The Tavern in the Morning (8 page)

‘You’re drowsy,’ she observed. ‘Have a sleep. It’ll help your body heal itself.’

‘Very well.’ He could feel his eyelids drooping. Closing.

‘I’ll be back later,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve filled your water flask, and left you some bread and dried meat. I’ll bring you more food when I return.’

He opened one eye. She was still there. He closed it. When, an instant later, he opened it again, she had gone.

*   *   *

He wondered afterwards what she had put in the cup. Some strong sedative, that was for sure. Well, he had to conclude that she knew what she was doing; waking up late in the day, when the long shadows cast by a low sun in a clear sky told him it was almost dusk, he discovered he felt much better.

He lay staring out at the sunset. The sky was clear, not a cloud to be seen. As he watched, the orange glow began to fade and, in the deep navy of twilight, the first stars came out. There was the Great Bear – idly his eyes followed the line of the constellation – there were the Pointers, there the North Star, and, over there … ah, yes! There was Cassiopeia.

She had said she would come back, and he knew she would. Eventually, she did.

She was breathless, and had obviously been running. ‘It’s going to be a very cold night,’ she said without pausing to greet him. ‘There’s no fire out there this evening, so you’d better come with me. Can you manage to mount your horse, if I help you?’

He sat up. So far, so good. ‘Aye,’ he said. He had been outside several more times to answer calls of nature, and getting on to Horace shouldn’t present any problem. He rolled over on to his knees, then very slowly got to his feet. Not too bad.

She held his arm and they went outside. Somebody – the woman? – had put on Horace’s saddle and bridle, and beside him stood a stout bay pony, also tacked up.

Josse pointed. ‘Minstrel?’

‘Minstrel.’

The woman bent down and held her joined hands beneath Horace’s left stirrup. Josse put his knee into her hands, and, holding on to the saddle, heaved himself up while she pushed from beneath.

Lord, but she
was
strong! He hardly needed to pull, she was doing most of the work.

He settled himself – his head was spinning wildly – while she mounted the pony. ‘You’re no weakling,’ he remarked.

She shot him a glance. ‘Four months of taking care of us has developed muscles I didn’t know I had,’ she said. ‘I can split logs and carry loads as well as a man.’ Then, as if regretting her words, her expression closed down. Face severe, she nudged the pony closer to Josse. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to blindfold you.’

‘
What?
’

‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, ‘but it’s necessary. You have to agree,’ she went on, earnest now as if it mattered that she convince him, ‘there’s no point in discovering a perfect hiding-place and then letting a total stranger know where it is. Is there?’

‘No.’ She was right, he did have to agree.

He leaned down to her level while she tied a soft cloth round his eyes, over the top of the band holding on the poultice. She tied it tightly and efficiently: he couldn’t see a thing.

‘And I’ll have to tie your wrists to the pommel of your saddle,’ she added, doing so before he could protest.

‘I won’t take the blindfold off, I promise,’ he said quietly.

‘I believe you.’ He sensed from the warmth in her voice that she did. ‘But suppose your horse were to trip? Natural instinct would be to uncover your eyes, despite your promise.’ He made no reply. ‘I won’t let that happen,’ she said. ‘Won’t let your horse trip, I mean. I know the way, and he’ll probably follow on quite happily behind me. If he gets uneasy, I’ll dismount and lead him. All right?’

‘All right.’

They travelled for some time. Josse, in the blackness of his blindfold, disorientated and dizzy, concentrated on clinging on to the saddle, and on coping with the sickness that kept coming in vertiginous waves.

After a while, he sensed they were no longer beneath the trees. The ground seemed a little firmer and once or twice one of the horses struck a shoe against a stone. The air felt colder and colder. Josse was shivering almost constantly now.

They climbed a slight rise – instinctively, feeling Horace’s effort, he put his weight forward slightly – and then they were there. He sensed walls around them, a building of some sort, and then the woman was beside him, untying his hands, removing the blindfold.

‘Thank you.’

She stared up at him. ‘No. It is I who must thank you. Not a journey for a sick man, I’m afraid, especially when he has been deprived of his sight.’

‘Only temporarily,’ he murmured.

