Fortune Like the Moon

Chapter Twelve

On his way to Rotherbridge, Josse had decided, he would pay a call on Sir Alard. He needed to seek the old man’s confirmation that he had indeed given jewelled crosses to his daughters and to his niece. It was probably unnecessary, he thought as he neared the Winnowlands estates, but he felt he should not ignore any proof that was reasonably easy to obtain. Not if he were going to make a convincing case to back up all his theorising.

But he arrived back at Winnowlands to discover that Sir Alard had died the previous day. While Josse had been making his slow, hot journey back to Hawkenlye Abbey, Alard of Winnowlands had finally lost his long battle with death.

Josse knew. Even before he was told, he knew. There was a difference about the place. Sir Alard’s estates had not been a cheerful environment before, but, whereas previously the few of the peasantry that Josse had seen had looked merely dull-eyed and dejected, now he saw signs of more dramatic distress. Outside one hovel, a man had sat doing nothing but gaze down at his large hands, hanging idle between his knees, as if his situation were so dreadful that everything pertaining to normal life had suddenly come to a halt. From within another, better-kept dwelling, Josse heard the sounds of a woman weeping, so violently that he suspected she was close to hysteria.

Under the usual customs of inheritance, it would have been a case of ‘the king is dead, long live the king!’, as the new lord took over from his father; few, if any, major changes would be anticipated to alter the lot of those who depended for their very lives on the manor. But here, where there was no new lord …

Will, who came out into the yard on hearing Josse’s approach, broke the news.

‘He’s dead,’ he said flatly. Not even specifying of whom he spoke. ‘Last evening, it was. Afore supper, and he had a nice bit of pie to look forward to.’ Sudden tears glistened in the man’s eyes, swiftly blinked away. Josse, who had observed before how it was so often the little poignancies that undermined the recently bereaved, murmured sympathetically. ‘He began to cough, and the blood just flowed.’ Will went on. ‘Didn’t stop. Master, he sort of choked, couldn’t draw breath. Well, stands to reason, nothing left to draw it into, like, with his chest all rotten.’ He gave a sniff, wiped the back of his hand across his nose, and said softly, ‘I held him, till he was gone. Propped him up, like I always did, till he couldn’t breathe no more. Then I held his hand. After a bit, I knew he were dead. I let him be, overnight. Tucked him up, settled him down, with the fire well-stoked and a candle burning. Then, this morning, I sent word. Priest’s been,’ he added, in a matter-of-fact tone.

Josse nodded. Will himself, he noted, looked in a bad way. Haggard, his skin yellow and unhealthy looking, he had the appearance of a man who has spent far too long at his master’s sick bed, drawn in far too many breaths of contaminated air. Praying that this loyal servant should not himself succumb to the wasting sickness, Josse got down from his horse and, rather awkwardly, patted the sorrowing man on the shoulder.

‘I’m sure you did all you could to make his passing as comfortable as it could be,’ he said, hoping to console. ‘No man could have been better tended, Will, of that I’m certain.’

‘I didn’t do it for what I could get out of him, no matter what they say!’ Will burst out surprisingly. ‘Did it for his sake,’ he added more quietly. ‘For old times’ sake. We go back a long way, Master and me.’

‘Aye, Will.’ Trying to sound as if he were merely making polite conversation, Josse added, ‘Leave you a bit, did he? That’s a nice reward, for all your loyalty.’

Will shot him a swift assessing glance. ‘Left me a tidy sum, thank you, sir,’ he said stiffly, and Josse sensed the unspoken comment, if it’s any business of yours. ‘Priest, he was here first thing this morning, like I was telling you, along of that sister of the master’s. They’d got hold of the will, and they read it out.’

‘Really?’ Josse pretended to be busy pulling a tangle out of his horse’s mane.

‘Aye. All to the niece, saving a few small sums here and there, just like they suspected. The lass’s mother were right pleased, I can tell you.’

‘And the young Lord Milon d’Arcy? How did he react?’

Another suspicious look. Too late, Josse realised he shouldn’t have referred to the youth by name. ‘Fancy you remembering what he’s called,’ Will said, with a casual inflection that didn’t fool Josse for an instant. ‘Well, sir knight, he didn’t react at all, seeing as how he wasn’t here.’

‘No? Wasn’t that a surprise, when he’d seemed so eager to know of his wife’s uncle’s intentions?’

Will shrugged. ‘Maybe. The girl’s mother was here fast enough, though, like I said. Reckon she’ll have passed on the good tidings by now.’

Josse doubted that. But then he had the advantage over Will, who could have no way of knowing that Elvera was dead and Milon — if Josse was right about him — was still lurking somewhere on the edges of the forest near to Hawkenlye.

