Fortune Like the Moon (10 page)

Will went on staring at him. Then, slowly, shook his head. But it was not in rejection of Josse’s request; it appeared to be more in distress at the whole situation. ‘Aye,’ he said on a sigh. ‘Bad business. I’ve tried to say to him, gently, mind, that he should make up his mind, send word. Can’t be pleasant for them at the Abbey, left with a body they can neither send away nor bury. Wouldn’t like it, myself.’ He had summed up the dilemma with admirable brevity. ‘But, sir, it ain’t as easy as that. He won’t listen to me, won’t listen to nobody. He’s—’ He broke off, and scratched his head as if perplexed at how to describe his master’s condition.

‘Disturbed? Wrong in his mind?’ Josse suggested, hoping he wouldn’t offend the man by plain speaking.

But the man, far from taking offence, seized on Josse’s words with apparent relief. ‘Aye. Wrong in his mind. Aye, sir, that he is. Wrong in his body an’ all, but that he’s been these many years. Worse now, of course. Much, much worse.’ Sadly he resumed his head shaking. ‘But this here, this wrong in his head thing, this is what I find so hard to deal with, sir. I mean, I can’t
tell
him what to do, now, can I? Not me in my position. But then someone ought to. It ain’t right. None of it.’

This time the rueful head shaking went on for some time. Josse said gently, ‘May I dismount?’ And instantly Will looked up at him, dismay on the blunt features.

‘I’m sorry, sir, that I am! Of course, of course, here, let me help.’ He leapt to take Josse’s horse’s bridle, and Josse swung down out of the saddle. ‘I’ll put him here for you, in this nice patch of shade,’ – efficient man that he was, he acted as he spoke – ‘and take off that saddle. Like some water, eh, my fine fellow?’ He patted the horse’s neck affectionately. ‘Bet you would!’

The horse secured, Will returned to Josse. As if he had been turning it over in his mind in those few moments, now he seemed to have reached a decision. ‘You come in with me and see the master, sir, if you will,’ he said firmly. ‘Can’t do no harm. Nothing can make him any worse than he is, not now. Nor any better, seemingly.’ The features drooped briefly. ‘A good man, he was, sir, in his way,’ he said earnestly. ‘Don’t let how he’s fetched up deceive you. He has his faults, like all of us, but he was never all bad.’

With this ambiguous introduction echoing in his head, Josse followed Will up into the hall and went forward to meet the lord of Winnowlands.

*   *   *

Gunnora’s father, it was immediately apparent, was dying. He was lying on a bed as close to the great fireplace as he could be placed, despite the fact that, in the sun-warmed hall, the fire hadn’t yet been lit. He barely stirred as Will quietly spoke to him – ‘Sir Alard? Be you awake?’ and announced Josse, other than to turn his head towards them. He wore a fur-trimmed gown of heavy wool, over which a rug had been arranged. At his neck could be seen the collar of a linen shift, quite clean; dying he might be, but those who were looking after him were tending him devotedly.

His face was pale grey, without so much as the suggestion of colour. The flesh had all but gone, making the strong nose the more prominent. The eyes were dark, made more so now by the fact of lying deep within their sockets. In the dimness of the hall, as Josse’s eyes adjusted from the brilliance outside, he could, he thought, be looking at a skull.

‘What do you want, Josse d’Acquin?’ Alard of Winnowlands asked, in a voice that cracked on the words.

‘I come from Hawkenlye, Sir Alard. From the Abbess Helewise, who requires of you to know what are your wishes regarding the body of your late daughter, Gunnora.’

‘My late daughter Gunnora,’ Alard echoed. Astoundingly, the words were infused with bitter, mocking irony. ‘My late daughter.’ There was a pause. Then he said, this time quietly and expressionlessly, ‘With Gunnora, do what you please. Bury her with the nuns. She wished to be with them in life, let her stay with them in death.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Josse said. ‘Abbess Helewise and the sisters will be relieved to have your decision.’ He hesitated. ‘Sir, may I—’

‘Get out.’ The words, said in the same toneless way, at first failed to register. Then, as Josse stayed where he was, Alard raised himself slightly, fixed Josse with those burning black eyes and yelled,
‘Get out!’

Josse had scarcely begun to move when the coughing began. At first quiet, it grew so swiftly to its violent, prolonged climax that Will only just had time to thrust a square of linen to Alard’s lips before the blood spurted out. The linen, washed and smoothed, was soon covered with fresh stains to lie alongside the old. Josse watched, transfixed and helpless, while the master of Winnowlands coughed away some more of what remained of his lungs.

