And Helewise, able to see his face quite clearly from where she sat, observed that his eyes had widened in what looked like mild shock.
‘Sir Josse?’ she prompted. ‘What is the matter?’
‘I––’ He looked at her, glanced at Yves, swallowed with an effort and went on, ‘I have thought of another way in which the Prince may be gaining information although, in these hallowed surroundings, I hesitate to mention it.’
‘Pray do,’ she said briefly.
She saw the shadow of a smile cross his face. Then he said, ‘We told you earlier, Abbess Helewise, that our father used to tell us tales of the old kings, of William that they called the Conqueror, and his sons William Rufus and the first Henry. Of how, according to some, anyway, the religious rites that they practised, especially Rufus, were – that is to say, it’s probably only rumour, but they say – er, it’s said the rites may well have been––’
He seemed unable to go on, so she supplied for him, ‘Pagan?’
He said, ‘Aye.’
She understood his discomfort and, wanting to alleviate it since it was unnecessary, said calmly, ‘Sir Josse, I, too, have heard the old stories of how the first Norman kings were meant to associate with witches, and I was once told that the very name Rufus was given to the second William not because he was red-haired, since he wasn’t, but because red, the colour of life, was sacred to the Old Religion.’
‘I am quite certain it is not so,’ Josse said with dramatic conviction.
‘Are you?’ She stared at him coolly. ‘I am not so sure.’
‘But you,’ Yves began, apparently unable to contain himself, ‘you’re an Abbess!’
She wanted to laugh. ‘Indeed I am,’ she agreed. ‘But I have ears, Yves, and I hear what is said. That William Rufus, dying in such puzzling circumstances on Lammas Morn, was a sacrificial king. That he may have intentionally given up his life in honour of the Old Gods and their ways.’
Yves, she noted, looked horrified; Josse, who knew her better, merely appeared intrigued. ‘Can it be so?’ he murmured.
She shrugged. ‘I do not see why not. We know that William Rufus had little time for our faith, and that as a consequence he was thoroughly disliked and disapproved of by the monks of his time.’ With an effort, she recalled what had started this line of thought and she said firmly, ‘But we were speaking of other matters. Sir Josse, you said your father used to tell stories of early court life that included a pagan element. Please, continue.’
‘Yes. Right.’ He seemed to be having some difficulty in gathering his thoughts together but, after a moment, said, ‘Well, Father used to talk of a sorcerer who lived back in those days, a man also by the name of Dee, so I imagine he was an ancestor of the Prince’s John Dee. Maybe the role gets passed down from father to son, I don’t know. Anyway, Father used to say the old magician could look into a sphere made of black glass and see things that were happening far away, and it set me to wonder if Prince John’s man – they call him Magister, by the way – has something similar. Perhaps the same sphere, even, inherited from his forebears. And that, staring into it, he sort of saw the Eye of Jerusalem.’ Suddenly he shook his head, quite violently, and said, ‘I apologise. I am getting carried away and mired down in pagan superstition, and I am talking utter nonsense.’
As the echoes of his raised, angry voice died away, Helewise said quietly, ‘Sir Josse, I do not think that I have ever heard you talk nonsense.’
‘But far-seeing glass spheres, Abbess! In heaven’s name, how could they possibly work?’
‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘Although I am told there is evidence that they may do. We should not always strive to understand the how, Sir Josse,’ she pressed on, overriding his protest, ‘for many things in this world are known only to God. It is how He has ordered it.’
The two brothers were staring at one another now, and she was amused to see that Yves still wore his shocked face, as if an Abbess who expressed interest in such wild, outlandish and frighteningly heathen things as sacrificial kings and far-seeing spheres had no business being in charge of such a grand foundation as Hawkenlye Abbey.
She knew she should not tease them further, but she could not resist it; she said helpfully, ‘Those spheres you speak of are known as scrying glasses, you know.’
Yves opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it again, then, as if at a loss to know quite what to do, gave her another of his little bows. Josse made a sound that seemed to indicate a mixture of surprise and disbelief.
