Alys Clare - Whiter than the Lily

There was silence in the shelter. Slowly Brice sat down again and, after a while, looked up at Josse. ‘I am horrified that you should believe me capable of such dreadful callousness,’ he said, dropping his head and burying his face in his hands. ‘You know of my past, aye, and I suppose you think that a man whose hot temper led to the death of his wife might similarly lose control and bring about the death of his mistress.’ Removing his hands, eyes firmly on Josse’s, he said, ‘But I swear to you that you are wrong this time. I knew Galiena, of course I did, and I honoured her for her kindness and her generosity, aye, and for her beauty.’ He gave a faint smile, there and gone in an instant. ‘I admit that, had she been free and had my heart not already been engaged elsewhere, I might well have courted her. Under those circumstances, what man worth the name would not have done the same?’

‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. ‘She was comely, aye.’

‘Ambrose is my friend,’ Brice said simply. ‘I did not seduce his wife and become her lover, Josse; I give you my word. And I certainly did not poison her.’

Josse did not know what to say. He had been wrong, he knew that, and he thought he should go back along the misleading, treacherous track that had led him to accuse an innocent man of the fell deed of murder to see if he could discover where he had gone so badly astray.

But Brice took his silence for doubt.

‘You shall believe me, Josse d’Acquin,’ he raged, leaping to his feet again. ‘Wait and I will give you proof!’

Before Josse could protest, Brice had run from the shelter. Going to the entrance to watch, Josse saw him vault the makeshift rail around the horse corral and approach the huntsman, who was still engaged in tending to Horace. Brice bent down to say something — his very stance gave away his tension — and the huntsman nodded, wiped his hands and stepped over the rail beside Brice. Side by side they walked slowly back to the shelter.

Before Brice spoke; Josse realised what, had it not been for his having leapt so confidently to a totally wrong conclusion, he might have realised before.

Brice, the anger gone from his handsome face to be replaced by a very different, softer emotion, took the huntsman’s hand. And as the young man threw back the wide-brimmed concealing hat, Josse looked into a woman’s face.

A woman whom he recognised.

Brice, still smiling, held out her slim hand to Josse and he took it in his. Then Brice said to her, ‘My dearest love, I believe that you have already met Sir Josse d’Acquin. Josse, here is my lady.’

And Josse, burning with embarrassment, looked down into the sea-green and faintly amused eyes of Isabella de Burghay.

She stood in the entrance to the shelter, still regarding him with that cool expression. After a moment — a highly awkward one for Josse — she said, ‘Brice tells me that you have interpreted the situation slightly erroneously.’

Bowing briefly, he said, ‘So it would seem, my lady, and I am sorry to have caused you distress.’

‘It is not I who am distressed,’ she corrected him gently. Glancing across at Brice by her side — Josse noticed that they were hand in hand — she went on, ‘Brice has never quite managed to convince himself that he was not responsible for the death of his wife, Dillian, despite what he says.’ She turned to give Brice a loving smile. ‘It is not kind, Sir Josse, to have disturbed old hurts by accusing him of poisoning Galiena Ryemarsh, whom he cared for deeply as a friend .’ She emphasised the last three words. Then, her expression grave, she said, ‘As did I, for she was always kind to me and offered her strength for me to lean on when I was in sore need.’ The shadow of some past sorrow crossed her face. ‘And she was our messenger,’ she added softly. ‘She knew of our love and she understood why we cannot yet declare it openly. She offered to relay our communications to each other and that, Sir Josse, is why Brice seemed excited and eager when he took you to Ryemarsh: he was expecting Galiena to pass on to him the place and time of our next meeting.’

Now both of them were looking at Josse and he felt himself to be standing before his accusers and judges. ‘I am sorry,’ he said humbly.

‘And that day when you went to visit Brice when you were bound for Hawkenlye Abbey,’ Isabella went on relentlessly, ‘Brice was away from home, yes, but he was not chasing after Galiena. With our beloved messenger’s absence, we had nobody to relay word from one to the other and so, knowing my habit of hunting in the early mornings, he had gone to look for me, although without success.’

Once more, feeling even worse, Josse mumbled his apologies.

Brice began to speak but, with a gentle touch of her hand to his cheek, Isabella stopped him. ‘Perhaps you are wishing to know the answer to the obvious question, Sir Josse? Why it is that we have need of secrecy and private, unobserved assignations?’

‘Well, aye, I am,’ he said haltingly, ‘although in truth, my lady, there is no call for you to explain yourselves to me.’

‘No, there isn’t,’ she agreed. She paused, then smiled and said, ‘But I see no reason why we should not satisfy your curiosity. What do you think, my love?’ She turned to Brice.

‘I would like Josse to know,’ Brice said firmly. ‘If only to convince him that I have not acted in the dishonourable way that he accuses me of doing.’

‘I have already apologised!’ Josse cried, stung.

But Isabella’s calm voice murmuring words in Brice’s ear was clearly more persuasive than Josse’s outburst, for, with a curt nod, Brice said, ‘Very well. I accept your apology, Josse.’

Isabella looked from one to the other and, with a faint sigh of exasperation, muttered something under her breath. Then, facing Josse, she said, ‘When I was seventeen, I was married to a fine man named Nicholas de Burghay. It was an arranged marriage and I had little say in the matter, but fate was kind and gave me a husband whom I could honour, care for and, over the months and years, come deeply to love. In time our union was blessed with children; first a son, Roger, who is now nine years old, and then, two years later, a daughter, Marthe.’ She paused, then drew a shaky breath. Brice disengaged his hand from hers and put his arm around her, pulling her close to him. She flashed him a brief smile and then said, ‘Nicholas and I loved to hunt together. Nicholas was permitted to hunt with the falcon and he passed on his skills to me, teaching me to raise the eyas from the nest and train her to fly from my wrist. It was ever our habit to ride out early in the morning, when the field and the woodland were quiet, and fly our hawks together. We believed that few were aware of our regular outings but-’

Again she paused. Then, apparently altering what she had been about to say, she went on quietly, ‘One morning there was an accident. Nicholas was badly hurt and, although he lived on for three days, in great pain, he died.’ Tears formed in her eyes, making the green colour suddenly as vivid as emeralds, and, quickly blinking them away, she whispered, ‘Marthe was but a month old. She does not remember her father at all.’

Then, overcome, she turned to Brice and for a while he hugged her to him. Looking at Josse over her blonde head, he said quietly, ‘It is an unhealed hurt, Josse. And she-’

But at that Isabella raised her head, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and said, ‘Let us speak of happier times. Sir Josse, you have met Audra de Readingbrooke and Raelf, her husband.’

‘Aye.’

‘Audra is Nicholas’s younger sister. She and Raelf met in our house, soon after Raelf lost his wife. He and Audra had been wed for some ten years when Nicholas died and they already had three little girls of their own who are my nieces by marriage, since they are the daughters of my husband’s sister. Also, of course, there was Galiena, whom Raelf and his first wife had adopted as a baby, Matilda being barren.’