Alys Clare - Whiter than the Lily

‘Much obliged,’ the man said, touching the hand that was clenched around the coins to his forehead.

Josse wished the group good day and then, leaving them still staring at him, kicked Horace into a trot and rode away.

* * *

He reached Readingbrooke too soon, for he had still not worked out exactly what he was going to say to Galiena’s family. But breaking the news would become no easier for waiting so, without pausing for thought, he rode on into the courtyard that opened out before Raelf de Readingbrooke’s modest manor house and called out, ‘Halloa! Is anybody at home?’

A woman with a sacking apron over a nondescript dark brown gown came out of a building to his right. From the sounds that followed her out, it appeared that it was a dairy and that she had been in the middle of milking.

‘Yes?’ she said, looking up at him curiously. ‘What do you want?’

‘I wish to speak to Sir Raelf and his wife,’ Josse said.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘Josse d’Acquin.’

She nodded. ‘You have the manor at New Winnowlands. You’re a King’s man, so they say.’

‘Aye,’ he said, to both statements.

‘The master and the mistress are in the solar,’ she said, ‘together with the girls. Wait here. I’ll tell them you wish to see them and I’ll send someone out to tend to your horse.’

‘Thank you.’

He slipped off Horace’s back and, a short time later, a lad of about thirteen came out and shyly took the big horse’s reins, leading him off into a shaded corner of the yard where there were tethering rings set in the wall and a large tub of water.

‘Give him a drink, if you would,’ Josse called after the lad, who nodded.

Then the woman was back and, beckoning to him, she led him up the steps and into the hall, which they crossed to reach another, narrower flight of stairs that circled up to a smaller room on a higher level. The room had wide windows facing south, whose leather hangings were at present fastened back, allowing the sunshine to stream in.

There was a long, narrow table placed in the middle of the room and along each side was a bench. At each end of the table were chairs, beautifully made of pale oak. In the larger chair sat a ruddy-faced, broad-shouldered man aged, Josse thought on first impression, about forty. In the other sat a woman, petite, brown-eyed, perhaps five or six years younger. On the benches sat their four daughters, two to a bench. All four girls were dark-haired like their father and had their mother’s round face and ready smile. They were aged, Josse guessed, from about sixteen down to a toddler of three or four. The woman and two of the girls were stitching at fine embroidery; the littlest child was being helped in a simpler piece of work by one of her sisters. The man appeared to be doing nothing except watch his women folk.

At Josse’s approach, the man got to his feet — he was quite short in stature — and said, ‘I am Raelf de Readingbrooke. We welcome you, Sir Josse d’Acquin, and wonder to what we should ascribe your visit?’

Oh, it was difficult! Turning from the courteously spoken Raelf to his smiling wife, Josse regretted more than ever the task he had to do. But do it he must; he had made a promise.

He said, ‘Sir Raelf, I am afraid that I bring bad news. Perhaps you and I should speak privately …?’

Hurrying forward and grabbing hold of Josse’s arm, Raelf said, ‘Bad news?’

‘It concerns your daughter Galiena,’ Josse murmured in his ear.

Raelf muttered something — it might have been, ‘Oh, dear God.’ Then he said, ‘Tell me. What has happened?’

‘She is dead,’ Josse whispered. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Dead.’ The colour blanched from Raelf’s face. ‘Oh, but I cannot believe it. She is young, healthy! You are quite certain that it is she, my Galiena, who has died?’ His voice broke on the word.

‘Aye,’ Josse said. ‘I saw her with my own eyes.’ He pictured the beautiful face, grossly swollen and distorted in death.

Raelf coughed and cleared his throat. ‘How did this happen? How do you, Sir Josse, come to be the bearer of this ill news?’

‘She had gone to Hawkenlye Abbey to consult the nuns who tend the sick there. She — it appears that somehow she took poison.’

‘Poison! Was this some remedy that she was given?’

Josse could understand the poor man’s puzzlement but he knew he must deny that suggestion instantly. ‘No, it cannot have been the remedy that affected her for someone else drank of the same substance and she’ — the Abbess’s rosy face swam before his mind’s eye — ‘she is quite well.’

‘Then what was it?’ Raelf asked plaintively.

‘We do not yet know.’ Josse spoke gently. ‘But we will find out, Sir Raelf, be sure of that.’

Tears were forming in Raelf’s dark eyes. Finding it impossible to witness such silent agony, Josse dropped his own eyes. Then Raelf said, ‘You say she went for treatment. Do you know for what?’

Josse looked up. ‘She — her husband, the lord Ambrose, and she were unable to — er, she found that she could not conceive the child that they both wanted so much. She had tried certain simples that she made herself, I understand, but to no avail. She hoped that the skills of the Hawkenlye infirmarer and herbalist might be more extensive.’

‘So she was barren?’ Raelf said.

Shrinking from the harsh word, Josse nodded.

‘Dear Lord, what irony!’ Raelf said with sudden harshness. Then his face crumpled. A sob broke from him as, covering his eyes with his hands, his shoulders began to shake. His wife, who had, Josse now saw, been steadily approaching so that now she stood just behind Raelf, gently touched his arm, at which he turned and bent to bury his face on her shoulder.

Her arms going round him, one hand smoothing and soothing his back as if he were a small, distressed child, Audra de Readingbrooke said softly, ‘He will take this hard, Sir Josse, for Galiena was his eldest daughter and he loved her dearly.’

‘Aye. I am so sorry,’ Josse said inadequately.

Audra smiled faintly. ‘Thank you. And thank you, too, for your willingness to bring us such terrible news.’

‘Ambrose would have come to tell you himself and indeed he very much wanted to,’ Josse said hastily, ‘only he remains at Hawkenlye Abbey, where he must make — er, make certain arrangements with the priest and the Abbess concerning — er, concerning her burial.’

‘Of course,’ said Audra, her eyes bright with tears. ‘A dreadful task, for an old man to see his young wife into the ground before him.’

‘Aye.’

Sensing his awkwardness, Audra wiped her eyes and said, ‘Sir Josse, may I suggest that you leave us for a while? There is much that we would ask you but first we must break the news to the girls’ — she gestured behind her to the four daughters sitting with anxious faces at the table — ‘and take what comfort we may in one another. Would you be so kind as to wait for us down in the hall? Ask Tilde to fetch you some refreshments. We shall not keep you waiting for long.’

Already stepping gratefully back towards the stair, Josse said, too loudly and too eagerly, ‘Take your time, lady, please, take as long as you need!’ Catching her understanding glance, he smiled back at her and, more softly, added, ‘I’ll be waiting when you are ready to talk to me.’

Then, hurrying down the stairs so fast that he all but slipped, he emerged into the cool hall and left the family to their grief.

He did not want anything to eat or to drink, although a pretty young maidservant in clean white cap and apron came out from another door in the wide hall and asked him if she could fetch anything for him.