She said, ‘Gentlemen, if you lived here as we do, so close to the ancient Wealden Forest that when we rise in the dawn we can smell its very airs, you might not be so shocked to hear a Christian woman, an Abbess, indeed, speak of pagan things.’ She fixed her eyes on to Josse’s. ‘There are folk within the forest’s wide boundaries who see life very differently from the way in which we do, and who hold very different beliefs.’
Josse gave a faint nod, as if to say, I understand what you say. Then, turning to his brother, he murmured something that Helewise didn’t catch; she thought she heard ‘. . . not quite the same, here in England . . .’ and then there was another brief sentence. Whatever it was, it served to reassure Yves; turning to her, he said with great courtesy, ‘My lady Abbess, I would not question anything you said.’
‘That is magnanimous of you,’ she murmured, resisting the urge to add, almost dangerously so. Then, once again directing their thoughts back to the matter in hand, she said, ‘So, Sir Josse, you suggest that this John Dee is using his ancestor’s scrying ball one day when he sees a wonderful jewel called the Eye of Jerusalem, borne by one Galbertius Sidonius who is apparently searching for someone of the family of Acquin. Understandingthe powers of the stone, he informs his lord, Prince John, and they set off to find it. Or, failing that, to seek out this man d’Acquin and keep a watch on him until someone brings the Eye to him. Yes?’
‘I told you I was speaking rubbish,’ Josse growled. ‘It is hardly likely, now, is it, Abbess Helewise? Far more sensible to go back to our original thought, that the Prince knows of Father, of the Eye, and of Galbertius because of the gossip of returning crusaders.’
‘You must, of course, believe what makes most sense to you,’ she replied, refusing to be drawn. ‘But I urge you to consider seeking out Prince John, not only to aid me in identifying our unknown dead man, but also to help you find the Eye. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go. There are matters awaiting my attention.’ She stood up.
Instantly the two men remembered their manners, thanking her profusely for giving up her time to listen to them, for her helpful comments, for offering them Hawkenlye’s hospitality. Almost falling over himself, Yves rushed to open the door for her, and Josse gave her a low bow.
As she walked out of the room between them, she asked, ‘So, you will go to seek out the Prince and tell him what you now know?’
After the briefest of pauses, they both said, ‘Aye.’
They set out from the Abbey a little later. They had eaten a good meal before leaving; Sister Basilia, the nun in charge of the refectory, told them they must fortify themselves against whatever they might meet, which sounded quite ominous. As they rode off, Yves said with a rueful grin, ‘She is all that you said of her and more.’
‘Who is?’ Josse asked, although he knew very well.
‘Your Abbess Helewise.’
‘Hmm.’
He heard Yves laugh softly. ‘I know that sound,’ he remarked. ‘It means you are not going to say another word on the matter.’
‘Quite right. I’m not.’
They were just starting on the descent down Castle Hill towards Tonbridge and the river crossing when they saw a party of travellers coming towards them.
As the two groups approached one another, Josse realised, with a sinking of the heart, that the other party was headed by Sheriff Pelham. As dishevelled and grim-faced as ever, he strode out in front of a quartet of men bearing between them a large piece of sacking, clearly containing something heavy. Each man held one corner of the sack, which dipped down almost to the ground as they lugged it along.
The four men were scarlet in the face and sweating from the effort of carrying their burden up the long slope. ‘How typical,’ Josse murmured, ‘that he does not help them.’
‘You know him?’ Yves asked.
‘Aye, I do. He is Harry Pelham, and he is the Sheriff of Tonbridge.’
‘You do not like him.’ Yves was certain enough to make it a statement.
‘I do not.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I will leave you to work that out for yourself. Good morning, Sheriff Pelham,’ he called. ‘What have you got there?’
The sheriff put up his hand and his men halted, instantly dropping the sacking down on to the muddy track and standing there puffing and blowing as they began to recover their breath.
Pelham was glaring up at Josse. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Mere curiosity, I admit,’ Josse said easily.
‘I know you!’ Pelham said accusingly. ‘You’re that Josse d’Acquin!’
‘I am,’ Josse agreed. ‘And this man is my brother.’
‘Your brother, eh?’ The sheriff appeared to be thinking whether there was some rude remark he could make in response, but he didn’t seem to be able to come up with one. ‘Well,
Sir
Josse, what d’you reckon to this?’ He gave one of his men a curt nod, at which the man drew back the sacking to reveal what was inside.
