Faithful Dead

4

Helewise had returned to the Abbey church after the formalities concerning the interment of the dead man had finally been concluded. She had taken Father Gilbert’s reprimand to heart. He was right, she thought desperately; what sort of an example does it set for an abbey, of all places, to be so lacking in vigilance that a visitor can be murdered and lie dead and unattended for weeks?

People come to us for help and for loving care, she told herself mercilessly, and it is our entire life’s purpose here to succour the needy and, when all else comes to naught and God calls, to comfort the dying and pray for the dead. Oh, how I have failed! That poor young man, stabbed and thrown aside, and there he has lain ever since, ignored, unburied, nobody to offer up the shortest, smallest prayer on his behalf!

On her knees, she dropped her face on to her clasped hands and wept.

So wrapped up was she in her guilt and her misery that she did not hear the great door of the church open and quietly close, nor the soft whisper of steps as someone crossed the floor on light feet and knelt down by her side.

But then the slim figure beside her whispered, ‘Abbess Helewise, it is not right that you suffer alone for something that is the fault of all of us. Will you permit me to pray with you?’

Raising her face, brushing away the tears with a hasty gesture, Helewise saw Sister Caliste at her side.

Caliste. The little foster child of a woodland family, she had entered Hawkenlye as one of the youngest ever postulants. Now — and not without a trauma or two of her own along the way — she was a professed nun, a loving, optimistic, blithe soul who nursed even the contagious sick with devotion and courage, putting their wants and needs above her own. Just as her master, Christ, would have wished.

Of all of Hawkenlye, Caliste was the one person with whom Helewise could bear to share her torment.

As she nodded and the two of them closed their eyes in silent prayer, Helewise wondered tentatively if this — Sister Caliste’s unexpected, unasked but totally welcome presence — was a small sign that God might be seeing His way to forgiving her.

Back in the privacy of her little room that evening — she had foregone supper, just as she had foregone the midday meal — she heard, once again, the jingle of spurs and the heavy tread of Josse’s boots as he came along the cloister.

She called out ‘Come in’ before he had even knocked on the door.

He advanced into her room, stopped on the far side of the wide table that she used as a desk, and stared down at her. There was compassion in his face; she hoped fervently that he could not detect she had been weeping.

It was possible, though, that he did. For, in a situation where the most natural thing would have been to speak of the day’s events, instead he said, ‘Fine lad, that Augustus. And I like the carpenter, Brother Erse, as well. Augustus’s background I already know, but what of Brother Erse? How did he come to Hawkenlye?’

Dear Josse, she thought as she told him briefly of Brother Erse’s circumstances. Of the childhood sweetheart he had wed when both were fifteen, of the child born to them, of the plague that had swept through the village and taken away so many of the young and the weak. Including Erse’s wife and baby. Desperate, wishing only to join them in death, Erse had been succoured by an exceptional parish priest and, finally, had come to understand that the Lord had a plan for everyone. Erse’s road had been a particularly tough one, but, finding solace in Christ, he had presented himself at Hawkenlye in his capacity as a carpenter and, in time, taken his vows as a monk.

Josse was nodding sagely as she told the tale. When she finished, he said, ‘It is to Hawkenlye’s advantage that the latter role does not make him abandon the former.’

There was a short and, she thought, rather awkward silence. They had surely exhausted the subject of Brother Erse; would Josse now, she wondered, bring himself to say what he had come to say?

She waited. Josse stared down at his boots. So she said gently, ‘Sir Josse, I have been, as I believe you perceive, in some distress over the day’s events and, indeed, over what has led to them.’ She paused and took a shaky breath; it was hard, she was discovering, to speak of her mental anguish and her guilt, even to as good a friend as Josse. She searched for the right words. Found them.

‘I have been long at prayer,’ she went on quietly. ‘I have opened my heart and, I believe, I have been heard.’ Looking up at him, suddenly she was smiling. ‘I have been sent not one but two helpmeets,’ she concluded. ‘Is that not a sign of God’s charity?’

