The Song of the Nightingale (29 page)

‘Think, Caliste! Think what happened, in this very place, twenty years ago.'

Caliste thought. Then she turned to the Domina, eyes wide, and back to Selene. ‘
Really
?' she whispered.

Selene was beaming now, pride and love shining in her eyes. ‘His name is Coll, Caliste. He's my son.'

Caliste could have stayed all night there in the glade. It was the first time in years that she had been with her own close kin, and the experience was both bitter and sweet. Sweet, for she knew then how much they loved her; bitter, because soon she would have to leave them. Their lives still belonged to the forest. Hers was given elsewhere.

When she had bowed before her grandmother to receive her farewell blessing, she knew she must ask the question burning in her mind.

‘Domina, is Coll safe now?' she asked, grasping her sister's hand and pulling her close. ‘Tiphaine said he was, but I have to be sure.'

The Domina looked at her for a long moment. ‘He is back where he belongs,' she said enigmatically.

‘Yes, but is he
safe
, wherever he is?' She turned to her twin. ‘And you, Selene – what about you? If the truth ever comes out – and, believe me, I pray it won't – is there any chance at all that Lord Benedict's men will find you or Coll?'

The old woman looked first at one twin, then the other. An expression of satisfaction spread over her lined face, as if what she saw pleased her; as if, in their very different ways, both granddaughters had fulfilled their promise. Then, her eyes returning to Caliste, she answered her impassioned question.

‘No, Caliste,' she said with a smile. ‘No chance whatsoever.'

M
eggie had withdrawn into herself. She could not overcome her anxieties, yet was unable to bring herself to the point where she could accuse Jehan Leferronier outright. Besides, what would be the accusation? How could she explain to him that, while she understood why he had killed the three brigands – he had seen plenty of evidence of their brutality, after all – she could not see why he had felt driven to deal out retributive justice to the Tonbridge deputy and the man who served Lord Benedict.

Did it really matter, she wondered, if he'd hung around the Hawkenlye area with the sole aim of finding others to punish? All the victims deserved punishment, after all.

Nevertheless, she could not quieten the small voice in her head which said that justice was for the men of law to impose. Even when, in King John's England, the men of law so often failed.

She had managed to avoid further conversation with Jehan on board the boat by saying she was exhausted and needed to sleep. The exhaustion was real enough, but sleep hadn't come for a very long time. This morning they had made port early, and, after stopping at a stall on the quay to buy food and a very welcome hot drink, they had set off inland.

The cargo boat had docked at a small port near Dieppe. Their road now lay almost due south, and Chartres, according to Jehan, was about a hundred miles away. After Rouen, they would be following the route beside first the Seine and then the Eure. It sounded as if the journey would be a fairly easy one, on well-maintained roads over flat lands, and with plenty of other travellers about.

Meggie was reassured by thinking that she would not be alone with Jehan. She kept reminding herself that, no matter what her misgivings, the important thing to remember was that Jehan was taking her to where she hoped – believed – she would find Ninian. She could not get to Chartres without Jehan because, for one thing, she didn't know the way, and, for another, she didn't have a horse.

They travelled for much of the first day in silence, exchanging remarks only out of necessity, in order to decide when to stop to eat, or when one of them felt like getting down from Auban's comfortable back and stretching their legs. By the end of the second day, however, Meggie felt she couldn't keep quiet any longer. In the privacy of her thoughts, she had made up her mind that Jehan was anything and everything from a knight dressed in pure, gleaming white sent from heaven to right the wrongs of the world, to a heartless killer who sought out men to punish purely because it gave him a perverted pleasure.

The truth, she decided as the two of them set about making their camp for the night beside the loops and curls of the Seine, was probably somewhere in-between.

They were camped on an apron of land that projected into the water, surrounded on three sides by the river. The deep, constant sound of moving water was an ever-present background noise as Jehan cut and trimmed branches to make a shelter, and Meggie found hearthstones and got a small fire going. They had a luxurious supper to look forward to: a couple of small, fresh carp just out of the river, some root vegetables purchased at a market stall in Rouen, onions, garlic and herbs for flavour and, to accompany it, a bottle of white wine.