She helped him down, and, as she led Horace and the pony on into the building – it appeared to be a barn, which had been fitted with internal partitions to make two or three rough stalls – he leaned against the door frame, trying to stop the spinning in his head. He noticed absently that one of the stalls was already occupied, but the light inside the barn was too dim for him to make out details of the horse. Perhaps – probably – it was the woman’s mount.

Soon she came back. ‘
They’re
all right,’ she said. ‘Noses in the manger, happy as jesters. Now, let’s see about you.’

Now he needed her support. She shoved her left shoulder under his right arm, bracing his back with her left hand, and, slowly and steadily, got him out of the barn – pausing to secure the doors – and across what seemed to be a paved courtyard. In front of them loomed the bulk of a house. Quite small, square in shape, enclosed at the back by tall trees.

She helped him up a flight of steps to the entrance to the main room, situated over an undercroft. She opened the heavy wooden door and warmth and candlelight flooded out to embrace them. She ushered him quickly inside and Ninian, who had sprung up from where he had been sprawling beside the fire, rushed to close and bar the door behind them.

‘Hello.’ Josse gave the boy a grin, which the boy returned.

‘Hello, Sir Josse d’Acquin.’ The boy glanced at the woman. ‘You can tell
her
you know what my name is,’ he added, ‘it’s the others that—’

‘Ninian!’ the woman said warningly.

The boy gave a strangely adult shrug.

The woman was putting cushions on to a thin palliasse placed in front of the wide hearth. ‘Come, lie down,’ she ordered Josse, ‘it’s not much, but it’s better than my son’s camp. Oh!’ She straightened up, looking aghast at Josse.

‘I already knew,’ he said gently, ‘despite your protestations to the contrary. Or, rather, I guessed.’ He longed to ask why it was so important to pretend Ninian wasn’t her son, but everything about her spoke of someone who was fiercely resisting others’ curiosity. Others’ attentions.

She would have much preferred to leave me out in the woods, he thought as he lay down. Only her good Christian heart made her bring me here, out of the cold.

As if she knew what he was thinking, she said, ‘I think you would have suffered sorely out there tonight. I did not want Ninian to be out at his camp, where he might have tended you and kept the fire in. He cannot play there anymore, not now that I know—’

That you know someone is looking for you? he wondered. No – more than that. You’d have been aware of that all along. But now you have to accept that he’s closing in.

He. Who is
he?

Is it – can it be – who I think it is?

The woman brought him food – a hot, thick soup with some pieces of chicken in it and some sort of mushy pulses, accompanied by bread – and gave him a very welcome mug of mulled wine. Then she presented him with another little cupful of water.

He pushed it firmly away. ‘No, lady.’

She met his eyes. She didn’t try to deny that the water was drugged; she merely said, ‘You need to sleep.’

‘I shall sleep,’ he assured her. ‘Ex-soldiers have the knack of sleeping to order. Didn’t you know?’ She answered his smile with a faint quirk of her lips. ‘I need to wake up to order as well,’ he added, his voice too low for Ninian to hear. ‘Don’t I?’

Her eyes widened as she understood. ‘Oh,
no!
Don’t even
think
that!’

‘Face the truth!’ he hissed. ‘He’s close. Isn’t he?’

He had half hoped that if he pretended to know more than he did, she would lower her guard and tell him everything.

She didn’t.

Instead she raised her chin, stared him out and said haughtily, ‘You have not the least idea what you are talking about, and you won’t trick me into telling you. I’m no fool, Sir Josse.’

‘I didn’t think you were,’ he said. Then, for she was angry now and he knew the moment for confidences was past, he added, ‘I intend to sleep until first light. Then I shall leave. I suggest you escort me to some place where I can find my bearings. I will allow you to blindfold me again, if you wish it.’

‘I do,’ she said frostily. Turning away, she said, ‘Until first light. Come, Ninian.’

The boy gave Josse a wistful look – you’re here, and I’m so glad, but you’ve got to be going again! it seemed to say – and then meekly fell into step behind his mother. They disappeared up a narrow staircase which had been concealed behind a hanging in one corner of the room, and for a short time he heard their footsteps overhead.