‘I — er-’ He seemed confused as to whether or not modesty should make him disclaim the role of helpmeet; she could almost see him trying to work out if she had actually meant that he was one of the two she had mentioned.

Helping him out of his confusion, she said, ‘Sir Josse, did you wish to speak to me? Have you anything to report?’

‘Aye, I have,’ he said, relief evident in his tone and in his face. ‘As you know, the dead man was killed with a short-bladed knife which was left in the body. Sister Euphemia has cleaned it, and we have discovered a small piece of fine woollen cloth around the blade. We surmise that the victim was probably a man of wealth, since a poor man does not wear a fine woollen undershirt.’

‘Stabbed when he wore but his shirt?’ she asked.

‘Possibly. Alternatively, stabbed through the gap where a padded tunic bellows out between shoulder and waist.’

‘Yes. I see.’ She tried not to picture the scene, but her imagination was off and running. She called back her flying thoughts. ‘Does this advance our task of discovering the man’s identity?’

He hesitated. Then said, ‘Abbess Helewise, this is difficult to explain.’

‘Do try.’

A brief smile crossed his face, there and gone in an instant. ‘I have to confess to you that it was not in fact the dead man who brought me to Hawkenlye but another matter; some business recently come to my attention.’

‘I see.’ She suppressed a smile of her own; she had been so glad to see him arrive the previous day, when she was faced with the appalling discovery in the Vale, that she had not spared a thought for why he should so fortuitously have turned up just when she needed him. Later, she had been more than willing to ascribe his presence to divine intervention.

It seemed there was a more prosaic reason.

‘Do go on,’ she invited.

He was staring at his boots again, as if reluctant to speak.

‘Sir Josse, what is the matter?’ she asked gently. ‘If you fear that I shall think the less of you for letting me believe you came merely to help us, when in fact you have a purpose of your own, then you mistake me entirely. For one thing, you encouraged no such illusion; I have scarcely given you a moment to speak of your own business. For another, do you not know that I — that is, that the Abbey thinks too highly of you to let such a thing affect us?’

He had raised his head and now his brown eyes were fixed on hers. He said simply, ‘Thank you.’ Then, after a moment, went on: ‘I had a visitor. Several visitors, in fact; Prince John and a party of courtiers.’

She was taken aback. ‘You keep exalted company, Sir Josse,’ she murmured.

‘Oh, he hadn’t come to see me!’ he said quickly. ‘That is — well, in a way he had. He came seeking information. About a man by the name of Galbertius Sidonius?’ There was a slight question in his voice, as if he hoped she was about to say, ah yes, old Galbertius! I know him well!

If that were so, then he was in for a disappointment.

‘I am sorry, but the name means nothing to me,’ she said.

‘I am not greatly surprised. Your good men down in the Vale told me that you rarely record the names and conditions of the pilgrims who take the Holy Water.’

‘No. Occasionally names are volunteered, or we hear one person call another by his or her name. Otherwise. .’ She raised her hands, palm upwards. ‘I am sorry,’ she repeated. ‘Is it important that you find this man?’

‘Important?’ He seemed to pause for thought. ‘It ought not to be so,’ he said after a moment. ‘In truth, all that occurred was that the Prince asked if I knew of or had recently seen this man, this Galbertius Sidonius. I said no, and he said be sure to send word to him if I did come across the fellow.’

‘But?’ she prompted. Clearly, there had to be more.

Frowning, Josse said, ‘He gave such a daft reason for the visit, you see, Abbess Helewise. Only when we had dealt with that — in a matter of moments — did he pretend to remember this other business. I am convinced — although I cannot explain it in any more detail than I have already given — that Prince John is in fact extremely eager to speak to this man.’

‘And, aware of the Prince’s reputation,’ — she refrained from saying anything more judgemental — ‘you wish to find the man before he does?’

‘Exactly!’ Josse cried.

‘Do you fear for his safety?’ she asked quietly.

