The Tavern in the Morning (23 page)

Josse watched as he returned to the figure in the shadows. Soon afterwards, he emerged again, supporting the stooped figure of Brother Saul. There was a murmur from one of the men on the ground; de Courtenay, answering, said, ‘Oh, do as you like. No, I’ve no further use for you. You can go to hell, for all I care.’

There was another murmur – something about being paid – and de Courtenay shouted, ‘You’ve had all you’re getting from me! And
that’s
being more than generous, considering how little use you’ve been!’

He was still shaking his head and muttering under his breath when he reached Josse. ‘What has become of the honest serving man?’ he asked as Josse put Brother Saul’s arm round his shoulders and helped de Courtenay bear him along to the gates.

Treating the question as rhetorical, Josse didn’t bother to answer.

*   *   *

They got Saul inside – he had a deep cut on the front of his head, and they wrung from him the confession that he was feeling a little sick – and carried him along to the kitchen. Ella volunteered to take care of him, and Josse laid him gently down on a hastily-prepared pile of mats.

‘I am sorry for your pain,’ he said gently, studying the pale face.

‘No, no, Sir Josse! It is I who am sorry, for my failure.’

‘It was no fault of yours, Saul. Now, rest. Let Ella see to your wound, then sleep.’

Even as Josse turned away, Saul was gratefully closing his eyes.

Josse returned to the hall. De Courtenay was standing just inside the door, as if, having got Josse to admit him, he did not want to presume any further on his host’s hospitality until invited. Let him stand by the door a while longer, Josse thought grimly. He’s right in the draught just there. That’ll cool his passion for him.

There was no sign of either Joanna or Will, Josse noticed with vast relief. He went up to the hearth, and, holding his hands to the lively flames, he said, his back to de Courtenay, ‘Well?’

He heard the cautious footsteps coming nearer. ’Er – may I too, warm myself?’ de Courtenay asked politely.

‘I don’t know about that.’ Josse turned to study him. ‘You were happy enough to leave poor Brother Saul outside in the frosty night.’

‘Oh, Sir Josse, don’t be petty!’ Incredibly, de Courtenay sounded as if he were suppressing laughter. Was this all such a game to him, then? Josse wondered. But what of that brief, intense moment outside? What of
that
man, the one who, despite the easy charm and the humorous manner, seemed to have some fixed and determined purpose which, against all expectations, drove him on regardless of the obstacles put in his way?

I hate to admit it, Josse thought, but I’m intrigued.

He pulled his chair up close to the fire, gestured to the piled rugs and furs on the opposite side of the hearth and, trying to ignore images of Joanna sitting there not very long ago, he said, ‘Sit down.’ De Courtenay settled himself, with a considerable grace.

Josse studied him. De Courtenay, noticing the scrutiny, smiled. ‘Do I pass muster?’

Josse ignored that. After a moment, he said, ‘You seem to have gone to some trouble to get to me. The least I can do, I suppose, is to hear what you have to say.’

The smile extended. De Courtenay said, ‘Ah, a wise decision, if I may say so,’

‘Go on, then. Tell me what you want of me.’

And, with a brief closing of his eyes as if summoning concentration, de Courtenay began to speak.

Chapter Sixteen

‘I have the distinct feeling,’ de Courtenay began, ‘that much of what I would start by telling you will be a repetition of what you already know.’

‘How so?’ Josse asked.

‘Because I imagine you and your friend the Abbess Helewise have few secrets from one another, so that everything I told her at our first meeting, she will in turn have told you. Am I right?’

Josse thought quickly. There seemed no point in denying it. ‘Aye. I know that you are a relation of Joanna de Courtenay, now Joanna de Lehon, and that, following the death of her husband, she is alone in the world and, according to you, grief-stricken and without a protector. As a good kinsman should, you are searching for her and you have come to this region because Joanna has an old friend who lives here. You believe she might have come to see that friend.’

‘Ah, yes,’ de Courtenay sighed. ‘All of that is, alas, all too true.’

‘And you have received no news of Joanna?’

‘I have not.’ Another sigh.

‘What of her woman friend? Did you manage to locate her?’

‘Again, no.’ De Courtenay’s handsome face creased into a worried frown. Josse, observing that there was not the trace of a sign that the man had just told a lie, reminded himself that he was dealing with a very skilled opponent. A very calculating and devious one. And – as the only recently-healed wound on Josse’s head testified – a potentially violent one.

