Alys Clare - The Rose of the World

‘Not, strictly speaking, murder,’ Gervase said. ‘What do you say, Josse?’

Josse was thinking. ‘He and the other man were fighting ferociously, exchanging hard punches, and we know from our man’s knuckles that he landed several hits. Then his opponent struck a particularly effective blow — perhaps the one that damaged our man’s nose — and he staggered backwards.’

‘He might have been knocked out,’ Sister Liese suggested. ‘Even if it does not kill him, a hard blow can render a man unconscious.’

‘Unconscious or driven back by the blow, either way he tripped or fell, landing flat on his back and striking his head on a stone.’

‘A rock.’ Sister Liese spoke with conviction. ‘The wound is a hand’s breadth across, and so too large for a mere stone.’

Josse suppressed a smile. Such precision, he thought. ‘His head hit a rock,’ he amended, ‘and the force of the impact shattered his skull and killed him.’ He looked at Gervase. ‘Whether or not that is murder is not for me to say.’ He turned back to Sister Liese. ‘Thank you, Sister. We are most grateful for your help.’

She bowed her head. ‘It is what I am here for,’ she said. She looked down at the body. ‘Will you wish to visit him again?’

Once more, Josse noticed, she had spoken of a man, not a corpse. ‘We will,’ he said quietly. ‘There is the question of identity. Somebody knows who he is, and we shall-’

But she had understood. ‘I will brush down his garments and dress him,’ she said. ‘Lying on his back, his visible wounds are not horrifying, and if he is clad in his habitual tunic, he will look much as he did in life.’

‘You wish to spare this somebody further distress,’ Joss murmured.

She met his eyes. ‘The knowledge that he is dead will be sufficient,’ she agreed. ‘Now, if you will excuse me…’

‘Aye, of course.’ Josse nodded to Gervase, and the two of them left the recess and walked away down the long infirmary.

‘We should speak to Abbess Caliste,’ Josse said as they emerged into the cold, clear air. Helewise always used to come to witness old Euphemia’s inspection of a victim’s body, he thought before he could stop himself. Abbess Caliste, he knew, would have her own good reasons for not being present, and it was not for him to judge her. Cross with himself, he increased his pace. ‘Come on.’

Gervase tapped on the door of the abbess’s room, and her soft voice bade them enter. Observing her, Josse felt even guiltier over his brief disloyal thought. Her table was groaning under its load of heavy, bound ledgers and piles of vellum, and her eyes were bloodshot and ringed with the grey of extreme fatigue.

‘Sir Josse, my lord sheriff, I deeply regret that I was not able to be there when the poor man was brought in,’ she said, getting to her feet to greet them. ‘I have been praying for his soul, and a mass will be said for him.’

She did not, Josse observed, give any excuse to exonerate herself, as well she might have done. ‘You are busy, my lady,’ he said, indicating the table.

‘The king’s agents were here two days ago,’ she replied tonelessly.

There was no need for her to explain. ‘Will the abbey survive?’ he asked.

The lines of anxiety in her lovely face deepened, and she shrugged. Then, with a lift of her chin, she said, ‘If I have anything to do with it, yes.’

Touched, Josse went forward and briefly took her hand. ‘We have a little surplus at the House in the Woods,’ he murmured.

She looked up at him with a smile. ‘You have your own people to think of, dear Sir Josse. They are your responsibility, just as the abbey is mine.’

But I am not subject to the iron fist of a greedy and selfish king, Josse thought. Nobody has come to Hawkenlye Manor to demand we hand over all our produce and all our income, to be given back to us if we do as we are told.

He could not, of course, say it aloud. Gervase was an old friend, and Josse would have trusted Caliste with his life, but such a comment was treason and walls had ears. Even — or perhaps especially — abbey walls.

He leaned closer to the abbess. ‘We have enough,’ he whispered. ‘If you ever reach your wits’ end, we are there.’

He was still holding her hand, and now she gave his a firm squeeze. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed. ‘I know.’

He let go of her hand and, embarrassed suddenly, stepped back to stand beside Gervase.

‘So, the dead man,’ Abbess Caliste said, sitting down in her great chair. It seemed to Josse as if she had briefly stepped out of her role as head of the abbey and now had re-entered it, for all at once it was undoubtedly she who held authority in the little room. Helewise, your successor was wisely chosen, he thought. Abbess Caliste was speaking, and he made himself pay attention.

‘You do not know who he is, I imagine, or else you would have called him by his name,’ she said.

‘Correct,’ Gervase said. ‘We can say, however, that he is a man of quality, judging by his clothes and his general appearance.’

‘I understand that he was found out to the west of here, close by the river.’

‘Yes, my lady,’ Gervase said. ‘There is a track that leads along the river valley and then on to the hamlet of Hartfield, where the ground begins to rise up to the open heathland of the forest. It appears that the dead man made camp in the place where he died, although of course it is impossible to say in which direction he had been travelling.’ He glanced at Josse. ‘He rode a good-sized horse and he had someone with him, for there were signs that two people had lain beside the little fire that he made.’

Abbess Caliste did not reply. Her elbows were on the table, and she had propped her chin on her clasped hands. Her expression was serene, but Josse had the impression that, behind the calm features, her mind was working fast.

He was right. After a short time, she said, ‘Two people and a horse spent the night in that camp. One is now dead. The horse and the other man have disappeared. It seems there are two possible explanations: one, the second person killed the man and rode away on the horse. Two, someone else arrived, fought the man in the camp and, having laid him out, left him for dead and rode away with the other person who was in the camp.’

Gervase was looking puzzled. ‘Why should there have been anyone there besides the two who fought?’ he demanded. ‘There was only one horse there overnight and, if two people had rested there, surely there would have been a second one?’

‘The pair might have ridden on one horse,’ the abbess said.

Gervase muttered under his breath and Josse caught the words blasted Templars again. Addressing the abbess, Gervase said, ‘As I said, why raise the possibility of a third person? I-’

Josse understood. He flashed an anxious glance at Abbess Caliste and said, ‘She’s thinking of Rosamund. Aren’t you, my lady?’

Slowly, the abbess nodded. ‘I am. Somebody took her away, but we know she did not have her own horse with her. Unless her abductor brought along a mount for her, then he must have borne her on his own horse. They rode off westwards, heading for some unknown destination, and, overcome by darkness, they stopped to rest for the night. Some time during the night or the next day, someone else came across them. He attacked the man and the two of them fought. The man was killed, and — and-’ She stopped, her face pale.

‘And took Rosamund?’ Josse asked softly. ‘If, indeed, it was she who slept beside the camp fire that night, then where is she now?’

Abbess Caliste held his eyes. ‘I do not know, Sir Josse,’ she said. ‘It is little enough to go on, but it would seem we have nothing else. If we agree that it may have happened in that way, does that not give us a focus in our search for her?’