‘I — to speak the truth, I do not know if I do or not. It’s only that I feel involved, somehow. I mean, Abbess, why should Prince John come to seek me out, deep in the countryside and far away from court life, unless he had reason to think that I did know something of the man he seeks?’

She was nodding her understanding. ‘And your involvement has aroused your curiosity?’

He grinned. ‘Precisely.’

‘Then — forgive me, but I am still not clear why you came to Hawkenlye.’ Suddenly she thought she was. ‘Unless it was because we have so many visitors that you conjectured Galbertius Sidonius might be among them?’

‘Aye.’

‘And all we can tell you is that we regret that we take no record of people’s names,’ she finished for him. ‘Oh, Sir Josse, what a disappointment!’

He shrugged. ‘It was worth a try.’

There was a brief silence. Then, as an alarming thought occurred to her, she said, ‘You do not — oh, can it be that our dead man is the man you seek?’

His eyes met hers, and she saw the same suspicion in his anxious frown. ‘I fear it may be so, aye. There is no logical reason for it — as you have just said, Hawkenlye receives many visitors, and Galbertius may not even have been one of them. And, even if he was, why should he be the one poor soul whose pilgrimage ended with a knife through the heart?’

‘And yet?’ She sensed there was something else.

‘And yet I keep seeing that little circle of fine cloth,’ he said. ‘And I say to myself, this man was a man of quality, not a poor peasant. Which sort of man would be more likely to arouse the interest of a prince of England?’

‘I see what you mean.’ She chewed at her lip, thinking. ‘All we know, other than that he wore a fine undershirt, is that the dead man was quite young. If you were to go to the Prince and ask what age is his Galbertius Sidonius and he replied that he is a middle-aged or an elderly man, then you would at the least know he does not now lie buried with the Hawkenkye dead.’

Josse grinned at her. ‘That, dear Abbess Helewise, is exactly what I propose to do.’

When Josse was preparing to ride off in the morning, the Abbess came out to speak to him.

She stood at his stirrup, gazing earnestly up at him. Her eyelids were still a little swollen, he noticed, but she no longer looked as woebegone as she had done the previous day. He was glad; it had wrenched his heart to see her suffer so.

‘Sir Josse, I have been thinking,’ she said. ‘I believe you are right to see a connection between yourself and this Galbertius Sidonius. For, unless the Pr-’ She glanced around, noticed that both Sister Ursel and Sister Martha were in earshot and went on, ‘Unless the visitor of whom you spoke expected to run his quarry to earth at New Winnowlands, would he not have come here searching for him? Like you, he would surely have reasoned that the Abbey was the largest target for visitors in this region, yet, instead of coming here, he went to seek you.’

Josse nodded slowly. Aye, she was right. And, in addition, New Winnowlands was hardly a renowned manor; few people seemed even to have heard of it. Prince John might have known of its existence right enough, but even he must have had to go to some trouble to find it.

To find Josse.

He bent down and said softly to the Abbess, ‘My lady, as ever you think wisely.’ He grinned at her and added, ‘I wish you were coming with me. I could do with a clever brain.’

The Abbess returned his grin and said, equally quietly, ‘Sir Josse, you already have one.’ Then, as he wheeled Horace and prepared to put spurs to him and be off, she called, ‘God speed. Come back to us soon.’

Which, he decided, meant: be sure and tell me what you find out, as soon as you possibly can.

‘I will!’ he called back. Then Horace, well fed and well rested, responded to his heels and, breaking into a smooth canter, hurried him away.

Josse knew the town of Newenden, having put up there some three years ago, before King Richard had given him New Winnowlands. Having ascertained the location of Sir Henry of Newenden’s manor, he rode out to see if the Prince and his party still lodged there.

The manor house was grand, with moat, walled courtyard, generous accommodation for the family and, all around, well-tended fields. One or two reasonably prosperous-looking peasants touched their caps to Josse as he rode by, and a shepherd tending a large flock of sheep wished him good day.

Josse could see from a distance that the Prince’s company were no longer with Sir Henry; as he rode towards the courtyard, the air of peace and calm was not suggestive of the presence of a royal visitor.

