Fortune Like the Moon

Chapter Two

Josse had gone to Richard the Poitevin’s court because of fond memories from the past, not because of hopes for the future. It had been enough, or so he’d thought, to be in that stimulating, action-packed company, where the restless energy of Richard seemed to permeate right through court society, so that you just never knew, from one day to the next, what was going to happen.

And, whenever the court hadn’t had to up sticks and follow Richard off to some distant part of his territory, there was the sheer exuberance of life back in Aquitaine. Richard, brought up in the expectation of inheriting those rich, colourful lands, had thrown himself into the ways of the people, cultivating the love of music, song, the poetry of the troubadors, and the free thinking that characterised his mother. He was utterly her son, and wealthy society in the Poitevin court faithfully reflected the character and habits of both of them.

As he set out on the dusty, crowded London road out of Hastings, Josse reflected how dramatic a change had happened to him, purely because he’d obeyed a sudden whim and joined the group that rode off with Richard that day in Normandy. He didn’t flatter himself with the notion that Richard had chosen him for this delicate mission because of any strengths Josse possessed; only an irredeemable egotist could think that. Why, the king had even had to be reminded of who Josse was!

No. It was nothing more than having been in the right place at the right time.

Something, Josse admitted modestly to himself, that whatever guardian angel it was who guided his footsteps was quite good at arranging.

He was, without a doubt, very pleased to have been entrusted with the job. Richard had briefed him fully, or as fully as he could, when he himself had only Queen Eleanor’s first report to go on. What emerged most powerfully, for Josse, was that Richard seemed genuinely disturbed at the thought of this magnanimous gesture, this releasing of prisoners, going wrong. Being misinterpreted.

Mind you, Josse thought as he edged his horse to a canter and hurried past an overloaded waggon that was creating clouds of choking dust, mind you, it always did sound a cockeyed notion. Me, I agree with that Augustinian canon in Yorkshire — what was his name? William of Newburg? — who was heard to remark that, through the so-called clemency of this new king, a crowd of pests had been released on the long-suffering public to commit worse crimes in future.

But maybe the King and his good lady mother weren’t as familiar with the sort of scum that habitually languished in England’s jails as Josse was. Josse was quite unsurprised at the concept of one such released felon reverting to his old ways; the surprise, in fact, was that they weren’t all at it.

* * *

As the long, bright day wore on, he became hotter, dustier, thirstier, sweatier, and more out of sorts. By mid-afternoon, he was beginning to wish he’d been anywhere but standing before the King when this notion of sending an agent to investigate the murder had been conceived.

If only I were back in Aquitaine, he mused as he encouraged his weary horse up the gentle but long slope to the High Weald, I would be relaxing in a shady courtyard, jug of fine wine at my elbow, perfumed air in my nostrils, music playing softly in my ears, prospect of an evening’s entertainment ahead. And a damned good dinner. And that pretty widowed lady, the one with the secret smile and the irresistible dimple, to seek out and pursue …

No. Best not to fantasise about her, since, in the absence of Josse, she would undoubtedly have turned her tempting dimple elsewhere by now.

Instead he turned his thoughts to his own lands. To Acquin, and his sturdy family home. Perhaps the squat buildings and the thick-walled courtyard were not exactly elegant, but they were safe. The gates were solid oak and barred with iron, and, in times of threat, there was room within the spacious yard not only for the family but for the majority of the peasants whose right it was to look to their lord for protection. Not that it happened often: Acquin, hidden in a fold of the sheltered valley of the Aa river, was well enough off the beaten track for danger, usually, to pass it by.

Occupied with thoughts of his brothers, his sisters-in-law and his many nephews and nieces, Josse was surprised to discover he was at the summit of the low rise he had been so laboriously climbing. Drawing rein, he stared out across the Medway Vale, opening up before him. Up to his left somewhere, on the fringes of the great Wealden Forest, was Hawkenlye Abbey, his ultimate destination. Waiting for him, together with its abbess. Richard had seemed quite in awe of its abbess, when he told Josse about her. The sudden proximity of both the abbey and its mistress concentrated Josse’s mind with swift efficiency; straightening his back, collecting his dozy mount, he stepped up the pace to a brisk trot and set off down the road to Tonbridge.

* * *

He had decided not to arrive at the abbey until he had found out what people were saying about the murder. Discovered what conclusions public opinion was forming, seen if Richard was right about the blame being thrown on to one of these damned released prisoners. Josse had to admit, it did seem a likely answer. It’d be what he’d have thought, had he not just been promoted to investigating agent and therefore not permitted such rash and shallow judgement.

