Girl In A Red Tunic

Chapter 9

Josse, stretching on his straw mattress, reached out and gave the fire a poke with a length of firewood; it had died down to embers but he thought he could re-ignite it. The morning air was bitterly cold. Daylight, as Josse and no doubt the Abbess too had suspected, had brought no sign of any arrivals during the night.

He wondered how the Abbess had slept. She had seemed distracted yesterday and that did not bode well for sound sleep. The upper chamber would have been cold, too, because although the efficient Wilfrid lit a fire there as soon as he knew his guests were going to stay overnight, a small fire lit only a short time before retiring did not do much to warm a stone-walled room.

He had hoped so much that she would find her son here or, failing that — and with hindsight he realised that it always had been unlikely — that Leofgar and his wife and child would have got home during the night and be there now this morning, greeting the Abbess with smiles and saying, Oh, you weren’t worried, were you? No need for anxiety, it’s all very simple really!

The more time that passed with no sign of the young family, the more certain Josse was that there was plenty of cause to be worried and that it wasn’t simple at all.

He watched the Abbess as she came gliding across the hall towards him from the stair that led down from the guest chamber. Her face was composed but she looked as if she had passed a restless night. Standing up to greet her, he said, ‘The excellent Wilfrid is preparing breakfast for us, my lady, and he reports that our horses can be ready as soon as we give the word.’

She bowed her head slightly. ‘Thank you, Sir Josse. I suggest that we eat sparingly and swiftly and get on our way as soon as we can. I do not think-’ She broke off.

But he knew what she had been about to say. ‘No, I agree,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t think they’re coming here either.’

They did not discuss what was obsessing them until Wilfrid had brought their small breakfast — some dry bread, a rind of cheese and a very faintly flavoured drink that seemed to consist mainly of hot water — and gone off to bring the horses round. But as soon as they were once more alone, Josse said in a low voice, ‘Where are they, then, my lady? Have you any idea? Can you say where your son might go if for some reason he could not come home?’

She frowned. ‘I have been thinking about little else since I awoke,’ she confessed. ‘I do not know very much about Rohaise’s kin, the Edgars, although I recall being told that Rohaise was brought up by her godmother, who is now dead, and I conclude that she is not close to her own parents. It is possible that they too are dead; I cannot be sure. But in any case I do not know where they live.’ She gave a faint shrug.

‘What of your other son?’ Josse asked. ‘Might Leofgar have sought sanctuary in the household where he grew up?’

She turned dark-circled eyes to him. ‘You think then that Leofgar seeks a place of sanctuary?’ she whispered.

Mentally kicking himself for the blunder, he said hastily, ‘Indeed no, my lady, it was but a figure of speech.’

But he could tell that she was not convinced.

After a moment she said, ‘Dominic was brought up in his uncle’s household. My brother Rainer,’ she explained. ‘Ivo’s parents predeceased him and Ivo himself was an only child; my sons have neither uncles nor aunts on the paternal side of the family. Dominic came to treat his cousins as brothers and indeed he is as another son in that household, or at least he was until he went abroad and I am sure that he will resume that position when he returns home.’ She paused. ‘Although Rainer would have made Leofgar welcome, I do not think that he has gone there.’ Looking up and meeting Josse’s eyes, she said, ‘There always seemed to be so many people in my brother’s cheerful home — open, friendly people — and I just can’t see it as being the place for somebody hiding a secret.’

There was a brief and, on Josse’s part, surprised silence. Then he said softly, ‘That is your conclusion, my lady? That Leofgar has something to hide?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I wish it were not so but it is surely the only explanation. Let us think back,’ she said, and a little colour crept into her face as she leaned towards him. ‘Leofgar brought his wife and son to us at Hawkenlye because he was worried for Rohaise’s health, in particular her state of mind. There also appears to be something amiss with little Timus, who is unnaturally quiet.’ She flashed a brief smile at him and said, ‘Or was, that is, until he had the good fortune to meet up with a certain large and friendly knight who managed to make him laugh.’

Embarrassed that she should refer to his tricks, Josse waved a dismissive hand. ‘It was nothing. Really. The lad was ready to laugh again, that was all.’

