Girl In A Red Tunic

Chapter 19

Sirida’s black-eyed stare was horribly discomfiting and Helewise was desperate for her to speak and dispel the frightening tension. But, as if the woman knew this full well and wished to enjoy the power of the mood that she had created, she held her silence.

Finally it was Helewise who spoke. ‘If-’ But her mouth was too dry to make the words. She coughed, swallowed and tried again. ‘If by threatening me you seek to force my son to give you what you claim is your due, then, Sirida, you will not succeed.’ She hesitated, her resolve weakening; were Leofgar to receive some extravagant demand in return for his mother’s safe return he would, Helewise well knew, accede instantly; both her sons had been brought up to respect and honour her and Leofgar would not permit her to remain captive for a moment longer than necessary if it were in his power to buy her release. Whatever the cost.

But Sirida must not be allowed to know this …

So Helewise shifted her argument. ‘If what you say is true and Arthur is indeed the son of Benedict Warin-’

‘I speak true!’ Sirida hissed.

‘-then he is, as I said just now, illegitimate and has no claim on my family.’

Sirida studied her for some moments, dark eyes narrowed. Then, with a slow nod, she murmured, ‘We shall see. Oh, yes, we shall see.’ Then, as if long-pent venom were abruptly breaking out, she put her face close to Helewise’s and said, ‘You thought you were so fine, didn’t you, the day you wed Ivo Warin? They took you into their home and their heart, those two, father and son, and I was ordered from the house! I, who had borne Benedict a child and who, now that the saintly Blanche was dead, should have been invited to take my place at his side, in his bed and by his hearth as his lawful wife! It should have been I who danced at my wedding feast, and yet I was supplanted by a strip of a girl who was no better than I was!’

Sirida paused dramatically. Then, as Helewise had known she would, she said softly, ‘No better, Helewise, for I know what was under your beautiful scarlet tunic the day you wed Ivo. You had not waited for the Church’s blessing on your union, had you, any more than I did?’

Furious protests sprang to Helewise’s lips: you cannot compare your situation with mine! Ivo loved me, wanted from the first to make me his wife! It was love that made my son, not lust!

But she held back the passionate words.

For one thing, she wore the habit of a nun and she was Abbess of Hawkenlye; the dignity of her office forbad exchanging heated words with the likes of Sirida as if the pair of them were fishwives in the market. For another thing, could she truly claim that it had in fact been love and not lust that led to Leofgar’s conception? If her memory served her right, it was not easy to say where one left off and the other began.

Straightening her back, she summoned her dignity and said coolly, ‘I demand that you let me go from here. I must return at once to Hawkenlye and if you insist on keeping me from my duties there, you will be punished.’

‘Oh, I’ll be punished, will I?’ Sirida gave an unpleasant laugh. ‘Well, my lady Abbess, I reckon I’ll take that risk. I have not much time left to me on this earth and I am quite determined to see this affair that I have begun through to its finish. I’ll keep you safe here with me while Arthur seeks out your son and dictates the terms of your release.’

And with that, before Helewise could say another word Sirida spun round and walked swiftly out through the door, taking hold of Arthur’s arm and pulling him with her. Then the door was pushed shut and once more there came the sound of that heavy object being set against it.

Helewise strode furiously across the floor, once, twice, restraining only with difficulty the urge to shout aloud with frustration and anger. But had she not only a moment ago been reminding herself who she was? She was no longer the carefree child Helewise de Swansford, no longer the wild and lusty girl who had married Ivo Warin. Those identities were far behind her; she wore the habit of obedience and no more was she free to act as impulse dictated.

Slowly Helewise sank down on the bench. Quieting her breathing, using her will to impose calm on her tumultuous thoughts, she began to pray.

Josse and Gervase de Gifford arrived back in Tonbridge to be greeted by the dismal news that there was no sign of the Abbess nor of Arthur Fitzurse. One of the search parties was still out but all the others had returned and the men were scratching their heads and wondering where to look next.

