Alys Clare - Faithful Dead

‘His death was inscribed on the fabric of the past, present and future, as are those of us all,’ Dee whispered. ‘It is but as a book, to we who learn how to read it. Your father’s time came, and he was taken.’

‘Aye,’ breathed Josse. He felt as if he were dreaming, yet, at the same time, still awake. Awake sufficiently, anyway, to be aware of the smell of the herbs on the fire. The soft, comfortable padding of the stool beneath his buttocks.

Dee’s strange voice.

‘Your father’s death is the reason,’ Dee continued. ‘The reason why I tell you that the stranger must come to you.’

‘Nobody has come!’ Josse protested; the effort of speech was hard, and he felt as if he were pushing his words out through thick, muffling cloth.

Dee, appearing briefly surprised — was he not used to people answering him back when he held them in thrall? — made a smoothing, soothing gesture with his right hand. It wore, Josse noticed, a large, pale blue-green stone; in his head a distant voice said, aquamarine. The Seer’s stone .

And the right hand, he recalled as if from nowhere, was the power hand. .

Either the hand gesture or the ring — or both — worked on Josse as, presumably, Dee had intended. Mute, receptive, he sat waiting for what would happen next.

‘I say again,’ Dee murmured, ‘the stranger will come to you. Possibly not he himself — the picture is unclear — but one who comes from him.’

‘But-’ It was no use; whatever skill or power Dee was using was now too strong for Josse to fight.

‘He will come,’ Dee said, waving his hand again. ‘Only wait, and he will come.’

Josse felt his eyelids grow heavy. His head went down, chin tucked into his chest, and he saw darkness bloom before him. Then — he had no idea how long afterwards — he gave a sudden snort-like snore, and woke himself up.

He sat up straight, rubbed his eyes and stared at Dee, who was watching him with amused eyes.

‘The herbs on my fire aid my breathing,’ Dee said, in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘But, to those unused to their smoke, they can induce sleep. I apologise, Sir Josse, for having caused you the embarrassment of nodding off when your intention was to cheer a sick man by your visit.’

Josse, horribly confused, said, ‘Aye. No. Sorry, sir.’ Standing up, he managed to knock the stool over, and he tripped up over one of its legs as he lunged for the door. ‘Goodbye, Magister,’ he added.

‘Farewell, Josse d’Acquin! Go in safety!’

Dee’s valediction was — there was no mistaking it — accompanied by rich, happy, slightly mocking laughter.

Josse was back at Hawkenlye long before the Abbess would have expected. As Sister Ursel brought her the news of his return, she was filled with a sense of foreboding; whatever he had found out, she thought, it could surely not have been the identity of the body in the new grave.

It was late — too late for an audience, for the nuns were retiring for the night — so Helewise sent word back to Josse that she was glad for his safe return, wished him sound sleep and a restful night, and that she would see him in the morning.

The fact that, all night, she burned with anxiety to know what he had found out was, she told herself firmly, another small penance for the sin of having neglected a dead body for six weeks.

She received Josse after Tierce. She had been awake for hours, but word came from the Vale that Josse slept on, and she ordered that he should not be disturbed. When, at last, he stood before her, she could tell from his face that his mission had not achieved the result they had both hoped for.

‘The Prince had gone,’ he told her, after carefully closing the door against eavesdroppers, ‘but one of his party remained behind. He’s sick in bed with a bad cold. He told me that Galbertius Sidonius is not a young man.’

‘Oh. I see.’ It was only when she knew for certain that the dead man had not just been tentatively identified that she realised how much she longed to give him a name. ‘There is no doubt?’

‘Absolutely none. The Magister — that’s what they all call him, although his name is John Dee — is as sharp as they come. We can take his word for it, my lady.’

‘Oh.’ She could not think of anything else to say.

Josse stood before her, brows knotted in a ferocious frown of concentration. ‘I wish I could have come back with something positive,’ he muttered, ‘instead of presenting us with another blank stone wall. I-’

He was interrupted by a soft tap-tapping on the door. Helewise, startled, said, ‘come in!’ and, as the door was slowly opened, the lined, old face of Brother Firmin appeared in the gap like a tortoise poking its head out of its shell.

‘My lady Abbess,’ the old monk said, making a low and very formal reverence.

‘Brother Firmin,’ she replied. She restrained her impatience as he went through his usual litany of opening remarks — was she well? what a fine day it was, thank the Good Lord; how gracious it was of her to spare him a moment of her precious time, and he would be brief, he promised her.

When he had finished, she said, forcing a smile, ‘What can I do for you, Brother Firmin?’

‘Eh? Oh, well, it’s not really me so much as him.’ He jerked his head towards the half-open door. ‘May I tell him to step into your presence, my lady Abbess?’

‘Yes, please do.’

She did not have to wonder for long who ‘him’ might be; as soon as the old monk began to say, ‘You can come in, Brother Augustus,’ he was there before her table, and his bow was as deep and reverential as even Brother Firmin could have wished.

‘Brother Augustus.’ She could not keep the affection out of her voice. ‘You wished to speak to me?’

‘Aye. There’s something I’ve thought of.’ The young man shot a swift and apprehensive glance at Brother Firmin, who was watching him with a slightly accusing expression, as if he felt the youth should not be wasting his Abbess’s time. ‘I’ve been thinking, and-’

Helewise held up her hand and, instantly, Augustus fell silent. She turned to the old monk. ‘Brother Firmin, I know that you love to pray in the Abbey church by yourself but that you rarely have the chance, so busy are you down in the Vale. But I believe there are few people within at present; would you care to take this opportunity for some private worship?’

The old man’s eyes lit up, and she had a stab of self-reproof at her duplicity. ‘May I really?’ he whispered. She nodded. With another deep reverence, he was gone.

She turned back to Augustus, who was smiling his gratitude. ‘Now, Brother Augustus,’ she said. ‘Will it be easier to tell just Sir Josse here and myself?’

‘Aye, and thank you.’ He shot Josse a friendly grin then, taking a deep breath, said, ‘I woke early this morning, like you do when something’s niggling at you. I lay there, trying to think of nothing in particular and let the thought come to me in its own time, and eventually it did.’ He met her eyes and said, ‘Sorry. I’m being as long-winded as my dear esteemed Brother Firmin. Oh! Sorry!’ He blushed, apparently instantly ashamed of the mild criticism.

‘It’s all right, Augustus,’ Helewise said. ‘Please, go on.’

‘It just came to me, all of a sudden, and I thought, why are we all thinking the dead man was killed in the Vale? Is it not possible that the murder was done somewhere else, the body stripped and all, and then the killer put him in the bracken? I mean, if it was at night, and the murderer didn’t know the shrine and the shelter and that were there, he might have believed he was concealing the poor dead soul in a hiding place right out in the wilds, where he would never be found.’