Alys Clare: The Tavern in the Morning

He made himself wait a little longer.

As the light faded, there was a noise from above, from the direction of the castle. A mutter of voices, quickly cut off, and a long, low rumbling sound, terminating in a heavy thud. After the briefest of pauses, the rumbling noise was repeated.

And there was the faint sound of a horse’s hooves — unnaturally faint, surely? Could they have been muffled somehow? — coming down the narrower of the two tracks.

The one that passed right by Josse’s hiding place.

Pulling back deeper into the hazel grove, he put a quieting hand on Horace’s nose. The horse from the castle came closer, closer … Josse could hear a tiny jingle of harness.

He held his breath.

The horseman rode straight past.

It was a man, Josse was certain, even from the brief glimpse he’d had through the hazel trees. Heavily muffled in a voluminous cloak.

Waiting until the man was out of earshot, Josse then led Horace out from beneath the hazel trees, mounted, and rode off in pursuit.

* * *

It was difficult to judge a safe distance, where Josse would be able to keep his quarry in view yet not be detected. The poor light was both help and hindrance.

Josse followed the rider for a few miles, then, as he suddenly drew his horse to a halt, quickly pulled Horace into the shadow of an oak tree. The rider had dismounted and, as Josse watched, he bent down to remove covers of some sort — they looked like pieces of sacking — from his horse’s feet.

A departure at twilight, Josse thought, and one whose very sound is minimised.

Now who was going about — what had the Abbess’s word been? — nefarious business?

The rider entered a thick band of woodland, a part, Josse thought, of the great Wealden Forest, although, in this cloudy and starless night, he had lost his bearings. Riding on, he realised quite soon that he had also lost sight of the horseman.

Hellfire and damnation!

He urged Horace on, peering through the trees, trying to make out any movement among the winter-bare branches.

Impossible! He just couldn’t see anything.

Pulling Horace up, he sat and listened.

Not a sound.

After a while, he dismounted. The hard ground might yield a hoof print, you never knew. Crouching down, he took off one of his gloves and, fingers spread, felt around the forest floor for any sharp indentations indicative of recent passage.

It was hopeless. He couldn’t see anything now, and any vague thoughts he’d had of following the track, it being the most likely route taken by the horseman, faded. He couldn’t make out the track anymore.

He took a desultory pace or two forward, bending down to have one last try at seeking out a hoof print. Then suddenly Horace gave a whinny of alarm and, jerking his head back, pulled the rein out of Josse’s free hand. Just as Josse began to straighten up, he heard a thin whistling sound by his right ear.

In the same instant as alarm began to surge through him, the blow fell.

Intense pain, concentrated on a point in the middle of the back of his head. A vague awareness of the cold smell of the forest floor, and shards of ice from some small puddle pressing against his cheek.

Then nothing.

* * *

He woke to feel something tickling his nose. Something soft, but which smelt very strongly. What was that smell? Goat? No, sheep.

A piece of sheepskin.

Smelly it might be, but it was beautifully warm. Josse wriggled his toes. They were warm, too. Bliss! From somewhere nearby, he could hear the soft hiss and crackle of a fire. Fire. Sheepskin. Warmth. Ah! This was good. Better than standing in the cold below Tonbridge Castle, trying to keep Horace from pacing in circles and giving them away …

Horace!

Josse sat up.

His head seemed to explode and, all thoughts of Horace flying from his brain, he groaned aloud.

A voice said urgently, ‘Lie back!’

For a moment, Josse thought he was back with Helewise and that, by some strange mirror-imagery, she was now nursing him, persuading him to rest. Had he taken on her head pain? Not that he’d mind, not really, only it did seem weird …

No. He couldn’t be in Helewise’s little bed. Helewise would not lie beneath a cover that smelt like this one did.

Gathering himself for a huge effort, Josse opened his eyes.

By the greyish light of morning, he could see that he was lying in a shack, crudely made of wooden posts tied together with woven willow withies. Cold air was coming in through the many gaps in the walls. He seemed to be in a bed of bracken, and the stinking cover was indeed a sheepskin, not very well cured.

A movement caught his attention. Turning his head — very carefully — he saw a figure standing in the low doorway.

A small figure, this one. By his dress, a boy. Eight? Nine? Josse, despite being uncle to several young nephews, was not very good with children’s ages. As he watched, the boy came into the shack and knelt beside Josse. He held a cup and, raising Josse’s head with a gentle hand that was careful to avoid the wound, he held the rim of the cup to Josse’s lips.

Some sort of warm liquid, flavoured with something reminiscent of onions, trickled into Josse’s mouth.

Mmm. Not bad.

‘Mmm. Not bad,’ Josse said aloud.

‘It’s onion broth,’ the light voice said. ‘Anyway, it’s meant to be. I don’t do very much cooking. Still, it tasted all right to me.’

‘Possibly a tad more salt,’ Josse remarked.

‘Yes! But, actually, I haven’t got any salt.’

‘Oh.’

There was a silence. The lad settled himself on the floor of the shack, close by Josse, and then said, ‘I’m Ninian. Ninian de Lehon. I’m not supposed to tell people, but you won’t say I did, will you?’

Josse twisted round so that he could look up into the boy’s innocent eyes. They were bright blue. Rare, he thought, to see such an intensity of colour. Recalling the trusting question, he said, ‘Of course I won’t.’

‘I’m seven years and five months old,’ Ninian went on, ‘I like riding and I like making camps — this is my camp. It’s my latest one and my best one. I like hounds — I’m going to have a hound of my own when I’m ten — and I don’t like lessons.’

‘Nor do I,’ Josse agreed.

The boy giggled. ‘You’re too old for lessons.’

‘Aye. But I remember well enough I didn’t like them.’

‘My pony’s called Minstrel,’ the boy said, ‘and-’

Pony. Horse. Horace! The memory came back again. ‘Where’s Horace?’ Josse demanded.

‘Is he your horse? He’s fine,’ Ninian said. ‘I’ve put him in the shelter with Minstrel. I took off his saddle and put Minstrel’s spare cover on him, only it’s a bit small. I would have taken off his bridle, but I didn’t know how to tether him if I did, the shelter’s not very strong and he might have pushed his way out. So I didn’t.’

‘Thank you for looking after him,’ Josse said gravely.

‘That’s all right.’

Silence fell again. With the fingernail of one forefinger — a filthy nail, Josse observed, on an equally filthy hand — Ninian picked at a scab on the back of his opposite wrist. The scab came away, leaving behind a drop of blood, which the boy sucked up. Then he ate the scab.

‘Nice?’ enquired Josse.

Ninian put his head on one side. ‘It could do with a tad more salt.’ He laughed. ‘You didn’t go, eugh!’ he said. ‘My mother always does. She-’

Suddenly his expression changed. Leaping up, he said, ‘Got to go. I’ll come back, I promise.’ He bent down over Josse, and, spitting into his right hand, held it out. ‘But you’ve got to promise not to follow me,’ he said, anxiety in his voice.