Turning Horace’s head in through the gates — fortunately, standing open — he saw a groom working on the silvery coat of a grey mare. He called out, ‘Halloa! Is the master at home?’

The groom turned, gave Josse an enquiring look and said, ‘Who wants to know?’

‘I am Sir Josse d’Acquin,’ Josse said. ‘I am from New Winnowlands, where, a few days ago, the Prince John and his company visited me. They were staying, so they told me, with Sir Henry of Newenden. I have business with the Prince’ — how grand it sounded — ‘and have come to seek him. But-’ He waved a hand around the deserted courtyard. ‘It seems I am too late.’

The groom, still looking slightly suspicious, said, ‘Aye, they’ve been gone these two days since. My master Sir Henry rode with them.’

‘Where have they gone?’

The groom gave him a pitying look, as if to say, do you reckon they’d have told me? But then, relenting, he said, ‘Word is they were heading for London. Business with the Knights Templar, they do say.’ He made a gesture with his right thumb, forefinger and middle finger, rubbing the digits together, and Josse decided that this meant the business in question was in all likelihood of a financial nature.

‘London?’ he repeated. It was an imprecise answer; did it mean Prince John now lodged at Westminster? Or with the Templars in their enclave on the north bank of the river? Or even out at Windsor?

The groom shrugged. ‘London. It’s all I know.’ He went as if to return to the grey mare but, turning back, said, ‘The old geezer’s still here, if he’s any use to you.’ The contemptuous tone suggested that the old geezer, whoever he was, was not, nor ever could be, of any conceivable use to the young groom himself.

‘Old geezer?’

‘Aye. The one they all call Magister.’

The Magister! Josse remembered the man with the milk-white beard. ‘Aye, I would speak with him,’ he said firmly. Dismounting, he held out Horace’s reins to the groom, who grudgingly took them. ‘Direct me, if you will, to the Magister’s presence.’

Inside the manor house, the standards of housekeeping and the luxurious nature of the furnishings were as Josse had expected from its prosperous, well-kept exterior. The groom had hailed a serving man, who led Josse across the great hall with considerably more civility than the groom had shown. Then, as they came to a stair concealed behind a tapestry — to prevent draughts? What a comfortable home this must be! — the serving man called up to a woman who was working above. She in turn showed Josse up the stair and into a sunny room where a figure sat up in a high bed, a velvet cap on his white hair and a blanket tucked up under his chin, his milky beard neatly combed and spread out on the soft wool.

It was the Magister, and he was clearly suffering from a very heavy cold.

‘What a pleasant distraction,’ he said in a voice thick with rheum, ‘to have a visitor! Give the fire a poke, Sir Josse d’Acquin, and throw on a handful of those herbs in the basket’ — Josse did as he was bade and a sharp, clean smell filled the air — ‘then pull up a stool and tell me why you have come.’

‘I came seeking the Prince,’ Josse said, settling himself on a wooden stool with a padded top, ‘but I am told he has gone to London.’

‘He has,’ the Magister agreed. ‘And why did you wish to see him?’ The penetrating dark eyes were fixed on Josse’s and he thought suddenly that it would be difficult to tell this man a lie. Fortunately, he wasn’t about to.

‘When you came to New Winnowlands, you sought news of a man, Galbertius Sidonius.’

Josse wasn’t sure, but he thought a swift light shone in the depths of the Magister’s dark eyes. ‘Yes?’ the older man said coolly. ‘And do you bring such news?’

‘I do not,’ Josse admitted. ‘But I visited the Abbey at Hawkenlye to see if this man had been there, it being such an attraction of the area.’

‘And?’

‘The nuns and monks of the Abbey were in the midst of a tragedy. A man’s body had been discovered, victim of a brutal murder.’

‘This man’s identity?’ The voice came sharply.

‘Not known.’

There was a pause. Then the Magister said, ‘How long had the body lain undiscovered?’

‘Five, six weeks.’

