Alys Clare - Girl In A Red Tunic

Ah, now she understood! Somebody had found something — oh, dear God, let it not be anything to incriminate Leofgar; amid her tension, the old familiar dread reared its head — and, since this something, whatever it was, had to be kept from prying eyes, de Gifford had wisely had it brought to his house out here. What a diplomatic man he was!

Trustingly, in anticipation of seeing Josse and the sheriff again very soon, Helewise kicked Honey’s smooth sides and hurried to catch up with the man.

Three things happened almost simultaneously. Riding on had meant that de Gifford’s house came abruptly into view and instantly she knew it could never have been a dwelling of that fastidious man for it was little more than a hovel, the damage of years left unrepaired, the walls breached and bowing outwards, the reed thatch of the lowering, overhanging roof rotting and dark with age. And, just as she cried out and would have turned Honey’s head and put heels to her, galloping off in her fear back along the way they had come, the man leaned out and put a strong hand on Honey’s bridle.

Then as he led her captive around the end of the bramble hedge and across the filthy, rubbish-strewn and mud-ridden yard to the low door of the dark little hut, she realised what it was about him that had not been right. It was when he said Josse’s name, as he had done when first he came for her and as he had just done again now. Other than the educated, people usually referred to him as ‘That Sir Josse’ or, if brave enough to make a stab at the rest of his name, ‘That Sir Josse Daikin.’

Why, then, should a sheriff’s man with dubious grammar and a common man’s speech know how to say ‘D’Acquin’ with perfect intonation and be careful always to do so? It was almost as if, despite the disguise, he would not lower himself to the depths of pretending to be quite that ignorant.

Her heart thumping with fear, Helewise heard the man give her a curt instruction to dismount. He grasped her wrist in a firm hand and took Honey’s reins, tethering the mare with his own horse to a post set in the mud of the yard. Then, still holding Helewise’s wrist, he opened the door of the hut and pulled her through into the odorous darkness beyond.

Josse and de Gifford reached the Old Manor in record time. It was as if, Josse thought, feeling Horace’s great strength beneath him as the horse stretched himself to a full gallop, we expect to find her there and cannot bear to wait an instant longer than we have to for the reassurance that she is safe.

But the Abbess was not at the Old Manor. Wilfrid came out to meet them; he would have heard us coming, Josse realised, for we made no attempt to ride quietly. Wilfrid reported that no visitors had been received since Josse and de Gifford last came by and no word heard from the master. Josse put out his hand and briefly touched the man’s shoulder; ‘I cannot tell you much,’ he said softly, ‘but be assured that your master is well, as I believe are your mistress and the child.’

Wilfrid did not utter a word but the expression in his eyes was answer enough.

De Gifford was speaking to Wilfrid now, explaining that they had come to look for something that might well help to put matters to rights so that everything could return to normal. Josse gave Wilfrid a wink behind de Gifford’s back — the sheriff had sounded a little pompous — and was rewarded with the first real smile he had seen on Wilfrid’s handsome face.

De Gifford strode on into the hall, Josse on his heels. They approached the long table and de Gifford ran his hands over its smooth surface. ‘Oak, d’you think, Josse?’ he asked.

‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. ‘Plain but well made.’ He bent to look at the frame that supported the table top but if there were any concealed drawer or space there, he could not see it. Then, lying down on his back, he looked up at the under surfaces; again, nothing.

De Gifford was feeling up and down the table legs. They too were plain and unadorned; this was a workmanlike piece, there to serve a purpose and do its job, and nobody had wasted their time beautifying it with carvings and mouldings. Nevertheless the sheriff went on looking and so did Josse.

It was de Gifford who was first to speak the obvious. ‘There’s nothing, Josse,’ he said. ‘If this damned table holds a secret, then it keeps it too close for us to find.’

Josse was looking around. ‘Perhaps there’s another table,’ he said hopefully. ‘Do you remember noticing one when we searched the house with Fitzurse?’

De Gifford shook his head. ‘No. On the contrary, I recall thinking how little the young Warins possess. The Old Manor is but sparsely furnished.’

Josse privately agreed — he had received the same impression — but all the same the two of them had a quick look around the other rooms of the house.

They did not find another table.

‘The trouble is,’ de Gifford mused as they set about a desultory hunt of the chest in the hall and the hangings on the walls, ‘that we don’t know what we’re looking for and so may very well have missed it.’

‘Fitzurse knew, if we surmise aright,’ Josse replied, ‘and he did not find it either, although both you and I watched him search.’

‘Hmm.’ De Gifford straightened up, rubbing at his back. ‘What now, Josse?’

‘I confess I am very disappointed,’ Josse said. ‘I had really thought that we should find a hidden drawer or panel and within it some object to explain what Fitzurse is about.’

‘Well, we didn’t,’ de Gifford said somewhat curtly. ‘We should return to Tonbridge, Josse. There is nothing more we can do here and we may get back to find that there is news of the Abbess.’

With that hope high in his heart, Josse followed him outside. Wilfrid came to see them off; observing their expressions, he remarked, ‘You didn’t find what you came looking for, then.’

‘No,’ Josse said. With an optimism he was far from feeling, he added, ‘But we will!’

Then he kicked Horace and rode off behind de Gifford back to Tonbridge.

Inside the hut it was as dark as midnight. The man put a flame to a wick lying in a shallow bowl of animal fat and in the small amount of light that it gave off, Helewise looked about her.

There was just the one room and it was crammed with the detritus of years. A narrow bench was set against one wall and, towards the back of the room, there was a small hearth surrounded with stones, although it looked as though nobody had ever cleared away the ash and it had spilled out in a wide area extending well beyond the circumference of the circle of stones. A black cooking pot rested on a trivet beside the hearth. Along the walls, piled up quite high in places, were what looked like bundles wrapped in sacking and on a shelf set up under the roof were bunches of dried herbs and leaves. On a panel of wood that had once been painted white someone had drawn the rough outline of a bulky and indefinable animal. In a rear corner was a thin straw-filled mattress and some pieces of sacking, presumably a bed, and over this hung a strange cross with equal arms, roughly formed and made out of wood that was almost black. Belying the filth and the unkempt air of the hut, a besom stood beside the door, its twiggy hazel brush pointing upwards and the smooth handle stuck into the beaten earth floor. The room stank of burning fat from the oil lamp and, beneath that stench, Helewise’s sensitive nose could detect the smell of unwashed bodies and human waste receptacles that had been spilled and were habitually not emptied before they overflowed.

This man lived here ?

She turned her head to look at him. He had paced the length and breadth of the small room almost as if looking for something and, from the way he darted back to the door and peered outside, she wondered if he had expected to find someone here waiting for him.