‘I must go,’ he said to Will. ‘My commiserations on the death of your master, Will.’ He fixed his eyes on Will’s; those last words, at least, were sincerely meant.

‘I thank you, sir,’ Will responded.

‘I am going to pay another call at Rotherbridge,’ Josse added as he turned his horse. ‘Perhaps this time I shall find Sir Brice at home. Good day, Will.’

‘Sir.’

He felt Will’s heavy-lidded eyes on him as he rode out of the yard. It was not a comfortable feeling.

* * *

On the way to Rotherbridge Manor, Josse spotted a horse and rider, stopped down by a stretch of the River Rother where the water flowed fast and shallow over a stony bed. The horse was a good one, and the man’s elegant tunic and soft leather boots indicated he was a person of substance. He was bareheaded, and the dark hair had a streak of white running from the left temple, petering out behind the ear. Josse was just thinking that this particular bend in the river would be a good place for salmon when he heard the sound of sobbing.

The man, who was standing beside his horse, had his face buried against the horse’s neck, the fingers of his strong hands entwined in its mane. His whole attitude spoke eloquently of despair, and his shoulders were heaving with the extremity of his grief. Face hidden, he did not see Josse, up on the road.

Josse felt guilty, as if he had deliberately set out to spy on another’s distress. The man had chosen a secluded spot; it was, surely, an unlikely piece of bad luck that someone had come along the lonely track to disturb his privacy.

Not wanting to subject the unknown man to the awkwardness of knowing himself observed, Josse made haste to pass before the man should look up.

* * *

As before, it was Mathild who came out of the house at Rotherbridge to meet him.

‘Master’s back, but he ain’t in,’ she said.

‘Oh? Are you expecting him to return soon?’

‘Could be.’ She gave him her same assessing squint. ‘He’s gone out for a ride. Wants to be alone, he says. He’s missing her, see. The mistress. He’s done his penance, like a good Christian should, but seems it’s not been enough.’ She gave a great gusty sigh. ‘He’ll no doubt get over it, but likely it’s going to take some time.’

The grieving man by the river. Yes, Josse thought. It must have been Brice.

Poor man.

‘I seek the whereabouts of Milon d’Arcy,’ he said.

‘Aye, like you did before, the last time you were by,’ she remarked. She seemed in no particular hurry to divulge the information.

But Josse had his story ready this time. ‘I come from Winnowlands,’ he said, ‘where-’

‘He’s gone at last,’ she interrupted him. ‘God rest his soul.’

‘Amen,’Josse said. News travels fast hereabouts, he thought. ‘How did you know?’

She shrugged. ‘Will’s woman told Ossie’s mother last night. Said Will were right upset, wouldn’t leave the old man’s body by itself.’ She shot Josse a sharp look. ‘Reckon he’ll have a deal more to be upset about soon, him and all the rest of the Winnowlands folk. Told you, did they? What’s to happen?’

‘Will told me of Sir Alard’s bequest to his niece, aye, and how the girl’s mother was there to hear the terms of the will.’

Mathild seemed to have overcome her reservations, and was now positively eager to talk; gossiping about the death and the will of a neighbour were, apparently, more entertaining than listening to Josse explaining himself. ‘Like I said, it’ll upset them, all right,’ she said, nodding in affirmation.

‘The estate going to Sir Alard’s niece, you mean?’

‘Not her, so much, she’s not a bad lass. Flighty, overfond of her own comfort and a mite too ready to clamber over others to get what she wants, but then, that’s not uncommon, now, is it?’

‘No,’ Josse acknowledged.

‘No, it’s that Milon d’Arcy who’ll cause all the trouble,’ Mathild predicted grimly. ‘Nobbut a lot of air between his ears, that one, no thought but for the newest fashion, the best wine, the most delicate of dishes.’ She shook her head, thoroughly enjoying herself. ‘Can you see him having the sense to run a great place like Winnowlands? He’ll have neither the knowledge nor the wits to ask the advice of those what has. It’ll be ruin, for the lot of them.’ She looked up at Josse, the shrewd eyes narrowed. ‘Mark my words, sir, the Winnowlands folk are quite right to be worried.’

‘Aye,’ Josse said. ‘Poor Will.’

‘Still,’ she went on, her expression lifting, ‘look on the bright side, that’s what I say! Young Elanor, now, she’ll be a happy girl when they tell her. What a piece of news to break to a pretty young thing, eh?’

‘She is still from home?’ he asked casually.

‘Fas as I know she is. They live over the next hill, her and my little lordship Milon — tidy place, small but elegant, mind, other side of the bridge — but I hear tell there’s none of the family there now. She’ll still be with her new Hastings kin, I reckon. And him, well, maybe he’s gone to join her there.’