‘And so the man was unrecognisable.’

‘Aye.’

Another pause, longer this time. The Magister’s eyes had become dull, as if his sight were turned inwards. Josse wondered if he was trying to decide what questions he could safely ask without giving away anything that he wanted to remain secret.

Eventually he said, ‘Was this corpse that of an old man, did they think?’

‘No. A man perhaps in his twenties, probably no older than that.’

The Magister said neutrally, ‘I see.’ What exactly he saw, clearly he was not going to reveal it to Josse.

Which meant that Josse was going to have to ask. ‘This Galbertius Sidonius,’ he said, with more aggression that he had intended. ‘Was — is he a young man?’

The Magister’s eyes turned towards him, staring at him for some time. Eventually he said, ‘No.’ There was a pause and, for a brief instant, an expression almost of wonder crossed the pale face. Then the Magister said softly, ‘Not young. Ancient.’

Josse felt his heart sink. How he would have liked to return to the Abbess and tell her that the mystery was solved! But it had been a faint hope; all along, the likelihood had been that his mission would prove that the dead man was not Sidonius rather than that he was.

The Magister spoke again; there was, Josse had noticed, a faint accent: Welsh? He said, still regarding Josse with those dark eyes, ‘You had reason to wish that your dead man was Galbertius Sidonius?’

‘Eh? No, not really.’ It was too difficult to explain about the Abbess, and wanting to help her by identifying the corpse, so he didn’t try. In fact, he said nothing further.

But the Magister had not finished with him. ‘You know of this man, this Sidonius?’ he probed. ‘For all that you told my lord the Prince that you do not.’

‘No!’ Josse protested vehemently. ‘Believe me, sir, I do not!’

A smile broke the pale, solemn face. ‘I do believe you,’ the Magister said. ‘I know when a man lies to me, and you, I see, speak true.’

Staring hard at him — the levity in his voice as he had made the reply seemed to permit a certain relaxation in his approach — Josse thought that there was something familiar about the older man. He said, ‘Forgive me, Magister, but have we met before? Were you perhaps at court when the King and his brothers were lads, in the time of King Henry, their father?’

‘I was.’

‘They call you Magister,’ Josse pressed on, ‘but may I know your name?’

‘It is no secret,’ the older man said mildly. ‘My name is John Dee.’

John Dee. .

The name, like the face, had a familiarity to it. Josse thought hard. Did he recall a man called Dee when he had attended the young princes? No. He did not believe he did. Brows descending in a frown of concentraton, he pushed his memory further back.

And, from nowhere, remembered Geoffroi, his father, telling tales beside the fire to his young sons. Of a man who read the future in the stars, who warned of events that were to come, who saw the wind with his deep, dark eyes and whom sailors — always a superstitious bunch — feared as a sorcerer.

Sorcerer. How the word had thrilled and scared the small boys crouched at their father’s knee! How they had both yearned for him to go on and tell them more, and prayed that he would stop before he frightened them so much that they would not sleep!

The sorcerer’s name had been John Dee.

‘My father knew you!’ Josse exclaimed. But no, that wasn’t quite right; Geoffroi told stories not of someone he had met, but of a legendary figure from the past. A man who had advised kings and princes, yes, but many years ago. The courts to which the John Dee of Geoffroi d’Acquin’s tales belonged had been those of the first William and, later, that of his ill-fated, short-reigning son, the second William, and his brother, Henry.

Kings who, or so it was whispered, kept at least one foot in the Old Religion. .

This man who now lay in the bed before Josse was far too young to be one and the same as that figure from the fireside tales! But he was probably a descendant.

‘I know of you, John Dee,’ Josse said, reverence in his voice; it was not every day you met the kinsman of a magician. ‘My father used to tell us tales of the John Dee who advised the first of the Norman kings, who, I would venture to conclude, was your ancestor?’

The Magister said nothing for a moment. Then, softly: ‘John Dee was always there, and always will be.’