‘You yourself have friends here,’ he said. ‘The Clares of Tonbridge.’

De Courtenay’s head shot up. ‘The Clares friends of mine? No, Sir Josse, now there you are mistaken.’

Putting that denial aside as probably another lie, Josse said, ‘Obviously so. However, you did, I believe, visit Tonbridge.’

Would he deny that, too?

There was a brief pause. Then, as if de Courtenay had worked out that his presence in Tonbridge would be impossible to refute, since too may people might well swear they’d seen him there, he said, ‘I did indeed. I took supper at a tavern. Quite a pleasant inn – a fine mug of ale, and a fresh slice of pie. Rabbit, I seem to recall. Or was it chicken? No matter. Served by a scrawny, dim-witted girl with a drip on the end of her nose.’ He grimaced in distaste.

Poor little Tilly, Josse thought. So much for trying to win your handsome stranger’s favour by swapping the last of the old pie for the first of the new.

‘But, naturally, nobody there could give me any information about my cousin,’ de Courtenay was saying. ‘Not that I expected it – Joanna is a lady, not the sort of person one would find frequenting a bawdy tavern.’

A lady. Against his will, Josse had a memory of Joanna in bed. Making love to him, laughing at some vulgar remark of his, just like any tavern wench.

Deliberately shutting off the image, he said, ‘So you went to Hawkenlye Abbey, in case she’d sought refuge there.’

De Courtenay gave him a sharp look. ‘I did. Not once but twice, and the second time the gracious Abbess allowed me to have a good look around.’

‘No sign of your cousin?’

‘No.’ De Courtenay’s eyes seemed to bore into Josse. ‘No. No sign of her.’

Uncomfortable under the continuing scrutiny, Josse was prompted to speak more bluntly than he intended. ‘Why are you so keen to find her?’ he demanded. ‘The duty of a kinsman is all very well, but searching Abbeys and –’ he had been about to say, and tormenting old women, but stopped himself – ‘and waylaying innocent men like Brother Saul is surely going too far. I think, de Courtenay, you had better explain yourself.’

De Courtenay was lying back on one elbow, long slim legs crossed, studying the toes of his boots. ‘Explain,’ he murmured. He shot a glance at Josse. ‘Yes. I, too, think I had better explain.’ Sitting up suddenly, he said, ‘You assume, Sir Josse, that it is Joanna for whom I am searching so diligently. Why?’

Taken aback, Josse said, ‘Because she is both an orphan and a widow, and likely to be wealthy. And, since you are not, as you say, her uncle, but her cousin, there is no reason why you should not try to acquire your dispensation and marry her.’

The surprise on de Courtenay’s face had to be genuine. He echoed faintly, ‘
Marry
her?’ and then, to Josse’s consternation, burst out laughing.

‘Do you deny that you have been posing as her uncle?’ Josse demanded, puzzled and irritated by the laughter.

‘No, no, I don’t deny it.’ A fresh chuckle burst from de Courtenay. ‘I never can get these complicated strands of family ties straight. I’ve always
felt
like Joanna’s uncle, that’s for sure.’ He was looking intently at Josse, no longer laughing. ‘But, uncle or cousin, you must believe me, Sir Josse, when I assure you I have no thought to marry her. Once, maybe, when she was virginal and unsullied, I might have, although even then I had – No.’

There was a silence. Josse, fighting to control his rage – when she was virgin and unsullied, indeed! And who was responsible for the ending of
that
innocent state? – wanted very much to slam his fist into de Courtenay’s pensive face.

Eventually, mastering himself, he said, ‘So what
do
you want with her?’

De Courtenay looked up. ‘I have not, Sir Josse, been entirely frank with you,’ he said. ‘I have spoken all along as if Joanna were alone, whereas in fact that is not true.’

‘Indeed?’ Josse said coldly.

‘Indeed. She has a son, a boy of seven years. I do not know his name – I have never met him – but I do know of his existence.’

Of course you do, Josse wanted to say. It was Joanna’s pregnancy with that very child which led to you arranging for her the hell on earth that was her marriage to Thorald de Lehon.

He managed to keep the accusation back. ‘What of it?’ he said instead.

De Courtenay seemed to be thinking. ‘Joanna was married to a man named Thorald de Lehon,’ he said, ‘but the child was not his.’ He looked up at Josse, his face expressionless. ‘The boy was conceived at court, in Windsor, during the Christmas festivities of the year 1184.’

