Alys Clare - Ashes of the Elements

The messenger, appearing from the stables, rushed over to take Josse’s horse. Josse, straightening his tunic with a determined tug, followed Paul up the steps and into the house.

After the sunshine, the light within seemed very dim, and it took Josse a moment or two to make out clearly the scene that awaited him.

Then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw what they had called him to see.

Stretched out at the foot of the short flight of steps that led from the dais, where the dining table stood, down into the main area of the hall, lay a body.

A long body, dressed in the best, the rich colours of the fabrics glowing in the soft light. The corpse lay face down, and, from the blood staining the stone slabs beneath, it appeared that death had come as a result of some catastrophic injury to the front of the head.

Josse said quietly, ‘When did it happen?’

‘This morning,’ Paul replied mournfully. ‘Just this morning,’ he repeated, as if he could hardly believe his own words. ‘They hadn’t even sat down to breakfast.’

As Paul crossed himself and muttered a prayer, Josse knelt down and put his hand on the already-cold temple of Tobias Durand.

Moving his hand so that his palm cupped the forehead, gently he raised up the head. The abundant hair, glossy with health, fell forward over the dead face, and Josse had to push it aside before he could see the wound.

The damage was terrible. The wound, deep, and shaped almost like a pyramid, must, Josse thought, have been caused by a hard point of some sort … Looking down at where Tobias’s face had lain, he saw the edge of the bottom step. Newly constructed, presumably as part of the renovations which had been carried out following Petronilla and Tobias’s marriage, the step was sharp-edged and unworn, and the riser, tread and side came together to form the corner of a perfect right-angled cube.

‘The lady Petronilla said he tripped over his hound,’ Paul said, his voice breaking. ‘He — the master — was larking about, she said, jumping down from the dais to take her hand and lead her to table, and the hound, excited by all the fun and games, started barking, then it bounded up and tangled itself in the master’s legs.’ He sniffed, wiping his nose with his sleeve. ‘I heard voices, I heard the barking, then there was the sound of something heavy falling. Then there was this terrible silence.’ He sniffed again.

‘And you came hurrying into the hall and found him lying here?’ Josse asked gently.

‘Aye.’ Weeping openly now, Paul said, ‘My lady is heartbroken, sir. She sets such a store by him, I don’t know how she’ll manage without him, truly I don’t.’

And what of you? Josse thought. Whatever she decides to do, will the lady Petronilla still have need of her faithful manservant? Or will she, like so many widows above a certain age, decide that she has had enough of the world and retire behind the walls of some tranquil, welcoming convent?

Now was definitely not the time for such questions, even in the privacy of his thoughts. Judging that it was probably a good idea for Paul to have something to do, Josse began, ‘Paul, this death comes as the most dire shock, to you and the household, indeed, to us all.’ His eyes returned to the long, elegantly clad body, which, death having so recently come, still bore the outward semblance of life.

Death. So final. So terribly final.

Josse recovered himself, not without effort, and turned back to the grieving manservant. ‘The rest of the staff must be almost as upset as you,’ he said gently. ‘Could you, do you think, organise them into doing some sort of work?’ He cast round in his mind for a suitable task. ‘What does Tobias usually do in the afternoons?’

Paul scratched his head. ‘I don’t rightly know, sir. He’s often from home. He does take his hounds out sometimes, that I can tell you.’

‘Well, that’s one thing, then.’ Josse tried an encouraging smile. ‘And there’s his horse, presumably, needing exercise and then a good rub-down. And, even in this grief-stricken house, there will be need of food. Could you ask the household servants to prepare a meal?’

Paul drew himself up, as if, regretting his lapse, he was concerned to show that he had now resumed the mantle of his authority. ‘I shall do all that you ask, sir.’ With a formal little bow that briefly wrung Josse’s heart, Paul walked stiffly away.

Alone with the dead man, Josse felt all round the head for any sign of further injury. No. There was nothing.

But wait! What-

‘You have come, Sir Josse,’ said a quiet voice behind him. ‘I thank you for answering my summons.’

Spinning round, he saw Petronilla Durand, standing not two paces off and looking down at him.

She was already dressed in some flowing, dark mourning garment, which served to remove the last vestige of colour from her normally pale cheeks. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the lids swollen. Her headdress of starched white had been tightly fastened, and over it she wore a thin black veil. The flesh of her jaw and chin, in cruel contrast to the smooth linen of the barbette, was sagging and faintly yellow-looking, like that of a recently plucked chicken. Her thin-lipped mouth had taken on a deep downward curve, on either side of which were heavily marked semicircular creases which, Josse was almost sure, hadn’t been there before.

She had aged ten years.

Josse stood up, moved across to her and, kneeling once more, took her icy hand in his and kissed it. ‘My lady, my deepest condolences on your loss,’ he said. ‘If there is anything I can do, you have but to name it.’

She took her hand out of his grasp. Turning away so that he could no longer see the ruined face, she said, with a moan, ‘Bring him back!’

Josse moved to her side. Had she lost her wits? He said gently, ‘That I cannot do, lady.’

She shook her head. ‘I know, Sir Knight. I know.’ She sighed.

‘Console yourself with the knowledge that he can have felt little pain,’ Josse said. It wasn’t much, he knew, but grieving widows had been comforted by such remarks in the past; he had uttered the facile comment many times himself. ‘The wound is deep, and death would have been instantaneous.’ He couldn’t be sure — not as sure as he was pretending to be — but, if it helped her, then it scarcely seemed important.

‘Little pain,’ she repeated. There was a moment of silence, then she said, ‘How poorly you understand.’

Ah.

‘My lady?’ Josse said.

The pink-rimmed eyes turned to meet his. ‘This house has ever been filled with pain,’ she murmured. ‘And, for all that my husband lies dead, that pain will never cease.’

It was a strange thing for a widow to say. Did she mean that Tobias’s death had caused the pain? Perhaps, Josse thought, perplexed, but it hadn’t sounded that way. It had sounded as if Petronilla was referring to some deep distress, ongoing, something that had been a constant element in her life.

Trying to console her — the most hard-hearted man in the world would surely have wanted to bring comfort to that deadly pale, ravaged woman, with her destroyed face — Josse said, ‘Lady, there was joy in this house! Why, I saw with my own eyes the love that was between you and Tobias. Why do you speak of pain?’

As if Petronilla were regretting her words, she made a visible attempt to undermine them. With a ghastly smile that looked more dreadful on her face than her expression of misery, she said, ‘How right you are, Sir Josse! Indeed, Tobias and I were happy. The pain is in his-’ She glanced briefly at her husband’s body, screwed her eyes shut, and whispered, ‘The pain lies here, at our feet.’

Josse was very nearly convinced. He would have believed her, thought no more about her odd remark, had a certain line of thought not suddenly arisen in his mind. Looking carefully around to make sure that they were alone, he said quietly, ‘Petronilla, I believe that, when last we met, you may have told me not the truth, but what you would have liked to be the truth.’ No answer. ‘Lady?’ he prompted. ‘Would it not be a relief to unburden yourself?’