Tonbridge was much as he remembered it from a brief visit a decade or more ago, except that it was busier and more populous. The fine castle, up there on the rise overlooking the Medway crossing, was still held by the family of the man who had founded it: Richard, Lord of Bienfaite and of Orbec, had been the great-grandson of Richard, Duke of Normandy, and had fought beside his cousin William of Normandy at the Battle of Hastings. His reward, when William ascended the throne, was generous indeed; the castles of Tonbridge and of Clare, in the county of Suffolk, were but the pickings of some two hundred English manors.

Either from a wish to be stylish or from lack of imagination, the family were enthusiastic followers of the new fashion of calling each successive eldest son by his father’s name; an unenlightened stranger coming to Tonbridge and wishing to enquire of its lord could be fairly safe in asking after Richard. Richard FitzRoger, the current lord, had inherited from his father in 1183; now, six years on, Josse observed, there were distinct signs that the family continued to flourish.

The traffic thickened as he entered the town. A poorly packed mule train had disgorged the contents of a parcel of what looked and smelt like badly tanned skins, and the two youngsters who appeared to be in charge were rapidly losing control of their mules and their tempers. Picking a way round the confusion, Josse wondered how quickly order would be restored, and what penalty the lads would have to pay for the chaos. Perhaps they’d be lucky, and escape with a couple of clips round the ear.

The up side of having a powerful family as lords of the region meant that law and order were, in general, better maintained here than in some less well-policed areas of the kingdom. Josse would have liked to know what the lord and his officials made of the murder up at Hawkenlye. Were they conducting investigations of their own? Would it be better, as far as Josse was concerned, to keep his own counsel, and disguise the fact that he came directly from the new king?

Yes, he decided. Undoubtedly it would. He could think of nothing more guaranteed to arouse the resentment and animosity of the lord and master of Tonbridge Castle than the arrival of some usurper who thought he knew more about local characters and conditions than did a man born and bred there. A foreign usurper, to boot — Josse had no illusions that having an English mother would carry much weight around here.

He adopted his usual practice when travelling, and approached the inn with the most comings and goings. Situated some fifty or sixty paces back from the river, the tall gates that gave on to the street stood wide open, and Josse could see through to the yard within. There were signs that the row of stables was in the process of being mucked out; although it was possibly a little late in the day, at least the inn servants were getting round to it in the end.

A thin-faced man carrying a well-loaded hayfork gave a preoccupied nod when Josse enquired about lodgings. Putting down the fork and taking Josse’s horse, the man directed Josse to a doorway across the yard, its stone step worn into a dip by the passage of thousands of pairs of feet. Inside, in a long, stone-flagged passageway, a well-endowed woman, fractionally the wrong side of middle age, was shouting orders to two awestruck girls.

‘… and don’t take all day about it, I’ve plenty for you to do down here! Yes?’

Realising that the ‘Yes?’ was directed at him, Josse said, ‘I believe you may be able to offer me a room for the night and a meal, madam?’

She looked him up and down. ‘Not from these parts, are you?’

‘No.’ He wondered how she knew. He didn’t often speak English, but he was pretty sure he didn’t have a strong accent.

‘Thought not.’ She was nodding as if in self-congratulation. Pointing a work-reddened hand at his tunic, she said, ‘We don’t get dyes bright as that hereabouts, that’s for sure, even what with us being so close to London and the pretty taste of its people.’ She raised sharp, light-brown eyes to his face. ‘You’ve been travelling in the south, I’d say.’

‘You’d say right.’ He smoothed his fingers over the embroidered border. ‘I’m rather pleased with the work myself.’

‘Hm.’ She was looking askance at him, as if an appreciation of a nice piece of cloth was not entirely manly. ‘Well, I’ve lodgings, aye. You pay up front, mind, I’ll not have foreigners disappearing at first light and vanishing into the blue with their bills unpaid!’

Foreigner. There, he’d been right. He smiled, and reached for his purse. ‘How much do you want?’

* * *

His room was adequate, although there were two more narrow cots in it; if the inn opened its doors to any more guests that night, he’d be sharing. Not that it bothered him greatly. As long as they didn’t snore.

One of the girls brought him a bowl and a jug of warm water — you couldn’t have called it hot — and he set about removing the dust of the road. Then, in view of the fact that he’d been travelling continuously for several days, he allowed himself the luxury of an hour’s sleep. He had the soldier’s knack of being able to switch off almost at will, which was just as well since the inn was full of the racket of a bustling, busy evening, and the road outside seemed to be inhabited by carts with squeaky wheels and people who didn’t know how to speak below a bellow.

