Fortune Like the Moon

Chapter Fourteen

For some moments Josse and Brother Saul stood staring down at him in stunned silence. Then Saul said, ‘I suppose we’d better get him up to the Abbey, sir. There’s nowhere down here in the valley where we can secure a prisoner.’

A prisoner. Aye, Josse thought, that’s what he is, from now on. And, once he has been tried and found guilty, his imprisonment will only have one end.

‘Let’s get him to his feet,’ he said, and he and Saul each took hold of one of Milon’s arms. As they dragged him up, Josse heard the thin, fine cloth of the young man’s shirt start to tear. Again, Josse felt the painful mixture of emotions surge through him; so proud, Milon had been, of his appearance, so careful of his fashionable clothes. And now look at him. In the pale pre-dawn light, he was revealed as a sorry figure, dirty, stinking, the daringly cut tunic stuck with burrs and covered in grass stains, the shirt with a sleeve all but ripped out …

Cross with himself — the youth was a double murderer! — once again Josse found that he was having to fight down his compassion.

And, with Milon as silent and unresisting as if he were walking in his sleep, they made their way up to the Abbey.

* * *

Dawn was breaking when they closed the door on Milon. Saul had suggested putting him in an end chamber of the undercroft beneath the infirmary, which was empty but which had a stout lock.

The young man kept up his silence until they were descending the steps into the undercroft. Then, as the dank darkness wrapped itself around them, he started to emit a thin, high screaming. An awful sound: Josse felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to prickle.

‘A light, Brother Saul,’ he commanded gruffly. ‘We cannot pen him down here in the pitch dark like an animal.’ Saul fetched a flare and lit it, sticking it in a bracket on the wall of the passage.

But the door to Milon’s cell had only a small grille, up at eye level. Little of the warm, comforting light would penetrate inside to him.

‘Is it clean?’ Josse asked as Saul turned the heavy key on the boy.

Saul said, with a slight suggestion of reproof, ‘It is indeed, sir. Abbess Helewise, she does not allow slack housekeeping, not anywhere within the Abbey.’

Josse touched his arm in mute apology, both for having suggested the cell might be dirty, and for the underlying accusation that Brother Saul would have put a prisoner in there if it had been.

Prisoner.

The word kept reverberating in his head.

‘If you have no further use for me, sir,’ Saul said as they left the undercroft, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a yawn, ‘might I be allowed to go and catch a few hours’ sleep?’

‘Eh?’ His voice brought Josse back from the disquieting paths where his mind had been walking. ‘Aye, Brother Saul. And my thanks for your company and your help this long night.’

Saul bowed his head. ‘I’ll not say it was a pleasure, sir, but you’re welcome none the less.’ He paused, and Josse was certain he had more to say. Then: ‘He is guilty, Sir Josse? Without any shadow of a doubt?’

‘It’s not for me to judge him, Saul,’ Josse said gently. ‘He will go to trial. But me, I have no doubts.’

Brother Saul nodded. He said dolefully, ‘It’s as I feared. He will hang.’

‘He almost certainly killed two young women, Saul! Nuns, who had done him no wrong except prevent him getting a fortune!’

‘I know that, sir,’ Saul said with dignity. ‘It’s just that…’

He didn’t finish. Sighing, as if all this were far beyond his comprehension, he lifted a hand in valediction and set off back to the shelter in the vale.

And Josse, after a moment’s indecision, went into the cloister and sat down to wait for the Abbess.

It would be, he was well aware, a long wait. But then he had nothing better to do.

* * *

Helewise saw him as she went to her room after Prime.

He was slumped in a corner, wedged in the angle formed by the junction of two walls. He looked hideously uncomfortable, but, notwithstanding that, he was fast asleep.

His craggy face was pale, and there were deep lines running from the sides of his nose to the corners of his mouth. The heavy brows were drawn down as if, even asleep, he was troubled and frowning. Poor man, she thought. What a night he has had.