‘Ah, Christmas at court,’ Josse said, putting on a smile as if happily reminiscing. ‘Fun and games under the Lord of Misrule, eh?’

‘Quite so,’ de Courtenay agreed. ‘You’ll recall, Sir Josse, how it is? How we all tend to forget ourselves in the celebrations, when we’ve been dancing all evening and have had more to drink than is wise?’

‘Oh, aye.’

‘Especially –’ de Courtenay was leaning closer now, watching Josse for any nuance of reaction – ‘when there is such a clear lead given from the top.’

‘From the top?’ Josse tried to work out what de Courtenay was implying. Then, remembering Joanna speaking of the old King and his numerous mistresses, he nodded. ‘Aye. King Henry, they do say, enjoyed the company of many women. Rosamund Clifford, the princess Alais, and—’

‘And?’ de Courtenay prompted.

Josse shrugged. ‘Any number of other passing fancies, I dare say.’ He was beginning to have a dreadful suspicion. ‘And, where the King leads, his sons will follow,’ he murmured, horrified at his own tentative conclusion yet, at the same time, appreciating how very possible it was.

‘His sons?’ de Courtenay said.

Josse was picturing Ninian’s brilliant blue eyes. Why on earth had he not realised sooner? Not Joanna’s eyes, not inherited from his mother.

Blue eyes, the like of which Josse had been so sure he’d seen once before.

In the face of the boy’s father.

‘I speak,’ he said softly, ‘of King Richard.’

De Courtenay stared at him. ‘Do you?’

‘Aye.’

De Courtenay leaned back on his elbow again. ‘Are you often at court, Sir Josse?’

‘Infrequently.’

‘Yet they speak of you as a King’s man.’

‘I have had the honour to serve King Richard and I await any further instruction he should care to give me.’ Good God, but if Josse were right about this …

‘But you do not attend your King at court,’ de Courtenay was persisting.

‘No. Not often.’

‘Then,’ the voice was low now, ‘you will not know how our blessed King Richard used to comport himself during such festivities as the Christmas season. He was not a man to dance and to carouse, Sir Josse, not once he had put in the appearance which court etiquette demanded of him. Do you know what our beloved King was wont to do then, as soon as he could make himself scarce?’

Josse shook his head. He was intent on what de Courtenay was saying – how, indeed, could he not be! – but, at the same time, he was wondering, with a grim feeling of foreboding, why the man insisted on speaking of his King in the past tense.

‘King Richard preferred to retire to his room with his men and play at mock battles,’ de Courtenay said. ‘I have it on the best authority that his favourite was a re-enactment of the battle of Jericho, and that he himself would blow the trumpet that brought down the city walls.’

Josse said firmly, ‘I don’t believe you.’

De Courtenay shrugged. ‘Please yourself. It is of no import. But what you
must
rid yourself of, Sir Josse, is any idea of King Richard summoning pretty young maidens to his bedchamber and seducing them. He was never, I do assure you, that sort of man.’

‘I—’ Josse couldn’t think how to go on. De Courtenay’s words had the ring of truth, that was the problem; what little Josse knew of King Richard made him believe his sovereign far more likely to prefer discussing ancient battle tactics to deflowering virgins.

But if not Richard, then who?

‘I believe Prince John was at court that Christmas,’ he began, hating himself for the questioning tone.

‘Why do you speak of the sons,’ de Courtenay murmured, ‘when there was then so much life and vigour still in the father?’

It took a moment or two for it to sink in.

The father.

Henry Plantagenet, Richard’s father, the man who had passed down to this son, too, those bright blue eyes. Strong and bull-headed ruler of England for thirty-five years, and, at a generous estimate, some fifty or more years old that Christmas when Joanna’s son was conceived.

And she a child of sixteen!

Was it true? Was Henry of England truly the father of Joanna’s son?

Josse leaned forward and took hold of de Courtenay by the shoulders. Tightening his fingers till they dug deep into the sinewy flesh – he could sense de Courtenay brace himself against the pain – Josse said, ‘If I ever discover that you are lying to me, and that Joanna’s son is
not
the child of Henry Plantagenet, then, so help me, I shall find you and kill you.’

De Courtenay met his eyes. You could not, Josse had to admit, fault his courage. ‘It is the truth,’ he said simply. ‘Believe me, I led her to his bed. I was there when he took her.’