Alys Clare - The Rose of the World
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- Название:The Rose of the World
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Josse gave Meggie’s hand a squeeze, which she returned. There would be time later to tell her how proud he was of her.
‘How is he?’ Josse asked. He studied the young man. He was around twenty, with a square face and brown hair, although the stubble of beard on his jaw was closer to red than brown. He recalled that the man who had taken Rosamund had been mistaken for Ninian, but under the present circumstances, with this man lying in bed and unconscious, it was hard to tell how strong the resemblance was. ‘Do we know his name? Has anyone asked his companion?’
‘I do not believe so,’ the infirmarer replied. ‘As yet, Sir Josse, we have been fully occupied with tending the two men, and there has not been time for such matters.’
‘No, I understand,’ Josse said. He took another look at the still figure. This man had a great deal to answer for. ‘Sister, please will you inform me when he can speak to me?’
She bowed her head. ‘I will.’
‘Now, if you please, I would like to see the other man.’
Sister Liese led the way out of the recess, across the infirmary and into the cubicle on the opposite side. Here there was another narrow bed and, in it, a man dressed only in his undershirt, a clean sheet drawn up to his waist. The blood had been washed away from his shoulder, and now the wound was covered in a neat bandage that wove across his broad chest and around his arm.
Josse stopped dead and stared at him.
As the shock receded a little and he began to think he might be able to breathe again after all, the one thought that filled his head, loud and insistent as a war cry, was: Thank God Meggie persuaded Ninian to flee!
For the man in the bed was no ordinary lord…
Josse dropped on one knee, dragging Meggie down beside him. He waited.
‘Josse d’Acquin,’ the man said. ‘It must be near twenty years since I have set eyes on you.’
Josse looked up to meet the intense blue stare. ‘Eighteen years, if I may say so, sire.’
‘I wondered if I would be seeing something of you,’ the man went on conversationally, ‘when the child mentioned that she lived at New Winnowlands. Your place, I believe.’
‘Indeed it — er, that’s so, lord.’
The man nodded slowly. ‘I do not forget, you see, Josse,’ he murmured. ‘The little girl is kin to you?’
‘Not to me. She is the granddaughter of Helewise Warin, once abbess here.’
‘Ah, yes.’ His eyes strayed to Meggie. Watching intently, Josse could have sworn his lips twisted into a quick smile. ‘And who is this?’
Josse took a deep breath. There was a correct way of doing this, but he had quite forgotten what it was. Well, since memory had failed, common courtesy would have to do. He stood up, pulling Meggie with him. ‘My lord, may I present my daughter Meggie?’ He took her hand and put it into that of the man in the bed. ‘Meggie, make your curtsey to King John.’
TEN
Meggie rose from her deep bow and found the bright blue eyes studying her intently. ‘So that is who you are,’ he said softly. He glanced at Josse. ‘Who is her mother?’
Meggie did not know if it was against etiquette to address a king when he had not first spoken to you, but she did not let it stop her. ‘My mother was Joanna de Courtenay,’ she said.
His blue gaze had returned to her. ‘De Courtenay,’ he repeated. ‘I believe I have heard the name before. Did she have connections at court?’
Meggie opened her mouth to speak, but even as she did so, Josse trod on her foot, quite hard. ‘A distant cousin, I believe, my lord,’ he said easily. ‘That is probably why the name is familiar to you.’
The king studied Josse. Meggie could see that he was not entirely convinced. A warning sounded in her head. This is a man to watch, she thought. He is intelligent and cunning, and he will not easily be deceived.
She wondered why her father did not want her to reveal Joanna’s connection with the court…
Josse had edged forward so that now he stood between Meggie and the king. ‘My lord, I regret greatly the mischance that has brought you here, but might I be permitted to ask if you can help us with another grave matter?’
The king waved a hand in assent. ‘You may.’
‘You have been in the area for a few days, sire?’
‘Yes. My agents came here to the abbey, and I took the chance to visit the chapel which my revered and lamented mother built in remembrance of my brother, the late king. From there I went on to the hunting lodge on the Ashdown Forest.’ A smile quirked the side of his mouth. ‘The sport was excellent.’
‘I am glad to hear it, my lord,’ Josse muttered. ‘Did you — may I ask you if a man by the name of Hugh de Brionne was of your company?’
The languid air vanished as the king heard the name. ‘Hugh de Brionne was with me when we reached the abbey,’ he confirmed. ‘I know him well. He is a sound man.’ Narrowing his eyes, he stared at Josse as if he were trying to read his mind. ‘You have news of Hugh; I see it in your face. Tell me.’
‘He is dead, sire,’ Josse said simply. ‘His body was discovered early yesterday, by a bend in the river between here and Hartfield.’
‘How did he die?’ The words rapped out like a stabbing knife.
‘It appears he was in a fight. There were the marks of fists on his face, and his hands were bruised and swollen. There was a wound to the back of his head, presumably where he fell, and this is probably what killed him.’
The king did not speak for some time. Meggie crept closer to Josse, in need of his stolid strength. She was afraid, and she did not yet understand why.
Eventually, the king closed his eyes and, with a wince of pain, leaned back on his pillows. ‘Be careful how you break the news to my companion,’ he said quietly. ‘He is Olivier de Brionne, and he is Hugh’s brother.’
Josse and Meggie were outside the infirmary. Sister Liese, coming to check on her patients, had observed the king’s pallor, and his obvious fatigue, and sent them away. The other man — Olivier de Brionne, they now knew — was still unconscious.
Josse took hold of Meggie’s hands. ‘This is very grave,’ he muttered, frowning deeply. ‘We must find Ninian and help him get right away. No accusations have yet been made against him, but two men lie wounded and one of them is the king.’ He looked down at his daughter. ‘I am sorry that I crushed your foot,’ he said with a faint smile.
‘You did no lasting damage,’ she replied. ‘But, Father, why did you not wish me to speak of my mother’s court connections?’
He frowned thoughtfully, trying to find the right words. ‘Daughter, your mother had no reason to treasure the memory of what happened to her; far from it. A cousin of hers, considerably older than she was, took her to King Henry’s Christmas court one year, because she was young, innocent and very lovely and the cousin wished to impress the king and his lascivious friends with new blood. Then-’ He stopped. This was not his story to tell. If Joanna had not revealed to Meggie the truth of what had happened to her, then it was not up to Josse to do so. ‘My love, it may be that one day you will be told,’ he said. ‘There is a connection between our family and the king, but, if he has forgotten it or did not know of it, then I do not want to bring it to his mind.’ He studied her face. ‘Is that enough?’
Slowly, she nodded. She was thinking hard, he could tell. ‘It is,’ she said presently. ‘I trust you, Father.’
But Josse hardly heard. His mind had gone back to a day more than eighteen years ago when Joanna had first told him about herself. They had lain together beside the fire, in the house where Josse now lived with his extended family. The memory was so vivid, bringing both overwhelming joy and sudden sharp pain, that for a moment he felt faint.
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