He woke up feeling much better. Mind alert and eager, he went down to start mingling with the locals.

* * *

‘Makes no sense, to my mind, this mass release of robbers, thugs, rapists and that. Aye, thank you, sir, I don’t mind if I do.’ Responding to Josse’s enquiring glance and the finger pointing at the empty ale mug, the man pushed it towards the tap boy for a refill. He was the first person Josse had got into conversation with, and hadn’t needed much encouragement to start talking. Lubricating him with a second draught of ale might elicit a few interesting revelations.

‘See, like I told my missus,’ the man leaned back against the wall, settling himself comfortably as if preparing for a long session, ‘it’s just no good expecting people to change, now, is it? I mean, once a thief, always a thief, that’s my motto.’

‘Well, that’s one way of looking at it,’ Josse conceded. ‘But we’re talking about murder, here, aren’t we? Is it really certain that the nun was killed by a released prisoner, when most of those released were imprisoned for lesser crimes? Violation of the forestry laws, that’s what I’d heard.’

The man looked at him pityingly. ‘I’d like to know who else’d have done such a foul deed. I mean, stands to reason, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Josse replied, who didn’t suppose anything of the sort.

‘You tell me what else is more likely,’ the man went on, warming to his theme, ‘than that one of them ruffians feels his sudden freedom going to his head — and his other bits, if you get my meaning’ — he shot a sly sideways glance at Josse, and placed a finger alongside his nose — ‘and, coming across some young thing in a habit out walking by herself in the middle of the night, he can’t resist launching himself on her, pulling up her skirts, revealing all that smooth young flesh, them plump white thighs, then having his wicked way with her.’ The man’s eyes were bulging with lust, and the protuberant Adam’s apple in his scrawny neck moved up and down swiftly as he swallowed a couple of times. ‘Then, when she starts screaming out for help, he slits her throat, both to shut her up and so’s she won’t be able to point the finger of blame at him. There you are, sir, that’s what happened.’ He took another long swig of ale, burped, and added, ‘Hexactly that.’

‘Mm, I imagine you’ve got it about right.’ Josse mastered his dislike and leaned companionably against the neighbouring piece of wall. ‘I suppose King Richard’s clemency isn’t going down very well hereabouts, then? Not now this brutal murder has happened?’

‘I don’t know nothing about no King Richard,’ the man said. ‘King Henry, now, he did all right, and his Queen’s a lovely woman. Pity it’s not still the pair of them holding the reins, that’s what I say.’

‘They speak highly of King Richard.’

‘Who does?’ the man responded. ‘Nobody knows aught about him. Not round here, anyway. You ask anybody’ — he made a wide gesture, as if to embrace the entire population of the tap room — ‘he’s an unknown quantity, that’s what he is!’

‘Matthew’s right,’ said a newcomer waiting to be served. There were several nods and grunts of agreement from nearby drinkers. ‘It’s all very well for Queen Eleanor to set off round the country telling us what a fine king he’s going to be, and I don’t blame her for that, him being her son and all.’

‘God bless Queen Eleanor,’ someone said, and there were several equally loyal and laudable echoes.

‘But seems to me this here hasn’t really been thought through.’ The newcomer put his head closer to Josse, as if afraid unfriendly ears would overhear. ‘Now there’s no proof, and I’m not one to condemn a man before he’s even been tried, but-’

‘Before he’s even been arrested,’ put in another voice, greeted by a few brief eruptions of laughter.

‘- but it’s suspicious, like, isn’t it? Nice peaceful community up there in Hawkenlye, no trouble, no violence, for more years than you could count, then all of a sudden the doors of every jail in the land get flung open, and some nun minding her own business, no threat to nobody, gets raped and murdered, throat cut from ear to ear like a slaughtered pig!’ He folded his arms as if his conclusion were inarguable. ‘I mean, who else would want to kill a nun?’

Who indeed, Josse thought. ‘Surely it’s not a bad thing for a new king, and, as you imply, one who’s rather an unknown quantity, to begin his reign with a gesture of clemency?’ he suggested, testing the water. ‘A very Christian gesture, at that. Didn’t Our Lord, after all, condemn those who didn’t visit those who were sick and in prison?’

One or two of the more pious among the company crossed themselves, and someone muttered, ‘Amen’.

‘Visiting’s one thing,’ a new voice said darkly. ‘Ain’t sensible, even for a Christian, to go letting ’em all out.’

