Alys Clare: Ashes of the Elements

He held up his hand. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Lady, let it be.’

For a moment, the grief, the shock and the horror left her face, and she looked as she must have done long ago, before the doomed love for Tobias had awakened in her. She whispered, ‘Oh, Sir Josse. There is still some kindness in this world.’

Leaning forward, she put a light kiss on Josse’s cheek.

Then, straight-backed and dignified, she turned, crossed the hall and disappeared through the doorway that led to her chamber.

* * *

He stood in the hall for a long time after she had gone, staring down at Tobias.

Then, abruptly, he, too, left.

Going out into the soft, late sunshine of evening, he called for Paul, and, when he arrived at the foot of the steps, told him that Tobias had died as a result of his fall down the steps, and that, in the summer heat, Paul should now make all haste to have the body coffined and buried.

Advanced though the hour was, Josse decided to set out for Hawkenlye. He was tired, hungry, and faced a long ride, but that, he thought, was preferable to the alternative.

He would have endured far worse, in order to escape from the corpse and the desolate widow he had just left behind.

Hawkenlye Abbey was in total darkness when Josse got back, which, given the hour, was hardly surprising. Heading down into the vale, he unsaddled Hector, put a hobble on him to stop him roaming far, then, slapping the horse’s rump, turned him out into the sweet grass of the little valley.

Then he made straight for the bed-roll he had abandoned in such a rush all those hours before. Wrestling around till he’d got himself comfortable, he closed his eyes and was soon deeply asleep.

* * *

Brother Saul woke him with bread, a slice of salty cheese and a mug of weak ale.

‘You were late back last night, Sir Josse,’ he said as Josse ate.

‘Aye.’

‘I have taken your horse up to the Abbey stables,’ Saul went on, ‘where Sister Martha is again tending to his every whim.’

Josse grinned. ‘A fine touch with horses, that woman.’

‘And with a particular fondness for yours,’ Saul agreed.

‘Thank you, Saul,’ Josse added, ‘both for seeing to old Horace and for bringing me my breakfast.’

Saul bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Sir Josse, I also bring a message from the Abbess, who says that, when you are ready, would you please-’

‘-go and see her,’ Josse finished, getting up and brushing food crumbs off himself. ‘Aye, Saul, that I will.’

He found the Abbess seated at the table in her room. She looked up at him, compassion in her face. ‘You look tired,’ she observed.

‘I’ll do,’ he replied, grinning. Then, straightening his face, he told her what had happened in the Durand hall.

‘Tobias dead!’ she whispered. ‘By such a mishap!’

He had been trying to decide all the way home the previous night if he would tell her the truth. Now, looking down at her, this wise, understanding woman, with whom he had shared so much, he decided he couldn’t have her go on believing a lie.

So he told her how Tobias Durand had died.

She made no comment. He felt strangely robbed, as if he had been expecting her affirmation that, in not revealing Petronilla’s part in the death, he had acted right.

As if, perhaps, he had needed that affirmation.

But, after a silence that he, for one, was beginning to find uncomfortable, she said, ‘It just goes to show, Sir Josse, does it not, how unwise it is to have unruly hounds free to trip a man at the top of his own steps?’

And he had all the affirmation he could have wished for.

* * *

Then he told her of Esyllt’s involvement.

‘A lover! ’ she said, astonished. ‘Dear Lord, Josse, why didn’t we — I beg your pardon, why didn’t I — think of that? A young woman such as she, so lovely, so ripe, so at ease with life, why, it stands to reason that she was as she was because she both loved and knew herself to be loved in return. That, with him out there in the forest, she-’ Abruptly she stopped. With a faint blush, she said, ‘Well, best not to think of that, with the poor young man dead.’

‘It is charitable of you, Abbess, to think kindly on him, considering how he sinned,’ Josse said.

She looked up at him. ‘Who are we to judge?’ she asked. ‘And, in truth, he has paid dearly for his sin.’ She shook her head. ‘Such a waste, and-’ She stopped. Aghast, she whispered. ‘Does Esyllt know he is dead?’

‘Good God!’ Josse had uttered the blasphemy before he had stopped to think. ‘Your pardon, Abbess, I did not mean to offend.’

Frowning, preoccupied, she waved her hand in dismissal. ‘I know that, Josse, I know. She — Esyllt — was absent from the Abbey yesterday, and, as far as I know, has not yet returned. Sister Emanuel is gravely concerned about her, as indeed am I. She gave him a brief but sweet smile. ‘May I prevail upon you once more, and ask you if you will go and look for her?’

‘Of course.’ He smiled back.

‘Naturally, I will help,’ she said, getting up. ‘As soon as we have said Sext, I will set out.’

* * *

But Josse, who did not have to wait until after Sext, began to look for Esyllt straight away.

They met, those two lovers, up in the forest, he thought, walking out through the Abbey gates. In some clearing, probably not very far in, just far enough to be safe from the world’s eyes.

And-

He would not, after all, have to go back into the forest. For, walking slowly down one of the smaller tracks, on a route that would take her round the side of the Abbey and in at the rear gate, was Esyllt.

He ducked back through the front entrance, turned, and started walking, in no special hurry; it would take the girl more time to reach the old people’s home than it would him. At the far end of the infirmary he stopped, and, his body hidden by its stout walls, peered round to look out at the rear gate.

A few moments later, she appeared.

She still moved slowly, almost like a sleepwalker. Her head was bent so that he couldn’t see her face, but her whole demeanour spoke of misery and dejection.

As she drew level with the infirmary, he emerged from his hiding place and fell into step beside her.

Hearing his footsteps, she looked up.

‘Hello, Sir Josse,’ she said. Her voice was low.

‘Hello, Esyllt.’

They walked on towards the door of the retirement home.

‘Have you come to see my old dearies?’ she asked, with a faint shadow of her former sparkle. ‘You promised, you would, you know. And a true man doesn’t break his word, unless he cannot help it.’ A spasm crossed her face.

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he said. ‘I will come, Esyllt, but not today. For now, I have to talk to you.’ He took hold of her arm, and they went round to sit on one of the sun-bathed stone benches.

He said gently, ‘I have come from Tobias’s house, Esyllt. I know about — I know what you and he were to one another.’

She nodded slowly. ‘Yes.’ Then: ‘What we were.’ Her eyes flew to his. ‘Oh, dear sweet Lord, then I was right!’

He put his arm aroud her. ‘Right about what, my dear child?’

‘He’s dead. Isn’t he?’

As kindly as he could, Josse said, ‘Aye, Esyllt. I’m afraid he is.’

‘How?’

‘By sheer accident. A hound tripped him, and he fell and hit his head.’

She gave a soft laugh. ‘Those hounds! I used to tell him he should train them better, they were always…’

But, as if she realised it didn’t matter any more, she stopped.

Then she said, ‘I knew. When he didn’t come last night, I knew.’

‘You were that close?’ Josse asked wonderingly.