Alys Clare - Fortune Like the Moon

‘I see.’

‘So she pulls the master’s horse across to the mounting block, throws her bare leg over its back, picks up the reins and gives it a kick in the belly with her sharp little heels. Well, it had just been standing there minding its own business, looking forward to a bite to eat, I dare say, when suddenly this howling little thing starts mauling it about, and it doesn’t like it. It throws up its head, tries to buck a bit, then sets off out through the gates and away. She managed to stay on till it jumped the ditch down there, sir. Then she fell off.’

The echoes of Mathild’s sad voice died. Josse could picture the scene, see that small figure in her wrap, bare legs trying to cling on to a horse far too big and strong for her.

‘Did she — was it quick?’ he asked. It seemed important to know that Dillian hadn’t suffered.

‘Aye. On the instant, they say. Broke her neck. They brought her poor body home on a hurdle. Laid her just here, by the fireplace.’

Josse looked to where Mathild was indicating. ‘And Brice? How did he react?’

‘Angry, to begin with. Yelling about her foolishness. Then, when it dawned on him she was dead, remorse. He’s not a bad man, sir,’ she said earnestly, repeating, did she but know it, what Will had said about Alard. ‘Hasty, like all of his family, and thinking more of his own needs than anyone else’s, but, there, show me a man that’s different.’ Josse could have showed her quite a few, but wisely held his peace. ‘Still, he’s sorry enough now. He’s taken the blame on himself, says he shouldn’t have been so rough with her, and that if he hadn’t, if he’d kept his hands to himself and been kinder, she’d never have rushed out like that and she’d be alive now. That’s why he’s gone to Canterbury. Stands to reason, someone like him, a man of action, full of energy, won’t feel he’s washed the stain of sin out of his soul till someone beats it out. He’ll be under the lash right now, I shouldn’t wonder. And those monks lay it on with a strong right arm.’ She didn’t look as if that were anything to be sorry about; quite the contrary.

She noticed Josse’s empty mug, and, reaching for the jug, poured him some more ale. ‘Thank you,’ he said. Then, after a sip, ‘Is the Lord Olivar here? Perhaps I could give my message to him.’

‘You could, aye, if he were. But he’s not. He’s gone to Canterbury too.’

‘Has he also got a death on his conscience?’ Josse said lightly, and Mathild smiled in response.

‘Nay. He’s gone to keep his brother company. Make sure he doesn’t go too far in this penance thing. Leastways, that’s what he’d like us all to think.’ She winked at Josse. ‘Fact is, our young Lord Olivar doesn’t pass up an opportunity to go to the city. Hot-blooded, he is, if you take my meaning.’ Another wink. Josse thought he knew exactly what she meant.

‘I see.’ He drank some more of the ale. It was a good brew, and cool from standing in the hall. He let the conversation run through his mind. He had learned a great deal, but was there more he could elicit from this willing informant?

Possibly there was.

‘So, with both Gunnora and Dillian dead, Sir Alard has no heir,’ he ventured. ‘Will he leave his estate to Brice, do you think?’

She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, not he. Blood’s thicker than water, and, anyhow, he must have heard the rumours. People talk, you know, sir, and it was common knowledge hereabouts that Brice was too ready with his fists when it came to his wife. Sir Alard loved her, in his way. No, I reckon it’ll all go to Elanor and that worthless new husband of hers.’

‘Ah.’ Elanor? Josse held back the enquiry; surely Mathild wouldn’t disappoint now?

She didn’t. ‘Surrounded by women, Sir Alard,’ she said, with a rueful smile. ‘Two daughters, two sisters, only one of them’s dead. And the surviving one bred girls, like her brother. Only the one, in her case, and, to make a bad matter worse, the girl’s just gone and married a man like Milon d’Arcy. And her silly mother let her! I ask you!’

Milon. Milon? Yes! Josse saw again the young man with his kiss-curl and his skin-tight hose. So he was married to Alard’s niece! That made it quite clear what he’d gone to see Alard about. No wonder Will had shown him the door.

Josse thought he might complete his visits to Gunnora’s family by paying a call on the cousin and her husband. Although he couldn’t immediately see any likely benefit, other than that it would widen his knowledge of Gunnora’s circumstances. He was just wondering how to find out where this Elanor and Milon could be found when Mathild spoke.

‘He’s fond of Elanor, Sir Alard is,’ she said. ‘Well, it’s hard not to be, she’s a lively little thing. Bright, full of fun.’

‘More like Dillian than Gunnora.’ It seemed a safe comment.

‘Aye, though she hasn’t the kindness of Dillian. There’s a ruthless streak lies underneath the laughter and the lightheartedness, of that I’m sure. She’s always had an eye on the main chance, that one — made sure she was around when Sir Alard was dishing out largesse. Why, he’d quite got into the way of treating her like one of his daughters when it came to presents. When he had those crosses made for his own girls, he didn’t hesitate to order one for Elanor as well. And now she stands to inherit the lot.’ Mathild shook her head, as if such sudden and unexpected good fortune were quite incomprehensible. ‘Well, good luck to her, I say. No doubt that foolish young flower she’s married to will run through it all in double-quick time.’ She gave a sudden loud laugh.

‘Perhaps she needs some advice,’ Josse said, seeing his opening. ‘I have experienced a similar situation within my own family,’ he improvised, ‘and possibly I might be of some help?’

Mathild gave him a very long look. Then she said neutrally, ‘Possibly you could, sir. Only Elanor’s from home. Been away a month or more. Staying with kin of her husband’s, they do say, down Hastings way.’

‘Oh.’

He sensed her suspicion. Was she regretting having been so forthcoming? Did she think he was plotting, by some devious means, to get a share of Alard of Winnowland’s fortune? He couldn’t be sure. But it seemed an opportune moment to remind her gently of why he had come, and where he had come from.

He stood up, placing his empty mug down on the side table. ‘I must be going,’ he said. ‘I am sorry to have missed Sir Brice. Thank you for the ale, Mathild — it has refreshed me for my long ride back to Hawkenlye Abbey. The Abbess will be anxious for the tidings I take her.’

It did the trick. Mathild’s expression cleared, and she jumped up from the bench she had been perched on to see him to the door.

The boy, Ossie, had secured Josse’s horse in the corner of the yard. Noticing the mounting block, Josse had a sudden vision of Dillian, throwing herself on to her husband’s horse and racing off to her death.

Riding away from the house, feeling Mathild’s eyes on his back, it was a considerable relief to leave Rotherbridge Manor behind.

Josse got back to Hawkenlye Abbey in the late afternoon. He hadn’t hurried; for one thing, it was too hot, and, for another, he had a great deal to think about.

There was no one around when he rode up to the gates, which were closed. But then, hearing the sounds of a horse’s hooves, a lay brother appeared from within the stable, and hurried across to undo the stout chain. He had apparently recognised Josse — which was useful if unexpected, since Josse didn’t recognise him — and he took Josse’s horse as Josse dismounted, volunteering the information that the sisters were at their devotions.