Pacing up and down in de Gifford’s hall, Josse felt the frustration of inactivity; making up his mind, he announced to de Gifford that he would ride up to Hawkenlye and see whether any word or clue had arrived at the Abbey to explain where the Abbess had gone. It was a slim hope, he knew, but he did not know the Tonbridge area well enough to be of much help to the search parties and at least riding up to the Abbey was something.

‘Very well,’ de Gifford agreed. ‘I will come to find you there if there is any news.’

There were no reassuring, optimistic tidings awaiting him at Hawkenlye. Far from it: the nuns looked stunned, as if the unthinkable had happened and they did not know how to cope with it. Sister Euphemia, informed of Josse’s arrival, came to seek him out.

‘Where’s he taken her?’ she demanded. ‘And why? What does he want with her, Sir Josse?’

Josse wondered if it was really necessary to share his suspicions with her; was it not enough for him to have to bear his dreadful thoughts without the infirmarer having to do so too? But then, realising that in the Abbess’s absence Sister Euphemia was one of the most senior nuns, he decided that she had a right to know and so he told her.

‘I fear,’ he said gently, ‘that this has to do with the Abbess’s son and the reason for his disappearance. Someone’ — he did not want to use Fitzurse’s name — ‘is attempting to make trouble for the Warin family and I believe that this someone thinks to influence matters by holding the Abbess captive.’

Sister Euphemia looked horrified. ‘But she-’ Then the fear left her face, to be replaced by anger. ‘If he hurts so much as her little finger, I’ll-’

‘He will not hurt her!’ Josse said swiftly. ‘In truth, he will not!’

He was not sure, in that moment of dread, whether he was reassuring the infirmarer or himself.

It did not take long for Sister Euphemia’s practical mind to turn from her anxiety to concern for Josse; noticing that he was drooping with fatigue and looked cold and drawn, she suggested that he go across to the Abbess’s room, where she would order a fire to be lit and food and drink to be brought. He was reluctant to accept — it would sit ill on him to be warm, well-fed and comfortable when the Abbess was possibly being deprived of all of these happy states — but in the end he agreed for, as Sister Euphemia wisely remarked, his strength might well be needed soon and he would be of far more use if he were fully restored.

He sat himself in Helewise’s high-backed chair and his mind was filled with thoughts of her. I’ll not stay here, he told himself; I’ll eat, drink, warm myself and rest for a while, then I’ll go out again and I won’t stop till I’ve found her.

But he was exhausted. The simple meal that he was served combined with the warmth and he relaxed in the throne-like chair, propping his elbow on one of the arm rests and resting his head on his hand. In no time he was fast asleep.

It was dark when he woke abruptly from his deep sleep and for a few moments he could not remember where he was. Then the sound that had wakened him came again: someone was tapping on the door. Then he felt the hard chair beneath him and, stretching out his hand, knocked over the wine cup on the table. There was a candle on the table somewhere — he passed his hands to and fro until he found it — and, taking it to the brazier, he put the wick to a faintly glowing ember and, blowing the ember to a small flame, lit the candle.

Then, standing up straight and hoping he did not look like a man suddenly roused from a slumber he should not have taken, he called out, ‘Come in!’

For a moment nothing happened. Then the door opened very slowly and quietly and a cloaked and hooded shape slid through the narrow gap and into the room, carefully closing the door again.

‘Who are you?’ Josse demanded, for some reason picking up the figure’s soft-footed and furtive manner and speaking not much above a whisper.

The figure put back the hood.

It was Leofgar.

Hastening to put down the candle and take the young man’s hands — they were very cold — Josse said, ‘Leofgar! What are you doing here? Did anyone see you come in?’

Answering the second question first, Leofgar said, ‘No, I made sure that I was not spotted; my black cloak and the darkness helped, and the good sisters were not expecting me.’

‘But why have you come?’