Word had been brought to her of Milon d’Arcy’s arrest as she went into church for the Holy Office. Brother Saul had spoken to Brother Firmin, who had taken the tidings straight to the Abbess.

It had taken most of her reserves of self-control to proceed with her devotions, when everything left in her that was worldly — and there was quite a lot — was telling her to go straight to the undercroft and start demanding some answers from the murderer.

Now, though, she was glad she had made herself go to pray. The dignity, power and atmosphere of the Abbey church was always most moving, for her, in the early morning, and the solace and strength she derived then was the greatest. And, perhaps because of that, it was at the first service of the daylight hours that she felt closest to the Lord. It was, she often thought, as if God, too, was enjoying the innocence of the world as another new day began. Was, perhaps, like the Abbess — if the comparison were not sacrilegious — revelling in the purity of the morning, before the concerns of those who peopled their two domains, God’s so vast, her own so small, had a chance to sully it.

Feeling uplifted, strong from having come fresh from communion with the Lord, she crossed the cloister, approached Josse and gently touched his shoulder.

He shot into wakefulness, hand going to where, no doubt, he usually carried a sword, eyes glaring up at her.

Seeing who it was, he relaxed.

‘Good morning, Abbess.’

‘Good morning, Sir Josse.’

‘They’ll have told you.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Indeed. You and Brother Saul did well. And my congratulations on the accuracy of your prediction. You said Milon would come back for the cross. And he did.’

‘We don’t know for certain that’s what he came for.’ Josse was stretching in a huge yawn as he spoke, remembering only half-way through it to cover his mouth with his hand. ‘Sorry, Abbess.’

‘It’s all right. When do we speak to him?’

Josse got to his feet, scratching at a day’s growth of beard. ‘Now?’

She had been unaware she’d been holding her breath. Overwhelmingly relieved — she didn’t think she could have borne delay — she said, ‘Very well.’

* * *

She sensed a new tension in him as they went down the steps to the undercroft. She was about to speak, but just then she became aware of the noise.

Was it what had disturbed Josse? She would not have been surprised if it was. It was a dreadful noise, like that of an animal in a snare, containing both pain and, predominantly, despair.

As if he, too, felt the need of light in this suddenly terrible place, Josse took a flare out of its bracket on the wall and held it in his left hand as he unlocked the door of the makeshift prison, carrying it in with him as he and Helewise advanced into the cell.

She saw him immediately, for all that he was cowering right in the far corner. As the light from the flare fell on him, his face relaxed into a smile. But only for a moment; seeing who stood beside her, he gave a low moan, and slumped back against the wall as if he were trying to bury himself.

Glancing over her shoulder, Helewise noticed that Josse had positioned himself with his back to the closed door of the cell, his stance appearing to defy the prisoner to challenge him. His face, in the light of the flare, was stern; she was, she reflected briefly, now seeing the man of action, the King’s agent, making quite sure a murder suspect didn’t make a break for freedom.

The young man whom she knew must be Milon d’Arcy was now sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest, head dropped on to his knees. Stepping forward, Josse said, with a gentleness which greatly surprised her, ‘Milon, get up. The Abbess Helewise is here, and you must show her respect.’

Slowly the youth did as he was told. For the first time, Helewise was face to face with the husband of the late postulant, Elanor d’Arcy, known in this community as Elvera.

She hadn’t known what to expect. But it certainly wasn’t this thin, white-faced young man, whose fine bright clothes were muddied and torn, and whose eyes bore an expression which, although she couldn’t yet read it, struck a chill in her.

And who, quite obviously, had been crying.

Not knowing of any better way to begin, she said, ‘Did you kill your wife, Milon?’

She heard a brief exclamation from behind her — Josse, apparently, did not approve of her straightforward interrogation methods — but, after a tense moment, slowly Milon nodded.

‘And why was that?’ she continued, in the same quiet tone.

