Alys Clare - Fortune Like the Moon

‘You are only conjecturing that he is greedy and unscrupulous,’ she pointed out.

‘Aye, maybe. But would he not have the greatest motive in the world for disposing of Gunnora? So that his wife, the niece Elanor, would then inherit?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Abbess, there are two basic motives for murder, lust and the hunger for money. Nobody, it seems, lusted after Gunnora — you said yourself she was not bothered by the rule of chastity. In addition, we know that she was not raped, indeed, that she had never-’ He paused, trying to think of a delicate way of saying it. ‘That she had never tasted of the fruits of love.’ He was aware of a very swift twitch of the Abbess’s lips, quickly suppressed. ‘She died a virgin,’ he said firmly. ‘So, with the lust motive removed, that only leaves money.’

‘You oversimplify!’ the Abbess cried. ‘And, however plausible your reasoning on the surface, what of the details?’

‘Such as?’ he demanded.

‘Such as, how did he persuade Gunnora to leave the convent that night? And why did she not recognise Elvera as her cousin Elanor?’

‘Who says she didn’t?’ he countered. ‘Elvera herself, in this very room, complained that the nuns kept saying she and Gunnora got on so well together that you’d almost think they’d met before. That was hardly surprising — they had.’

‘Then why did not Gunnora reveal that Elvera was married?’ Helewise demanded.

‘Oh.’ Why indeed. Then he heard Mathild’s words: that worthless new husband of hers. And — although this was hardly incontestable proof — Elvera had only been three months pregnant. A passionate young husband, bedding his new wife nightly, impregnating her soon after the marriage? He said triumphantly, ‘Because Gunnora didn’t know. Elvera and Milon were married after she entered the convent. And Elvera had taken off her wedding ring.’

Helewise nodded slowly. Then, suddenly: ‘How did you know about the cross?’

‘It had to be hidden somewhere. She wasn’t wearing it when she died.’

She gave a brief sound of exasperation. ‘How did you know she had a cross?’

‘If she really was Elanor, she had to have one. And I knew she had — I saw it.’

‘You did?’

‘Well, no, not exactly. I guessed. Remember when we spoke to her? She was grasping at the cloth of her gown — like this.’ He demonstrated. ‘I thought then it was just a nervous gesture. Only afterwards did it occur to me she might be clinging to her own personal talisman, hidden under her robe.’

Helewise’s expression was distant, as if she were thinking hard. ‘You make a good case, sir knight,’ she said eventually. ‘But, again, I ask for your proof. Oh, not of Elvera’s identity — we must, I think, accept that you are right.’

‘We can check,’ he said eagerly. ‘I can return to my informant at Sir Brice’s manor and ask after Elanor. Go to Milon’s house, to the relatives where, so I was told, she is staying.’

‘And what if you find her safe and well?’

‘Then I will have to accept that I am wrong.’

‘You are not wrong,’ she said quietly. ‘You will not, I fear, find any Elanor. She is Elvera, and she lies dead in my infirmary.’ She frowned. ‘But those established facts alone will not prove who killed my nuns, Sir Josse. And I do not know where we can go from here to find that proof.’

‘I will find Milon,’ he said simply. ‘I will go, now, to his house. If he is not there’ — he was almost certain that the young man would be anywhere but at home — ‘then I shall search elsewhere.’

She gave him a quizzical look. ‘England is a big country,’ she remarked. ‘With many lonely and desolate places where a fugitive may run and hide.’

‘He has not run away yet,’ Josse said.

And, before she could ask him how he could be so sure, he bowed, retreated from the room and set off to find his horse.

On his way to Rotherbridge, Josse had decided, he would pay a call on Sir Alard. He needed to seek the old man’s confirmation that he had indeed given jewelled crosses to his daughters and to his niece. It was probably unnecessary, he thought as he neared the Winnowlands estates, but he felt he should not ignore any proof that was reasonably easy to obtain. Not if he were going to make a convincing case to back up all his theorising.

But he arrived back at Winnowlands to discover that Sir Alard had died the previous day. While Josse had been making his slow, hot journey back to Hawkenlye Abbey, Alard of Winnowlands had finally lost his long battle with death.

Josse knew. Even before he was told, he knew. There was a difference about the place. Sir Alard’s estates had not been a cheerful environment before, but, whereas previously the few of the peasantry that Josse had seen had looked merely dull-eyed and dejected, now he saw signs of more dramatic distress. Outside one hovel, a man had sat doing nothing but gaze down at his large hands, hanging idle between his knees, as if his situation were so dreadful that everything pertaining to normal life had suddenly come to a halt. From within another, better-kept dwelling, Josse heard the sounds of a woman weeping, so violently that he suspected she was close to hysteria.

Under the usual customs of inheritance, it would have been a case of ‘the king is dead, long live the king!’, as the new lord took over from his father; few, if any, major changes would be anticipated to alter the lot of those who depended for their very lives on the manor. But here, where there was no new lord …

Will, who came out into the yard on hearing Josse’s approach, broke the news.

‘He’s dead,’ he said flatly. Not even specifying of whom he spoke. ‘Last evening, it was. Afore supper, and he had a nice bit of pie to look forward to.’ Sudden tears glistened in the man’s eyes, swiftly blinked away. Josse, who had observed before how it was so often the little poignancies that undermined the recently bereaved, murmured sympathetically. ‘He began to cough, and the blood just flowed.’ Will went on. ‘Didn’t stop. Master, he sort of choked, couldn’t draw breath. Well, stands to reason, nothing left to draw it into, like, with his chest all rotten.’ He gave a sniff, wiped the back of his hand across his nose, and said softly, ‘I held him, till he was gone. Propped him up, like I always did, till he couldn’t breathe no more. Then I held his hand. After a bit, I knew he were dead. I let him be, overnight. Tucked him up, settled him down, with the fire well-stoked and a candle burning. Then, this morning, I sent word. Priest’s been,’ he added, in a matter-of-fact tone.

Josse nodded. Will himself, he noted, looked in a bad way. Haggard, his skin yellow and unhealthy looking, he had the appearance of a man who has spent far too long at his master’s sick bed, drawn in far too many breaths of contaminated air. Praying that this loyal servant should not himself succumb to the wasting sickness, Josse got down from his horse and, rather awkwardly, patted the sorrowing man on the shoulder.

‘I’m sure you did all you could to make his passing as comfortable as it could be,’ he said, hoping to console. ‘No man could have been better tended, Will, of that I’m certain.’

‘I didn’t do it for what I could get out of him, no matter what they say!’ Will burst out surprisingly. ‘Did it for his sake,’ he added more quietly. ‘For old times’ sake. We go back a long way, Master and me.’

‘Aye, Will.’ Trying to sound as if he were merely making polite conversation, Josse added, ‘Leave you a bit, did he? That’s a nice reward, for all your loyalty.’

Will shot him a swift assessing glance. ‘Left me a tidy sum, thank you, sir,’ he said stiffly, and Josse sensed the unspoken comment, if it’s any business of yours. ‘Priest, he was here first thing this morning, like I was telling you, along of that sister of the master’s. They’d got hold of the will, and they read it out.’