Girl In A Red Tunic

Chapter 20

Arthur made the Abbess and Josse walk ahead of him back to the hut; the Abbess had been curtly ordered to dismount, and the old woman was leading the mare back to the corral. All the time that Arthur holds a blade to Leofgar’s throat, Josse thought — Arthur had exchanged his unwieldy sword for a short-bladed and wickedly-pointed dagger — we cannot risk disobeying his orders.

Josse pretended a docility that was only superficial; beneath it he was tense, alert for the smallest opportunity. Should Arthur make the least mistake, then Josse intended to be ready …

They entered the hut and, by the light of a couple of rush lamps, Arthur told the Abbess and Josse to sit down on the bench. He made Leofgar kneel in front of him, the knife blade still against his flesh. Presently the old woman joined them.

‘Sir Josse, this is my mother.’ Arthur nodded in her direction, keeping his eyes on Josse. ‘Her name is Sirida and I am the result of her union with Benedict Warin.’

Leofgar’s head shot up and he met Josse’s eyes. Despite the situation, still he managed a look of triumph, as if to say, my grandfather! See, I told you my father begat no bastards!

‘So, Arthur,’ Josse said, looking at Fitzurse, ‘it is the identity of your father that is the reason for your pursuit of Leofgar’s family.’

‘My family,’ Arthur corrected him. There was a profound, black anger there not far beneath the surface, Josse thought; it showed in the man’s burning dark eyes. ‘I have been the outcast for too long, Sir Josse. It is time for this family of mine to make amends.’

Josse looked across at the old woman. Standing in the doorway, she was a silhouette against the steadily lightening sky. It’s almost morning, Josse thought absently. He said, ‘Sirida, why have you waited so long?’

She stepped down into the hut and approached him. The face that she turned up to his was painfully thin, so that the bones of the skull stood out with clarity. ‘I am dying,’ she said simply. ‘I have foreseen my own death and now it draws near.’

‘The time of our deaths is for God alone to know!’ the Abbess protested.

Sirida turned to her. ‘Your God is not the only power in the universe,’ she said calmly. ‘And I tell you this, Helewise Warin: were I to describe to you the day and the circumstances of my end, when that time comes you would look back to this moment and know that I had spoken the truth.’

Josse seemed to feel an icy finger on the back of his neck. Did she really have such power? he wondered, an awed fear filling his mind at the thought of being in the presence of one who saw the future with such certainty.

The Abbess was saying something — telling the old woman again that such matters were not for humans to meddle with — but Josse thought her tone lacked conviction and he guessed that, even if she pretended indifference, she too was affected by the strange atmosphere inside the hut.

With the intention of bringing them out of the realms of magic and back to the all too real — and menacing — situation they were facing, he said, too loudly, ‘But why, Sirida, does the prospect of your death force you to do what you are doing?’

She gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Is it not obvious? Because I am the last person alive who can prove who fathered my son. This is my final chance. I am determined that the Warins recognise Arthur for who he is and act accordingly.’

‘What do you want of us?’ Leofgar demanded. Even on his knees and with a blade at his throat he managed, Josse observed, to sound fierce and unafraid.

Sirida looked at him. ‘Not much. Arthur must be allowed to use the family name and — ’ she paused, apparently thinking, ‘- and be given assistance in setting up a modest household for himself.’

‘Perhaps he’d like to move into the Old Manor with Rohaise and me!’ Leofgar cried furiously. ‘You’d like to sleep in a real bed, wouldn’t you, Arthur? Better than that filthy heap of straw down there in the corner!’

Josse held his breath as the knife point dug infinitesimally into the skin of Leofgar’s throat. Be careful, lad, he pleaded silently; it may be brave but it is not wise to antagonise a man who holds a blade to your neck.

But Arthur controlled himself. ‘This is my mother’s dwelling,’ he said, his voice cold and distant. ‘I was begotten in something very similar, so she tells me, and, because of Benedict Warin’s intransigence, neither she nor I have ever managed to better ourselves.’

As if this reminder of her sufferings had loosened some restraint within Sirida, she suddenly spoke. ‘He used me and he abandoned me,’ she said, the cold, detached tone somehow more powerful than anger. ‘He took me to his hut in the woodland above the Old Manor, him and that Martin of his, the man who was his constant companion after the accident.’

