Ashes of the Elements

Chapter Three

Josse d’Acquin put his strong hands under his small nephew’s arms and, glancing back towards the house to make sure his sister-in-law wasn’t watching, hoisted the boy up on to the broad back of his horse.

‘Gee-up!’ cried the boy, his voice shrill with excitement. ‘Gee-up, horsey!’

Josse quickly stilled the sharp little heels digging into the horse’s flanks; Horace was a good, strong mount, normally even tempered, but you never knew how even the calmest animal might react to such unexpected provocation.

‘Hush, Auguste my lad,’ Josse said. ‘I’ve told you before, gee-up isn’t the thing to say.’

‘What is the thing to say, Uncle Josse?’ piped the boy. ‘I keep forgetting.’

‘Well, you can go hup! if you must,’ Josse allowed. ‘But horses, as I’ve explained, respond to your legs, your hands and your voice, so you don’t use any of them without thinking about it.’

‘And your bum, Uncle Josse! You said you had to use your bum, for sitting down hard with!’ The child was squirming with mirth, loving the unaccustomed freedom of being with his lenient uncle. Being allowed to say ‘bum’ twice and get away with it.

‘Indeed I did.’ Josse grinned. ‘Sit down hard in the saddle, I said, let old Horace here know you’re on board.’

‘I want to go without you holding on!’ Auguste cried. ‘Please, Uncle Josse!’

‘Certainly not!’ Josse took an even firmer grip on the rein. ‘Your dear mother would flay me alive if she knew I’d so much as put you on the horse,’ he muttered.

‘What’s flay, Uncle Josse?’ Auguste had sharper ears than Josse had realised.

‘Oh — er — nothing. Now, Auguste, laddie, once round the courtyard, then-’

‘Josse!’ shrieked a woman’s voice. ‘Josse, what do you think you’re doing! Oh, careful! Be careful!’

Running out of the house and across the yard as she spoke, Theophania d’Acquin, wife of Josse’s youngest brother, Acelin, looked furious. Mother not only to the six-year-old Auguste, but to his younger sister and his baby brother, Theophania’s protective maternal urges were easily aroused. Particularly by Josse, and virtually any contact he had with her children.

‘The lad’s fine!’ Josse protested, trying to control Horace; largely untroubled by having a small boy on his back, even if the child were kicking and yelling, the horse was reacting to the shrieking woman. ‘Shut up, Theophania!’ Josse shouted, hanging on the reins in an effort to keep Horace’s heavy head down. ‘Can’t you see you’re unsettling him?’

‘Well!’ cried Theophania. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

Josse, preoccupied with supporting Auguste’s weight — the child had evidently decided that on the back of Uncle Josse’s horse was no place to be, not with Maman racing across the courtyard in full battle cry — and, at the same time, holding Horace, muttered under his breath.

Again, he had underestimated a six-year-old’s acuteness of hearing. Just as Theophania, bristling with righteous anger, swept her child from Josse’s shoulder, Auguste asked innocently, ‘Uncle Josse, what’s salope?’

* * *

There was, quite naturally, music to face.

That evening, when Theophania had gone grumbling upstairs to see to the baby, Josse sat down with his brothers and his other sisters-in-law, aware that the assembled company was not entirely pleased with him.

Hell and damnation, he thought, reaching for more wine, whose house is this? I’m the eldest brother, I can do what I like in my own home!

But that, of course, was the problem. And Josse was fair-minded enough to appreciate it. Acquin, both the large fortified manor house itself and the wide estates, belonged legally to Josse: he was the heir, he had inherited both property and title on the death of his father, Geoffroi d’Acquin, fifteen years ago.

But Josse had always known he was not destined to be a country landowner. He had no skills with the land, nor with animals, other than horses; no interest in organising his tenants and his peasantry into working for the good of all who depended on Acquin. His brothers, Yves, Patrice, Honore and Acelin, were the ones who loved and understood the land.

Josse, anyway, had left home as soon as he could after coming into his inheritance. He’d been away before, apprenticed as page, as were so many eldest sons, to another knight’s household, to learn a very different profession from agriculture. He’d even spent a couple of years living in England with his mother’s kin, where his maternal grandfather, Herbert of Lewes, had given him a hearty welcome, apparently having got over the shock of his beloved Ida having left home to marry a Frenchman. When he was old enough, Josse had become a squire. And, in time, won his spurs.

When he was but a youth, he’d ridden with King Richard himself, not that he’d been King then. But he was now.

Through the generosity of the new King Richard, Josse had a manor house in England. Or he would have, when the builders finished. And God alone knew when that would be.