Leofgar rubbed his hands over his jaw and Josse studied him. He looked as tired as Josse felt and his face was pale. Then the young man said, ‘I have been to the Old Manor. Wilfrid told me that you and de Gifford were there, hunting for something. I knew you had gone to search through the table and I realise that you did not find anything. He said — Wilfrid said you were both very anxious — there was a dread about you, he said, and I just-’ He stopped, apparently unable to go on.

‘You just had to know what is happening,’ Josse finished for him. ‘And so you come here and, instead of finding your mother sitting in her usual place, you find me. Aye, Leofgar,’ — he sighed deeply — ‘she is not here.’ Taking a breath and looking the younger man straight in the eyes, he said quietly, ‘It appears that Arthur Fitzurse has taken her captive. Gervase de Gifford’s men are even now searching for her but so far without success.’

Leofgar’s white face had paled yet more. He tried to speak, swallowed and then said quite calmly, ‘If he harms her I will kill him.’

You’ll have to beat me to it, Josse thought. Aloud he said, ‘We must not speak of harm, Leofgar. There is no reason to suspect that he intends to mistreat her or indeed wishes her any harm.’

‘Then why,’ Leofgar said with cold logic, ‘has he taken her?’

‘I do not know,’ Josse said gently.

‘Where is she?’ Leofgar said, although it seemed to Josse that he spoke more to himself. ‘What does Fitzurse want with us? With her?’

‘I believe,’ Josse said carefully, ‘and indeed it is the opinion of your mother, that this all has to do with your family’s past. That, whatever it is that Fitzurse was trying to find at the Old Manor, it is likely that it concerns a claim that the man believes he has on the Warin family. He-’

‘Fitzurse,’ Leofgar cried suddenly, interrupting him. ‘Son of the bear. Why did I not remark it before? The bear is the traditional device of my forefathers.’

‘Aye, lad, I know,’ Josse murmured. Not wanting to elucidate — it was a matter of extreme delicacy — he simply said, ‘So, now you have it.’

Leofgar nodded slowly. ‘Fitzurse claims to be a bastard son of — of whom, Josse? Of my father?’

‘I could not say,’ Josse answered. ‘Your mother — well, I do not know what she thinks of this suggestion for she has not discussed it with me. Not that she should!’ he added hastily. It was, after all, he reflected, far too personal.

‘My father loved my mother greatly,’ Leofgar said. ‘I was but a child of six when he died but I understood well enough that he had eyes for no woman but her.’

‘He would have begotten Arthur years before he met your mother,’ Josse pointed out gently. ‘If it proves to be he who fathered the man, then it will not detract in any way from your father’s love and loyalty to your mother.’

‘No, I see that,’ Leofgar said slowly. ‘Yet-’ He shrugged. ‘It is not easy, Sir Josse, for a grown man to face the possibility that he may have a half-brother whose existence he has never even dreamed of, and who is a rogue into the bargain.’

‘Do not forget that it is but a possibility,’ Josse urged him. ‘There is a tale yet to be told here, and we should make no assumptions yet.’

‘Good advice,’ Leofgar said. ‘I will-’ Again he broke off, as if struck by a sudden thought.

‘What is it?’ Josse demanded.

Leofgar frowned. ‘Something you said keeps coming back into my head.’

‘What?’

‘You made a remark about all this being to do with my family’s past.’ He was wrapping himself in his cloak again as he spoke. ‘If you are right — and I confess that I think you are — then there may be something that I can do to help. Wait here, Sir Josse, I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Help in what way? Where are you going?’

But Josse found he was speaking to empty air; Leofgar had hurried out through the door and, when Josse looked out and along the cloister, was already racing for the gates.

There was nothing to do but obey Leofgar’s order and wait for his return. Closing the door, Josse went back to the Abbess’s chair and sat down again.

He did not know how Leofgar was getting into the Abbey; the first time he appeared, he had presented himself alone at the door of Helewise’s room, and this suggested to Josse that he had not entered via the gates for, had he done so, then Sister Ursel or one of the other nuns would probably have escorted him across the courtyard and along the cloister. Or perhaps even then it had been late, and the good sisters all abed.