Leofgar and Josse said together, ‘What accident?’

The Abbess, eyes vague as if she looked back into the past, said quietly, ‘Although he tried to disguise it, Benedict Warin walked with a limp. He had a bad fall from his horse and he was dragged for quite some way before his companion managed to get hold of the horse and bring it to a halt. Martin was that companion; the two men had been close since boyhood. After Benedict was hurt, he used Martin as a sort of body servant, someone to prop him up and help him move about when the pain from his old wounds became bad.’

‘Yes, yes, that was Martin,’ Sirida said impatiently. ‘But listen now and forget about Martin, because it’s Benedict I’m telling you about. He knew I was with child for I told him so and yet he refused his help. But there was something that he did.’ She paused, looking around the circle of listeners to make sure she had their full attention.

Unable to bear the suspense, Josse said, ‘What do you mean?’

She turned to him, a soft smile on her thin lips. ‘When my baby was born I sought out Benedict and I showed him the child. I hoped that Benedict’s heart would soften when he saw the fruits of his seed — he only had the one son, you know, by that barren wife of his. But even then, staring down at my pretty babe in my arms, he would do nothing for me. I pleaded, I swallowed my pride and I begged. I said, ignore me and my plight if you must but do something for your little son! In the end — I suspect just to get rid of me — he said that he would help.’ She paused dramatically, staring around at each one of her listeners. Then she said, ‘He told me that when his time came he would leave proof of Arthur’s paternity.’ Her eyes on Arthur, she added quietly, ‘I made him promise to make it right for you in the end.’

There was a brief shocked silence.

Then Leofgar broke it. ‘And it is this proof that you have been searching for in my house?’ he burst out. ‘For which you sent that foul villain Walter Bell prying and hunting?’ He tried to crane round to stare at Arthur, but Arthur increased the pressure on the blade and he had to stop. ‘Your thief,’ Leofgar said, spitting out the word, ‘attacked my wife and terrified my little son so badly that he was struck dumb.’

Sirida turned on Arthur. ‘I told you not to send Walter Bell,’ she said coldly. ‘He can control neither his lust nor his anger and he forgot all about his mission once he set eyes on the woman.’

‘I had to send him!’ Arthur shouted.

‘A man like Bell?’ his mother countered. ‘You fool, Arthur! Involving the likes of him and that worthless Teb was an invitation to trouble.’

‘You knew the Bell brothers, Madam?’ Josse asked her courteously; if he could appear to side with her and alienate Arthur, perhaps dissension between mother and son might come to his aid …

‘Yes, I knew them.’ She was watching him, a slight smile on her face, and he was certain that she knew what he was trying to do; for a strange moment he thought he was hearing her voice in his head saying that it was a fine idea but not one that stood any chance of working. Nothing comes between me and my son … ‘They are both dead and I judge that they are no loss.’

Josse shook himself as if it were possible in this way to throw off her spell. Did she but know it, he thought, forcing himself to concentrate, she echoed the words of Gervase de Gifford. She knew of the deaths and Josse wondered how. ‘Your son has told you what happened to the Bells?’ he asked.

‘He did not need to,’ she said wearily. ‘I saw Walter go for Rohaise Warin with his knife and I saw how her quick wits gave her the presence of mind to throw that jug at him and trip him up. I saw him lie as if dead and then, when she approached, lunge up at her. I saw the hound that bit out his throat and took his life and I saw what Leofgar did with his remains.’

‘You were there?’ Leofgar asked, the astonishment evident in his voice.

She smiled. ‘I was — a witness, of a sort,’ she said, ‘although nobody else knew of it.’

‘But-’

She did not allow Leofgar to continue with his protest. Instead she said, ‘So much for Walter. And many people as well as I saw Teb Bell hanging from his tree.’

‘Do you know who strung him up there?’ Josse asked.

‘I saw,’ she replied.

‘It was not I!’ Leofgar protested.

‘No, indeed it was not,’ she agreed. ‘Teb Bell was on his way to find you, Leofgar. He knew that his brother had been to the Old Manor and he thought that you had killed him. He wanted to beat the truth out of you but he could not be allowed to approach you. Had he been apprehended — which was surely likely, given that Teb had fewer brains and even less subtlety than his brother — then he would have blurted out the truth of the matter and our hopes of achieving our ends quietly and harmoniously would have come to naught.’

