Alys Clare - Whiter than the Lily

‘Aye, so the lady Audra told me.’

‘Did she indeed?’ Isabella raised a narrow, dark eyebrow. ‘She must have taken to you, Sir Josse, for normally she is reticent over divulging private family matters to strangers.’

He sensed a rebuff and felt unreasonably guilty. ‘I did not force the words out of her, my lady,’ he said stiffly.

Isabella smiled. She was, Josse could not help noticing, a very lovely woman. ‘I am sure that you did not,’ she said smoothly. Then, picking up her tale: ‘They took me in, me and my two little children, and we found comfort in that kind, open-hearted and affectionate family. Galiena and I became particular friends. She was thirteen years my junior but the gap always seemed less than that, for she was a mature girl. She was but fifteen when she made up her mind that she wanted to marry Ambrose and, although there was some consternation because of the age difference, Galiena insisted that he was the only man she would have and that was that.’ She smiled again, this time a soft, reminiscent expression as though her mind was on some happy occasion in the misty past. ‘She had been used to kindness from the family who had adopted her and she recognised its importance in a marriage. She always said that she could look all her life and never find a kinder husband than Ambrose. They were wed in the early spring of 1191 and, as I believe you know, Sir Josse, she then spent the next two years trying to conceive a child.’

Something was tapping insistently at Josse’s mind and he knew he should stop and isolate what it was; it was something important, something he should not ignore. But Isabella was still speaking and he was entranced by her storytelling. She had the gift of keeping the attention of her audience, that was for sure.

‘It was in Ambrose’s hall that I first met Brice,’ she was saying. ‘I had gone to stay with Galiena and Ambrose at Ryemarsh and Brice, being Ambrose’s friend and neighbour, had been invited to join us. We fell in love very swiftly.’ Again, the brief look at Brice, who still had his arm around her slim waist. She contrived to look very feminine, Josse thought, even dressed as she was in man’s clothing.

‘But I do not understand why you could not declare your love,’ he said, trying to turn his attention from Isabella and her femininity. ‘Will you now tell me at last?’

Isabella dropped her head and did not speak. Instead Brice said quietly, ‘It is on account of young Roger, Isabella’s son.’ He hesitated, as if speaking of this ongoing hurt pained him. ‘Roger does not like me.’ It was flat, bald, and clearly hurt Isabella as much as it did Brice, for she seemed to wince and looked at the ground. But Brice went on, ‘It is, as you will appreciate, a delicate matter because Roger’s poor father died when the boy was only two years old and in his imagination he has made up a detailed and, I am sure, accurate picture of the father he lost. Naturally he does not welcome the idea of another taking Nicholas’s place, usurping his position as Isabella’s husband and father of her children.’

Josse wanted to ask why not, or, at least, why Isabella could not persuade her son to adopt a more reasonable stance. He opened his mouth to speak but Isabella shot him a look and, almost imperceptibly, shook her head.

‘That is our sorry position, Josse,’ Brice concluded with an unconvincing attempt at a carefree laugh. Then, looking suddenly puzzled, he began, ‘It is strange, all this, because-’ But then he stopped himself. ‘Ah well, there it is. Until Roger’s hostility lessens a little, we are stuck with being secret lovers.’ He hugged Isabella and added quickly, ‘Do not think that I am complaining, Josse, for I would have Isabella’s love in any way that I could, so precious is she to me.’

Josse did not know what to say. The boy was nine, he thought, so presumably would soon be sent for training to some other household. Could not Isabella and Brice quietly be married then? But no, she surely would not agree to that; he had the feeling that Isabella de Burghay would not take Brice as her husband until such time as her son was fully reconciled to the match.

‘I am sorry for you,’ he said eventually. ‘It is, or so it would appear, an insoluble problem.’

‘It is,’ Brice said with sudden bitterness. Then, as if he regretted the upsurge of emotions that he could not control, he stepped away from Isabella, gave both her and Josse a brief bow and, hurrying out of the shelter, went across to the corral.

Into the tense silence that he left behind him, Isabella said, ‘There is more to this, Sir Josse. I have had to be-’ She paused as she thought. ‘I have had to be less than truthful with Brice, for what I entreat you to believe are very good reasons. But my sorrow is that, in making up this tale of Roger’s dislike, I harm and misrepresent both my lover and my son. Brice adores Roger and cannot understand why I keep telling him that Roger resents him, for Roger is also very fond of Brice and, as a child will, he shows it.’

‘Now I understand Brice’s comment about the strangeness of it all,’ Josse said. ‘You are telling him that Roger dislikes him, whereas his own senses tell him that the opposite is true.’

‘Yes!’ she agreed eagerly. ‘Brice asks me why Roger does not display the enmity that he really feels and I have to lie and say oh, because he is too well-mannered.’ Her face full of self-disgust, she added vehemently, ‘I hate myself, Josse.’

His sympathies engaged by her frankness, he said, ‘You cannot go on like this, my lady. If there is no true impediment to your marriage to Brice, then surely it should be celebrated as soon as possible.’

But she whispered, ‘Oh, Josse, there is an impediment.’

‘Can we not remove it?’ he whispered back.

She looked at him, affection in her face. ‘Thank you for the we ,’ she said. ‘It heartens me to have such a man as Sir Josse d’Acquin offering me his help. If that is what you are doing?’

The look in her greenish eyes — comprised of anxiety in case he wasn’t and a touch of prickly pride, as if to say, I don’t need you anyway! — was hard to bear. So he just said, a little gruffly, ‘Aye, lady. What aid I can give you is yours to command.’

And she said quietly, ‘Thank you.’

But Brice was coming back, and she said no more. Whatever this problem — this impediment — was, Josse decided, it was to be kept from Isabella’s lover.

Well, that decision was hers alone to make. Josse could only wait.

As the three of them settled down to sleep in the small shelter — the men lay a discreet distance from Isabella and Josse could not help but wonder if this observance of the proprieties were merely for his benefit — he tried to put a halt to the seething thoughts running wild in his mind.

He closed his eyes. No good — all he saw was Isabella’s face.

Think of Saltwych. Oh, hell’s fire, he remembered, he’d meant to ask Brice why the people from the settlement should have been out hunting for him. And he also must honour his promise to that poor girl imprisoned in the outhouse and try to find a way of helping her. Well, it would all have to wait until morning since Brice appeared to be asleep.

There was something else bothering him. Something that he had been worrying about when Isabella had told him about her friendship with Galiena.

Aye! That was it! Now that he had called it to mind, he could not see how he could have possibly forgotten.

Lying on his side, shoulder hunched into the folded cloak that he was using for a pillow, he thought about it again and still he could see no answer.

Aye, it was a poser all right. He yawned, feeling his eyelids grow heavy. Perhaps inspiration might come if he went to sleep on the problem …