‘It’s all right, Augustus,’ Helewise said. ‘Please, go on.’
‘It just came to me, all of a sudden, and I thought, why are we all thinking the dead man was killed in the Vale? Is it not possible that the murder was done somewhere else, the body stripped and all, and
then
the killer put him in the bracken? I mean, if it was at night, and the murderer didn’t know the shrine and the shelter and that were there, he might have believed he was concealing the poor dead soul in a hiding place right out in the wilds, where he would
never
be found.’
‘But surely everybody knows about Hawkenlye Abbey,’ Josse said.
Augustus turned to him. ‘Not strangers,’ he said. ‘Foreigners, like. Why should they?’
‘We receive many foreign pilgrims, Augustus,’ Helewise put in gently.
‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. ‘Why, Augustus, don’t you remember? Brother Erse was talking of someone who he claimed was a foreigner – who was it, now?’ He made a circling movement with his hand, as if this would somehow magic the memory out of the air.
‘He meant the young servant who came with the old man who died,’ Augustus said. ‘And yes, before either of you says it, I know. He was foreign, or at least according to Erse he was, and
he
knew about the Shrine and the Abbey.’
‘But Augustus may still quite well be right,’ Helewise put in. She could see the disappointment in the eager, intelligent young face. ‘Just because one supposed foreigner knows of our existence, it would be supreme folly to assume that we are known to every single one.’
‘That’s what I was getting at, Abbess Helewise!’ Augustus cried. ‘I mean, maybe I shouldn’t speak of it, not here in the Abbey, but’ – his voice dropped to a whisper, as if he did not want to hurt God’s feelings – ‘not every foreigner is a
Christian
!’
‘No indeed,’ she agreed, ‘and – Sir Josse? What ails you?’ Josse’s face had creased into such a scowl of concentration that it almost looked as if he were in pain.
‘Nothing, nothing.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘It’s just that I’ve just had one of those moments that young Augustus was describing, when you know there’s something worrying at the back of your mind and you can’t think what it is, or why it’s important . . .’ He trailed off, still frowning. ‘Never mind. It’ll come, in its own good time.’
‘Try going through the names and ages of all your relations,’ Augustus advised. ‘That’s what I did, and when I got to my mother’s Auntie Meg’s husband’s mother, who claims to be a hundred, though nobody believes her, I remembered what I was trying to bring to mind.’
Josse chuckled and, reaching out, ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Happen I don’t have as many relatives as you, lad,’ he said. Then, after a moment, ‘I don’t know, though.’
Helewise looked from one to the other, affected by their ease in one another’s company. They were almost like father and son. It crossed her mind to wonder briefly why Josse had no family; no sensible, affectionate wife, and no son to follow in his footsteps.
Then she remembered something. Something she was trying very hard to forget. No, she told herself firmly. Do not dwell on Joanna de Courtenay, and of what may or may not have passed between her and Josse. You do not know for certain, and it is none of your business.
But, despite herself, she thought: February, it was, when Joanna was hiding out in the Forest. And now it is nearly October. If Sister Euphemia was right . . .
No.
Firmly putting the speculation from her, she turned her attention back to Josse and Augustus, who were laughing helplessly at something Josse had said about his sister-in-law’s mother. Helewise cleared her throat and both men jumped; Josse, looking abashed, said quickly, ‘Ah, but I should not make fun at her expense, she means well, I dare say, although––’
There was another tap on the door. Wondering if it might be Brother Firmin, cutting short his prayers for some reason of his own, again Helewise called out, ‘Come in.’
It was not Brother Firmin but Sister Anne.
Round eyes alight with the fascinated interest of someone whose daily round did not include very much excitement or even variety – Sister Anne, none too bright but well-meaning, scrubbed pots in the refectory – the nun said, ‘Ooh, Abbess Helewise, Sister Ursel sent me, she’s busy attending to the man’s horse and didn’t want to leave him, not that there’s anything amiss but––’
‘Sister Anne?’ Helewise prompted.
‘Yes, sorry.’ Sister Anne shot at Josse a glance that, in any other woman, might have been called flirtatious. Then: ‘It’s another man called d’Acquin, see. Just like Sir Josse here, only this one’s a bit smaller and a bit younger and he says his name is Yves.’