‘So he had to be stopped,’ Josse said. Aye, it was as he had thought; even if Arthur did not admit to it, it seemed certain that it was he who murdered Teb Bell.

‘Teb was of no further use,’ Sirida said dismissively. ‘It was a mistake to involve him and his brother in the first place.’

‘You have not managed to find this alleged proof for which you have been searching,’ the Abbess suddenly said, the authority in her voice filling the small space so that, as one, they turned to her.

‘It is not there to be found,’ Arthur said in disgust. ‘According to my mother, Benedict said he would secrete the document that he promised to write in a hidden place in his table. But I searched that table myself and it is not there. There is no hidden place!’

‘But-’ the Abbess began.

Leofgar interrupted her. ‘If this document of yours cannot be found, man, then it is because it is not there!’ he shouted. ‘It does not exist! Benedict never wrote it because, Arthur Fitzurse,’ — he laid heavy and sarcastic emphasis on the name — ‘he did not acknowledge you as his son!’

‘I am his son! I am!’ Arthur protested, his body tense with rage.

‘I was bedded by Benedict Warin!’ Sirida cried. ‘His man Martin helped him into the hut where I awaited him! He blew out the lamp and took me in his arms and he penetrated me! I conceived and bore him a son, and that son is Arthur!’

‘Without Benedict Warin’s word, you cannot persuade any of us that this is the truth,’ Josse said, making his voice sound very firm. ‘It is hopeless, Sirida.’ He stepped closer to her, his eyes never leaving hers although he could not read the expression in their dark depths. ‘Let us go,’ he said gently. ‘Tell your son to remove the knife from Leofgar’s throat now. No harm has been done and we can all be safely back in our homes this day if you relent.’

There was a moment of perfect stillness. Then slowly Sirida nodded. ‘You speak wisely, Sir Josse,’ she said. ‘We achieve nothing by this, for the one man who could have supported my story refused to do so in life and now is dead.’ She bowed her head and gave a long sigh.

For a triumphant — and very brief — moment, Josse believed that she meant it.

But then Arthur’s anguished shout broke the silence.

‘No!’

As one they turned to stare at him, even Leofgar twisting his head around as far as the knife blade allowed. Arthur’s face was contorted with passion and his eyes bulged.

‘Thirty-five years of misery!’ he cried, intent only upon his mother. ‘A few moments of lust in a filthy shack and what did it advance us? You gave up the poor but honest life of a serving woman because you saw your chance to grasp something better and, for as long as I can remember, you’ve forced me to share your ambition! Look at Benedict, you used to tell me, that man is your father. Look at his son and that pretty wife who hides a secret, you said. Look at Benedict’s new grandson, who will grow up to have all the things that are rightfully yours handed to him on a silver platter! Oh, I looked, Mother, again and again, for you would not let me stop. I looked and then I came home to you in this sty’ — he spat out the word — ‘and even then there was no respite for I loved you and my heart would ache to see the life that you were forced to lead.’

He stopped, panting, and Sirida made a small moan, stretching out a hand towards her son.

But he ignored it.

Stepping back a pace away from her, dark eyes still fixed on hers, he said, ‘You suffered, well I know it. But so did I, Mother. Bastard, son of a whore, witch’s brat, devil’s spawn; those were some of the less offensive names they called me and I will not sully the delicate ears of this company with the worst ones. I endured the taunts and I endured the missiles that the boys flung at me, endured being daubed in animal dung and having my hair shorn with sheep shears. I endured because you promised me it would end in time. You told me I must be patient because one day the world would know me for who I am and honour me for my name.’

‘Son, I-’

He would not let her speak.

‘When is that day to be, Mother?’ he asked. ‘I wish you would tell me, for I am heart sick of waiting.’

Josse found that he was holding his breath. The tension between Sirida and Arthur was almost visible. Arthur had backed off another pace, almost as if he did not dare risk physical contact with his mother’s outstretched fingers in case it made his love for her triumph over his anger and caused his resolve to collapse.