‘And it’s hardly fair on us,’ said the plump woman who had let Josse his room, appearing behind the counter and beginning to fill a vast jug with ale. ‘Us women, I mean. We won’t lie safe in our beds at night knowing this villain’s abroad! Who’s going to be next?’ She stared round the room with wide eyes, as if afraid some murdering rapist was about to leap out at her. ‘That’s what I say!’

‘He’d have to be desperate,’ someone behind Josse muttered, too quietly for the woman to pick up. Several men standing close heard, however, and there were a few sniggers.

‘He’d have to find it first,’ came a hoarse whisper. ‘Be a case of fart and give me a clue, I reckon.’

‘Be a well-travelled path when he did get there,’ someone else added. ‘Dear old Goody Anne, she didn’t earn herself the money for this place by sewing fine seams or peddling her wares in Tonbridge Market.’

‘She peddled them behind Tonbridge Market,’ the original speaker said. ‘On her back in the bushes!’

Josse joined in with the general laughter. Anne couldn’t have been totally unaware of the ribaldry, and she didn’t seem to mind. Maybe the respectable trade of innkeeper which she now practised hadn’t entirely ousted the odd foray into her former profession. He glanced at her. She was still comely, even if she was a little on the large side. Good luck to her, either way.

He drew back from the counter and found a place on the bench that ran around three walls of the tap room. The evening’s company was quite well away now — it had, after all, been a hot and dusty day, and there was nothing like a draught of ale to soothe a rasping throat — and he listened to several conversations going on around him.

You would have thought, he reflected some time later, that there had never been a murder around here before. Surely it couldn’t be that rare an occurrence? Tonbridge was a busy place, always had been. The market attracted all sorts, and there was the river, and the main London road, going plumb through the town. And only a few miles away was the Wealden Forest, and, as everyone knew, there were all manner of odd goings on in there. Even Josse, whose youthful spells in England had been spent a score or so miles away, knew of the forest’s dark reputation. It was like all old places — its many former inhabitants had filled it with their own mysteries and legends, and nobody was prepared even to try to sort out fact from fiction.

Hawkenlye Abbey was on the fringes of the Wealden Forest. Were these men right, and was this murder simply a matter of a released criminal leaping on the first woman he came across, then fleeing into the sanctuary of the great tract of woodland?

Perhaps it was.

But passing judgement on that, Josse thought, is not what I’m here for. My job is to stop this whole sorry business tainting the start of King Richard’s reign.

And how I’m going to manage that, the good Lord alone knows.

* * *

He sat on for another hour, sipping at his ale, not wanting to fuddle his wits by ordering a refill. Tempting though it was — Goody Anne, whatever she did when the lamps were out and nobody was looking, knew how to keep her beer.

Eventually, the company began to disperse. Few were thoroughly drunk, but most had consumed enough to make them garrulous. And, depressingly from Josse’s point of view, few had a good word to say about the prospect of their new king.

How accurate an indicator was tap room gossip? Did it reflect what the population at large thought, or were more educated and thoughtful men reserving their judgement?

The thought provided a glimmer of hope, but, almost as soon as he’d come up with it, Josse dismissed it. There might very well be such wise and cautious men, yes, but they would undoubtedly be few in number. The great mass of the English people — the ones whom this whole exercise of Eleanor’s and Richard’s had been designed to impress — were represented by the men who had been there in the tap room tonight.

Josse turned from that depressing conclusion to a plan of action for the next day. Stay on here in Tonbridge, and ask around some more? But that might bring his presence and his interest to the notice of the Clares. Did he want that?

No. If he were to fulfil King Richard’s hopes, he ought to keep his head down. Work behind the scenes. Had Richard wanted a public investigation, he wouldn’t have given the task to an outsider like Josse, he’d have sent word to the Clares to sort it out.

Josse put down his empty mug and got to his feet, nodding a goodnight to the few remaining drinkers. Climbing up to his room, he was relieved to find that the two other cots remained empty. He pulled off his boots and stripped off his clothes, slipping naked into bed and pulling up the light cover.

Then he blew out the lamp and closed his eyes.

He knew what he was going to do in the morning. He would ride up on to the ridge and locate Hawkenlye Abbey. One of the convent’s nuns had been murdered, and he was ready, now, to go to the scene of the crime.

The men he had talked with and listened to that night had, although he was sure they didn’t realise it, raised a number of questions, for which their hasty and simplistic version of what must have happened hadn’t supplied answers. Josse let the questions float in his head for some minutes, turning them over, conjecturing a few possible solutions.

But it was too soon — far too soon — for solutions.

Deliberately emptying his mind, he turned over and was very soon falling asleep.