‘I didn’t mean to,’ he whispered. He sobbed, sniffed, and wiped his wet nose on his sleeve. Raising his eyes to Helewise, the pupils wide in the dim light, he said urgently, ‘She came to me, you see, that night, down in our secret place. Just like she always did on a Wednesday. I used to wait for her, on those nights, in the bed I’d made for us deep in the undergrowth. We’d lie together till the very first glimmer of light, then she’d run back to her dormitory and pretend to be asleep when the summons came for Matins.’

‘Prime,’ Helewise corrected automatically.

‘Was it?’ Incongruously, in that dread place, he gave a sudden swift smile. ‘She said it was Matins.’

‘Well, she was very new to convent life.’ Dear God, but this was difficult! ‘So, she came to you that night, Milon. And you — you spent some time together.’

‘We made love,’ Milon said. ‘We made love a lot, ever since we were wed.’ An echo of the smile again. ‘Before that, once, although we never told anyone. Many, many times, once we were man and wife and we were allowed to. She was pregnant.’ There was a distinct note of pride in his voice. ‘Did you know that, Abbess?’

Helewise nodded. ‘Yes, Milon. I knew.’

‘It was wonderful, wasn’t it,’ he hurried on eagerly, ‘for her to be with child so soon after our marriage? Of course, she didn’t tell Gunnora. Didn’t even tell her we were wed. So, apart from me, there was nobody she could chat to about how happy she is, how excited.’ He frowned. ‘That was sad. She needed to tell people, Elanor did. She always needs to share it when something good happens to her. That’s why it’s — why it was so hard for her being in the Abbey.’ He looked around him, as if suddenly remembering where he was. ‘Being here,’ he added, in a whisper.

Helewise wondered if Josse, too, had noticed Milon’s confusion of past and present. Turning to look quickly at him, she saw that his deep frown of disapproval had lifted slightly. And that, mingled with the outrage and the anger, was pity.

Yes, she thought. He has noticed. And, like me, he is torn between condemning this youth for what he has done and pitying him for the frailness of his mental state.

But now was no time to allow compassion to overrule justice.

‘The child — your and Elanor’s child — would have been rich, wouldn’t he?’ she pressed on. ‘Or she, of course. Born into wealth.’

Milon was nodding again. ‘Yes! Yes! He’d have had a silver spoon, all right! That was why, you see.’ He looked eagerly from Helewise to Josse, as if inviting their understanding. ‘We were thinking of ourselves at first, I can’t deny it, thinking how unfair it was, that, with Dillian gone, the old fool was thinking of changing his will and leaving the lot to Gunnora after all. And she didn’t want it!’ He opened his hands wide as if to say, just imagine! ‘That was the stupid thing! She hated wealth, and everything to do with it! That’s why she had to come in here — it was all part of her plan. She was going to-’

Just then Josse interrupted. ‘And you couldn’t bear the thought of your uncle-in-law’s wealth ending up in Hawkenlye Abbey, could you? So you killed her.’

‘No!’ The denial came out with such deep anguish that Helewise began to sense she had been right all along.

‘There’s no point keeping on saying no when we-’ Josse began furiously.

But Helewise said, ‘Sir Josse, if you please?’ and, with an obvious effort, he stopped.

She turned back to Milon. ‘So Elanor posed as the postulant Elvera, entered the convent and met up with her cousin. How did she explain herself?’

Milon smiled. ‘She told Gunnora it was for a bet. That I’d bet her a gold coin she couldn’t fool everyone into believing she really wanted to be a nun, and she’d claimed she could, and, what’s more, she’d show me. Of course, she said it wouldn’t be for very long, that, soon, she’d pretend she’d changed her mind and go again. Before they threatened to cut her hair off, that’s for sure!’

The sound of his laughter — bright, happy, as if he hadn’t a care in the world — was, Helewise thought, almost as dreadful as that moaning had been.

And then, looking confidingly into her eyes, he added, ‘She’s got lovely hair, hasn’t she?’

Fortunately for Helewise, who was, just at that moment, incapable of continuing, Josse took up the questioning.