And the knife blade, Josse noticed, feeling sick with the anxiety of helplessness, was no longer pressed right against Leofgar’s throat …

Sirida was staring into her son’s eyes. ‘Arthur, the day will come, for despite all that you say, I know full well that Benedict’s document is where he said it would be, for I have seen it with my inner eye and I know that he kept his promise to me.’

There was a gasp — from the Abbess, Josse thought — quickly suppressed, as if, like him, she too could not bear to make any sound or movement that might affect the mood between the mother and son enacting the dreadful drama before them.

‘I can’t find it, Mother.’ Arthur’s voice hardly rose above a whisper.

‘We shall find it, son,’ she crooned, closer to him now, eyes still on his. ‘And there will be no more talk of relenting,’ — she put venom into the word — ‘I promise you, for-’

She stopped.

She stood there in front of Arthur, looking deeply into his eyes, and then her mouth opened and her face contorted in anguish. Shaking her head, muttering, ‘No, oh, no!’ at last she managed to grasp Arthur’s free hand in both of hers.

Half to herself, she muttered, ‘It shall not be! Oh, but I will not allow it to happen that way!’ and then, pulling herself together with a visible effort, she said decisively, ‘Benedict’s letter exists and it will be found. Then my son will stand beside his blood kindred and he shall be-’

But whatever scene she was envisaging was never to be revealed. For just then, seizing the chance while the knife blade wavered and perhaps finally driven over the edge by the thought of accepting this desperate, driven man as his uncle, Leofgar acted.

It was only to be expected, for Leofgar had suffered the most. He had seen his wife and his precious son traumatised by the villain that this man had sent to disturb their happiness. He had been forced to flee his home and seek the help of the Hawkenlye community; had been pursued there too and driven to hide himself away like an outcast.

He had, for the past interminable time, been forced to kneel in the dirt with a dagger at his throat.

He launched himself up off the floor as if his knees were springs and, spinning round as he rose, hurled himself on Arthur. At the same moment Josse leapt up from the bench and grabbed Sirida, who, the instant that Leofgar moved, had shot out her hand towards some object hidden on a shelf set high under the hut’s roof. She could not be allowed to grasp what she sought, Josse thought wildly, for it just might be a tool of magic and they had quite enough to contend with already …

Leofgar and Arthur were struggling, Leofgar’s hand tight around Arthur’s right wrist, trying to twist it and squeeze it so that he dropped his knife. But Arthur had recovered swiftly from the shock of the attack and was resisting; suddenly he brought up his knee and caught Leofgar in the groin. With a groan, Leofgar doubled up and Arthur hit him hard with his left fist, knocking him back and to the side.

Furious grey eyes on his adversary, Leofgar glared up at him with murder in his face. ‘You are no Warin,’ he gasped, contempt like poison in his voice, ‘and there is no letter from my grandfather stating otherwise. You’re a bastard, just as they-’

With a howl of rage Arthur threw himself on Leofgar. But some precious instinct of preservation came to Leofgar’s aid and at the last possible instant he spun himself round, twisting out of the way, and Arthur’s momentum carried him on into the space where Leofgar had just been.

He fell heavily.

There was an instant’s silence. Then he gave a great cry and, rolling on to his side, put both hands to his chest.

The handle of his own knife was sticking out from between his ribs.

Sirida wriggled out of Josse’s arms and fell to her knees over her son, the Abbess crouching beside her. Arthur’s eyes seemed to roll up in his head and he fell quiet; Sirida unfastened his tunic and undershirt to reveal the knife and the wound.

‘It has not penetrated as deep as I feared,’ the Abbess said, ‘look, Sirida; the blade has gone in at an angle.’

Sirida had her hand on the knife handle. ‘I will pull it out,’ she said.

‘No!’ Hastily Josse dropped down beside them. ‘No, leave it where it is, for I have seen men pull out the weapons that have wounded them and thereby release the fatal flow of blood that the blade holds back.’ Meeting the Abbess’s eyes, he said, ‘My lady, we must get him to Hawkenlye. We will put him up on the mare, with your leave, for she has the gentlest gait. You may ride with me on my horse, if you will.’

She was nodding her agreement, already hurrying to get up. ‘Yes. Leofgar, are you fit to ride?’

‘I am.’ Leofgar spoke stiffly.

