Alys Clare - The Tavern in the Morning

Soon she came back. ‘ They’re all right,’ she said. ‘Noses in the manger, happy as jesters. Now, let’s see about you.’

Now he needed her support. She shoved her left shoulder under his right arm, bracing his back with her left hand, and, slowly and steadily, got him out of the barn — pausing to secure the doors — and across what seemed to be a paved courtyard. In front of them loomed the bulk of a house. Quite small, square in shape, enclosed at the back by tall trees.

She helped him up a flight of steps to the entrance to the main room, situated over an undercroft. She opened the heavy wooden door and warmth and candlelight flooded out to embrace them. She ushered him quickly inside and Ninian, who had sprung up from where he had been sprawling beside the fire, rushed to close and bar the door behind them.

‘Hello.’ Josse gave the boy a grin, which the boy returned.

‘Hello, Sir Josse d’Acquin.’ The boy glanced at the woman. ‘You can tell her you know what my name is,’ he added, ‘it’s the others that-’

‘Ninian!’ the woman said warningly.

The boy gave a strangely adult shrug.

The woman was putting cushions on to a thin palliasse placed in front of the wide hearth. ‘Come, lie down,’ she ordered Josse, ‘it’s not much, but it’s better than my son’s camp. Oh!’ She straightened up, looking aghast at Josse.

‘I already knew,’ he said gently, ‘despite your protestations to the contrary. Or, rather, I guessed.’ He longed to ask why it was so important to pretend Ninian wasn’t her son, but everything about her spoke of someone who was fiercely resisting others’ curiosity. Others’ attentions.

She would have much preferred to leave me out in the woods, he thought as he lay down. Only her good Christian heart made her bring me here, out of the cold.

As if she knew what he was thinking, she said, ‘I think you would have suffered sorely out there tonight. I did not want Ninian to be out at his camp, where he might have tended you and kept the fire in. He cannot play there anymore, not now that I know-’

That you know someone is looking for you? he wondered. No — more than that. You’d have been aware of that all along. But now you have to accept that he’s closing in.

He. Who is he?

Is it — can it be — who I think it is?

The woman brought him food — a hot, thick soup with some pieces of chicken in it and some sort of mushy pulses, accompanied by bread — and gave him a very welcome mug of mulled wine. Then she presented him with another little cupful of water.

He pushed it firmly away. ‘No, lady.’

She met his eyes. She didn’t try to deny that the water was drugged; she merely said, ‘You need to sleep.’

‘I shall sleep,’ he assured her. ‘Ex-soldiers have the knack of sleeping to order. Didn’t you know?’ She answered his smile with a faint quirk of her lips. ‘I need to wake up to order as well,’ he added, his voice too low for Ninian to hear. ‘Don’t I?’

Her eyes widened as she understood. ‘Oh, no! Don’t even think that!’

‘Face the truth!’ he hissed. ‘He’s close. Isn’t he?’

He had half hoped that if he pretended to know more than he did, she would lower her guard and tell him everything.

She didn’t.

Instead she raised her chin, stared him out and said haughtily, ‘You have not the least idea what you are talking about, and you won’t trick me into telling you. I’m no fool, Sir Josse.’

‘I didn’t think you were,’ he said. Then, for she was angry now and he knew the moment for confidences was past, he added, ‘I intend to sleep until first light. Then I shall leave. I suggest you escort me to some place where I can find my bearings. I will allow you to blindfold me again, if you wish it.’

‘I do,’ she said frostily. Turning away, she said, ‘Until first light. Come, Ninian.’

The boy gave Josse a wistful look — you’re here, and I’m so glad, but you’ve got to be going again! it seemed to say — and then meekly fell into step behind his mother. They disappeared up a narrow staircase which had been concealed behind a hanging in one corner of the room, and for a short time he heard their footsteps overhead.

Soon, the whole house was quiet.

As he had promised, Josse lay down his head and went to sleep.

* * *

In the morning, he was awake before her.

He made his way outside, where he found a water butt. The top couple of inches of water were frozen solid, and he had to break the ice with a stone. He filled a bowl, and took it in to heat it over the fire, which he had fed on waking, tickling it into a good blaze.

He had brought his small saddlebag in from the barn, and now, for the first time in three days, he enjoyed the luxury of a wash and a shave. Before dressing again, he brushed down his tunic as best he could. He gave his boots a shine, and tried to get some of the forest floor vegetation out of his hair. But it was difficult to do so without disturbing the poultice and its linen tie, and he soon gave up.

By the time the woman came down, he felt almost presentable.

‘You look better,’ she said, looking him over.

‘I feel better.’

‘You should keep the poultice in place for another day or two. But it has probably done its work already.’

‘I’m grateful.’

‘No need to be.’

They shared a light breakfast, then she stood up, raising her eyebrows at him.

‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

They went out to the barn, and he tacked up Horace while she saw to the pony. Why not her own horse? he wondered, if that was what the other animal was. Too conspicuous? Better to ride her son’s sturdy pony? There was no way of knowing for sure. He stood before her for the blindfold, and, once he had mounted, she secured his wrists as she had done before.

‘I’ll go ahead,’ she said. ‘I’ve attached a leading rein.’ He didn’t answer. There didn’t seem anything to say.

* * *

It was a far longer ride this time. Trying to work out their direction from the way the sun’s rays were falling on his shoulders — not easy, with a weak winter sun — he had the distinct impression she was taking them round in circles.

Finally, she drew rein. ‘This will do,’ she said.

He heard her dismount and approach. His wrists untied, he reached up and took off the blindfold, wordlessly handing it to her.

Then he looked around to see where they were.

He didn’t recognise the spot.

She said, ‘The road down to Tonbridge is half a mile along the track, in that direction.’ She waved an arm. ‘You can get your bearings there?’

‘Aye.’

He looked at her, then looked away. He wanted very much to say something — something about being there to help her, whatever her trouble was, if she’d only swallow her pride and let him. Something about the importance to her of a true friend. The friend that he could be.

But her chin was in the air again, and instead of offering his loyalty he almost said, do it your way, then! But don’t come crying to me if it all goes to the bad!

He knew she wouldn’t go until he was out of sight, in case he was watching to see which direction she took. So, with the briefest of nods, he kicked Horace and set off down the track.

She called, ‘Sir Josse!’

He stopped, turning round in the saddle to look at her. ‘What is it?’

For a moment, her despair and her need were naked in her face. ‘I-’ she began. Then, with a visible effort, violently she shook her head. ‘Nothing. Farewell.’

‘Farewell, lady.’

He turned back to face out along the track once more. This time, he encouraged Horace into a canter and, when once more he looked round, he had left her behind and out of sight.