Alys Clare - The Tavern in the Morning

* * *

Leading Horace, Josse fell into step beside the man called Hugh.

‘Did you know her yourself?’ he said quietly; no need for the Sheriff to know he was asking questions.

‘Old Mag? No, can’t say as I did.’

‘But your mother did, presumably.’ The man didn’t answer. ‘Did she visit her aunt? Your mother, I mean.’

‘Might have done.’

Josse wondered why the man was being so wary. Then, thinking back to what he had already been told — and to that neat herb garden — he said, ‘She was a wise woman. Wasn’t she?’

Hugh shot him a swift look. He muttered, ‘Aye.’

‘That’s why she lived out here all alone,’ Josse went on, thinking out loud. ‘Why people preferred to keep her at arm’s length.’

‘She were good,’ Hugh supplied, as if belatedly prompted to defend his dead relative’s reputation. ‘Fixed things for lots of folk, though they didn’t like to say so. Me, I preferred to keep right out of it.’

Superstition, Josse thought. No, folks wouldn’t want it widely known that they had consulted a wise woman. You never knew, and it was best to be on the safe side where meddling in that sort of thing was concerned.

‘I understand,’ Josse said. ‘And many people wouldn’t want it known that their mother’s aunt was a wise woman.’

Hugh seemed to be battling with some inner conflict. ‘Makes me angry,’ he finally admitted. ‘They jeer at her and say she’s an old witch, but who is it they go running to after nightfall when they want a love potion or a wart charm? Ain’t right.’

‘It’s not,’ Josse agreed. ‘But it’s human nature, I’m afraid, Hugh.’

‘She learned her craft young, they do say,’ Hugh volunteered, As if, having admitted to the fact of his mother’s aunt’s oddness, there was no further barrier to discussing her, he went on, ‘When she were still at the big house, she were trained by an older woman, her what did the heavy washing. That’s the way of it, that an older one passes on the secrets to a young ‘un. Or so they do say.’

‘Aye, so I’ve heard,’ Josse agreed. ‘At the big house, you say? What, she lived in a house of her own?’ It didn’t seem very likely.

‘No, bless you!’ Hugh gave a faint laugh. ‘She were housekeeper. Well, that’s a deal too grand, it were only a small household. But she were their main indoor servant, that’s for sure.’

‘Whose?’

Hugh’s face creased into a frown of concentration. ‘I don’t know as I ever knew their name,’ he admitted. ‘They was old, an old man and an old woman. They lived alone, mostly, only they sometimes had folks visiting. Kin, I reckon. I know that for a fact because she — Mag — would get my mam in to help her with the cooking and that, when the visitors came.’

‘I see.’ Barely daring to ask the question, Josse said, ‘And you don’t know if they’re still there? The old couple?’

‘Lord, no, they’m dead.’ A reflective pause. ‘House’d be empty now, I reckon. Mag, she used to keep an eye on the place. Never could fathom why — maybe in case some long-lost relation came back to claim it one day. Or maybe because Mag weren’t a woman to let any place go to rack and ruin, not if she could help it.’ He sighed.

They walked in silence for some time. Josse, digesting what he had just been told and thinking furiously, was beginning to draw some tentative conclusions when Hugh said, ‘Do you reckon it were how the Sheriff says? An accident, like?’

And Josse said, ‘No, Hugh. I’m quite certain it wasn’t.’

‘Will you see her right?’ It was a whisper that Josse barely heard.

But he recognised the question for what it was. It was a man’s conscience speaking, a man who, stirred to pity by the brutal death of a relative — admittedly a distant one whom he usually preferred to forget about — wanted justice to be done.

‘Yes, Hugh,’ Josse whispered back. ‘I promise that, if it’s in my power, I will.’

‘… and I can’t help but think that it was Mag Hobson whom Joanna de Courtenay — Joanna de Lehon — came here to find,’ Josse concluded, having detailed his theory to Abbess Helewise for the last half hour.

‘She being the woman friend of whom Denys de Courtenay spoke? But — ’ Helewise had her doubts, although, at first, she could not put a finger on them.

‘But?’

She thought back to that interview with de Courtenay. What had he said about the woman Joanna might be seeking? Precious little, now she came to think about it. She has a friend hereabouts. A woman. I’m not sure where she lives.

Was there anything in those few words to imply the woman must be a noblewoman, someone from the same station of life as Joanna de Courtenay? No. There wasn’t. The description could equally well apply to a wise woman living out in the forest, although quite how Joanna would have come to know such a person was less easy to fathom …

Josse, she realised, was waiting. ‘There isn’t a but. You are right, Sir Josse. Poor Mag Hobson could well be Joanna’s friend.’

‘The Sheriff’s man, Hugh, told me Mag used to work for an elderly couple in some modest manor house,’ Josse said eagerly, ‘so it seems to me that-’

‘That they — the old people — were kin to Joanna, and that she met Mag, who was their servant, while staying with them. Yes, yes, it does appear to fit. Yet why did de Courtenay not mention the old couple?’

‘Hm.’ Josse’s heavy brows descended into a scowl. ‘Her mother’s kin, do you think? Distantly related, so that de Courtenay has never come to hear of their existence?’

‘No, no,’ Helewise protested, ‘he knows — or so we presume — of her connection with Mag Hobson. Surely he must also be aware of how she came to know her.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Sir Josse, what do you think of this?’ She paused, putting her thoughts in order.

Yes.

‘It is significant,’ she said carefully, ‘that, during my interview with Denys de Courtenay, he did his best not to reveal anything he could avoid telling me. For instance, he made only the briefest mention of Joanna’s woman friend, revealing neither her name and her whereabouts, nor her occupation. Looking back, it seems to me that he only mentioned a friend in the area at all as a reason for his looking for Joanna around here.’

‘Ye-es,’ Josse said slowly.

Helewise leaned forward eagerly. ‘Don’t you see? He didn’t mention the elderly couple because he didn’t need to! Having told me about the woman friend, that was enough! So the fact that he didn’t mention the old people doesn’t for one moment mean he didn’t know about them, even though his knowledge did not extend to the details of where they lived!’ She sat back, elated.

‘You reason well, Abbess Helewise,’ Josse said.

‘Ah, but I do have the advantage of having spoken to Denys de Courtenay face to face,’ Helewise said modestly. ‘Not that it is an experience I would commend to you.’

‘No, indeed.’ The deep frown had descended again. ‘Especially now that we know what he’s capable of.’

Helewise felt a chill creeping over her flesh. ‘You really believe it was he who attacked and murdered that poor old woman?’

‘I do.’

‘But, Sir Josse, should we be accusing him, even in the privacy of this room, before he has had a chance to speak up for himself? For us to accuse, judge and condemn is surely going too far!’

‘Abbess, think it through!’ Josse protested. ‘De Courtenay learns that his niece has fled her marital home, has come over the Channel to England, where, instead of seeking out her sole male relative and putting herself under his protection, she heads off into the wilderness of the great forest to try to find some old wise woman she once knew, when she used to stay with her mother’s family. In a house whose whereabouts de Courtnay doesn’t know. Now doesn’t that alone make you suspect that de Courtenay had something planned for Joanna that she knew she wouldn’t like?’