*   *   *

Will joined him outside some time later.

‘It’s a pity you had to witness that,’ he said, coming to stand beside where Josse leaned against the sunny front of the house. There was a scent of lavender from bushes growing against the undercroft; Josse had been breathing in the good, clean smell.

‘Aye,’ Josse said. ‘Has he long been like that?’

‘The sickness grew slowly in him,’ Will replied. ‘At first no more than a cough that persisted, gradually growing till he was troubled constantly. He began to grow weak, didn’t want to eat. Then, last winter, he began to cough up blood.’

‘Ah.’ And that, Josse knew, invariably meant life would not go on much longer.

‘He’d have gone afore now,’ Will said, ‘only he’s so strong. Used to be, anyhow. There was plenty of him to waste away, if you take my meaning.’

‘Aye.’ Josse had seen the same in other men.

‘And, besides, he can’t go yet.’ Will paused, glancing sideways at Josse as if wondering how many more family affairs to reveal to this stranger.

‘Oh, no?’ Jesse tried to sound casual, disinterested.

Will’s quick smile indicated he wasn’t taken in. But, nevertheless, he went ahead. ‘No. He can’t die, not afore he’s decided.’

‘Decided?’

‘He’s not got long for this world, as well he knows, what with the priest and the physician either side of him with their long faces and all that telling him so. Prepare your soul, priest says, make a good confession, arrange your earthly affairs so as you have credit in heaven. But it ain’t as easy as that, is it, sir?’

‘No,’ Josse agreed. It seemed sensible not to lead Will off at a tangent by asking, what isn’t?

‘And there’s the living to consider, too, along of the matter of credit in heaven, ain’t there? The living as has their needs, too.’

‘Quite.’

‘See, it all looked so straightforward, year or so back,’ Will said, leaning confidingly close to Josse.

‘Before Gunnora entered the convent?’ Josse guessed. The timing was right, anyway.

‘Aye, that. But that weren’t the start of it.’ Will was shaking his head again. ‘Sir, I tell you straight, I’m glad I’m a simple man. I’ve my little house, my woman, and that’s that. My house ain’t mine to leave to nobody, and as for the rest, what I own I wear on my back, mostly.’

‘Yes, I see.’ Josse did. Began to see, at last, where this was leading. It all began to fit together.

‘There was the two of them,’ Will began suddenly. ‘Gunnora, she was the eldest, and there was Dillian. Lovely lass, Dillian, but she was his second-born. Gunnora had to come first, that’s only right and proper, so she it was Sir Alard offered for the match. But, sir, she wouldn’t have him! Wouldn’t marry him, and all the reasoning, all the threats and the punishments in the world, wouldn’t make her change her mind. So Sir Alard, he says, go on, then, go to your nunnery! But you’re no more daughter of mine! And
then
it’s Dillian’s turn, because, sir, you can’t say you’ve overlooked an elder sister, now, can you, not when you’ve offered it to her and she’s said, no, thankee just the same, I’m going to be a nun?’

‘No, indeed.’

‘So Dillian,
she
marries my Lord Brice instead.’ Abruptly Will stopped, face working with some deep emotion. After a moment he recovered sufficiently to say, ‘I’m sorry, sir, that I am, only it’s such a recent pain, see. I still thinks as how she’s going to come riding up the track like she used to, calling out, laughing, playing her little tricks, only she didn’t, of course, all that stopped, when she married him.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Naturally, they all say it was an accident. She fell off the horse, that’s for sure, and I know there’s witnesses to say so, good, honest souls who mean no harm, who are just telling the truth. But why did she get up on that great beast and gallop off like that? That’s what I’d like to know! And I know him, sir, I know that Brice. I tell you, I don’t blame Miss Gunnora for refusing him. I only wish my lovely Dillian had had the wisdom to do the same, but, there you are.’ He gave a deep, gusty sigh. ‘The ways of women always were a mystery, weren’t they? Always will be, too, I reckon.’

There seemed nothing to add to that remark, with which Josse was tempted to agree. Respectful of Will’s evident sorrow, Josse let the silence continue for some time. There was no need, anyway, for hurry. Not now, when he had guessed what had happened. Knew, or so he thought, what had caused the abiding misery of Winnowlands.

Not the death of an elder daughter, an unappealing woman whose departure into a convent hadn’t really dismayed anyone, but the death of her sister.
My lovely Dillian,
with her laughter and her tricks.