Soon, the whole house was quiet.

As he had promised, Josse lay down his head and went to sleep.

*   *   *

In the morning, he was awake before her.

He made his way outside, where he found a water butt. The top couple of inches of water were frozen solid, and he had to break the ice with a stone. He filled a bowl, and took it in to heat it over the fire, which he had fed on waking, tickling it into a good blaze.

He had brought his small saddlebag in from the barn, and now, for the first time in three days, he enjoyed the luxury of a wash and a shave. Before dressing again, he brushed down his tunic as best he could. He gave his boots a shine, and tried to get some of the forest floor vegetation out of his hair. But it was difficult to do so without disturbing the poultice and its linen tie, and he soon gave up.

By the time the woman came down, he felt almost presentable.

‘You look better,’ she said, looking him over.

‘I feel better.’

‘You should keep the poultice in place for another day or two. But it has probably done its work already.’

‘I’m grateful.’

‘No need to be.’

They shared a light breakfast, then she stood up, raising her eyebrows at him.

‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

They went out to the barn, and he tacked up Horace while she saw to the pony. Why not her own horse? he wondered, if that was what the other animal was. Too conspicuous? Better to ride her son’s sturdy pony? There was no way of knowing for sure. He stood before her for the blindfold, and, once he had mounted, she secured his wrists as she had done before.

‘I’ll go ahead,’ she said. ‘I’ve attached a leading rein.’ He didn’t answer. There didn’t seem anything to say.

*   *   *

It was a far longer ride this time. Trying to work out their direction from the way the sun’s rays were falling on his shoulders – not easy, with a weak winter sun – he had the distinct impression she was taking them round in circles.

Finally, she drew rein. ‘This will do,’ she said.

He heard her dismount and approach. His wrists untied, he reached up and took off the blindfold, wordlessly handing it to her.

Then he looked around to see where they were.

He didn’t recognise the spot.

She said, ‘The road down to Tonbridge is half a mile along the track, in that direction.’ She waved an arm. ‘You can get your bearings there?’

‘Aye.’

He looked at her, then looked away. He wanted very much to say something – something about being there to help her, whatever her trouble was, if she’d only swallow her pride and let him. Something about the importance to her of a true friend. The friend that he could be.

But her chin was in the air again, and instead of offering his loyalty he almost said, do it your way, then! But don’t come crying to me if it all goes to the bad!

He knew she wouldn’t go until he was out of sight, in case he was watching to see which direction she took. So, with the briefest of nods, he kicked Horace and set off down the track.

She called, ‘Sir Josse!’

He stopped, turning round in the saddle to look at her. ‘What is it?’

For a moment, her despair and her need were naked in her face. ‘I—’ she began. Then, with a visible effort, violently she shook her head. ‘Nothing. Farewell.’

‘Farewell, lady.’

He turned back to face out along the track once more. This time, he encouraged Horace into a canter and, when once more he looked round, he had left her behind and out of sight.

Chapter Six

Helewise was feeling well again.

Three days’ total bed rest had done the trick. She was a robust woman, and, as Sister Euphemia remarked, it had only been necessary for her to act sensibly and take to her bed, which had allowed Mother Nature to do the rest.

Sitting at her table once more, the truckle bed and the brazier – such signs of weakness! – removed, out of sight and out of mind, she was eagerly going through Sister Emanuel’s entries in the accounts ledger.

She was, although she didn’t admit it to herself, looking for mistakes.

There weren’t any.

Sister Emanuel, whose usual duties revolved around the care of the elderly folk in the retired nuns’ and monks’ house, was an educated woman. She was – and this was another thing Helewise didn’t care to admit – probably more learned than her Abbess.

Helewise came to the end of Sister Emanuel’s entries. Closing the heavy ledger, she folded her hands on top of it and tried to empty her mind of the many other items clamouring for her attention.

I resent the fact that another nun has just proved herself as capable as I over this matter of keeping the accounts in a neat, legible hand, she thought, spelling it out relentlessly to herself. My pride is bruised, because she can do a task I liked to think only I could do.

This I must confess, and I must do penance. Pride is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, and particularly ill-housed in a nun.