‘Then you do my family another great service,’ she went on, relentlessly ignoring his protestations of modesty, ‘by extracting from Leofgar the admission that his priest believes Timus to be a changeling who must be removed from Rohaise’s care in order that he be given back to the place where he came from and the true child brought home again. Time passes and, in Hawkenlye’s healing atmosphere, Rohaise begins to improve. Perhaps, as she returns to her right mind, she sees this tale of changelings for the nonsense that it is. But then something happens and Leofgar takes the decision to run away in the middle of the night, taking his wife and child with him. But what happened?’

Josse paused. But there was no point in prevaricating since she must surely be thinking exactly the same thing. ‘De Gifford came hunting for a man known to be violent and whom there was evidence to suggest was making for the Abbey. And then the man’s brother is found hanging by the neck.’

‘My son saw this man,’ the Abbess said slowly. ‘And that same night he fled from Hawkenlye and went we know not where. Sir Josse, surely there has to be a connection!’

‘Not necessarily,’ he said, trying to use his most positive tone to convince her that there was yet room for doubt. ‘For one thing, I find it hard to think what reason there could be for your son knowing a man of Teb Bell’s nature and habits. Why should their paths have ever crossed? For another, we know what Rohaise — and therefore Leofgar — were afraid of, and it had nothing to do with some Tonbridge ruffian looking for his missing brother.’

The Abbess hesitated, and then said, ‘Unless this priest that Rohaise feared was so anxious to locate Leofgar and the family that he employed one or both of the Bell brothers to search for them.’

Josse thought it most unlikely. Nevertheless, he said, ‘Perhaps we should speak to the priest before we head off for Hawkenlye.’

And she simply said, ‘Very well.’

Wilfrid, his son and the blonde young woman he shyly introduced as his wife saw them on their way and Wilfrid told them where to find Father Luke. Josse and the Abbess rode in silence. They carefully followed Wilfrid’s instructions and in time found themselves outside a small and immaculately kept stone cottage that nestled beside the church.

Father Luke was a short and round little man with twinkling blue eyes set in laughter lines and curly grey hair clinging tightly to his bald head as if afraid of being swept away. His black robe was as neat as his cottage, the mud carefully brushed from the hem and only a couple of rusty-looking stains down the front, where the cloth stretched over his protruding stomach. He greeted the Abbess with elaborate and formal good manners, clearly impressed by her title; Josse noticed with amusement that he was not nearly so moved by a mere knight. He offered them what hospitality his humble home might provide but the Abbess, with an impatient shake of her head, declined.

‘I am grateful, Father Luke,’ she said, ‘but Sir Josse and I must be on our way back to the Abbey. I have sought you out merely to ask after two of your flock: Leofgar Warin and his wife Rohaise.’

The priest shook his head. ‘Ah, yes, a sad little family,’ he said. ‘The young wife is deeply troubled and I fear for her child.’ Leaning closer, standing right beside the golden mare’s shoulder, he elongated his stubby neck so that his face rose closer to the Abbess’s and declared, ‘I suggested to her that her child was a changeling and said I would take him away and put him in the care of the monks!’ He smiled and nodded, as if expecting their amazed and delighted approval.

But the Abbess said, ‘What possessed you to do something so cruel?’

All pleasure and pride left his plump face. He exclaimed, ‘But my lady, my intention was to help!’ Hurrying on before she could interrupt, he said, ‘I reasoned that perhaps the lady Rohaise herself was uneasy with the child — well, I could see very well that she was — and I came up with the idea of the changeling for her sake. I thought that if I took the little boy away for a time and then brought him back, I could tell her that a miracle had happened while he was with the monks and that, thanks to their prayers, her own boy was returned to her. Then she — all of us — could adopt the pretence that she hadn’t been happy with the child before for the very good reason that he wasn’t hers! Oh,’ he pleaded, ‘do you not see? I thought to give her a fresh start! I really was trying to help!’

‘Yes, I see,’ said the Abbess. Josse thought that her tone was marginally less stony. ‘And you do not in truth subscribe to the possibility of changelings, Father Luke?’

