Girl In A Red Tunic (36 page)

     Sirida looked at him. ‘Not much. Arthur must be allowed to use the family name and –’ she paused, apparently thinking, ‘– and be given assistance in setting up a modest household for himself.’

     ‘Perhaps he’d like to move into the Old Manor with Rohaise and me!’ Leofgar cried furiously. ‘You’d like to sleep in a real bed, wouldn’t you, Arthur? Better than that filthy heap of straw down there in the corner!’

     Josse held his breath as the knife point dug infinitesimally into the skin of Leofgar’s throat. Be careful, lad, he pleaded silently; it may be brave but it is not wise to antagonise a man who holds a blade to your neck.

     But Arthur controlled himself. ‘This is my mother’s dwelling,’ he said, his voice cold and distant. ‘I was begotten in something very similar, so she tells me, and, because of Benedict Warin’s intransigence, neither she nor I have ever managed to better ourselves.’

     As if this reminder of her sufferings had loosened some restraint within Sirida, she suddenly spoke. ‘He used me and he abandoned me,’ she said, the cold, detached tone somehow more powerful than anger. ‘He took me to his hut in the woodland above the Old Manor, him and that Martin of his, the man who was his constant companion after the accident.’

     Leofgar and Josse said together, ‘What accident?’

     The Abbess, eyes vague as if she looked back into the past, said quietly, ‘Although he tried to disguise it, Benedict Warin walked with a limp. He had a bad fall from his horse and he was dragged for quite some way before his companion managed to get hold of the horse and bring it to a halt. Martin was that companion; the two men had been close since boyhood. After Benedict was hurt, he used Martin as a sort of body servant, someone to prop him up and help him move about when the pain from his old wounds became bad.’

     ‘Yes, yes, that was Martin,’ Sirida said impatiently. ‘But listen now and forget about Martin, because it’s Benedict I’m telling you about. He knew I was with child for I told him so and yet he refused his help. But there was
something
that he did.’ She paused, looking around the circle of listeners to make sure she had their full attention.

     Unable to bear the suspense, Josse said, ‘What do you mean?’

     She turned to him, a soft smile on her thin lips. ‘When my baby was born I sought out Benedict and I showed him the child. I hoped that Benedict’s heart would soften when he saw the fruits of his seed – he only had the one son, you know, by that barren wife of his. But even then, staring down at my pretty babe in my arms, he would do nothing for me. I pleaded, I swallowed my pride and I begged. I said, ignore me and my plight if you must but do something for your little son! In the end – I suspect just to get rid of me – he said that he would help.’ She paused dramatically, staring around at each one of her listeners. Then she said, ‘He told me that when his time came he would leave proof of Arthur’s paternity.’ Her eyes on Arthur, she added quietly, ‘I made him promise to make it right for you in the end.’

     There was a brief shocked silence.

     Then Leofgar broke it. ‘And it is this
proof
that you have been searching for in my house?’ he burst out. ‘For which you sent that foul villain Walter Bell prying and hunting?’ He tried to crane round to stare at Arthur, but Arthur increased the pressure on the blade and he had to stop. ‘Your
thief
,’ Leofgar said, spitting out the word, ‘attacked my wife and terrified my little son so badly that he was struck dumb.’

     Sirida turned on Arthur. ‘I told you not to send Walter Bell,’ she said coldly. ‘He can control neither his lust nor his anger and he forgot all about his mission once he set eyes on the woman.’

     ‘I had to send him!’ Arthur shouted.

     ‘A man like Bell?’ his mother countered. ‘You fool, Arthur! Involving the likes of him and that worthless Teb was an invitation to trouble.’

     ‘You knew the Bell brothers, Madam?’ Josse asked her courteously; if he could appear to side with her and alienate Arthur, perhaps dissension between mother and son might come to his aid  ...

     ‘Yes, I knew them.’ She was watching him, a slight smile on her face, and he was certain that she knew what he was trying to do; for a strange moment he thought he was hearing her voice in his head saying that it was a fine idea but not one that stood any chance of working.
Nothing comes between me and my son
... ‘They are both dead and I judge that they are no loss.’

     Josse shook himself as if it were possible in this way to throw off her spell. Did she but know it, he thought, forcing himself to concentrate, she echoed the words of Gervase de Gifford. She knew of the deaths and Josse wondered how. ‘Your son has told you what happened to the Bells?’ he asked.

     ‘He did not need to,’ she said wearily. ‘I saw Walter go for Rohaise Warin with his knife and I saw how her quick wits gave her the presence of mind to throw that jug at him and trip him up. I saw him lie as if dead and then, when she approached, lunge up at her. I saw the hound that bit out his throat and took his life and I saw what Leofgar did with his remains.’

     ‘You were there?’ Leofgar asked, the astonishment evident in his voice.

     She smiled. ‘I was – a witness, of a sort,’ she said, ‘although nobody else knew of it.’

     ‘But—’

     She did not allow Leofgar to continue with his protest. Instead she said, ‘So much for Walter. And many people as well as I saw Teb Bell hanging from his tree.’

     ‘Do you know who strung him up there?’ Josse asked.

     ‘I saw,’ she replied.

     ‘It was not I!’ Leofgar protested.

     ‘No, indeed it was not,’ she agreed. ‘Teb Bell was on his way to find you, Leofgar. He knew that his brother had been to the Old Manor and he thought that you had killed him. He wanted to beat the truth out of you but he could not be allowed to approach you. Had he been apprehended – which was surely likely, given that Teb had fewer brains and even less subtlety than his brother – then he would have blurted out the truth of the matter and our hopes of achieving our ends quietly and harmoniously would have come to naught.’