In the meantime, while Josse tried to be patient with delay after delay, he was back living at home. In what was legally his home, but in which, as he was all too well aware, he was now more of a guest.

And, at times like this, not a very welcome one.

He flung himself down on a stout wooden bench, feeling both angry and embarrassed.

‘I was doing the lad no harm!’ he protested, drinking down a huge mouthful of wine.

‘Maybe you weren’t,’ said his sister-in-law Marie, Yves’s wife. ‘But that isn’t the point. Theophania asked you not to let Auguste ride your horse, and you took no notice.’

‘The lad’s too mollycoddled!’ Josse cried. ‘He only gets to ride that tiddly pony of his, which is no challenge whatsoever to a red-blooded lad! And there are too many women here — he needs a bit of masculine company.’

‘He has that, in plenty!’ Acelin said, clearly affronted. ‘He has me, and he has his uncles Yves, Patrice and Honore. In addition, there are Yves’s boys, Luke, Jean-Yves and Robert, and, when he has grown bigger and stronger, soon Honore’s little boy will be a playmate too. Enough male company there, surely, Josse, even for you.’

‘That’s as maybe.’ Josse had the unpleasant feeling that he was not only outnumbered, but also being out-argued. ‘All the same, he’d be well used to riding a big horse by now if he’d had the upbringing I had, let me tell you!’

‘You were still here when you were six, galloping about on a pony not much larger than Auguste’s, and making a thorough nuisance of yourself,’ Yves said pedantically. ‘You didn’t go off to be Sir Guy’s page until you were seven.’

‘Yes I did!’

‘Didn’t!’

‘Did!’

‘Oh, stop it!’ Marie shouted. ‘Really, Josse, what is it about you, that you make sensible grown men act like small boys again?’

‘They’re my brothers,’ Josse muttered.

‘Oh, that explains it.’ There was a definite note of sarcasm in Marie’s voice. But she did, nevertheless, give Josse a smile; she had always been fond of him.

‘Josse should not have called Theophania a- called her what he did,’ his brother Honore said piously. ‘It was very rude. And very inaccurate.’

Acelin, furious all over again at the insult to his wife, made a choking sound.

‘Sorry,’ Josse said quickly, before Acelin could get going on a renewed bout of self-righteous indignation. ‘It just slipped out.’

‘What did you call her, Josse?’ Marie whispered, while the two youngest brothers were nodding and agreeing about Josse’s lack of respect. ‘Acelin wouldn’t tell me, and Theophania threatened to go into hysterics when I asked her.’

‘I’m afraid I called her a bitch,’ Josse admitted. ‘I’m very ashamed of myself, Marie. I’m thinking of going to market and buying her a pretty fairing — some ribbons, a bolt of fine cloth — to make amends.’

‘She’d probably much rather you just left her son alone,’ Marie remarked shrewdly. ‘Although, me, I tend to agree with you. There’s a little too much petticoat government round here, when you’re away.’

‘You’re the senior wife,’ Josse said. ‘And surely Agnes would support you, even if Pascale didn’t.’ Agnes was married to Patrice, and Pascale was wife to Honore; mother of a sickly child, Pascale was usually too preoccupied with caring for him to enter into family arguments. ‘Can’t you improve things?’

‘Hmm.’ Marie looked thoughtful. ‘Possibly. Only you know what Theophania’s like. When she’s crossed, she gets one of her sick heads.’ She paused to bite off a thread; round and placid with advancing pregnancy — a state that suited her well, Josse reflected — Marie was sewing some small garment made of fine linen. ‘And when Theophania has a sick head, we all suffer,’ she concluded. ‘The whole household.’

‘Quite.’ No wonder I don’t fit in here, Josse thought sadly. My four brothers and this sensible woman, the eldest of my sisters-in-law, all let themselves be led by the nose by the least sound person in the house. All for the sake of a quiet life!

‘Where’s Theophania now?’ he asked presently.

‘Feeding the baby,’ Marie said.

‘But I thought she’d have engaged-’ He broke off. It was Theophania’s business, after all.

‘You thought she would have engaged a wet nurse?’ Marie looked at him. ‘Ah, no peasant woman’s milk is good enough, not for the child of Theophania.’

‘Oh,’ said Josse.

Marie bent her head over her sewing; tactfully, Josse did not pursue the matter.

I’ll buy Theophania a gift, he resolved, and repeat my apologies. I was unforgivably rude, and to a woman to whom, even if I don’t actually like her, I owe respect.

But, when I’ve been forgiven, I shall go.

