Alys Clare - Fortune Like the Moon

‘There was the two of them,’ Will began suddenly. ‘Gunnora, she was the eldest, and there was Dillian. Lovely lass, Dillian, but she was his second-born. Gunnora had to come first, that’s only right and proper, so she it was Sir Alard offered for the match. But, sir, she wouldn’t have him! Wouldn’t marry him, and all the reasoning, all the threats and the punishments in the world, wouldn’t make her change her mind. So Sir Alard, he says, go on, then, go to your nunnery! But you’re no more daughter of mine! And then it’s Dillian’s turn, because, sir, you can’t say you’ve overlooked an elder sister, now, can you, not when you’ve offered it to her and she’s said, no, thankee just the same, I’m going to be a nun?’

‘No, indeed.’

‘So Dillian, she marries my Lord Brice instead.’ Abruptly Will stopped, face working with some deep emotion. After a moment he recovered sufficiently to say, ‘I’m sorry, sir, that I am, only it’s such a recent pain, see. I still thinks as how she’s going to come riding up the track like she used to, calling out, laughing, playing her little tricks, only she didn’t, of course, all that stopped, when she married him.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Naturally, they all say it was an accident. She fell off the horse, that’s for sure, and I know there’s witnesses to say so, good, honest souls who mean no harm, who are just telling the truth. But why did she get up on that great beast and gallop off like that? That’s what I’d like to know! And I know him, sir, I know that Brice. I tell you, I don’t blame Miss Gunnora for refusing him. I only wish my lovely Dillian had had the wisdom to do the same, but, there you are.’ He gave a deep, gusty sigh. ‘The ways of women always were a mystery, weren’t they? Always will be, too, I reckon.’

There seemed nothing to add to that remark, with which Josse was tempted to agree. Respectful of Will’s evident sorrow, Josse let the silence continue for some time. There was no need, anyway, for hurry. Not now, when he had guessed what had happened. Knew, or so he thought, what had caused the abiding misery of Winnowlands.

Not the death of an elder daughter, an unappealing woman whose departure into a convent hadn’t really dismayed anyone, but the death of her sister. My lovely Dillian, with her laughter and her tricks.

‘So he lost them both?’ he prompted eventually.

‘Hm?’ Will seemed to have forgotten Josse was there. ‘Aye. One after the other, not a sennight between them.’ Another deep sigh. ‘No more daughters. No female heir, securely married to a good man.’ He raised his head and met Josse’s eyes. ‘And the master’s every breath threatening to be his last. What’s to become of us all, sir? That’s what I’d like to know!’

‘Aye,’ Josse said absently. His brain was working hard, and, despite the depressing circumstances, there was an elation in him, at having surmised correctly.

He did a swift resume of Sir Alard’s dilemma. Both daughters dead, one immediately after the other. No more children, and this Dillian, apparently, had herself borne no child. And a son-in-law who, according to Will, was held by popular opinion to have been at best a poor husband, at worst responsible for his young wife’s death. The sort of man, surely, to whom a father-in-law would scarcely leave his undoubted wealth.

No wonder the peasants of the manor seemed so dismal and dejected. There was, in Josse’s experience, nothing more guaranteed to lower the spirits than uncertainty about the future.

And, with the succession of Winnowlands undecided and threatening to remain so, how much more uncertain could the future of everyone on this particular estate be?

Will, preoccupied with his own worries, barely raised his head at Josse’s casual request as to where he might find the Lord Brice. He gave brief instructions — which proved to be easy to follow and totally accurate — and, as if as an afterthought, mentioned that Josse was unlikely to find the master at home since, so it was rumoured, Brice of Rotherbridge had gone to Canterbury. ‘You’ll likely find his brother, though.’ This with a sniff which could have been interpreted as disparaging. ‘The young Lord Olivar’s usually around.’ Will shot Josse a knowing look. ‘Keeping an eye on things, like.’

Suspecting he wasn’t going to learn any more — indeed, Will had turned and was heading back to whatever task he was working on down in the undercroft — Josse set off to search out either, or both, of the brothers Rotherbridge.

* * *

The Rotherbridge manor adjoined the Winnowlands estate on the east and on the south. Brice had his share of ridge-top pasture and arable land, but the majority of his acres were on the marshlands; he must own enough sheep, Josse mused, to make him a man of considerable means. English wool was obtaining a fine reputation in the markets of France and the Low Countries; there were fortunes to be made, and, from the look of the newly extended manor house, Brice of Rotherbridge was busy making his.

No wonder, Josse thought as he rode up the track to the house, Alard wanted an alliance with this man. Not only are they neighbours — and Alard may well have cast an occasional covetous eye on Brice’s acres of sheep pasture — but Brice is the sort of husband a father would welcome for his daughter. As regards his money and his position, anyway. Would it have weighed with Alard, that other aspects of Brice might make him less desirable? Would he have known about them, even, other than as servants’ gossip?

Yes. He’d have known. Gunnora would have told him. Wouldn’t she? Surely, during one of those protracted arguments between furious, determined father and stubborn daughter, she would have said something on the lines of, I’m not marrying him, he’s a brute.

Or perhaps she hadn’t. For Dillian had needed no persuasion to marry the man.

There was a tale there, Josse reflected as he rode into the shady yard of Rotherbridge manor house. And, hopefully, he’d find someone to tell it to him.

‘Hello?’ he called, still sitting his horse. ‘My Lord Brice? My Lord Olivar?’

There was no reply for some moments, although he thought he heard sounds of movement within. ‘Hello?’ he called again.

‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’ shouted a female voice, suddenly loud in the still warmth. ‘Can’t be doing two things at once, and that fool of a boy’ll ruin it if I don’t tell him exactly what to do, you’d think he’d have more wits, but there you are, some are born stupid and stupid they remain. Now, sir, what can I do for you?’

She had emerged from the house talking, and the outpourings had continued as she made her way over to Josse. She was getting on in years, stout, and walked with a limp that threw her with a jerk over to her right at each step. She wore a plain brown gown, and over it a clean white apron, on which she was wiping work-worn hands.

Hoping fervently that her flow of words indicated a character disposed to hob-nobbing with strangers, Josse said, ‘I have come in search of Brice of Rotherbridge.’ Improvising, he added, ‘To pay my condolences on the death of his wife.’

The leathery face, which had been screwed up into a deep grimace of interested enquiry as she stared up at him, instantly slumped, into lines of sorrow. ‘Aye, aye,’ the woman murmured. Then she sighed deeply, and repeated, ‘Aye.’

Josse waited. Would a gentle prompt be in order? ‘I have come from Winnowlands,’ he began, ‘and I-’

‘That poor old man!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘First Dillian, then Gunnora! If this double tragedy doesn’t tip him over into his grave, I’d like to know what would. How is he, sir?’