     ‘So he had to be stopped,’ Josse said. Aye, it was as he had thought; even if Arthur did not admit to it, it seemed certain that it was he who murdered Teb Bell.

     ‘Teb was of no further use,’ Sirida said dismissively. ‘It was a mistake to involve him and his brother in the first place.’

     ‘You have not managed to find this alleged proof for which you have been searching,’ the Abbess suddenly said, the authority in her voice filling the small space so that, as one, they turned to her.

     ‘It is not there to be found,’ Arthur said in disgust. ‘According to my mother, Benedict said he would secrete the document that he promised to write in a hidden place in his table. But I searched that table myself and it is not there. There
is
no hidden place!’

     ‘But—’ the Abbess began.

     Leofgar interrupted her. ‘If this document of yours cannot be found, man, then it is because it is not there!’ he shouted. ‘It does not exist! Benedict never wrote it because, Arthur
Fitzurse
,’ – he laid heavy and sarcastic emphasis on the name – ‘he did not acknowledge you as his son!’

     ‘I am his son!
I am!
’ Arthur protested, his body tense with rage.

     ‘I was bedded by Benedict Warin!’ Sirida cried. ‘His man Martin helped him into the hut where I awaited him! He blew out the lamp and took me in his arms and he penetrated me! I conceived and bore him a son, and that son is Arthur!’

     ‘Without Benedict Warin’s word, you cannot persuade any of us that this is the truth,’ Josse said, making his voice sound very firm. ‘It is hopeless, Sirida.’ He stepped closer to her, his eyes never leaving hers although he could not read the expression in their dark depths. ‘Let us go,’ he said gently. ‘Tell your son to remove the knife from Leofgar’s throat now. No harm has been done and we can all be safely back in our homes this day if you relent.’

     There was a moment of perfect stillness. Then slowly Sirida nodded. ‘You speak wisely, Sir Josse,’ she said. ‘We achieve nothing by this, for the one man who could have supported my story refused to do so in life and now is dead.’ She bowed her head and gave a long sigh.

     For a triumphant – and very brief – moment, Josse believed that she meant it.

     But then Arthur’s anguished shout broke the silence.

     ‘
No!
’

     As one they turned to stare at him, even Leofgar twisting his head around as far as the knife blade allowed. Arthur’s face was contorted with passion and his eyes bulged.

     ‘Thirty-five years of misery!’ he cried, intent only upon his mother. ‘A few moments of lust in a filthy shack and what did it advance us? You gave up the poor but honest life of a serving woman because you saw your chance to grasp something better and, for as long as I can remember, you’ve forced me to share your ambition! Look at Benedict, you used to tell me, that man is your father. Look at his son and that pretty wife who hides a secret, you said. Look at Benedict’s new grandson, who will grow up to have all the things that are rightfully yours handed to him on a silver platter! Oh, I looked, Mother, again and again, for you would not let me stop. I looked and then I came home to you in this
sty
’ – he spat out the word – ‘and even then there was no respite for I loved you and my heart would ache to see the life that you were forced to lead.’

     He stopped, panting, and Sirida made a small moan, stretching out a hand towards her son.

     But he ignored it.

     Stepping back a pace away from her, dark eyes still fixed on hers, he said, ‘You suffered, well I know it. But so did I, Mother. Bastard, son of a whore, witch’s brat, devil’s spawn; those were some of the less offensive names they called me and I will not sully the delicate ears of this company with the worst ones. I endured the taunts and I endured the missiles that the boys flung at me, endured being daubed in animal dung and having my hair shorn with sheep shears. I endured because you promised me it would end in time. You told me I must be patient because one day the world would know me for who I am and honour me for my name.’

     ‘Son, I—’

     He would not let her speak.

     ‘When is that day to be, Mother?’ he asked. ‘I wish you would tell me, for I am heart sick of waiting.’

     Josse found that he was holding his breath. The tension between Sirida and Arthur was almost visible. Arthur had backed off another pace, almost as if he did not dare risk physical contact with his mother’s outstretched fingers in case it made his love for her triumph over his anger and caused his resolve to collapse.

     And the knife blade, Josse noticed, feeling sick with the anxiety of helplessness, was no longer pressed right against Leofgar’s throat  ...

     Sirida was staring into her son’s eyes. ‘Arthur, the day will come, for despite all that you say, I know full well that Benedict’s document is where he said it would be, for I have seen it with my inner eye and I
know
that he kept his promise to me.’

     There was a gasp – from the Abbess, Josse thought – quickly suppressed, as if, like him, she too could not bear to make any sound or movement that might affect the mood between the mother and son enacting the dreadful drama before them.

     ‘I can’t find it, Mother.’ Arthur’s voice hardly rose above a whisper.

     ‘We
shall
find it, son,’ she crooned, closer to him now, eyes still on his. ‘And there will be no more talk of
relenting
,’ – she put venom into the word – ‘I promise you, for—’

     She stopped.

     She stood there in front of Arthur, looking deeply into his eyes, and then her mouth opened and her face contorted in anguish. Shaking her head, muttering, ‘No, oh, no!’ at last she managed to grasp Arthur’s free hand in both of hers.

     Half to herself, she muttered, ‘It shall not be! Oh, but I will not allow it to happen that way!’ and then, pulling herself together with a visible effort, she said decisively, ‘Benedict’s letter exists and it will be found. Then my son will stand beside his blood kindred and he shall be—’