Even if the refurbishments to his new manor house were still incomplete, even if the rain came in and he had to sleep in a barn, it would be better than life at Acquin.

For the time being, anyway.

* * *

King Richard Plantagenet had given Josse his English manor house in the winter of 1189, in gratitude for a certain service which Josse had been able to do for the King.

Richard, in that cold January season, had been preoccupied with planning his great Crusade; Josse often thought that it was only because Richard’s mother, the good Queen Eleanor, had reminded her son of his obligation, that the manor had come Josse’s way at all.

The manor had formed part — quite a large part — of the rich estates of the late Alard of Winnowlands. Josse’s gift was a stoutly built but dilapidated house, which, so he was informed, had been constructed a good seventy years ago, some distance from the main hall, to accommodate a particularly sour-tempered mother-in-law. The house had a small walled garden, an orchard, and several acres of pasture, some of which gave on to a swift flowing river bordered by willow trees.

It was a splendid gift. Josse was thrilled with his new property, and thought it a more than fair exchange for swearing fealty to the new King; Josse was already a king’s man anyway. He had inspected the house with a builder, who came highly recommended by Josse’s neighbour, Brice of Rotherbridge. The builder, after sucking his teeth for most of the morning and gloomily shaking his head in the general manner of builders, finally announced that there was a great deal of work to be done, but that, yes, he agreed with Josse that the house was fundamentally sound. And that it would, in the fullness of time, make a fine dwelling.

Back then, almost eighteen months ago, Josse hadn’t quite realised just how full that time was going to be.

Over the months that the builder and his men had worked on the house and its outbuildings, Josse had made several visits to check on progress. It had been interesting to note how the character of the house had slowly changed; in the beginning, when there were gaping holes in the roof and spiteful draughts under ill-fitting — or totally missing — doors, the spirit of the miserable and moaning old woman for whom the house had been built seemed still to be hovering around. The very house had an air of dejection, as if it stood with slumped shoulders feeling sorry for itself. The place had been, Josse had to admit, quite depressing.

But, as the repairs and renovations progressed, it appeared to Josse that the house began to stand up tall. To hold its head up with a new pride, to say, as its original beauty was slowly — very slowly — restored, See! See what a fine place I am, fit for the knight who is to live here!

Those were not, however, the sort of thoughts a man mentioned to his builder. And, indeed, when Josse remarked to Brice of Rotherbridge that the house was beginning to welcome its new master when he visited, Brice had shouted with laughter and told Josse not to bring those weird and fanciful foreign ideas over here, thank you very much!

As well as taking over a part of the late Alard of Winnowlands’s estates, Josse also found himself taking over the man’s servant. Will, who had served and, latterly, nursed Sir Alard with quiet and efficient devotion as the old man slowly and painfully succumbed to the lung rot, had presented himself at the new house one morning when Josse was arguing with the builder about whether or not to turn the western tower into a small solar (an argument which, even though Josse wasn’t entirely sure what he would do with a solar, he won).

Waiting patiently until the matter was settled, Will then stepped forward, swept off his hood and said, ‘Sir Josse d’Acquin? You won’t remember me, sir, but-’

‘I do remember you, Will.’ Josse hurried forward to greet him. ‘How are you?’

Will gave a faint shrug. He looked thinner than Josse remembered. ‘I do all right.’

Josse doubted that. The man’s master was dead, after all. With Sir Alard had gone Will’s livelihood. ‘I see.’

Without preamble, Will said, ‘You’ll likely be needing serving folk for this here house, sir. I know the area, I know the people. I’d take care of you, and your property, if you’ll have me. Watch over your interests, like, when you were from home.’

Josse stared into the deep eyes for some moments. It was not that he did not trust Will; quite the opposite. What held him back from instantly engaging the man was a certain concern about Will’s temperament. Josse, in the main a light-hearted, optimistic soul, was not sure he could cope with someone as dour of mien as Will.

‘I-’ Josse began. Then, after an awkward pause, ‘Will, I — er — I mean, are you over your grieving for Sir Alard? I know that his death hit you hard, and-’

To Josse’s surprise, Will smiled. The smile broadened, quite altering the severe expression, and Will began to laugh.

‘Why not come right out with it, Sir Josse?’ Will said. ‘A cheerful fellow such as yourself doesn’t welcome the idea of having a miserable bugger like me tending to his needs. Isn’t that it?’

‘No! Not at all! I-’ But Josse, too, was laughing. ‘Very well. Yes, that’s it. Exactly.’

Will’s face straightened. ‘Sir, I’ll tell you straight, I thought a deal of Sir Alard, God rest his soul.’