The Abbess, to Josse’s relief, took the startling announcement in her stride. She must have noticed his amazement – hardly surprising; he felt as if his jaw had dropped at least to his knees – and she said calmly, ‘Sir Josse, what an honour for us to receive a visit from your brother! Let us go out straight away to greet him.’
He and Augustus stood back to let her precede them out of the room, Sister Anne bobbing along beside them like a rowing boat attending a sailing ship. Watching the Abbess’s straight-backed figure gliding along just ahead of him enabled him to regain something of his composure so that, by the time they were approaching the little group at the gate – Sister Ursel, Sister Martha, Yves’s bay and, naturally, Yves himself – Josse was ready – eager – to rush forward and take his brother in his arms.
‘Yves, Yves!’ he said against the warm and slightly sweaty skin of his brother’s neck; he must have been riding hard, for the bay, too, was lathered. ‘How good it is to see you!’
Straightening up and pulling away slightly, he held Yves by the shoulders and studied him. His brother’s pleasant face was beaming his delight, which, Josse fervently hoped, suggested that, whatever had brought him to England to seek out his elder brother, it was nothing too terrible.
‘Josse, you look good!’ Yves was saying, slapping Josse on the arm. ‘This English country life must suit you!’
‘Aye, it does.’
‘They told me at New Winnowlands where I might find you and, after they’d put me up for the night – she’s a good cook, that serving woman of yours, isn’t she? – they gave me directions and saw me on to the right road.’ Another grin. ‘Ah, dear God, but it’s good to see you!’
Josse, suddenly remembering where they were, took a step back. ‘Yves,’ he said, ‘a moment, please.’ Turning to the Abbess, he said, ‘Abbess Helewise, may I present to you my younger brother, Yves d’Acquin? Yves, this is Abbess Helewise of Hawkenlye Abbey.’
Yves bowed deeply. ‘My lady Abbess, it is a great honour at last to greet the woman we at Acquin have heard so much about,’ he said gravely. ‘I am your servant.’ He bowed again.
Josse, observing the Abbess, hoped that she would not find Yves’s manner rather overcourtly; he does not know, he fretted, that she is a plain-speaking, down to earth woman, even if she is an abbess . . .
He need not have worried. The Abbess, smiling, was clearly unperturbed by Yves’s display of Gallic charm; she was asking him the usual questions that one asked a new arrival, about his journey, were the family well and so forth, clearly at her ease.
That particular small concern out of the way, Josse thought, but why is he here?
The Abbess, bless her, must have read his mind. Turning to him, she said, ‘Sir Josse, your brother will, I am sure, desire to speak to you in private. You may take him to my room, if you wish, and I will send refreshments.’
Josse looked at Yves, who nodded swiftly. ‘Aye, then, Abbess Helewise,’ Josse said, ‘if you are sure we shall not put you out?’
‘Not in the least,’ she said smoothly, ‘I am expected over in the infirmary.’
With a silent but steely look around at the various members of her community – Sister Martha, Sister Ursel, the wide-eyed Sister Anne and Brother Augustus – the Abbess dismissed them back to their duties.
And Josse took his brother’s arm and led him across to the cloisters and along to the Abbess’s room.
‘Now then, what has brought you all the way across the Channel to see me?’ Josse asked him as soon as the door was closed behind them. ‘Is anyone sick? Is there trouble at Acquin?’
‘No, everyone is well, thank the good Lord’ – ‘Amen,’ Josse said fervently – ‘and the estates run smoothly. We had an excellent harvest this year, Josse, we’ve got it all in now and we shall do well this winter, us and the animals, although we’ll be putting plenty of meat down to salt come Martinmas to see us through the lean times, and––’
‘Yves,’ Josse reprimanded him. ‘I may know very little of farming, but even I know about that.’
‘Of course. I apologise, Josse, you must be keen to know my news.’
‘Keen,’ Josse murmured, ‘is an understatement.’
Yves leaned forward – Josse had shown him to the Abbess’s throne-like chair; it seemed, he thought ruefully, that he was forever destined to perch on the uncomfortable and insubstantial little stool – and said, ‘Josse, we had a visitor.’
‘A visitor?’ Surely, not such a rare occurrence.
