not take his eyes off the body.’ She made as if to speak but he hurried on. ‘Now naturally I can’t say for sure, not knowing his background or his history, but I wondered if maybe it was the first time he had come across violent death. Many a time I’ve noticed a reaction of this sort, my lady, when a young man first looks on an ugly death, and indeed it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Most of them overcome it and learn the courage to accept what they must accept.’

She said, after an uncomfortable pause, ‘You believe my son to be a coward, Sir Josse, and you think that his absence this morning is because he did not want to be among your party hunting for the probably violent Walter Bell.’

It sounded even worse when she put it into those particular words and he hastened to qualify what he had said. ‘No, I am sure he is not cowardly; all I meant was that it takes some young men longer than others to get accustomed to the dirtier side of life. But he rallied, your Leofgar, he pulled himself together double-quick and got busy looking after Sister Phillipa as soon as I asked him to.’

‘That is something to be thankful for,’ she said ironically.

‘I’ve thought of another possibility,’ he said, hardly registering her brief comment. ‘The lady Rohaise was in a sorry state when they arrived, was she not?’

‘Yes, although she seems to have improved. The work in the infirmary has been good for her, I believe, and she seems more at ease now with her little boy.’

‘Aye, well, that all goes to suggest that this time I may have come up with the right answer!’ he said eagerly.

‘Which is?’ She was, he noticed, watching him with something that looked like indulgence.

‘Let’s assume that Leofgar too has seen the improvement in his wife,’ he said, the words rushing out of him, ‘and he decides that if they stay on here now that this wretched business with the Bell brothers has started, there’s every chance that poor Rohaise will get anxious and worried and she’ll fall back into her former misery. What do you think of that?’ he demanded triumphantly.

But to his dismay he heard her murmur, ‘Oh, dear!’ Then she said, ‘Dear Sir Josse, you are trying so hard and I appreciate your kindness. You ask what I think of your suggestion, and I have to reply that the answer is, not very much.’

‘But-’

‘If their departure were for such a very understandable and indeed logical cause, then why did they run away in the middle of the night without telling us? Leofgar had only to say that he feared for his wife and son’s safety all the time there was the risk of a violent ruffian in the vicinity and we would have said, of course you must go home! Wouldn’t we?’

He had to admit that it was so. Moving away from her and returning to his usual place on the opposite side of the table, he said, ‘What do you think, my lady?’

Her brow creased into a frown. ‘I do not know what to think. I wish that I-’ She stopped. Then, looking at him, holding his eyes, she said very quietly, ‘Sir Josse, I have scarcely seen my son for more than fifteen years. I knew him as a baby and as a small child as well as any woman knows her son, but after that I — well, I was widowed and it was best for my sons’ own sakes that I took certain steps to ensure their futures. So I — homes were found for them with men of equivalent rank and position to that of my late husband and off they went. And then I came here.’ She dropped her head and seemed to be engaged in an intent study of her folded hands. ‘You ask me what I think of my son’s strange behaviour and I have to say that I have no answer. I no longer know what or who he is and I cannot even make a guess as to why he has fled from the Abbey as if the devil himself were on his heels.’

Josse had never really thought about the Abbess’s past. There had been hints — she had once or twice mentioned her late husband and made the occasional reference to motherhood and the birth of her sons — but this was the first time that she had spoken with such power and, it had to be said, such emotion about her past life. Wondering whether or not it would be diplomatic to pursue the subject — oh, surely he should, for did she not need some kindness, some reassurance? — he said tentatively, ‘My lady, you sound almost as if it is a matter for regret that you have lost your former closeness with your children.’

‘It is,’ she said baldly.

‘But is it not the case with the sons of many men and women, that they are sent from home when young and trained for knighthood by other men? It happened to me and I did not suffer.’

‘Yet you remained in contact with your mother. I know you did, Josse, you told me how she insisted you spend time with her kinfolk in Lewes.’