Fortune Like the Moon (22 page)

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.

The dark man was smiling again, as if amused at some private joke. Offering Josse a mug of ale, he said, ‘I think, Sir Josse, that I must correct a misapprehension into which you have somehow fallen.’ He raised his own mug, took a drink, then said, ‘I am not Olivar. I am Brice.’

Josse’s immediate, foolish impulse was to say, No you’re not! You can’t be, I
saw
Brice, down by the river, in the deepest distress over the death of his young wife!

He held the words back. Clearly, he’d made a mistake. Jumped to a conclusion on purely circumstantial evidence. Wrong!

But, if this were indeed Brice, then who was the grieving man? There was a resemblance, yes – it was perfectly possible they were brothers.

He said, ‘My Lord Brice, I apologise.’ Brice shook his head, still smiling. Josse continued, ‘If it is not impertinent, might I ask if your bother Olivar resembles you?’

‘They do say so, yes, although I do not really see it myself. We are both dark, however. Only he has a streak of white, just here.’ He indicated above his left ear. ‘He’s had it since he was a lad of fifteen. It grew after he’d had a bad fall from his horse when we were out hunting. The physician said it was shock, but I’ve always doubted that. It takes more than a fall to shock my brother, Sir Josse.’

‘Ah. Oh. Yes, I see.’ Josse, aware of making the right responses, was thinking. Not a man to shock readily? Perhaps not, when it was a question of physical fortitude. But the man Josse had seen down by the river had been in shock all right. He’d been grieving so deeply that it had seemed he would never stop.

Olivar of Rotherbridge, then, had a secret heartbreak which, or so it seemed, even his elder brother was unaware of.

‘I asked you to visit me,’ Brice was saying, ‘because I wish to make a donation to Hawkenlye Abbey.’

‘You do?’ With some effort, Josse pulled his thoughts together.

‘I do. I was planning to pay a call on Abbess Helewise, but there are matters here at Rotherbridge requiring my attention, and I have already been away for some time.’

‘Aye.’

‘I was with the holy brothers at Canterbury,’ Brice went on. ‘Doing penance.’

‘Aye, I know.’ Josse felt compelled to admit it; there was no need for this man to punish himself further by giving the details to a stranger.

But Brice, it seemed, wanted to. ‘I did love Dillian,’ he said, leaning forward and fixing earnest brown eyes on Josse. ‘We had our difficulties, as no doubt do all married couples. You are married?’ Josse shook his head. ‘She could be wilful and over-frivolous, and she would not address herself to matters of importance. But I was at fault, too. I dare say I was too old and serious for her, God rest her soul, and I admit that I was not always kind to her.’

He was relating his story, Josse thought, with an ease that suggested acceptance. If that were so, then the heavy-handed monks had done their job well.

‘Her death was an accident, I’m told,’ Josse said.

‘Accident, yes. I know it was. But it was my rash anger which led to it. I have made my confession, and done my penance.’ He gave a grim smile, as if at the memory. ‘I am reliably informed that for me to go on heaping ashes on my head would amount to self-indulgence. And I am only to wear the hair shirt on Sundays.’

This time the smile was open and unrestrained. Josse, wondering if possibly he were being deliberately charmed, found himself liking the man. And, if Brice had won himself God’s forgiveness for his part in his wife’s tragic death, then who was Josse to go on condemning him?

‘You spoke of a gift to the Abbey,’ he said.

‘I did. I was explaining why I asked you to visit me, which was purely because, unable to make the journey to Hawkenlye, I could scarcely ask the Abbess to ride over here. So, Sir Josse, I asked you.’

It was reasonable. ‘I have no objection,’ Josse said.

‘Good. In that case, let us proceed to the business. My late sister-in-law, Gunnora of Winnowlands, would have been left the greater part of her father’s fortune had she and the old man lived a little longer. He disinherited her on her entry into Hawkenlye. Alard wanted her to marry me – it was a sound match, both families would have felt the benefits, and I was not unwilling. But she wouldn’t have me, Sir Josse, shouted out to all who would listen that life as a nun was preferable to being my wife. There was a degree of blackening of my name, or so I gathered. But she had her reasons.’ He spoke lightly, and Josse detected no hint of pain or of resentment. ‘That was her story,’ he murmured, half to himself. ‘By God, she needed a good one. So Alard made Dillian his heir’ – he was addressing Josse again now – ‘but, when Dillian was killed, Alard had to think again. Initially he left the lot to his niece Elanor and her stupid little boy of a husband, but I am told he was about to reconsider. I imagine it is likely that, even with Gunnora dead, he would have made some gift to Hawkenlye. However, death intervened, and his unamended will stands; Elanor will inherit. Good news awaits her, on her return from her visiting.’

They didn’t know, then, at Rotherbridge, of Elanor’s death. Indeed, how could they, when, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, the second Hawkenlye victim was a postulant named Elvera? Briefly Josse wondered just who
would
inherit Alard’s fortune. Milon, since he was Elanor’s husband? But wasn’t there some ancient law from back in the distant past about a criminal not being allowed to benefit from his crime?

The resolution of that matter remained to be seen.

‘I wish,’ Brice was saying, ‘to give to the Abbey a donation to compensate, in some part, for what they would have received from my late wife’s father, had he lived a day or so longer. I make the gift of my own free will, although I confess that the good brothers of Canterbury did drop one or two hints.’

‘I’m sure they did,’ Josse murmured.

Brice was reaching for a small leather bag that hung from his belt. ‘Will you give this to the Abbess, please, Sir Josse? With the compliments of Brice of Rotherbridge, in the name of Sister Gunnora?’

‘Aye, gladly.’ Josse held out his hand, and Brice dropped the bag into it. The bag was very heavy.

‘What news of progress in the hunt for her killer?’ Brice asked as, seated once more, he raised his mug. ‘You, I am told, have the new King’s authority to investigate the murder?’

‘Aye.’

‘I wondered at Richard Plantagenet concerning himself with a rural killing until I made the connection,’ Brice went on. ‘Your task, I imagine, is simply to persuade us all that Gunnora was not killed by one of these released criminals he’s been busy turfing out of the country’s jails.’

‘She wasn’t,’ Josse said. ‘I’ve known that from the first.’

‘Quite so. I can’t imagine that anyone with any sense would have believed otherwise. Prisoners hereabouts may be mean, stinking and hopeless, but few of them are murderers.’

Josse grinned. ‘Aye. Trouble is, Sir Brice, your average man drinking his hard-earned wages in the local hostelry doesn’t have very much sense.’

Brice laughed. ‘So, you remain here to satisfy your own curiosity?’

‘Aye.’ And, Josse thought wearily, I’m still a long way from doing so.

*   *   *

He was draining his ale, thinking it was about time he got up and headed back for Hawkenlye – it wouldn’t do to be out after dark with a purseful of gold tucked in his tunic – when something occurred to him. He might not have felt he should ask, except that, for the past hour or so, he and Brice had been enjoying a long conversation about the end of Henry II’s days, and discussing what likelihood there was of as good a life under the rule of his son. It had, Josse thought, put them on a new level of intimacy. Or it might have been the ale, and the sharing of the excellent food which Mathild had provided for the midday meal.

Either way, he plunged on and asked his question.

‘Your brother, Olivar,’ he began.

‘My brother.’ Brice sighed, sticking his legs out straight in front of him and regarding his boots. As if he, too, now felt able to speak of more personal matters, he added, ‘My poor suffering brother.’

So he
did
know of Olivar’s grief!