Meggie was so hungry that she gave her entire concentration to the meal, and only afterwards, when their platters were scraped clean and they were leaning back drinking the last of the wine, did she finally nerve herself to ask the questions that had been burning in her.

‘Jehan,' she began.

He raised his head and looked at her. A wry smile twisted his mouth. He had removed the cloth that he habitually wrapped around his head, and his long, black hair hung to his chest. His hair was damp: before they ate, he had surprised her by disappearing to go and wash in the river. All over, from his head to his toes. In the firelight, he looked very exotic, with his dark skin and the gold earring glittering in his ear. He also looked very handsome.

But she wasn't going to let that distract her.

‘You said you're not the man I believe you to be,' she plunged in, before she could change her mind. ‘I think you should explain just what you meant.'

He made a very foreign-looking grimace: a sort of twisting down of the corners of his mouth, accompanied by a slight lift of the shoulders. ‘It is – I am not sure where to begin, Meggie.'

‘Just tell me the truth!'

‘The truth,' he echoed softly. ‘Ah, but therein lies my dilemma, for if I reveal to you my true purpose in following those three evil men to Hawkenlye, I fear that you will think the less of me.'

For a moment, her mind was full of the wonderful revelation that what she thought about him mattered to him. She forced herself to concentrate on what was really important. ‘You went to kill them, and you put a mark on one of them to indicate that their deaths were done in revenge for their crimes.' He started to speak, but she went on talking. It was now or never. ‘Then you found two other wicked men, both of whom had done violence against the innocent, and you punished them too. You—'

But he would not let her continue. ‘Meggie, this is what you said before. You did not mention my other two supposed victims, but you did accuse me of killing the trio of brigands.'

‘It's not exactly an accusation,' she protested. ‘They deserved to die, and I do not think you committed any crime in executing them.'

Now the rueful smile was very evident. ‘That, indeed, is the nub of it,' he said. ‘I wished to continue to bathe in your approbation, for I have sensed all along that you would admire a man who would take the law into his own hands and coolly murder three such wicked men. But, Meggie, it is high time I confessed: I did not kill them.'

In that first moment, she did not know whether to be relieved or sorry. What she did know as she sat there in the firelight, staring intently into his black eyes, was that she believed him.

‘I have disappointed you, I think,' he said quietly.

‘No – I don't know,' she confessed.

‘I imagine,' he went on, watching her steadily, ‘that you are sorry I did not kill the three against whom I had a genuine grievance, yet glad that I am not the man to hunt down the guilty just for the sake of doing violence to them.
Oui
?'

‘Yes,' she agreed.

‘
Eh bien
, I am glad that you answered honestly. It is right that we should be honest with each other, right from the start.' His words, implying a future between them, sent a thrill through her. ‘I must admit to you, Meggie, that, in more than one way, I have allowed you to think I am someone I am not. For your father is a knight and also, evidently, a fine man, and I believe that, loving him as you obviously do – oh, yes, I have seen your face when you have not known I was watching, and I see how it grieves you to think of him worrying about you, missing you. Loving him as you do, you would wish that I, too, should be a man of high birth and property.' He paused. ‘You have ancestors who went on crusade, perhaps?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘My father's father, Geoffroi d'Acquin, went on crusade with King Louis of France. Acquin is my father's birthplace,' she added, ‘although it is his younger brothers who look after it now, since my father settled in England.'

Jehan was nodding. ‘
Oui
, I surmised that your father's name was of French origin. Well, Meggie, my grandfather went also on the Second Crusade, and his father before him went to Outremer on the First Crusade. But my forefathers were not knights.' He paused. ‘They were blacksmiths.'

‘You made my little sword!' she exclaimed, drawing it from its pouch at her belt, turning it so that the tiny garnet caught the light from the fire. ‘It is doubly precious,' she whispered.