He laughed, only a little uneasily. ‘Of course not, my lady Abbess! Superstitious nonsense!’

Josse, who remembered why they had come to see the priest even if the Abbess appeared to have momentarily forgotten, gave her a swift glance and then said, ‘Father Luke, you are not aware, I believe, that Leofgar and Rohaise are not at the Old Manor?’

‘Not … No, indeed, sir knight, although in fact they were not there when I called a few days ago and I imagined they were merely off on a ride somewhere getting some fresh air. I was planning to visit them today or perhaps tomorrow and-’

Before he could continue and possibly ask any questions that Josse and the Abbess would not wish to answer, Josse interrupted. ‘So you did not send two men out to look for them?’

‘I did not!’ Father Luke’s astonishment was written all over his puzzled face. ‘As you rightly surmise, I did not know they were from home!’ His frown deepening, he said, ‘And why should I send someone out to find them?’

Josse shrugged. ‘To implement this plan of yours of taking Rohaise’s son away from her, perhaps.’

Father Luke had the grace to look ashamed. ‘No, indeed, for I-’ But then a thought apparently occurred to him, by his dismayed expression not a pleasant one. ‘Oh, dear sweet God,’ he whispered, ‘oh, you think that Leofgar has fled because I was going to take Timus away? Oh, but I was trying to help them!’

He looked as if he were about to weep. The Abbess, Josse noticed, was staring at him with the first signs of compassion on her face which he thought, under the circumstances, was generous. He said, ‘Aye, Father, we understand that your intentions were good, even if-’ No. He would not go on. Father Luke’s conscience was already troubling him quite enough. ‘We must be on our way, Father,’ he said instead, ‘for we wish to reach the Abbey by dusk fall.’

Father Luke nodded vaguely, eyeing the Abbess uneasily. She wished him a fairly distant good day and turned Honey’s head, kicking the mare’s sides and heading off down the path. Josse, pitying the priest staring miserably after her, said, ‘Thank you, Father, you have been very helpful.’

‘But I don’t understand!’ Father Luke cried. ‘Why should the Abbess of Hawkenlye ride all the way over here to ask about Leofgar Warin and his wife?’

Josse wondered if to tell him. But then he thought, she didn’t, and he decided to follow her example. Instead he shrugged and said, ‘She keeps her own counsel, Father. You know how it is.’ He gave the priest a man-to-man grin and, before Father Luke could say anything else, hurried away after the Abbess.

‘The man is a fool,’ said the Abbess as she kicked the mare into a canter, ‘and his good intentions’ — the very way in which she spoke the words was a mockery — ‘may have cost my son dear.’

‘Aye.’ Josse had to agree with her. But, knowing her so well, he knew too that quite soon her anger would fade and she would begin to see the matter from the priest’s viewpoint. Then she would regret having spoken unkindly about him, confess her impatient and bitter first reaction and no doubt be given penance for it.

Hoping to take her mind off Father Luke and his blundering attempts to help, he said brightly, ‘Home to the Abbey and your own bed tonight, my lady!’

But she turned and gave him a severe look that had the effect of preventing any further such conversational attempts. And, for the rest of the journey back to Hawkenlye, they rode in silence.

As they led the horses into the stables, Sister Martha came out to meet them. She gave the Abbess a low and reverential bow and then, just as Josse spied the extra horse already tethered in one of the stalls, said, ‘My lady, Sir Josse, Gervase de Gifford is here. He has been shown to your room, where he awaits you.’

‘Very well, Sister Martha.’ The Abbess turned on her heel and strode off towards her room, Josse following close behind. He was about to make some remark to the effect that Gervase’s business with her must be pressing, for him to have waited even when there was no guarantee that she would be returning to the Abbey today, but something about her straight back and the determined set of her shoulders suggested that she had also realised this and did not want to talk about it.

She preceded him into her room, where de Gifford stood up and greeted them with his usual smooth courtesy. ‘Good day to you both.’

The Abbess returned his greeting. Moving around her table and seating herself in her chair, she said without preamble, ‘I understand that you wish to speak to me?’