It was a body. And Josse thought that it was very probably dead.
He slid off his horse’s back, flinging the reins at Yves to hold. Hurrying forward, he knelt down on the track beside the body. He put his ear down over the mouth, at the same time touching his fingers against the cheek. There was neither the sound nor the feel of breath, and the cheek was icy.
He sat back on his heels and studied the corpse.
It was that of a youth, fourteen, fifteen years old. He was thin – almost skeletally thin – and his dirty body bore the sores, scratches and bruises suggestive of a life spent out in the open, without benefit of shelter or water to wash in.
He was naked.
Lifting the limbs one by one, brushing the long, tangled hair away from the face, Josse searched for some wound or injury that might indicate how the lad had met his end. Nothing. Then – with rather more trepidation – he looked for signs of disease; again, nothing.
Letting the heavy mass of hair fall back so that it concealed the face and neck and part of the skinny shoulders, Josse said, ‘Where are you taking him?’
‘Where d’you think?’ Pelham replied sarcastically. ‘To the Abbey, a’course.’
‘You know that he is dead?’
‘Er – aye, he’s dead all right.’ The sheriff’s brief hesitation seemed to Josse to suggest that he had known nothing of the kind. ‘We found him down there.’ He indicated with an outstretched thumb; it had a blackened nail. ‘In the undergrowth beside the track. One of my men had gone in for a – well, he’d gone in, and there he was. The lad, I mean. The
dead
lad.’
‘Why take him to the Abbey?’ Josse demanded.
‘Well, er––’ The Sheriff cast around as if for inspiration. ‘To get him washed and prepared for decent burial, a’course! Them nuns are good at all that.’
‘Aye, they are.’ Josse spoke softly, staring down at the dead boy. They will take care of you, he said silently. And, when Sister Euphemia has tidied you up, they will bury you and say prayers for your soul.
He closed his eyes in a brief prayer of his own. Then, standing up, he said, ‘My brother and I will come back to Hawkenlye with you.’
He silenced the sheriff’s protest with a look. And Yves, who appeared to have taken the measure of Harry Pelham and not been overly impressed, nodded and said quietly to Josse, ‘You have made the right decision, Josse. Our business with the Prince must wait.’
Back at the Abbey, Josse directed the men to bear the body to the infirmary while he went to seek out the Abbess. He found her in the herb garden, where she had gone to speak to the herbalist, Sister Tiphaine; as he approached, the two of them broke off their conversation and gave him what seemed momentarily to be guilty looks, almost as if they had been talking about him . . .
But he pushed that thought aside and, quickly and with few words, told the Abbess about the dead body.
He accompanied her back to the infirmary. Sheriff Pelham and his men were standing outside, no doubt shooed out by Sister Euphemia; the sheriff greeted the Abbess with a mere nod, then said shortly, ‘We’ve taken him inside and that nurse woman’s taken over. You’ll bury him, Abbess?’
‘Naturally,’ she said frostily.
‘Then I’ll bid you good day.’ He sniffed, hawked and would have spat the product on the ground, except that Josse, predicting what he was about to do, intervened.
‘You stand on holy ground, Sheriff Pelham,’ he said, his voice as cold as the Abbess’s had been. ‘Remember it.’
Pelham shot him a fierce glance. Then he turned on his heel and strode away, his men falling into step behind him. Josse watched until they had gone out through the gates, then he followed the Abbess into the infirmary.
Sister Euphemia had got the men to carry the dead boy to a cubicle curtained off from the rest of the infirmary. In this private corner, she had lain the body on a clean sheet and was already washing it down.
‘Mother-naked, like that other poor soul,’ she was muttering as, sleeves rolled up to reveal her muscular forearms, she continued her work. ‘I suppose someone robbed this sad wretch of his clothes and his possessions, such as they were, while he lay dead.’
‘Perhaps they did,’ Josse said absently.
The Abbess turned to him. ‘Sir Josse?’ she said softly. ‘Do I detect that you have another thought in mind?’
She’s quick, he thought. She misses nothing. ‘My thoughts echoed those of Sister Euphemia,’ he murmured back. ‘I was thinking of that other naked body.’