Alys Clare - Fortune Like the Moon

Josse turned away from him then, paced back to the door of the little room and stood, arms folded, shoulder leaning against the wall, staring down at the dusty floor.

Helewise watched Milon. He seemed surprised at the sudden cessation of the questions. Looking from Helewise to Josse and back again, he said, ‘What will happen to me?’

Helewise glanced at Josse, but he did not seem about to answer. So she said, ‘You will remain here until the sheriff and his men can be summoned. Then you will be taken under escort to the town jail, and, in due course, you will be tried for murder.’

‘It wasn’t murder,’ he said, hardly above a whisper. ‘I didn’t mean to kill her. I loved her. She was carrying our baby.’

Then, once again, he began to weep.

Josse and the Abbess walked side by side back to her room. Neither, it seemed, wanted to be the first to break the silence.

Josse wondered if she was experiencing the same feelings that he was. From what he could see of her face, and from the slump of her normally squared shoulders, he guessed so.

He was feeling — he was at a loss to name the emotion searing through him. It was a mixture, and, indeed, a mixture of elements which did not normally go smoothly together. There was anger — yes, anger was still there. But also an undermining, growing pity. And, to his distress, guilt; although he fought it, reminded himself again and again of those two pathetic dead bodies, he had the unwelcome sense that, by manhandling Milon up to the Abbey and throwing him in that cell, he had acted like a bully.

It was the lad’s weeping that was so disturbing, damn it! You couldn’t even call it that, really — it was like no crying that Josse had ever heard before. It was a quiet, high-pitched keening sound, like the wind blowing through thin reeds.

And, although the cell and the undercroft were now a considerable number of paces behind, it seemed to Josse that he could still hear it.

As much to drown out the echo of the sound as for any other reason, he said to the Abbess as they approached her room, ‘I still think he did it. Killed Gunnora as well as Elanor, I mean. Whatever he says.’

He heard the Abbess’s small tut of impatience. ‘He didn’t,’ she said firmly. ‘Whilst I am the first to agree that it would be a tidy solution were he responsible for both deaths, he isn’t.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Josse demanded angrily. God, she was a stubborn woman!

‘I-’ Slowly she went round to the far side of her table, as slowly seating herself and indicating for him to do the same. He had a suspicion she was using the time to gather her argument together, which was quite a daunting thought. ‘It’s all wrong,’ she said eventually. ‘I can imagine him putting his hands round Elanor’s neck and gripping just that bit too hard. He’s frightened, let’s say, desperately worried because the careful plan seems to be falling apart. And, by his own admission, he’s cross with her. He’s not entirely in command of himself. They have just made love, and that can leave people in a vulnerable emotional state, especially the young.’ He was surprised that she should speak so matter-of-factly on the subject. Equally surprised that she should speak so accurately.

He realised she was watching him, a slight suspicion of irony in the large eyes. As if she knew exactly what he was thinking. ‘But,’ she went on, ‘no matter how I try, I cannot believe he coldly drew a knife across Gunnora’s throat and made that appalling cut.’

‘I can,’ Josse said heatedly.

But could he really? Now that she was making him look at it rationally, he began to wonder. Did he believe in Milon’s guilt, or was it merely convenient for the youth to have killed both women? Because it would save Josse looking any further for a second murderer?

Interrupting his thoughts, the Abbess said, ‘Have you the stomach for food, Sir Josse? It is the hour for breakfast.’

He looked at her. ‘Have you?’

The clear grey eyes met his. ‘No, but I intend to make myself eat.’ The wide brow creased momentarily. ‘We need our strength, you and I, and going without food will not supply us with it.’ She gave a faint sigh. ‘This business is not yet over.’

* * *

He went down to his quarters in the vale after the meal, and, stretching out on his hard bed, went almost instantly to sleep. He was awakened by a tap on his shoulder; Brother Saul stood over him, and beside him, looking somewhat grubby and travel-stained, stood Ossie.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, Sir Josse,’ Saul said, ‘but the messenger here said it was urgent.’

Josse sat up, rubbing at his eyes. It felt as if someone had thrown a handful of small, sharp grit into them. ‘Thank you, Saul,’ he said, getting stiffly to his feet. ‘Ossie, good morning.’

‘Sir,’ the boy muttered, grabbing the floppy cap from his head, and twisting it between his hands.

‘You have a message for me?’ Josse prompted.

Ossie’s face closed down into a frown of concentration and he said, ‘My Lord Brice of Rotherbridge sends word to Sir Josse d’Acquin, presently residing with the sisters at Hawkenlye.’ He paused, then went on, ‘My Lord says Sir Josse called on him twice while he was from home. Will he try a third time, now that my Lord is here?’ The frown deepened. ‘Now that he is there, ’ he corrected himself.

Josse smiled at the boy. ‘Thank you, Ossie. You have carried the message well. Aye, I will come.’

Ossie gave him a quick grin. ‘I’ll go and say to Master,’ he said, beginning to turn away.

‘I shall be behind you on the road,’ Josse called after him.

Saul was still hovering, face alight with curiosity.

‘May I have water for a wash and a shave, Brother Saul?’ Josse asked. ‘It appears that I have to go on another journey.’

* * *

He covered the now familiar miles to Rotherbridge in good time. The weather had turned, and was slightly cooler; it was a lovely morning for a ride.

Crossing the river where he had tactfully turned his head away from Brice’s grief, he wondered how the man fared now. Was he becoming accustomed to his wife’s cruel death? Was he beginning to believe that, for a true repentant, there was forgiveness? Josse fervently hoped so; the prospect of being the guest of a man in such straits as Brice had been, that day, was not a happy one.

He reached Rotherbridge Manor, and rode into the yard. This time, it was not Mathild who came out to meet him, but a man. Well-dressed, in plain but good-quality tunic, hose and boots, the man was dark-haired and had a look of Brice about him. But, whereas Brice’s hair had had that distinctive badger-stripe of white, this man’s was smoothly dark brown throughout.

It must be the brother. What was his name? Yes; Josse had it.

‘Good day, my Lord Olivar,’ he called out. ‘I have come at your brother Brice’s invitation — I am Josse d’Acquin, and he sent me word at Hawkenlye Abbey, where I am lodging with the monks in the vale, and-’

The dark man was smiling. ‘I know who you are,’ he interrupted. ‘Please, Sir Josse, step down. Ossie will tend to your horse. Ossie!’ The boy, Josse reflected, was having a busy morning; he appeared out of the stable block, broom in hand, nodded to Josse and took away his horse. The dark man watched, then turned back to Josse. ‘Come and take refreshment.’

He led the way up the steps into the hall, and waved a hand at the chair where Josse had sat before, when he talked to Mathild. Of her, there was no sight; probably, with the master and his brother at home again, she had her hands full down in the kitchen.

‘Have you any idea, my Lord Olivar, why your brother wished to see me?’ Josse asked, more for the sake of conversation than any urgent desire to know. Obviously, having summoned Josse, Brice would no doubt soon arrive, and explain himself to Josse in person.