‘Aye. He came looking for Father. He was dressed simply and he had but the one lad with him, yet there was something about him, some air that suggested he might not be the poor man he posed as. He said, “I come from far afield in search of one Geoffroi d’Acquin, and I have at last made my way here to Acquin.” Well, we told him straight away that Father was dead – Mother, too, though he did not in fact ask after her – and then he said to me, “You are his heir.” So then I said no, I was the second son, the eldest was Josse – you, that is – and the man said, “Where, then, is this Sir Josse?”’
‘And you said I had a manor in England, aye?’ Josse, impatient, wished Yves were not quite such a long-winded teller of tales.
‘Aye, that I did. So then this fellow said, “To England I must go,” and, even though we offered to put him up for a while – he didn’t look too well and he had a nasty, hacking cough – he wouldn’t hear of it. He kept saying, “I have already left it too late, I fear. I have missed Sir Geoffroi, and this I must bear as best I may.” So Marie gave him some of her green liniment to rub on his chest – you know, that stuff that stings like the Devil’s prongs and makes your eyes water? You once said you preferred the cough – and we gave the two of them, the man and his lad, a hearty meal and some good, red wine.’
‘And then?’
‘Then they left. Patrice and my Luke rode with them some of the way and reported back that, when last seen, the old fellow and the boy were stepping out strongly on the road to Calais.’
Josse was thinking very hard. About an elderly man who had died in early August in Hawkenlye Vale. Who had had a bad cough, and been attended by a youth. A foreigner.
Abruptly he said to Yves, ‘When was this? When did the old man arrive at Acquin?’
Yves shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘You’ll not like to hear this.’
‘Go on.’ Josse’s tone was relentless.
‘It was back in July. Round about the middle of the month, maybe later. Oh, I’m that sorry, Josse, I know full well I should have come to tell you sooner – after all, we had no idea what he wanted with you and, for all I know, he could have meant you harm. But, you see, we were just beginning on the harvest and then, early in August, we had a week of storms – terrible, they were, rain like you never saw – and it put us back. Then there was a deal of pumping-out to do – the Aa overflowed her banks here and there and some of our lower pastures were flooded, too, and we had to––’
‘It’s all right, Yves.’ Josse got up and went to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘I understand. There are great demands made on the farmer, I am aware of that well enough, even if I don’t fully know what they all are.’
‘Please don’t think that I am complaining,’ Yves said earnestly. ‘I love the life, love Acquin like my own life’s blood. I’m only glad that––’ He broke off abruptly, looking confused and slightly embarrassed.
‘Glad that your elder brother decided he was a military man and not a farmer?’ Josse supplied, with a laugh. ‘Yves, my dear brother, if you are glad, so am I, to have someone not only capable and willing but
eager
to take on Acquin and all its dependants and responsibilities.’ He hesitated. He was reluctant to embarrass his brother further, but some things needed saying, and he did not get the chance very often.
‘You do a fine job with our family estates,’ he said quietly, after a pause to collect his thoughts. ‘I do not come home near as often as I should, but, whenever I do, it is to find everything running smoothly and efficiently, a happy, healthy family in residence and, in our lands all around, what appears to me to be a contented and prosperous population of peasants.’
Yves, red in the face, muttered something about having a deal of help from Patrice, Honoré and Acelin, but Josse knew full well that the younger brothers were followers, Yves the leader.
After himself, that was.
And, as he had just said, he did not go home nearly as often as he should.
Changing the subject – which, he thought, would come as a relief to them both – Josse said, ‘Did the old man say anything else? How he had come to know our father, for instance?’
Yves shook his head. ‘No. We pressed him, well, as far as politeness allowed, but he would say nothing of his mission. He kept repeating, “I must keep faith with my friend. It is too late for him, so I must find his eldest son and present myself to him instead.” He didn’t seem like a threat really, Josse, in truth he didn’t. If we’d felt that he was dangerous, we should not have told him where to find you.’
‘I know that well enough, Yves. Do not punish yourself.’ Josse walked across the room and back, thinking. Then: ‘In any case, even if he did intend harm, it is too late.’
‘Too late?’
‘Aye. If your old man is the man I am thinking of, then he’s dead. He came here. His cough must have got worse, for he wanted to take the healing Holy Waters administered by the Hawkenlye monks down in the Vale. Only he left it too late. During the night before he was due to take the cure, he died.’