Alys Clare - The Tavern in the Morning

It made sense.

Relaxing, giving in to the drowsiness, he let himself drift off.

* * *

When next he awoke, it was almost totally dark. The hall was lit by a solitary candle, and someone — Joanna — had covered him warmly with a fur rug.

He was, he realised, terribly thirsty.

Opening parched lips — he experienced a dry, cracking sensation as he did so — he whispered, ‘I need to drink.’

Instantly she was there, swooping down beside him, one hand behind his head to support him while, with the other hand, she held a cup to his lips.

‘There — gently now! Not too much!’

The cool, refreshing water slid into his mouth. He swallowed, and she let him take another sip. Then she took the cup away.

‘More!’ he protested.

She was wiping his mouth with a cold, damp cloth, and he licked his lips to take in the moisture. ‘No more for now,’ she said. ‘Soon, another couple of sips.’

He relaxed against the cushions under his head. ‘Thank you.’

‘How do you feel?’

‘Sleepy.’ Then: ‘It’s dark. Is it night?’

‘Yes. Are you in pain?’

He did his inventory again. ‘My neck hurts.’

‘Where?’

He raised a hand that felt as heavy as a boulder and indicated.

‘I see.’

He sensed her move away. Quite soon she came back, and he felt something cool press against the throbbing wound in his neck. It stung at first, but then that stopped. And so did the pain.

‘You,’ he murmured, ‘are a goddess.’

‘No!’ she cried instantly. Then she muttered, ‘Ah, but he’s joking, not blaspheming.’ She said, in her normal tone, ‘It’s just something Mag taught me.’

‘An apprentice wise woman,’ he murmured. ‘Just what I thought.’

‘What’s that?’ She sounded wary.

‘Nothing, my love.’ He shifted his weight slightly, making himself more comfortable. ‘Just a thought I had earlier, when I woke up and realised my arm didn’t hurt.’

‘It is a deep wound,’ she said sombrely. ‘I’ve stitched it together, but we must watch carefully for any signs of infection.’

‘Stitched it together.’ He felt slightly sick again.

‘Yes. Don’t worry, Josse, Mag taught me well.’

‘Aye, I’m sure.’ He fought with the sickness which seemed determined to rise. To take his mind off thoughts of her handiwork, he asked, ‘Where is de Courtenay? He was lying just there, and now he isn’t.’

‘Don’t worry about that, either. He’s taken care of,’ she said soothingly.

‘You didn’t manage that, all on your own!’ He’d noticed she was strong, but not that strong, surely! De Courtenay had been no weakling, no lightweight.

‘No, no,’ she was saying. ‘Josse, I’m not the only one with loyal friends. Your Will, now, would, I warrant, do anything for you.’

‘Will?’

‘Yes. Will. He and I took de Courtenay outside — we wanted to act now, under cover of night — and Will is burying the body in a ditch.’

‘Burying him?’

‘He is dead. You realise that?’

‘Of course! But-’

But what? But we must send for the Sheriff, report the murder, describe the circumstances, hope that, by so doing, we convince them that it was sell-defence?

And supposing they don’t agree? What then?

Then I, Josse thought — for no part of him could even contemplate letting Joanna take the blame — then I would go on trial for murder. And I might very well hang.

But to bury de Courtenay in a New Winnowlands ditch! Not even to bury the corpse himself, but to have Will do it!

Could his conscience ever rest easy again, bearing the stain of all that?

His conscience was, he quickly realised, going to have to do its best. The alternative was unthinkable.

He said, ‘Joanna, would you fetch Will?’

‘Of course.’

She came back quite quickly — presumably Will’s ditch was not far distant — and Will, looming behind her, said, ‘Sir? I hope I’ve done as you’d wish, but I’ve put him right at the bottom of that long trench I was digging down at the end of the orchard, where we was worrying about the tendency for that corner to flood. He’s down deep, sir, won’t nobody find him, leastways, not if they don’t know where to look.’

Will’s earnest face touched Josse deeply. He reached out his hand, and, after a small hesitation. Will put out his too and grasped it.

‘Thank you, Will,’ Josse said. ‘It’s more than I have any right to ask of you, but thank you.’

‘You didn’t ask.’ Will grinned briefly. ‘You wasn’t in no state to ask aught of anybody, sir.’ He glanced at Joanna. ‘And I couldn’t stand by and see the young lady here struggling all by herself with such a task, now, could I?’

‘But, Will, if there should ever be investigations about him, if anybody should ask you directly what you knew…’

Will waited courteously to see if he were going to finish. When he didn’t, Will said, ‘If anybody should ask about a body, I should say, body? What body?’

‘De Courtenay’s body!’ Josse said, beginning to feel fuddled again.

And Will, adopting a convincing expression of bovine dullness, said, ‘Eh? Who? Never heard of him.’

‘I won’t forget this, Will,’ Josse said.

Will was getting up. ‘I know that, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a trench to finish backfilling.’

* * *

Alone again with Joanna, Josse said, ‘Is it safe? Do you think he’ll ever be found?’

She shrugged. ‘Who can say? But I doubt it. For one thing, Will has, as he said, buried him deep. For another, what is there to connect Denys de Courtenay with you or New Winnow-lands? I think we can safely discount the peasant who came here to summon you into Denys’s trap — it’s not likely that a wretch like him would speak out against a knight. What would be the point? Anything he said would be instantly dismissed.’

‘He wasn’t the only one,’ Josse murmured. ‘De Courtenay had another two outside with him.’

Joanna shrugged. ‘The same applies to them. Apart from them, who else but you and I know that Denys followed you here?’

‘Brother Saul,’ Josse murmured, ‘and the Abbess Helewise.’

‘Both of whom are your true and loving friends,’ she countered quickly, ‘and who, if you tell them the truth, will understand that this death is not on your conscience. That you fought bravely, but were overcome. That, holding out against threatened torture, your courage cannot be faulted.’ She paused, took a deep breath and said, ‘That another hand killed Denys de Courtenay.’

He said softly, ‘Never admit that again. Not to me, not to anybody.’

She stared deep into his eyes. And, after a pause, whispered, ‘No. I won’t.’

‘I will tell the Abbess,’ he announced presently, ‘that de Courtenay was stricken as we fought. That it was by pure mischance that he fell on to my blade-’

‘- which just happened to pierce his heart,’ she finished. There was a wry humour in her voice. ‘Josse, you won’t do that. Whatever explanation you choose to give, I should, if I might suggest, keep it brief.’

‘But she’ll want to know,’ he protested. ‘I’ll have to tell her something! ’

Joanna put her hand on his brow, smoothing out the frown. ‘Dear Josse,’ she murmured. ‘You can’t bear to think of lying to those you love, can you?’

‘I-’ He stopped. She was right, it was something he could not contemplate. Helewise’s face sprang into his mind, frowning as she worried over some matter he had taken to lay at her feet, willingly putting all her intelligence and her experience at his disposal. Which, considering everything else constantly clamouring for her attention, was a gift indeed.