De Gifford, emulating her directness, said, ‘A man named Arthur Fitzurse has been to see me. He claims to be a friend of the Bell brothers and, apparently unaware that I am already doing so, he has asked — demanded — that I instigate a full-scale search for Walter Bell, whom he is very afraid may have met the same fate as Teb.’

Josse asked swiftly, ‘Is this Fitzurse the man who was overheard talking to Teb Bell in the tavern?’

De Gifford turned to him. ‘Yes.’

‘And what do you know of him?’

‘Very little,’ de Gifford confessed. ‘Personally I have never met him and my man who saw him with Teb Bell will say only that Fitzurse looks “vaguely familiar” and that he “could have seen him once or twice afore”. Fitzurse is in middle age — perhaps in the mid-thirties — and dresses well. When seen in the tavern he wore a dark woollen tunic with good, bright trimmings and his boots were of supple and probably costly leather and when he-’

‘Your man keeps his eyes open,’ the Abbess interrupted.

‘He does, my lady,’ de Gifford agreed. ‘When Fitzurse came to see me, he was dressed in a different tunic and also a thick fur-trimmed cloak. As I said, he is a man who likes to dress well and has the means to do so.’

‘We were going to search for Walter Bell ourselves,’ Josse said. ‘When you left us two days ago, I was planning to organise the lay brothers into a hunt both among the people staying here in the Abbey and also out into the fringes of the forest.’

‘And did you find anything?’ There was a strange eagerness in de Gifford’s tone, Josse thought uneasily, as if it were very important that Josse gave him a positive answer.

Josse glanced at the Abbess. ‘Er — we were called away on another matter and, as you see, have only just returned. I will speak to Brother Saul presently and ask if he has news for us.’

‘I see.’ De Gifford frowned. Then, turning to the Abbess, he said, ‘My lady, I have been fervently hoping that Walter Bell would turn up alive and well, with no mischief done either by him or to him. But my own search party has found no trace of him. He is known to frequent the tavern in Tonbridge, just as his brother did — in fact they were regularly to be found there, heads together as they plotted their various schemes. Nobody has seen Walter for some weeks. The last positive sighting was reported by Goody Anne, who had an argument with him one market day at the start of the month.’ He paused. ‘She is a reliable woman, I have always found, and I am inclined to believe her.’

‘So am I,’ Josse agreed. Turning to the Abbess, he said, ‘I have met Goody Anne on several occasions, my lady, and she is both intelligent and shrewd.’ The Abbess nodded. To de Gifford he said, ‘What was the argument about?’

De Gifford smiled. ‘Walter Bell complained that his dish of pie was cold and Goody Anne said it was his own fault for drinking two mugs of ale on an empty stomach and getting so garrulous that he forgot to eat his dinner.’

‘Garrulous,’ murmured the Abbess. Both men turned to look at her. ‘If he was garrulous, he was talking to somebody, perhaps more than one person,’ she said. ‘Would she, do you think, Sheriff, remember who?’

Looking at her approvingly as if in appreciation of her astute remark, de Gifford said, ‘She does. He was talking with his brother and with Arthur Fitzurse and, according to Anne, they were very intent on whatever it was they were saying — plotting was her word — and they kept their heads close and their voices down as if they didn’t want to be overheard.’

Josse, picking up de Gifford’s urgency, said to the Abbess, ‘My lady, with your permission I will seek out Brother Saul and ask if the search party has come up with anything.’

She nodded. ‘Of course, Sir Josse. Send someone to find him.’

He bowed briefly and hurried to the door. Opening it, he saw a lay brother crossing the cloister towards the refectory and called out to him; once he had the young man’s attention, he asked him to find Brother Saul and send him up to the Abbess’s room.

Returning into the room, he found de Gifford answering some question of the Abbess’s about the Bell brothers: ‘… live in a hovel out on a track leading off the coast road,’ he was saying, ‘and neither had a wife, although for a time there was apparently some — er, a woman who lived with Teb and kept house for them both, although I understand that they’ve always lived in such squalor that her efforts can’t have amounted to much.’