‘And Gunnora believed in this stupid prank?’ He sounded incredulous. ‘But didn’t it strike her as deeply irreverent, when she herself was about to take the first of her final vows?’

But she wasn’t, Helewise thought. And she was beginning to understand why. She sighed. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Gunnora swallowed the story. She believed everything Elanor told her. Didn’t she, Milon?’

‘Yes.’ He was grinning. ‘She went along with it. She actually thought it was as funny as Elanor did.’

‘But all the time Elanor’s presence here had a much darker purpose,’ Josse said. ‘All along, you and your wife were planning to kill Gunnora.’

‘I keep telling you, it wasn’t like that!’ Milon cried. ‘We just wanted to make a friend of her, wanted her to like us, so that when she got her father’s money, she’d pass it on to us and not give it to the Abbey.’

‘You felt that your need was the greater?’ Helewise said, with some irony.

He turned to her. ‘No.’ His expression was aggrieved. ‘It wasn’t because of that.’

‘What, then?’ Josse demanded.

Again, Milon looked at both of his questioners in turn. Meeting the tormented, shadowed eyes, Helewise was reminded of a wild animal cornered by hounds.

But then, finding from some unsuspected reserve a vestige of pride, Milon sat up and straightened his shoulders. Raising his chin, he said with quiet dignity, ‘Because I’m his son.’

There was utter silence in the cold little room. Then Josse repeated, ‘His son.’

Helewise’s mind had leapt to one crucial thing. Silly, really, she thought, when so much else is at stake. ‘Your marriage wasn’t legal, if Sir Alard was indeed your father,’ she said. ‘A union between first cousins is within the prohibited degree.’

Milon dropped his eyes. ‘I know. But Elanor didn’t — I didn’t want to upset her, when we loved each other so much. Getting married was the only way, you see — we’d never have been allowed to be together unless we were wed. So I never told her who I really was.’

‘But surely Sir Alard would have done!’ Josse protested. ‘Great God in heaven, he should have been more responsible than to let such a union go ahead, no matter how much the pair of you wanted it!’

Milon waited until the blustering had finished — Josse must be beside himself, Helewise thought absently, to blaspheme like that, although the provocation was understandable — and then said, ‘Alard couldn’t have told her, since he didn’t know himself.’

‘Then how can you be so sure?’ Helewise asked gently.

‘My mother told me,’ Milon said. ‘When she was dying, I was the one she wanted to be with her.’ He gave a brief ironic smile. ‘That didn’t go down at all well with my brothers, but then they’ve always been jealous of me. I was different, you see. I looked different, for one thing, and I always had my mother’s favour. Even when they all ganged up on me, she’d look after me.’ He sighed. Then, as if recalling himself to the present, went on, ‘She didn’t have long to live, they were all saying that, so I did as she asked and went up to her room.’ His nose wrinkled. ‘It smelt. She smelt. I didn’t like it there, I wanted to go back to Elanor. But then my mother said I had to go and find my father, and when I said, all right, I’ll fetch him, she grabbed my arm and said she didn’t mean him, she meant my real father.’

‘That must have come as a great shock to you,’ Helewise said tonelessly.

‘It did, oh, it did!’ Milon agreed. ‘Of course, though, once it had sunk in, I realised. I saw how it explained a lot of what had been happening, all through my childhood. Then I got interested, and I asked her to tell me about him. My father.’

Helewise pictured the scene. The dying woman, anxious to impart a long-held secret to her favourite son. And the son, listening not out of love but because he was ‘interested’.

‘She said, “Go and find him, and get your inheritance off him,”’ Milon was saying. ‘She was very bitter, you know. She always had been, but I didn’t know why till then. From what she said — and she said a lot, believe me, for a woman who was meant to be dying — I gathered that she had imagined it would mean a bit of comfort for her, having a child by a rich man, even if she wasn’t married to him. And when the child turned out to be a son, well, that made it even more important, given that the man only had daughters. But it didn’t work out that way. She never even managed to tell him about me — he sent her letters back unopened. Didn’t want his wife, the Lady Margaret, knowing he’d had sex with another woman, that’s what she reckoned. She — my mother — couldn’t pursue it, she said, because, if she made too much fuss, she’d risk her husband finding out. And she only slept with Alard the once!’