He started to speak, but some strong emotion made his voice break.

After what seemed a long pause, she said, ‘Tell me all about yourself, Jehan Leferronier.'

And, once he had collected himself, he did.

‘My family have always been blacksmiths, iron workers, and they lived in Brittany, in a place called Paimpont,' he began. ‘Our legends go right back into the time of myths, and it is said that one of my forefathers made the magic cauldron for the great sorcerer who once lived in the heart of the Breton forest.'

Meggie stifled a gasp. She knew about that forest; when she was a small child, she had even been there . . .

‘My father's grandfather was called Trudo le Ferronier,' Jehan was saying, ‘and his
seigneur
was Raoul de Gaël, lord of a large area of the Brocéliande forest, a man who had gone on campaign to England in 1066 with William the Conqueror. Raoul answered the call when the First Crusade was preached, and he took with him to Outremer his faithful blacksmith, for a man who is going to fight has need of someone skilled in metalwork. Raoul had every reason to be grateful to Trudo le Ferronier, for Trudo had refined his skill as a swordsmith, and it was said that his weapons were as good as the great swords made in Spain.'

‘Toledo steel,' Meggie muttered.

‘How did you know that?' he asked.

She shrugged. ‘Probably from my father.'

‘In Outremer, Trudo worked alongside a smith from that very city, Toledo, and he learned much of the Spaniard's technique. The process was a closely-guarded secret, but somehow my forefather learned it. It is a question of forging together hard and soft steel,' Jehan went on eagerly, the light of the true craftsman shining in his eyes, ‘at a very high temperature, with very precise timing; for if the steel is kept in the heat for too long it will melt, and if for not long enough, the metal will not even reach melting temperature.' He grinned. ‘Most swordsmiths recite a particular psalm or prayer, to the same steady rhythm, in order to get the timing exact.'

‘But Trudo returned from Outremer?' she prompted. She sensed that Jehan could talk about sword-making all night.

‘He did, for Raoul de Gaël died, in 1109, and, with his lord's death, Trudo had no longer a purpose so far away from his home. He came back to his wife and his three children, and five more children were born to them, the last of whom was named Péran, and he was my grandfather.'

‘The man who married a woman of Ethiopia,' she put in.

He smiled, clearly gratified that she had remembered. ‘
Oui, c'est vrai
. Péran went on the Second Crusade, as I said, following his father's example, and whilst there he met a tall, elegant and very beautiful woman of the south whose name was Taya. He wooed her and wed her, and, in time, brought her home to Paimpont, and always he loved and cherished her, for she had given up her hopes of ever returning to her own birthplace and gone willingly with him to his.' He paused, his gaze on something out beyond the fire. ‘They had but the one child, my father, Chrétien Leferronier, and he wed my mother, Onenne de Gué, and they, too, had one son.'

‘Who is a blacksmith like his ancestors, and who left his forest home to work in the cathedral at Chartres, making beautiful things, where he was distracted by a call to arms from his fellow Bretons because they had seen a chance to get even with King John for murdering their beloved Prince Arthur,' she said in a rush.

‘Shhhhh!' he hissed. ‘Not so loud!' Then, grinning, he said, ‘There you have my life, Meggie. You know what I am and what I am not, and I have told you the truth.'

‘I know,' she said calmly. It was time, she thought, to tell him something about her own strange heritage and mysterious gifts. Tomorrow, she promised herself.

He was frowning. ‘There is one more thing,' he said. His hand was on the sword that lay in its scabbard on the ground beside him. As she watched, he drew it out.

Despite its sinister purpose, it was an object of great beauty. It was, she realized as she studied it closely, the model for her own miniature weapon. Its hilt terminated in a garnet set in heavy silver, and the crosspieces bore intricate, swirling designs, the very shapes of which seemed to exude mysterious meaning. The long, savage blade was decorated with more curling patterns, and its keen edge shone almost blue in the firelight.

‘Did your great-grandfather make it?' she whispered, awestruck by the sheer power of the object before her.