Alys Clare - The Tavern in the Morning

It sounded overdramatic, but he had a good idea she spoke the truth. Just how would he set about finding that ancient manor deep in the forest, unless she gave him a clue? ‘Very well. You have my word.’

She nodded. ‘Thank you. Stay here by Mag’s house for a slow count of a hundred, then you may go.’

Mag’s house. Belatedly he remembered why he had come. ‘Joanna!’

She had turned away, but now spun round to face him again. ‘Yes?’

‘Who dug up the wolf’s bane and smuggled it into the pie? It was Mag, wasn’t it?’

But, her face shadowed suddenly, she didn’t answer except to remark, ‘You have been busy.’ Then, running out of the clearing, she shouted, ‘Start counting!’

He counted to a hundred extremely slowly. She might be counting, too — in fact, undoubtedly she would be — and he didn’t want her to think he was cheating. It mattered terribly that she trust him.

When the hundred had long been reached, he untied Horace and, leading him along in the deepening gloom of approaching night, headed back towards the Abbey.

Josse spent an uneasy night. His visit to the Abbess the previous evening had been brief; he had wanted to reassure her that he was safely back, but it had been too late for long discussions.

And, somehow — he was not quite sure why — he had been reluctant to talk to Abbess Helewise while his blood still sang from the after-effects of kissing Joanna de Courtenay.

When he finally got to sleep, it was to dream that the Abbess held Joanna’s knife in her strong hand and was using it to cut great branches of holly which she insisted were wolf’s bane. ‘It’s for my wedding garland,’ she kept saying …

It was quite a relief to wake up.

* * *

She sent for him in the morning. Now, with the residual unease from his dream to add to his disturbing memories of Joanna, he was even less comfortable in the Abbess’s presence.

‘What ails you, Sir Josse?’ she asked, noticing his fidgeting within moments of his entering her room.

‘I — er, nothing, Abbess.’ He managed a smile. ‘I’m just impatient to be doing something, I suppose.’

She nodded sagely. ‘I quite understand,’ she said. ‘Having offered Joanna de Courtenay your help, and feeling that she is so close to accepting it, you must itch to be with her again.’

Oh, how I do, Josse agreed silently. And not only in the way that you, dear lady, imagine. ‘Well, I do feel strongly that she is in danger all the while she is alone,’ he said.

The Abbess nodded again. ‘Off you go, then,’ she said, with an encouraging smile.

‘Where am I going?’

‘To find her, of course!’

But I undertook to give her time to think it over! Only then would she…’ He trailed off. Only then would she come to find him? But she had no idea where he was!

Half out of the door, he heard the Abbess say, ‘Good hunttng, Sir Josse.’

* * *

He retraced his footsteps to the place where the track up from Tonbridge entered the forest. Then, riding very slowly, he tried to recall how far into the woods he had been when Denys de Courtenay attacked him.

It was difficult to judge. Everything looked different in the daylight. And, besides, the last time he went that way he had been concentrating on trailing his quarry without being seen — something at which he had failed abysmally — and had taken scant notice of his surroundings.

But he must find the spot. Because he had reasoned that the child Ninian could only have moved a semi-conscious, well-built adult a very short way, which meant Ninian’s camp must be close to where Josse was assailed by de Courtenay.

And Ninian’s camp — if he ever managed to find it — was the one slim contact he had with Joanna. Ninian might be allowed to play there again, she herself might think to look for Josse there …

Riding on, realising with dismay how hopeless his search was, Josse’s spirits slowly sank.

What else could he do, though? Go back to Mag Hobson’s house? Would that be where Joanna would go looking for him?

Cursing himself for not having made a more reliable plan, Josse dismounted and, leading Horace, pushed on into the woods.

Presently he found himself walking along the top of a slight rise. Something about the place seemed familiar … Stopping, he stood still, listening, sensing the air.

And heard, from somewhere close at hand, the sound of running water.

Yes!

The boy had clearly had a source of fresh water near at hand; he had brought Josse onion broth which he had made himself. And later, Joanna had requested hot water with which to prepare Josse’s poultice.

Josse had been listening to the sound of the small bubbling stream, now he came to think of it, all the time he had lain in Ninian’s camp.

He looked down into the little vale that ran along below the track. Nothing to be seen there.

Pressing on, he rounded a bend and found that the track entered a sort of passage, formed by overhanging branches. It had been difficult to negotiate it in the darkness, he remembered, and …

… And it had been just after emerging from it, he recalled in a flash of memory, that he had dismounted to feel for hoof prints!

Moving forward eagerly now, he repeated what he had done before. I bent down about here, he thought, and again here. And over there, unless I’m much mistaken, is where I fell. With my cheek in that very puddle, now frozen over.

So far, so good.

He stood in the place where he had lain, staring all around him. There was a gentle slope in front of him, leading down into the valley where the stream ran. The track ran on fairly straight ahead, and, behind him, the ground rose quite steeply.

The only direction in which a seven-year-old boy could possibly have dragged a large adult was down into the valley.

Tethering Horace beside the track, Josse made his way cautiously down the slope.

He had to search for some time before he found Ninian’s camp, and then it was only some pieces of charred wood that gave the location away. Assuming them to be the remains of the boy’s last small fire, Josse began to search the immediate area, working outwards in concentric rings.

And, finally, he found what he was looking for.

Whoever had taught the lad about woodcraft had done a good job, Josse reflected; Ninian had located his secret hiding-place half under a ledge of sandstone, and concealed the opening behind a thorn bush. Josse recalled the thorn bush, once he had seen it again, from his awkward trips outside to relieve himself. But, had you not known there was a camp thereabouts, and consequently persevered with the search, you would never have found it.

As the euphoria of success quickly faded, he thought, so, what now? There was nobody here — had he really thought Ninian and Joanna would be sitting there beside a cheery campfire, huddled together in the boy’s smelly old sheepskin, just waiting for Josse to happen by? — and the camp gave no sign that anybody had been there recently.

I’ll wait, Josse thought. If she wants to find me, surely she’ll come here looking. Won’t she? I’ll give her until the light begins to fail. If she doesn’t come today, I’ll come back tomorrow. Or perhaps I’ll go to Mag Hobson’s house tomorrow.

Hating having to be in the position of awaiting someone else’s actions while he himself was powerless to act, he settled down to his vigil.

* * *

She didn’t come.

But, late in the day, Ninian did. Taking Josse completely by surprise, the boy suddenly burst out of the undergrowth that covered the sandstone ledge, jumping nimbly down and racing up to grasp hold of Josse’s hand.