‘Amen,’ Josse muttered.

‘But he’s gone. I did my best for him, and I’ve nothing on my conscience regarding his death. No nor his life, come to that — we had our ups and downs, did Sir Alard and me, but we understood each other. He knew I was his loyal man. Reckon that’s why he left me a tidy bit, when at last he left us what remains on this earth.’

‘Ah.’

‘But all that’s in the past,’ Will resumed, ‘and life must go on, like. So, Sir Josse, will you take me on?’

‘I will,’ Josse said, ‘right gladly.’

‘Hah!’ Will looked pleased. ‘Oh, and there’s my woman, sir, my Ella. Would you have need of her, too? She’s a good, clean soul, hard-working, can turn her hand to most work of a domestic nature, whether it’s making the butter come quick, turning out a room, milking a cow, sewing a fine seam or cooking a tasty stew.’

Josse grinned, slapping Will on the back. ‘Such a paragon of talents shouldn’t be allowed to sit idle, don’t you agree, Will?’

‘No, indeed, sir.’

‘We’d better have her, too, then. Your Ella.’ He paused. ‘But where will you live?’ He looked around. ‘I don’t think there’s anything suitable, I’d better-’

‘There is, sir,’ Will interrupted, looking slightly sheepish. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of having a look, and there’s a tidy little cottage tacked on the end of that row there.’ He pointed to a barn and several lean-tos, on the far side of the courtyard; Josse, who hadn’t had a close inspection, had imagined most of the row would have to be pulled down.

‘There’s a cottage? In that lot?’ he asked incredulously.

‘Aye. Run down right now, but it’s dry. The timbers are sound, it just needs a bit of work. Me and Ella’ll soon put it to rights. Given your permission, sir, naturally.’

Again, Josse started to laugh. In the space of a quarter of an hour, he had found himself a manservant and a first-rate domestic woman, and agreed to their refurbishment of a cottage he hadn’t known he had.

All in all, not bad going.

* * *

Now, riding towards New Winnowlands — he was quite pleased with the name — on a warm June afternoon, Josse felt for the first time a sense of coming home.

The house stood on its slight rise, walled courtyard in front, walled garden stretching out to the rear. All of those walls looked strong, and the manor itself was soundly roofed, with a whisper of smoke from some cooking fire floating up on the gentle breeze.

It looked, at last, as if the house was almost finished.

Josse rode into the courtyard. As if he had been waiting, Will appeared from the barn, and came to stand at Josse’s horse’s head.

‘Shall I take him for you, sir?’ he asked. ‘Ella’s been baking, she can have food ready for you in a trice.’

‘Yes, thanks, Will.’ Josse dismounted, handing over Horace’s reins. ‘Oh, just let me get my pack. I’ll have to see to-’

‘Ella’ll see to your kit. If you’ll let her, sir, that is. Fine washerwoman, my Ella, and nimble-fingered with a needle, should any mending be called for.’

‘I had an idea she might be,’ Josse murmured. Then, out loud: ‘Please ask her, then, Will.’ He grinned at his manservant. ‘I must say, it’s quite a novelty, to be so well-received.’

‘This is your home, sir!’ Will said, clearly surprised. ‘Should not a man be welcomed, in his own home?’

My home, thought Josse. Ah, how good it sounded!

* * *

He spent a lazy evening, and, replete after an excellent supper, retired early to bed. His chamber had been swept so clean that he could have eaten his food off the floor, and his bed had been made up with bedding that smelt faintly of lavender. The straw-filled mattress lay, he noticed, on a layer of dried tansy leaves; Ella had made sure he wasn’t going to be troubled by any small biting creatures.

He slept long and deeply, and awoke from a vivid dream in which he had been waving a hay fork violently above his head, to stop strange, black, winged creatures from alighting on a steep church roof.

Not very surprising, he reflected as he got up, that he should dream of a church. Because, as he’d been drifting off to sleep, he’d been thinking about his friend Abbess Helewise of Hawkenlye, whom he had not seen for almost two years.

And he had decided that, now he was installed as master of New Winnowlands, it was time to pay her a visit.

Ella served him a very substantial breakfast, and, when he had finished, rather shyly brought for his inspection his favourite tunic, whose hem had been coming down where he’d caught a spur in it. Not only had she carefully stitched up the hem, she had also brushed off quite a lot of mud and sponged away a gravy stain.

Rested after his good night, well-fed, dressed in his best, Josse set out in the sunshine for Hawkenlye, feeling in such good spirits that, presently, he began to sing.