When Leofgar returned, it was well after midnight and the gates were shut fast.

He was breathless and red in the face, his cloak bespattered with mud; noticing Josse’s eyes on him, he gave a quick smile and said, ‘I apologise for my appearance but I have been riding hard.’ Then, excitement bursting from him, he cried, ‘I think I know where she is! Will you ride with me to fetch her home?’

Josse leapt to his feet and went to embrace the young man. ‘Aye, and gladly!’ he cried. ‘Give me but a moment to fetch my horse and collect my weapons, and I’ll follow wherever you lead!’

The stables were night-dark but it did not take Josse long to put saddle and bridle on Horace; it was not the first time he had made a hasty departure in the small hours. He led the horse out to the gates, easing back the bar that held them fast and slipping out on to the track. Leofgar, behind him, fastened the gates again and soon afterwards reappeared on the track leading his own horse.

‘You have your own private means of access, I see,’ Josse remarked drily.

‘Yes.’ Leofgar grinned. ‘A convenient tree bough and a branch to which to tether my horse.’

Both men mounted, then Josse said, ‘Right, lad.’ Excitement coursing through him, he added, ‘Lead on!’

Leofgar took them down the track towards Castle Hill but, before it began its descent into Tonbridge, he branched to the right along a narrower path that led off at an angle to the main track, entering an area of sparse woodland and then, after quite a time, emerging into the open. They had come down into the river valley — Josse could sense moisture in the air and there were dense pockets of low-lying mist — and were somewhat to the east of the town.

Leofgar drew rein and Josse came up beside him. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, keeping his voice down.

Leofgar turned to look at him. ‘I am sorry, Sir Josse, I should have explained. Thank you for following where I have led, even though you did not know where we were bound.’

‘It is of no matter,’ Josse replied, ‘but I would like to know now.’

‘Of course.’ Leofgar considered, then spoke again. ‘Your speaking of my family’s past made me think of a person who is, I would guess, the best source of knowledge on that subject. She is, indeed, the person with whom Rohaise and Timus are now lodging, the good soul who understood our grave need and, without a single question, took us into her home.’

Although he thought hard, Josse found he had no idea whom this could be. He asked, ‘Who is she?’

‘Remember Wilfrid, my manservant?’

‘Of course.’

‘Wilfrid is the son of the man who filled the same office for my father as Wilfrid does for me. This man — his name was Fithian — had as wife a woman named Magda, who had served the Warins all her life, being herself born to a servant of the household. Magda was housekeeper when my mother first came to the Old Manor and, so I am told, loved her from the moment she set foot through the door.’

Frowning, Josse tried to work out why Leofgar was telling him this. ‘Had Magda and her husband other sons, then? Has one of them — one of their wives — taken you in?’

Leofgar shook his head. ‘No. She has.’

‘Magda?’ Josse was astonished. ‘But if she was a mature woman when your mother wed Ivo Warin, then by now she must be elderly indeed!’

‘She is well advanced in years, yes, but her age has not made her feeble,’ Leofgar replied.

Understanding at last, Josse said, ‘And she has been able to help you.’

‘Yes. She did not explain — I did not give her the time — but she told me where she believes my mother will have been taken.’

‘You are confident that she is right?’

Leofgar smiled. ‘You don’t know Magda, for if you did, you would not have asked that. Yes, Sir Josse, I am quite confident.’

‘Then let us hurry and go there,’ Josse said with sudden impatience, ‘for your mother is waiting!’

But Leofgar took a long time finding whatever path he was looking for. Trying to restrain his impatience, Josse held Horace on a loose rein and waited while the young man followed this track and that. The sky was clear and there was a bright moon; by its light, Josse was able to make out that some of the paths down which Leofgar was searching were surely no more than animal tracks.