Ah, yes, Josse thought. It was as he had thought; the post of court sorcerer, or magician, or seer, or sage, or whatever they called it, must be an hereditary one. Passed always from father to son, as was their traditional family Christian name of John.

He sat back on his stool, regarding the man in the bed with pleasure. ‘John Dee,’ he said, awe in his voice. ‘John Dee.’

Dee waited to see if he was going to add anything more challenging. When he did not, Dee said, ‘I do remember your father. For all that he told tales not of my present doings but of events from the past’ — there was a faint sparkle of humour in his eyes — ‘I did not hold it against him. A good man, Geoffroi d’Acquin.’ The humour vanished, to be replaced by a sharp, calculating look. ‘He lives still?’

‘No.’ Josse shook his head. ‘He died — oh, all of sixteen years ago, now. Back in ’76.’

‘Ah, yes.’

Staring at Dee, Josse had the strange sensation that he had known all along that Geoffroi was dead.

Why, then, ask?

As if to distract him from that vaguely disturbing thought, Dee was speaking, a hypnotic note in his voice that, against his will, instantly grabbed Josse’s attention. ‘Ah, what sorrow that was,’ he murmured, ‘for a man of but fifty summers to die, cut down, like the Corn King, with the harvest.’

‘Aye,’ Josse said softly, remembering. ‘That he was. We-’ But then his head shot up as, with a shiver down his back, he stared at Dee. ‘How did you know?’ he demanded. ‘I never mentioned that he died in the summer!’

But Dee was speaking again, the soft, lulling note stronger now; Josse, knowing himself to be disturbed over something but unable, for the life of him, to remember what it was, had no choice but to be quiet and listen.

‘His death was inscribed on the fabric of the past, present and future, as are those of us all,’ Dee whispered. ‘It is but as a book, to we who learn how to read it. Your father’s time came, and he was taken.’

‘Aye,’ breathed Josse. He felt as if he were dreaming, yet, at the same time, still awake. Awake sufficiently, anyway, to be aware of the smell of the herbs on the fire. The soft, comfortable padding of the stool beneath his buttocks.

Dee’s strange voice.

‘Your father’s death is the reason,’ Dee continued. ‘The reason why I tell you that the stranger must come to you.’

‘Nobody has come!’ Josse protested; the effort of speech was hard, and he felt as if he were pushing his words out through thick, muffling cloth.

Dee, appearing briefly surprised — was he not used to people answering him back when he held them in thrall? — made a smoothing, soothing gesture with his right hand. It wore, Josse noticed, a large, pale blue-green stone; in his head a distant voice said, aquamarine. The Seer’s stone.

And the right hand, he recalled as if from nowhere, was the power hand. .

Either the hand gesture or the ring — or both — worked on Josse as, presumably, Dee had intended. Mute, receptive, he sat waiting for what would happen next.

‘I say again,’ Dee murmured, ‘the stranger will come to you. Possibly not he himself — the picture is unclear — but one who comes from him.’

‘But-’ It was no use; whatever skill or power Dee was using was now too strong for Josse to fight.

‘He will come,’ Dee said, waving his hand again. ‘Only wait, and he will come.’

Josse felt his eyelids grow heavy. His head went down, chin tucked into his chest, and he saw darkness bloom before him. Then — he had no idea how long afterwards — he gave a sudden snort-like snore, and woke himself up.

He sat up straight, rubbed his eyes and stared at Dee, who was watching him with amused eyes.

‘The herbs on my fire aid my breathing,’ Dee said, in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘But, to those unused to their smoke, they can induce sleep. I apologise, Sir Josse, for having caused you the embarrassment of nodding off when your intention was to cheer a sick man by your visit.’

Josse, horribly confused, said, ‘Aye. No. Sorry, sir.’ Standing up, he managed to knock the stool over, and he tripped up over one of its legs as he lunged for the door. ‘Goodbye, Magister,’ he added.

‘Farewell, Josse d’Acquin! Go in safety!’

Dee’s valediction was — there was no mistaking it — accompanied by rich, happy, slightly mocking laughter.