Alys Clare - Fortune Like the Moon

‘Really?’ Josse pretended to be busy pulling a tangle out of his horse’s mane.

‘Aye. All to the niece, saving a few small sums here and there, just like they suspected. The lass’s mother were right pleased, I can tell you.’

‘And the young Lord Milon d’Arcy? How did he react?’

Another suspicious look. Too late, Josse realised he shouldn’t have referred to the youth by name. ‘Fancy you remembering what he’s called,’ Will said, with a casual inflection that didn’t fool Josse for an instant. ‘Well, sir knight, he didn’t react at all, seeing as how he wasn’t here.’

‘No? Wasn’t that a surprise, when he’d seemed so eager to know of his wife’s uncle’s intentions?’

Will shrugged. ‘Maybe. The girl’s mother was here fast enough, though, like I said. Reckon she’ll have passed on the good tidings by now.’

Josse doubted that. But then he had the advantage over Will, who could have no way of knowing that Elvera was dead and Milon — if Josse was right about him — was still lurking somewhere on the edges of the forest near to Hawkenlye.

‘I must go,’ he said to Will. ‘My commiserations on the death of your master, Will.’ He fixed his eyes on Will’s; those last words, at least, were sincerely meant.

‘I thank you, sir,’ Will responded.

‘I am going to pay another call at Rotherbridge,’ Josse added as he turned his horse. ‘Perhaps this time I shall find Sir Brice at home. Good day, Will.’

‘Sir.’

He felt Will’s heavy-lidded eyes on him as he rode out of the yard. It was not a comfortable feeling.

* * *

On the way to Rotherbridge Manor, Josse spotted a horse and rider, stopped down by a stretch of the River Rother where the water flowed fast and shallow over a stony bed. The horse was a good one, and the man’s elegant tunic and soft leather boots indicated he was a person of substance. He was bareheaded, and the dark hair had a streak of white running from the left temple, petering out behind the ear. Josse was just thinking that this particular bend in the river would be a good place for salmon when he heard the sound of sobbing.

The man, who was standing beside his horse, had his face buried against the horse’s neck, the fingers of his strong hands entwined in its mane. His whole attitude spoke eloquently of despair, and his shoulders were heaving with the extremity of his grief. Face hidden, he did not see Josse, up on the road.

Josse felt guilty, as if he had deliberately set out to spy on another’s distress. The man had chosen a secluded spot; it was, surely, an unlikely piece of bad luck that someone had come along the lonely track to disturb his privacy.

Not wanting to subject the unknown man to the awkwardness of knowing himself observed, Josse made haste to pass before the man should look up.

* * *

As before, it was Mathild who came out of the house at Rotherbridge to meet him.

‘Master’s back, but he ain’t in,’ she said.

‘Oh? Are you expecting him to return soon?’

‘Could be.’ She gave him her same assessing squint. ‘He’s gone out for a ride. Wants to be alone, he says. He’s missing her, see. The mistress. He’s done his penance, like a good Christian should, but seems it’s not been enough.’ She gave a great gusty sigh. ‘He’ll no doubt get over it, but likely it’s going to take some time.’

The grieving man by the river. Yes, Josse thought. It must have been Brice.

Poor man.

‘I seek the whereabouts of Milon d’Arcy,’ he said.

‘Aye, like you did before, the last time you were by,’ she remarked. She seemed in no particular hurry to divulge the information.

But Josse had his story ready this time. ‘I come from Winnowlands,’ he said, ‘where-’

‘He’s gone at last,’ she interrupted him. ‘God rest his soul.’

‘Amen,’Josse said. News travels fast hereabouts, he thought. ‘How did you know?’

She shrugged. ‘Will’s woman told Ossie’s mother last night. Said Will were right upset, wouldn’t leave the old man’s body by itself.’ She shot Josse a sharp look. ‘Reckon he’ll have a deal more to be upset about soon, him and all the rest of the Winnowlands folk. Told you, did they? What’s to happen?’

‘Will told me of Sir Alard’s bequest to his niece, aye, and how the girl’s mother was there to hear the terms of the will.’

Mathild seemed to have overcome her reservations, and was now positively eager to talk; gossiping about the death and the will of a neighbour were, apparently, more entertaining than listening to Josse explaining himself. ‘Like I said, it’ll upset them, all right,’ she said, nodding in affirmation.

‘The estate going to Sir Alard’s niece, you mean?’

‘Not her, so much, she’s not a bad lass. Flighty, overfond of her own comfort and a mite too ready to clamber over others to get what she wants, but then, that’s not uncommon, now, is it?’

‘No,’ Josse acknowledged.

‘No, it’s that Milon d’Arcy who’ll cause all the trouble,’ Mathild predicted grimly. ‘Nobbut a lot of air between his ears, that one, no thought but for the newest fashion, the best wine, the most delicate of dishes.’ She shook her head, thoroughly enjoying herself. ‘Can you see him having the sense to run a great place like Winnowlands? He’ll have neither the knowledge nor the wits to ask the advice of those what has. It’ll be ruin, for the lot of them.’ She looked up at Josse, the shrewd eyes narrowed. ‘Mark my words, sir, the Winnowlands folk are quite right to be worried.’

‘Aye,’ Josse said. ‘Poor Will.’

‘Still,’ she went on, her expression lifting, ‘look on the bright side, that’s what I say! Young Elanor, now, she’ll be a happy girl when they tell her. What a piece of news to break to a pretty young thing, eh?’

‘She is still from home?’ he asked casually.

‘Fas as I know she is. They live over the next hill, her and my little lordship Milon — tidy place, small but elegant, mind, other side of the bridge — but I hear tell there’s none of the family there now. She’ll still be with her new Hastings kin, I reckon. And him, well, maybe he’s gone to join her there.’

‘And the kinfolk, they live…?’

She told him, giving the information in such an abbreviated form that he was obliged to ask her to elaborate. She was, quite clearly, impatient to get back to her theme of how wonderful it must be for a lass not yet twenty to inherit a fortune, why, if it had been her, what she could have done with it when she was twenty! Goodness, she’d have had jewels, fine gowns, someone to cook and scrub for her, and she wouldn’t have spent her life running round after other people, that was for sure.

‘No, indeed,’ Josse murmured, although he doubted if she was listening. Breaking away as quickly as he could, which was not in fact quickly at all, he was moving off towards the gateway when suddenly she ceased her daydreaming and called after him, ‘Will you tell them, sir knight?’

‘Tell them what?’ he asked, although he knew what her answer would be.

She tutted briefly. ‘About the fortune, of course! And about the poor old man’s death,’ she added, trying, and failing, to adopt a suitably mournful expression.

He hesitated. Then said, ‘Oh, no. I don’t think that would be suitable at all. It’s hardly my place, as a stranger to the family, to break such tidings.’

She was looking at him strangely. Wondering — fearing — that she was about to ask why, if he was a stranger, he was involving himself to such an extent in family matters, he forestalled her. Calling out a swift farewell, he spurred his horse and set off to find the house of Elvera’s — Elanor’s — relations-in-law.