Alys Clare - Whiter than the Lily

She inclined her head. ‘I understand,’ she murmured. ‘And bluntness, in its place, is no bad thing.’

He stood staring down at her; tall though she was, he stood half a head taller. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said.

‘You don’t like what?’

He gave a brief exclamation of impatience but it was, she realised, with himself. ‘Again, I apologise. Despite your intelligence, my lady, there is no reason why I should expect you to be a mind reader. I am not happy that Josse has gone alone to Deadfall. He has gone alone?’

Fighting her own private battle against the pleasure it gave her to have a fine, good-looking man praise her intelligence, she said, too brusquely, ‘Yes he has. I suggested he take two of my more reliable and useful lay brothers with him but he said he did not see that there was danger in his mission and preferred to ride alone.’ Suddenly picturing Josse’s face with vivid intensity, she said softly, ‘He was afraid, Sir Brice, but he was fighting it. He had a childhood fear of the very name and he said he must fight his demons alone.’

‘Demons,’ Brice murmured. Then he said, ‘He has good reason to fear the place, my lady Abbess. And, forgive me, but I can’t see that two feeble old monks could have been much help to him.’

‘Brother Saul and Brother Augustus are neither old nor feeble,’ she said roundly. ‘Would I have suggested them had they been so?’

He grinned. ‘No. Of course you wouldn’t. They are handy with a sword, are they? Able to spot an ambush and take necessary avoiding action?’

‘They do not bear swords,’ she said with dignity. ‘But they would defend Sir Josse to the death if necessary.’

He looked shamefaced. ‘Again, I apologise. If it is any consolation to you after my rudeness, I believe that you were right to propose that Josse did not go alone. It is a pity that he refused to take your advice.’

‘You think he is in danger?’ She could not keep the anxiety out of her voice and she noticed that Brice gave her a very considering look.

‘I — Deadfall is a strange place,’ he replied. ‘It is, as you understood, on the fringe of the Great Marsh, over on the east coast where the land has built up behind the shingle barrier. It lies under the inland cliff where men of old built a fort, above an inlet that gave access to a wide, safe haven that was not reached by the angry seas.’ He was still looking at her but seemed to be focusing on something far away. ‘The inlet filled up and the people went away.’

‘The people in the fort, do you mean?’

‘No, not them. Later, long after they had gone, men built dwellings on the marshland in the summer, when it was relatively dry, and they extracted the salt. But the creek silted up and there was nothing to keep them there. It became a lonely, desolate place. Not a habitation for the good and the godfearing. I-’ But, with a very apparent effort, he broke off.

‘Yet Galiena’s blood kin lived there,’ she said, frightened without knowing why.

‘They did,’ Brice agreed, ‘and I believe that they do still.’

She sensed impatience in him, restlessness that was spurring him on. ‘Will it take you long to get there?’ she asked.

Now he laughed aloud. ‘I was wrong, my lady, when I said I could not expect you to be a mind reader! It is a day’s ride, even on a fast horse. I will be there tomorrow. I will find him and, if it is required and it is in my power, I will help him.’ He took her hand and, bowing over it, added, ‘You have my promise.’

Speechless — for too many conflicting thoughts and emotions were flying through her head — she let her hand drop to her side and watched as he paced out through the door and, with a clink of spurs that reminded her poignantly of Josse, hurried away.

It was only long after he had gone that she thought to wonder how it was he came to know so much about Deadfall.

It was late in the day when Brice set out from Hawkenlye Abbey. After a short time he realised what he should have realised sooner: there was a storm brewing and, from the ominous bank of black cloud that was blowing up from the south-west, it looked as if it was going to be a bad one.

He had not long passed the fork in the road where a track led down to Tonbridge. He could, of course, turn back to Hawkenlye and seek shelter there, but somehow he did not like to think what the Abbess Helewise’s reaction would be when she heard that the gallant, bold fighter who had set off full of his promise to go to Josse’s aid had turned back because it was going to rain.

He understood something about himself that came as a slight surprise: the Abbess Helewise was a woman whose good opinion he was quite keen to maintain.

Deciding, he reined in his horse, turned and headed down to Tonbridge. It was not far off his route and he would set off very early in the morning to make up the lost time.

Apart from anything else, an evening spent in the taproom, with a jug of ale and a hot bite to eat, would perhaps take his mind off his grave preoccupations.

She was dead. Dear God, but he still could not believe it!

Kicking his horse to a canter, he hurried on his way.

The storm struck in the small hours. Burrowing down under the covers on his narrow bed in the inn, Brice listened to the wind howling around the old building, rattling a loose shutter and making it bang against the wall in an irregular rhythm that was too disturbing to make further deep slumber likely. The rain was falling as if a vast vat of water had been upturned overhead.

Relieved that he had taken the sensible decision not to risk being caught out in the open this night, Brice made himself relax and waited for the drumbeat of the shutter to lessen sufficiently to allow him to slip back into a doze.

The new day was fresh and washed clean by the heavy rain. Outside in the inn’s courtyard, stable lads and house servants were sweeping up water and storm-brought detritus, working hard with their brooms to push it all through the archway and into the already flooded and muddy street beyond. Brice, awake soon after first light, ate a quick breakfast, paid for his night’s accommodation and, ordering his horse to be prepared, set out before anyone else in the inn who had a choice in the matter was even out of bed.

* * *

Once he was up on the ridge he made good time. Men of old had first made a track there, preferring to walk or ride on the chalky uplands instead of down in the heavy clay soil of the valleys; for one thing, the higher ground gave a better view of the surrounding land and, for another, you were more likely to arrive at your destination with dry feet. Brice, kicking his sleek and well-fed mount into a canter, told himself that the swiftly passing miles made up for his overnight delay and he began once more to see himself as the Abbess’s loyal knight and champion, engaged on a vitally important errand to find her missing warrior …

In the early afternoon he was on a lonely stretch of track to the north of Readingbrooke. To his right and a little behind him was the steep slope that led from the great tract of woodland on the high ground down to the marsh below. He was on familiar territory now and his thoughts strayed to the place not far from here where they loved best to dwell.

Then, bringing him abruptly out of his reverie, he saw a horseman approaching from the east. The man’s mount was a big warhorse, its feathered feet falling heavily on to the chalky ground as it trotted swiftly towards him. The rider was slumped in the saddle, hardly paying attention, it appeared to Brice, to where his horse was taking him.

‘Halloa!’ Brice cried out. ‘Watch where you’re going!’

He recognised the horse before he could get a proper look at the rider. As the big animal came up to him he jumped out of the saddle and, holding his own reins in one hand, grasped Horace’s in the other. Then, looking up at Josse, he said, ‘Dear God! What has happened to you?’