Alys Clare - Faithful Dead

He stood deep in thought but, try as he might, he could not bring to mind the face, features or demeanour of any of the peasants who lived, worked and, eventually, would die on his manor.

It was a sobering realisation. And one which, he felt, reflected badly on him. What would his friend the Abbess Helewise say? She, he was quite sure, knew every one of her Hawkenlye nuns, aye, and the monks too; their names, what work they did, their strengths and weaknesses, their likes and dislikes. What would the Abbess say to a man who knew absolutely nothing about the people on whom his very existence depended?

Making up his mind, Josse clapped a hand across Will’s shoulder. ‘We will do this task together,’ he announced. ‘Tomorrow we shall ride out all around the manor, and you shall tell me all that you can of the people who inhabit it. We shall try to find you a young apprentice. It is time, Will.’ He gave his manservant another bracing slap. ‘It is time.’

Wrenching his startled face away from his rapt contemplation of his master with what seemed like quite an effort, Will said, with a slight but quite definite shake of his head, ‘I’ll go and find that cow.’

The next day, however, brought its own problems, and Josse’s fine resolve had to be put aside.

He was finishing an early midday meal — Ella had produced a dish of bream with a piquant, mustard-flavoured sauce, and it had crossed his mind to wonder if the mustard had been left over from Will’s poultice — when there came the sound of horses from outside on the road.

Many horses; from the commotion, perhaps as many as twelve or fifteen, even twenty. .

A single horseman passing Josse’s gates was a common enough occurrence. A hunting party of four or five was rarer. A group of fifteen or more was so rare as to be all but unheard of.

Pushing himself away from the table and wiping his chin on his sleeve, Josse flew across the hall, out of the door, leapt down the steps and ran across the courtyard. Despite his natural optimism, a small part of his brain was thinking, this is highly unusual. And the unusual tends to mean trouble. .

He maintained the presence of mind to slow his pace to a steady, casual walk before he came into the sight of whoever was outside; it would hardly be the right image for the lord of the manor to appear at a gallop, red-faced and flustered.

He was very glad of his foresight. For, as he approached the gates and stepped outside on to the rough track, he came face to face with a large group of men dressed to a degree of finery that could only mean one thing: that they were courtiers. To a man they were well mounted, their horses groomed to a shine and expensively caparisoned.

Before he could utter the formal words of greeting and welcome — before he had time to wonder what such a party was doing out there in the depths of the quiet countryside — a man in a tunic of crimson velvet kicked his mount forward. As he swept off his cap — he had stuck a cockade of pheasant’s feathers in it for decoration — he cried, ‘Have I the pleasure of addressing Sir Josse d’Acquin, lord of New Winnowlands in the county of Kent?’

‘Aye, sir, you have.’ Josse made a perfunctory bow. ‘May I know who has sought me out?’

The man laughed merrily, and others around him joined in. ‘I am William d’Arbret, sir knight, but it is not I but another who seeks you.’

With another dramatic flourish of his hat — this time the feathers caught against the brow of a nearby horse, who snorted and, but for his rider’s quick reactions and good horsemanship, would have bucked — he swept his arm up in a wide arc. As he did so, he reined his horse backwards and out of the way to reveal, in the midst of the group behind him, a strongly built man with dark auburn hair that curled thickly around his elaborately decorated black cap. He was in his mid-twenties, he sat a magnificent chestnut gelding with graceful ease and, as his blue eyes fell on Josse, an expression of amusement crossed his handsome face, as if he were about to burst into laughter at some private joke.

Still recognisable, after not far short of twenty years, was someone Josse had last seen when he was a lad of seven.

Despite what he had heard in the intervening years to suggest that the witty little lad he had liked so well had gone to the bad, Josse had always tried to reserve his judgement. It had not been easy; he himself had had occasion to refer to the man as a calculating bastard, although he had known full well that the latter epithet was inaccurate.

But now, coming face to face with him again after all that time, it was the most natural thing to fall to one knee in the dusty track, bow his head and say to Prince John, ‘Sire, I bid you heartfelt welcome. My house is at your disposal, as am I, your servant.’

High above him on the chestnut horse, Prince John’s amusement finally gained expression. His head still bowed, Josse heard that laugh he remembered so well — although now it was in the register of a man and not a little boy — and there was a rustle of costly fabric as John swung back his cloak and dismounted. Then Josse felt hands fall heavily on to his shoulders, he was hauled to his feet and Prince John was slapping him — hard — on the back.

Standing still to receive these attentions, Josse took in the Prince’s stature, revealed more fully now that he had dismounted and was on his feet. Yes, he was broad and not overly tall, like his late elder brother, Geoffrey, whom he also resembled in his features and his colouring. He clearly had extravagant tastes; his garments were beautifully cut and of the most expensive cloth, and the wide bands of embroidery at the neck and cuffs of his over-gown shone like spring flowers with the dew on them. He wore a considerable amount of gold jewellery. There was, Josse observed, a particularly clean look about him, as if he changed his linen frequently and enjoyed the refreshing comforts of a regular bath.

As if aware of Josse’s discreet scrutiny, the Prince gave him a final, even harder, slap across the shoulders. Then, moving round so that the two of them stood face to face, the bright, intelligent eyes looked up into Josse’s and Prince John said, ‘I like what I see, old friend. How say you?’

Sharp as ever, Josse thought, dropping his eyes. The man was fulfilling the promise of the child. ‘It is a rare pleasure to meet again someone whom I remember so well,’ he murmured, still staring at the ground; Prince John, he noticed, wore boots of soft leather, in a chestnut shade that almost exactly matched his horse. Mind working rapidly as he tried to recall just what foodstuffs and drink Ella might have stored away in her larder, he said cautiously, ‘Will the company take refreshments with me, Sire?’

The laugh came again. ‘No, Josse, the company will not,’ Prince John said. ‘We rest with old Sir Henry of Newenden, and he rushes forward to proffer food every time we so much as drop our backsides for an instant on the nearest bench. The silly old fool has stuffed us to bursting.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the courtiers, raising an ironic eyebrow. ‘He has a pretty young wife, however.’

The courtiers tittered at the witticism; recalling another rumour about John, Josse wondered if Sir Henry’s pretty young wife had been enticed into the Prince’s bed and decided that she probably had.

Straightening up — his neck was beginning to ache from standing in such an unnatural position — Josse said tentatively, ‘Then what service may-’

‘Ah, yes,’ John interrupted, ‘to business, yes. William!’

The man with the pheasant feather cockade slipped from his horse, swept off his hat and came to stand, head bowed, by his Prince. John made a gesture as if he were flicking away a persistent fly, which seemed to have more meaning for William d’Arbret than it had for Josse, for he reached inside his tunic and drew out a roll of parchment, handing it to Prince John. The Prince took it without a word.