‘They live by theft?’ she asked.

De Gifford shrugged. ‘So it appears, although nothing has been proved against them.’

‘And you told me yourself that one of them is a murderer,’ she murmured.

‘Yes.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘Walter is a dangerous man.’

There was a brief silence. We are all waiting for Saul, Josse thought, hoping against reason that he will come in with a big smile to tell us that Walter Bell has seen the error of his ways and has come to Hawkenlye to be shriven of his sins and is even now down in the Vale selflessly helping the monks tend the pilgrims …

There was a gentle tap on the door and, in answer to the Abbess’s ‘Come in’, Saul entered.

He bowed to the Abbess and to de Gifford. He was looking anxious and so, having glanced at the Abbess and received her nod of encouragement, Josse hastened to reassure him. ‘Saul, please excuse this abrupt summons but we need to ask you if anything came of the search for Walter Bell,’ he explained quickly.

Saul was already shaking his head. ‘No, Sir Josse. We have asked everyone presently within the Abbey whether they know of him or have seen him here and all yesterday afternoon me and Gussie and four of the other brothers hunted through the nearer stretches of the forest. We found no sign that anyone had been camping out there, no sign at all.’ He gave a reminiscent shiver. ‘It’s too cold for skulking out of doors,’ he remarked, ‘leastways, not without a very good reason.’

‘Aye,’ Josse said. But Walter Bell, he thought, may have a very good reason for skulking if he’s hunting for his brother’s killer and does not want anyone to know it.

De Gifford must have been thinking the same. ‘You are sure, Brother Saul?’ he asked. ‘You really do not think that anyone could have been hiding up there in the forest and spying on the comings and goings in the Abbey?’

Saul paused as if giving the question careful consideration. Then he said, ‘I can’t say as that we’d necessarily have spotted a man who was intent on hiding, sir, because that would be the purpose of his hiding, wouldn’t it? To make sure anyone who came looking didn’t find him?’

‘Yes, Saul.’ De Gifford smiled faintly.

‘But I’m as certain as I can be that there weren’t anybody about, nor had been since the heavy frosts began,’ Saul continued, sounding more confident now, ‘because the ground’s set hard up there under the trees and we didn’t find any sign in the frozen grass that anyone had been by. Animal tracks aplenty — boar and fox and maybe a wolf — but you’d expect to find them.’

‘Thank you, Brother Saul.’ The Abbess gave him a warm smile, to which he responded. ‘That will be all.’

Saul bowed to them and backed out of the door, closing it carefully behind him.

‘Walter Bell isn’t here,’ Josse said neutrally. ‘Nobody can find him.’

‘It appears that you are right on both counts,’ de Gifford agreed. He looked at the Abbess, then, as if he did not want to continue watching her, turned to Josse. ‘In which case it seems I have no option but to reveal to you both what else Arthur Fitzurse said.’

‘What?’ Josse and the Abbess spoke together and he wondered if she too felt the sudden frisson of alarm.

De Gifford’s eyes were still on Josse. ‘He claims that there was trouble between the Bell brothers and a third party. The brothers were in dispute with this man, although Fitzurse says he does not know the details of the disagreement. He says that Walter Bell went to visit the man to gain some resolution that the Bells would find satisfactory, and he maintains that Walter has not been seen since. Teb Bell believed that the man whom his brother went to see came to Hawkenlye Abbey. Fitzurse says that Teb followed the man here and would have challenged him, only someone strung Teb up before he could do so.’

‘Do you believe him?’ Alarm had grown swiftly in him and Josse found as he spoke that his throat was dry.

De Gifford sighed. ‘I do not know what I believe,’ he admitted. ‘Somebody murdered Teb Bell, that is certain, and Walter is still missing. Fitzurse is positive that Walter too is dead, killed by the same hand that slayed his brother.’ He paused, then added softly, ‘The hand of the man with whom the brothers were in dispute.’

‘And you are sure that man is here?’ To Josse’s admiration, the Abbess sounded quite calm.

Now de Gifford faced her, making himself meet her eyes. ‘Yes, my lady. The man is your son.’