What a tale, Helewise thought. Dear Lord, what a tale of greed and dishonour.

But it was not all told yet.

‘So your mother ordered that you try to obtain what she felt you were entitled to?’ she prompted. ‘Having told you where to go, she left it up to you to announce yourself? To convince Sir Alard that you were his son?’

‘Yes.’ Milon smiled faintly. ‘Daunting, wasn’t it? I mean, if, as my mother said, he only bedded her the once, would he even remember? I thought it was unlikely. And, if I told him and he refused to believe it, what then? I’d have blown my chances, and, no doubt, he’d have thrown me out and told his damned manservant to make sure I never darkened his door again. I had no proof, you see!’

‘Indeed I do,’ Helewise murmured.

‘The alternative — my plan to marry Elanor — was the best I could come up with,’ he went on. ‘It was her or nothing, I reckoned. Gunnora wouldn’t have looked at another man, and Dillian was smitten with Brice. So I went in search of my father’s niece.’ He paused, and the silence continued for some time.

Then he said, ‘But I fell in love with her, you see. It wasn’t about the money any longer, or not just the money.’ His eyes met Helewise’s. ‘I truly loved her.’

That, apparently, was too much for Josse. ‘Loved her enough to put your hands round her throat and choke the life out of her!’ he burst out. ‘Fine kind of love that is!’

It could have been that Josse didn’t see that Milon was weeping. But Helewise did. ‘Can you tell us what happened, Milon?’ she asked gently. ‘The night Elanor died?’

He raised his wet face to look at her. ‘We’d been making love, like I said. Carefully, because of her being pregnant. But it was as good as it always is. Then, afterwards, she was telling me about him. That Sir Josse.’ It was as if he’d forgotten Josse was in the room. ‘She was frightened of him, frightened of the questions about Gunnora, and she wanted me to let her come away with me there and then. But I said no, it’d only make things look even worse if she did, the only way was to sweat it out and keep denying everything. So she said she couldn’t, that she was tired, and sick, and needed me, and I got angry with her because we were there then, we’d all but done it, my father was on the very point of death and very soon it’d be over, she’d inherit and we could go away and live happily ever after!’

Happily ever after, Helewise thought. Just like a fairy tale. Appropriate, when this man and his wife were a pair of children. ‘You got angry,’ she repeated. ‘Lost your temper with her.’

‘It was frightening, her saying she wanted to tell him everything! I mean, how would it look? He’d never have believed I didn’t kill her, none of you would!’

‘But you did kill her,’ Josse said coldly. ‘You throttled her.’

Milon gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Yes, I know! I didn’t intend to, my temper got the better of me. I was just trying to stop her crying so loudly. But I didn’t mean Elanor. I’m not talking about Elanor.’

Helewise felt a small — a very small — song of triumph. I knew it! she thought. Knew it! She wondered what Josse was thinking.

‘Elanor,’ Milon was murmuring, smiling and humming to himself. ‘She’s my wife, you know,’ he said to the room at large. ‘My loving, clever, pretty wife. She’s going to have my baby. I’m going to go home to her, very soon now, and she’s going to take me into her bed and make me warm again. She’s going to light all the candles, and drive the dark and the shadow men away.’

Helewise made herself block it out.

Had Josse realised? she wondered. Did he know, before an answer was demanded of Milon, what it would be?

‘Milon?’ she said softly. ‘Milon, listen to me. If you weren’t talking about Elanor, what did you mean?’

‘I meant’ — Milon spoke as if to a dim child — ‘that I didn’t kill Gunnora.’

* * *

Helewise stepped back then, and Josse took up the questioning. I have no heart for this, she thought as she listened, this brutal hurling of words at someone who is already broken. Besides, I know that, even if Sir Josse carries on till Christmas, Milon will not vary his story.