‘And the kinfolk, they live…?’

She told him, giving the information in such an abbreviated form that he was obliged to ask her to elaborate. She was, quite clearly, impatient to get back to her theme of how wonderful it must be for a lass not yet twenty to inherit a fortune, why, if it had been her, what she could have done with it when she was twenty! Goodness, she’d have had jewels, fine gowns, someone to cook and scrub for her, and she wouldn’t have spent her life running round after other people, that was for sure.

‘No, indeed,’ Josse murmured, although he doubted if she was listening. Breaking away as quickly as he could, which was not in fact quickly at all, he was moving off towards the gateway when suddenly she ceased her daydreaming and called after him, ‘Will you tell them, sir knight?’

‘Tell them what?’ he asked, although he knew what her answer would be.

She tutted briefly. ‘About the fortune, of course! And about the poor old man’s death,’ she added, trying, and failing, to adopt a suitably mournful expression.

He hesitated. Then said, ‘Oh, no. I don’t think that would be suitable at all. It’s hardly my place, as a stranger to the family, to break such tidings.’

She was looking at him strangely. Wondering — fearing — that she was about to ask why, if he was a stranger, he was involving himself to such an extent in family matters, he forestalled her. Calling out a swift farewell, he spurred his horse and set off to find the house of Elvera’s — Elanor’s — relations-in-law.

* * *

She was not there.

Whoever had concocted this story of her prolonged visit to her husband’s kin clearly had not anticipated that anyone would actually go checking up. The servant who came out to greet Josse announced, after his initial denial, that he’d go in and ask the mistress, since it was possible she’d arranged a visit and omitted to tell the staff; he returned not only with the mistress, but also with the master and three or four other members of the household. Milon’s kin, Josse noticed absently, came from a different mould than Milon; it was hard to believe that the stolid and sensibly dressed family in front of him had produced the dainty, yellow-haired youth.

Not only was Elanor not there, but nobody knew of any proposed visit. The master and the mistress, frowning at each other in perplexity, said so repeatedly. As far as they were aware, Elanor d’Arcy was contentedly at home with her husband, and planning on staying there.

Feeling both slightly foolish — quite a few of the household were looking at Josse as if he were next door to an idiot — and also unpleasantly guilty — it was not a good feeling, listening to them speaking happily of Elanor as if she were still alive when he knew full well she was dead — he said he regretted that he must have made a mistake. He apologised for having disturbed them all and took his leave. Then he hurried away and set off on the long road back to Hawkenlye.

* * *

He got back as twilight deepened into night. Hot, dirty, ravenously hungry and weary to his very bones, he was good for nothing but food and sleep. Brother Saul, tending him efficiently and with the consideration not to ask him any questions, reported briefly on the day’s events at Hawkenlye since Josse had left that morning.

‘The little lassie’s lying in the crypt, where they put Sister Gunnora,’ he said as he brought Josse a wooden platter heaped with steaming, fragrant stew. ‘The Abbess has been sitting with her all day.’

Josse heard the concern in his voice. ‘She is taking this hard,’ he remarked.

Brother Saul shook his head sadly. ‘As do we all, sir. As do we all.’ He stood frowning in the direction of the shrine. ‘This whole sorry business has made folks disinclined to come for the waters, too. And that’s not right. Those in distress have need of the cure, and now these terrible deaths are frightening them away.’

It was, Josse thought, an aspect of the murders which ranked high with Brother Saul. He studied him, noting the kind, honest face set now in lines of distress. ‘We’ll find the man who is responsible, Saul,’ he said softly, ‘and bring him to justice. That I promise you.’

Saul turned to look at him, and, briefly, a smile softened the features. ‘Yes, sir. I know you will.’ Josse was just feeling the beginning of a warm glow of pleasure at the man’s faith in him when, to gild the moment, Saul added, ‘So does the Abbess.’

* * *

Josse slept for ten hours, and awoke feeling thoroughly refreshed. His mind must have been working while he was asleep; he returned to consciousness knowing exactly what he must do next.

Brother Saul gave him a bite of breakfast, and then he set off the short distance down the path to the area where the two dead nuns had been found. He stood first in the one place, then the other, turning slowly in a full circle, studying the immediate surroundings. Then, making up his mind, he began a very thorough inspection of the undergrowth beside the track.

He had reasoned that, since it appeared that Milon had made at least two and probably more nocturnal visits to the little valley, the young man must have had a hiding place. Perhaps not many people would be abroad down there at night — in fact, Josse thought, probably none — but, nevertheless, it seemed unlikely that anyone with nefarious intentions would have the confidence to stand about in the open.

