Alys Clare - Ashes of the Elements

The sheriff waved a knife on whose point was speared a leg of chicken. ‘S’a free country,’ he said, spitting out small pieces of pale meat which landed, like minute snow flakes, on the front of the already stained tunic.

Josse tucked into his own dinner. Observing the sheriff’s progress as he did so, he waited until the man had finished, wiped his greasy mouth with an even greasier sleeve, burped, taken a draught of beer, said, ‘Ah! That’s better!’ and relaxed, leaning back against the wall.

Only then did Josse say, ‘I was visiting Hawkenlye Abbey recently. They tell me a man was killed, and that you, Sheriff, went to investigate?’

‘Aye?’ the sheriff said warily. Josse could almost hear the silent, and what’s it to you, stranger?

‘I’m known to the good people of the Hawkenlye community,’ Josse went on. ‘I hear there’s a suggestion of some weird forest tribe being involved in this death? They say that someone cleverly put two and two together, and virtually solved the crime there and then.’

His vanity thus appealed to, the sheriff became voluble. ‘Well, stands to reason,’ he said, leaning confidingly towards Josse. ‘See, the dead man was a poacher, a no-good fellow, I’ve had my problems with him before. Anyway, how I see it is that he goes into the forest after game, he comes across this group of Forest People, they don’t like him trespassing into what they see as their preserve, so they chuck a spear at him. Kill him stone dead.’

‘Very likely, very likely,’ Josse agreed. ‘Clever deduction, Sheriff! The only solution, really, isn’t it? Especially when you knew these Forest People were in the vicinity that night.’

‘Well…’ the sheriff began. Then, more aggressively, ‘That uppity Abbess woman, she didn’t believe me! Me, who’s lived round here man and boy, who’s known about the comings and goings of those wild folk all my life! Why, my old father used to talk of them, and his father before that!’ He picked a piece of meat out of a back tooth, spat it on the floor and said, ‘Women! Eh? Think they know it all!’

‘I am actually rather impressed with the Abbess Helewise,’ Josse remarked.

It was a mistake. The sheriff, anger darkening his face, said suspiciously, ‘She sent you here, didn’t she? Sent you to talk to me, try to trip me up!’ He put his face right against Josse’s. ‘Well, let me tell you, Sir Knight, whoever you are, that Harry Pelham doesn’t take kindly to folk making a fool of him!’

‘I’m not trying to do that, Sheriff Pelham.’ Josse got to his feet. ‘There’s no need,’ he added, ‘for anyone to make a fool of you.’

Harry Pelham, who seemed to be working out whether or not that last remark came to a compliment, sat with his mouth open as Josse shouldered his way out of the room.

* * *

Riding up the ridge towards Hawkenlye, Josse thought about the death of Hamm Robinson.

Not that it took him long; the facts were brief enough to be summed up in a single sentence. And, as Abbess Helewise had said, nobody seemed to have investigated the matter. Not at all.

I shall, Josse thought. I shall visit his family, his friends, if he had any. Visit the spot where he was found.

I shall think about this strange slaying. And, only when I have done so, shall I know if to accept this all-too-obvious, all-too-convenient conclusion.

* * *

Arriving at the Abbey, he was informed that the Abbess was in the infirmary, speaking with a man dying of the wasting sickness, whose last hours were being made even more agonising by his fear over what would become of his wife and his many children.

Josse went over to the infirmary. Standing just inside the door, left slightly ajar to let in the sweet-smelling air, he looked around him.

Yes. There was the Abbess, kneeling beside a poor, feeble-looking man who was clutching her hands tightly in his. So the man had a large family? Yes. Josse had observed before how often men suffering from the terrible blood-spitting were yet potent enough to father a whole tribe of offspring. Josse studied the Abbess’s intent face. She was speaking earnestly to the man, nodding as if in emphasis, every part of her clearly determined to get her message across.

Josse, unable to hear what she was saying, couldn’t tell what that message was. Assurance of God’s mercy? Hope for the afterlife? It occurred to him that, if he himself were dying and desperate, there was nobody he would rather have, both at his side and on it, than the Abbess Helewise.

A soft voice said, ‘May I help you, sir?’

Turning, he saw a young girl in nun’s black, over which she wore the white veil of the novice. She was quite tall, slimly built, and carried herself like a queen. The skin of her finely boned face was cream and smooth, and her eyes were deep blue. Despite the stark habit, despite the fact that her sacking apron was stained with something Josse didn’t want to dwell on, the girl was beautiful.

He knew who she was, or was almost sure that he did. ‘Sister Caliste?’

She nodded. ‘And you, I think, are Sir Josse d’Acquin.’

He returned her smile. No man still able to see could have done anything else. ‘Aye. I have come to speak to the Abbess, but I see she is busy.’

Caliste looked over to where Abbess Helewise was smoothing the brow of the dying man. ‘She is. She gives him such comfort, sir. She is telling him what will be done for his wife and his little ones.’

‘I would have thought she’d be praying with him.’

The great blue eyes turned to him. ‘That too. But I think that he will not concentrate on his prayers until his anxieties are assuaged.’

Such perception, Josse thought. And the girl had a way with words that suggested some education. ‘I will wait outside,’ he said.

‘I will keep you company, if you wish,’ the girl offered politely. ‘The Abbess likes our visitors to feel welcome.’

‘Most kind,’ Josse said. ‘If you’re sure I’m not keeping you from your work?’

Caliste smiled again, removing her dirty apron. ‘I have just finished one of my less agreeable duties. I was about to visit Sister Tiphaine, to request some herbs for Sister Euphemia’s medicines. If you would care to accompany me, sir?’

Outside, he fell into step beside the girl. Observing her covertly, he noticed that she had adopted the upright glide of a nun, that her hands, temporarily unoccupied, were automatically tucked into the opposite sleeves. Yes, she looks like a nun all right, he thought. But …

But?

He couldn’t define exactly what there was about Caliste. But, as Helewise had discovered before him, in truth, there was something …

‘It is more usual to go to Sister Tiphaine’s workroom the other way, passing the front gate,’ Caliste said, breaking the silence, ‘but I like to go this way. For one thing, I can have a passing look at the tympanum, over the door of the church — she withdrew a hand and pointed up at the great carving, depicting the Last Judgement — and, for another, this way you go through the herb garden.’

They walked on, past the door of the Lady Chapel, past the virgin sisters’ house, past the windowless, doorless walls of the sinister little building which, Josse knew, was the Abbey’s leper house. Sister Caliste, he noticed, crossed herself as they passed. He did the same.

Then, around the corner, sheltered against the south wall of the Abbey, they came to the herb garden.

The month was June, and many of the plants were in full leaf. Stopping, Josse took a deep breath, and the combined aromas of rosemary, sage, mint, lavender, and a dozen other plants whose names he did not know, filled his head. He breathed deeply again, and again, then, feeling dizzy, abruptly he stopped.