Because he is telling the truth. We have to look elsewhere for the killer of Gunnora.

‘You ask us to believe,’ Josse was saying, with heavy sarcasm, ‘that, although you admit that you and Elanor cooked up a plot to separate Gunnora from her inheritance, yet you are innocent of her murder? When we know you were in the immediate vicinity at the time of her death, and she was killed only yards from your secret hiding place? With the marks on her arms where Elanor held her, and the slit in her throat which you made with that great knife of yours? Milon, give us credit for more sense!’

‘It’s true!’ Milon cried for the fourth time. ‘She was dead when we found her!’

‘You’re telling us that you and your wife — her own cousins, damn it! — found her, lying with her throat cut, yet did nothing for her?’

‘She was dead! What could we do?’

‘You could have run for help! Gone searching for the brothers at the shrine, come up to the Abbey and alerted the Abbess! Covered the poor lass up! Anything!’

‘But you’d have thought we killed her,’ Milon protested.

Suddenly Helewise had a mental image of Gunnora’s body, as they had found her. The skirts, so neatly folded. Without thinking, she said, ‘Elanor arranged her. She tidied Gunnora’s skirts, just as a nun is taught to fold her bedding, and then smeared the blood on her thighs. Didn’t she?’

Milon turned to her. He seemed to have gone a degree more ashen. His eyes held some sort of appeal; he said, ‘Yes, Abbess. She felt bad about it. We both did. But she said if we made it look like Gunnora had been raped, then even if anyone did start to think we’d killed her, they’d soon stop again, because we’d just have wanted her money. If she’d been raped and then killed, it couldn’t have been us.’

Helewise nodded thoughtfully. ‘Thank you, Milon. I understand.’

Josse was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Elanor did that?’ he said incredulously. ‘Gunnora’s own cousin? Turned back the poor woman’s skirts and spread her own blood on her? Dear God, what sort of a girl was she?’

‘A desperate one,’ Helewise murmured. Who, remembering the instruction she was being given in convent life — always fold your bedcovers like this, fold back, fold back again, just so — had, in some gesture of appeasement, tried to be neat in the arrangement of her dead cousin’s habit.

‘What of the cross?’ Josse demanded. ‘It wasn’t Gunnora’s own, and it wasn’t Elanor’s; hers was smaller. Did you drop it by her body?’

‘Yes.’

‘You brought it with you? Where on earth did you get hold of it?’

‘I didn’t bring it! It was Gunnora’s! It must have been, she was wearing it — she had it round her neck. Elanor said she’d have it, since the rubies were better than the ones in her cross, but I wouldn’t let her. Well, she realised, soon as I said, that it’d be a daft thing to do, it’d lead people straight to us if Elanor was seen with Gunnora’s cross. So we just dropped it.’ He sniffed. ‘That’s what I came back for. Elanor’s cross. She didn’t have it on her when I — She didn’t have it that night, or, if she did, I couldn’t find it. I was going to have another look down near our secret place, then follow the path she’d have taken down from the dormitory, searching all the way. Not that I had much hope of finding it there. I was going to come into the Abbey and try to get into the dormitory, then have a look in her bed.’ He seemed to slump suddenly. ‘I had to get it,’ he said wearily. ‘You’d have known who she was, if you’d got your hands on her cross. And then you’d have come straight for me.’

Josse turned away from him then, paced back to the door of the little room and stood, arms folded, shoulder leaning against the wall, staring down at the dusty floor.

Helewise watched Milon. He seemed surprised at the sudden cessation of the questions. Looking from Helewise to Josse and back again, he said, ‘What will happen to me?’

Helewise glanced at Josse, but he did not seem about to answer. So she said, ‘You will remain here until the sheriff and his men can be summoned. Then you will be taken under escort to the town jail, and, in due course, you will be tried for murder.’

‘It wasn’t murder,’ he said, hardly above a whisper. ‘I didn’t mean to kill her. I loved her. She was carrying our baby.’

Then, once again, he began to weep.