He walked very slowly along the path, staring intently at every yard of undergrowth, eyes searching for the smallest sign of passing feet. There was nothing. Nothing! Sick with disappointment, he was about to turn back when, only a little distance from where the shrubbery began to thin out, he saw it.

You would, he thought, have had to be looking out for it. Clever young man, to forge your way through at a place where the greenery was most resilient. But not quite clever enough to check that you really had left no mark.

Pushing his way through the thick foliage, Josse was careful to avoid the two small half-broken branches which were the only sign of Milon’s passage. It might be necessary to show them as proof of his theory.

Once off the path, the young man had been less cautious, and Josse followed his tracks more easily. After going for some fifteen paces, he found himself in a tiny clearing, in the midst of the undergrowth. The short grass had been trodden flat, and someone had made a crude shelter out of broken branches; presumably one of Milon’s night-time vigils had been spent in the rain.

Something caught his eye; a small object, half-hidden under dead leaves. Kneeling down, he uncovered it. It was the two halves of an oyster shell, placed together; lifting up the top one, he saw inside a tiny pearl.

He had seen something like it before. Searching his memory, he had a sudden image of his old nurse, saying her prayers after the marriage of Josse’s younger brother. She had, he knew, been praying for the newlywed couple’s fertility, and when she had finished, she placed a single pearl in an oyster shell. It had worked; Josse’s sister-in-law’s firstborn son had come into the world eleven months later, swiftly followed by two girls and another boy.

They met here often, those other two young newlyweds, he now thought. Crept in here in the darkness, hand in hand, lay down on the bare ground, made love. Which one, he wondered, brought this object here? Milon, anxious for a child to inherit the fortune he was expecting, or Elanor, passionately in love with her new husband, wanting so badly to please him with a pregnancy?

As with Josse’s sister-in-law, the charm had worked.

Suddenly very sad, he put the oyster shell back in its hiding place. The little clearing was full of their spirit, those two young people, and, for the first time, he felt a distinct distaste for what he had to do.

But, if my reasoning is right, Milon killed her, he reminded himself. And both of them were greedy and envious enough to plot the murder of Gunnora.

Resolving firmly to keep his compassion for those who deserved it, he made his way out to the track.

* * *

He found himself a quiet spot on the bank of the pond, some fifty paces from where he had discovered the secret hiding place, and sat down to think. He was full of a strong conviction that Milon was still near at hand; he had to be, for he had urgent business at the Abbey.

Only one thing, as far as Josse could deduce, linked Milon definitely with the murder of Elanor, and hence with that of Gunnora. And that object — although Milon could not know it — now lay safely in Abbess Helewise’s cabinet. Where did the young man imagine it was? It must have been a terrible moment, when he discovered it was not on his wife’s body; fleetingly Josse wondered why not. Why, when he was fairly sure she had been wearing it beneath her robe when he had interviewed her the day before she died, had she removed it before setting out that night? Wrapped it up carefully with her wedding ring, hidden it beneath her palliasse? It seemed a strange thing to do.

Never mind that, now.

Milon, then, would have found the cross missing. Would realise she must have left it in the convent, would guess, probably, that she’d have hidden it in the one place a nun could look upon as her own. Her cubicle in the dormitory.

He had to come back for it! Surely he did! And quickly, before Elanor’s bed was allocated to another new postulant who might discover what was hidden there. I’d waste not a moment in searching for it, Josse thought, if I were in his place. It reveals the true identity of the postulant Elvera, and, once it is known that she is Elanor d’Arcy, then Milon is automatically involved.

His mind returned to the other two crosses, belonging to Gunnora and Dillian. Milon, he thought, must somehow have got hold of Dillian’s cross. Had it perhaps been left to her aunt, Milon’s mother-in-law, on Dillian’s death? Likely, since the woman was Dillian’s only surviving female relation other than Elanor, who already had her own cross. Well, however he had got his hands on it, he had known what to do with it. Leave it by Gunnora’s body, as if dropped by a panicking, fleeing thief, so that those who found her would think she had been killed during a robbery.

But they hadn’t thought that. Because Abbess Helewise had known it couldn’t be Gunnora’s own cross, which was then, and still was, securely in her care.

His mind was becoming fudged. I need to do something, he decided, something positive and, hopefully, useful, to fill the day ahead.

He decided, after brief thought, to go down to Tonbridge. It was possible he might hear word of Milon, if he asked a few questions; the lad wasn’t easy to overlook, with his fancy clothes and haircut. It seemed unlikely that he would risk putting up at an inn in the town, but, on the other hand, he had to eat. And there were precious few places selling food in the Wealden Forest.

I will ride down to Tonbridge, Josse thought, and treat myself to a decent dinner and a few mugs of Goody Anne’s excellent ale.

Then tonight, when it begins to get dark, I shall return here and wait for Milon.