‘So he lost them both?’ he prompted eventually.

‘Hm?’ Will seemed to have forgotten Josse was there. ‘Aye. One after the other, not a sennight between them.’ Another deep sigh. ‘No more daughters. No female heir, securely married to a good man.’ He raised his head and met Josse’s eyes. ‘And the master’s every breath threatening to be his last. What’s to become of us all, sir? That’s what I’d like to know!’

‘Aye,’ Josse said absently. His brain was working hard, and, despite the depressing circumstances, there was an elation in him, at having surmised correctly.

He did a swift résumé of Sir Alard’s dilemma. Both daughters dead, one immediately after the other. No more children, and this Dillian, apparently, had herself borne no child. And a son-in-law who, according to Will, was held by popular opinion to have been at best a poor husband, at worst responsible for his young wife’s death. The sort of man, surely, to whom a father-in-law would scarcely leave his undoubted wealth.

No wonder the peasants of the manor seemed so dismal and dejected. There was, in Josse’s experience, nothing more guaranteed to lower the spirits than uncertainty about the future.

And, with the succession of Winnowlands undecided and threatening to remain so, how much more uncertain could the future of everyone on this particular estate be?

Chapter Seven

Will, preoccupied with his own worries, barely raised his head at Josse’s casual request as to where he might find the Lord Brice. He gave brief instructions – which proved to be easy to follow and totally accurate – and, as if as an afterthought, mentioned that Josse was unlikely to find the master at home since, so it was rumoured, Brice of Rotherbridge had gone to Canterbury. ‘You’ll likely find his brother, though.’ This with a sniff which could have been interpreted as disparaging. ‘The young Lord Olivar’s usually around.’ Will shot Josse a knowing look. ‘Keeping an eye on things, like.’

Suspecting he wasn’t going to learn any more – indeed, Will had turned and was heading back to whatever task he was working on down in the undercroft – Josse set off to search out either, or both, of the brothers Rotherbridge.

*   *   *

The Rotherbridge manor adjoined the Winnowlands estate on the east and on the south. Brice had his share of ridge-top pasture and arable land, but the majority of his acres were on the marshlands; he must own enough sheep, Josse mused, to make him a man of considerable means. English wool was obtaining a fine reputation in the markets of France and the Low Countries; there were fortunes to be made, and, from the look of the newly extended manor house, Brice of Rotherbridge was busy making his.

No wonder, Josse thought as he rode up the track to the house, Alard wanted an alliance with this man. Not only are they neighbours – and Alard may well have cast an occasional covetous eye on Brice’s acres of sheep pasture – but Brice is the sort of husband a father would welcome for his daughter. As regards his money and his position, anyway. Would it have weighed with Alard, that other aspects of Brice might make him less desirable? Would he have known about them, even, other than as servants’ gossip?

Yes. He’d have known. Gunnora would have told him. Wouldn’t she? Surely, during one of those protracted arguments between furious, determined father and stubborn daughter, she would have said something on the lines of, I’m not marrying him, he’s a brute.

Or perhaps she hadn’t. For Dillian had needed no persuasion to marry the man.

There was a tale there, Josse reflected as he rode into the shady yard of Rotherbridge manor house. And, hopefully, he’d find someone to tell it to him.

‘Hello?’ he called, still sitting his horse. ‘My Lord Brice? My Lord Olivar?’

There was no reply for some moments, although he thought he heard sounds of movement within. ‘Hello?’ he called again.

‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’ shouted a female voice, suddenly loud in the still warmth. ‘Can’t be doing two things at once, and that fool of a boy’ll ruin it if I don’t tell him exactly what to do, you’d think he’d have more wits, but there you are, some are born stupid and stupid they remain. Now, sir, what can I do for you?’

She had emerged from the house talking, and the outpourings had continued as she made her way over to Josse. She was getting on in years, stout, and walked with a limp that threw her with a jerk over to her right at each step. She wore a plain brown gown, and over it a clean white apron, on which she was wiping work-worn hands.

Hoping fervently that her flow of words indicated a character disposed to hob-nobbing with strangers, Josse said, ‘I have come in search of Brice of Rotherbridge.’ Improvising, he added, ‘To pay my condolences on the death of his wife.’

The leathery face, which had been screwed up into a deep grimace of interested enquiry as she stared up at him, instantly slumped, into lines of sorrow. ‘Aye, aye,’ the woman murmured. Then she sighed deeply, and repeated, ‘Aye.’