Finally he found the right one. Returning along it, beckoning silently to Josse, he said, as Josse approached, ‘The hut is down here. All is dark and I imagine they are asleep. We should leave the horses here, I think, and make our way quietly on foot.’

They tethered the horses to the branch of a hazel tree and set off along the path. The ground was waterlogged and sometimes one of the men’s feet made a loud squelch as it was withdrawn from the mud. The air stank of foul, rotten vegetation and curls of malodorous mist seemed to attack nostrils and mouths. It was a desolate place.

After some time they came to a clearing. Putting out a warning hand, Leofgar whispered, right in Josse’s ear, ‘There’s the hut.’

Josse peered into the clearing and saw the hut at one side, its back to the encircling trees. Drawing his sword, he said, ‘Then let us break the door down and see what we shall find.’

Together they strode across the wet grass and up to the door of the hut. There was a large stone set against it and they moved it away. Leofgar flung back the door and they both rushed into the room.

The Abbess sat straight-backed on a bench, her skirts spread around her, calmly eyeing them. She said, ‘I have no idea how you found me, but I am most grateful.’ Standing up, she added, ‘My mare is somewhere close, I believe. Shall we find her and be on our way?’

‘My lady, are you hurt?’ Josse asked, taking her hands, just as Leofgar, an arm around her shoulders, demanded to know what Fitzurse had done to her.

‘I am quite unhurt and, beyond bringing me here and making me stay here against my will, they have done nothing to me,’ she said. ‘Nevertheless I wish now to return with all speed to the Abbey. I have been too long away and far too long preoccupied with matters that are not the business of an Abbess.’ She glared at them both as if it were all their fault.

With a courteous bow, Josse said, ‘Aye, my lady. The sooner we have you back in your rightful place, the better.’

They left the hut. Leofgar, staring about him, spotted a roughly made corral consisting of little more than a few rotten hurdles lashed together and, hurrying across to it, called out softly that he had found the Abbess’s mare; he brought her forward out of the concealing shadows and, tightening the girths, helped his mother into the saddle.

‘Where are your horses?’ the Abbess demanded in a carrying hiss. ‘I do hope we shall not have to return to Hawkenlye at a walking pace.’

‘No, indeed, my lady,’ Josse assured her. ‘We have left them up the track. We wanted to approach as quietly as possible, so as not to alert Fitzurse as to our intention.’

‘I do not believe that they are here,’ she said. ‘I do not know where they have gone, but they judged that barring the door of the hut was enough to keep me prisoner.’ With a sudden smile, she added, ‘They reckoned without the two of you. Thank you, both of you. You are-’

But she was not to finish her remark.

There was a sudden rush of sound, an impression of urgent speed, a wild cry. Then Arthur Fitzurse stood on the path before them, his sword tip at Leofgar’s throat freezing both Josse and the Abbess into immobility.

When he saw this and knew that, for Leofgar’s sake, they would not rush at him, Arthur gave a slow smile. Then he said, ‘Did you think I should leave my bargaining tool unattended? Oh, but I should not be so careless!’ Then, turning, he called, ‘Mother, show yourself. They are all here now, the Abbess, the son and the knight. I have them safe — come out and finish the tale.’

And as Josse watched, his eyes ever returning to the sword point that had now drawn a speck of blood from the flesh of Leofgar’s throat, a small and black-cloaked figure detached itself from the reeds lining the path and came to stand beside Fitzurse. Pushing back her hood, the bent and ageing woman looked first at the Abbess, then at Leofgar. She murmured something — it was, Josse thought, barely able to make out the words, an observation that now both she and the Abbess had their sons at their sides — and then she turned to Josse.

As she stared at him, her black eyes seemed to glitter in the moonlight. It was as if her gaze held him in a vice: for a frightening moment, he felt he could not move even if he tried. He seemed to hear her muttering, chanting, although when he put it to the test, there was no sound on the still night air. She tries to bewitch me, he thought wildly.

And, despite the fact that she was tiny, old and probably as weak as she looked, he felt a terrible stab of fear.