‘Go and collect your horses,’ the Abbess ordered. ‘Sir Josse, if you and Sirida will bear Arthur out of the hut, I will fetch Honey. But we must be swift and not waste a moment, for Arthur-’

She did not finish her sentence — in truth, there was no need to do so — but, lifting her wide skirts, ran outside and across the open space to the corral. Sirida padded Arthur’s wound as best she could — she used some green mossy stuff from a wooden box on one of the shelves in the hut, fastening it in place with lengths of thin, grubby linen — and they got him outside and on to the mare. Leofgar returned with his horse and Horace and helped the Abbess on to the big horse’s broad back, where Josse got up behind her.

Sirida stood looking up at them.

‘Will you not come with us?’ the Abbess asked her gently. ‘We will care for him to the best of our ability, you have my word. But do you not wish to be with him?’

Sirida’s eyes were on her son as slowly she shook her head. ‘No, Helewise. I do not leave my hut any more. The source of what strength remains to me is here.’ She bowed her head. ‘Were I to leave, I would not get very far.’ She lifted her chin and gave a brave smile. ‘I have not left this place for twenty years.’

Leofgar had hold of the mare’s reins but he was finding her hard to control; she sensed the burden on her back and must have been disturbed by the fact that Arthur, barely able to sit in the saddle, was clearly not in control. ‘We must go, Mother!’ Leofgar said urgently. ‘The mare smells the blood and she is uneasy. It will be better if I can get her moving.’

‘Yes, of course,’ the Abbess said. ‘Sir Josse?’ She half-turned to him. ‘Let us be on our way.’ Josse clicked his tongue to Horace and the horse set off down the track. As they left the glade, Leofgar riding ahead, the Abbess turned from her seat in front of Josse and looked back. She called, ‘Goodbye, Sirida.’

The response came softly on the breeze that had come up with the dawn. ‘Farewell, Helewise.’ And, like a whisper that might or might not have been spoken, ‘You will find that letter …’

In silence they set off along the track that would lead them to Hawkenlye.

They took Arthur straight to the infirmary. Sister Euphemia examined the knife wound and complimented whoever had had the wits to leave the blade in place. Josse would have modestly kept quiet but the Abbess was having none of it: ‘That was Sir Josse,’ she said.

The infirmarer gave him a glance. ‘Old soldier,’ she remarked. ‘Maybe you should give me some lessons, not that we get many blade wounds here. Thank God,’ she added under her breath, for she had just extracted the knife and even as she spoke was pushing wadded lint into the wound to stop the blood.

‘Do you need us, Sister?’ the Abbess asked her.

‘No, my lady. I can manage here. The wound is long but not too deep and, provided I can stem the flow of blood, he’ll not die of it.’ Without looking up she said, ‘I’ll send word when he recovers his senses.’

‘Yes, please do. Thank you.’ Then the Abbess turned to Josse and said, ‘Sir Josse, let us go outside and find my son. There is something I must do.’

Bowing his agreement, he followed her out of the infirmary. She beckoned to Leofgar, waiting outside, and in silence led them across the cloister and along to her room. She opened the door — someone had kept the brazier stoked and the heat was like a blessing — and went round the table to sit down in her chair.

Then, looking at them both with a strange excitement in her eyes, she said, ‘I know where it is.’

‘What?’ Josse and Leofgar said together.

‘Benedict Warin’s proof.’ So eager that the words raced out of her, she said, ‘Benedict told Sirida that he would hide the document in his table and she told Arthur, who sent Walter Bell to the Old Manor. Walter looked but presumably could not find the hiding place.’

‘Neither could Arthur and neither could I,’ Josse agreed. ‘De Gifford and I searched every inch and came up with nothing.’

Now the Abbess was smiling. ‘That was because,’ she said, ‘it was the wrong table.’ Patting the wide oak surface in front of her, she said, ‘This is Benedict Warin’s table. Benedict left it for Ivo’s use when he moved from the Old Manor to his new home, shortly before Ivo and I were wed. It became Ivo’s possession permanently after Benedict died, although in truth I had more use of it than ever did Ivo.’ She looked down fondly at the table and added softly, ‘I became rather attached to it, and it was the only item from my home that I brought here to Hawkenlye with me.’

But neither Josse nor Leofgar were giving her their full attention; at her first words, both had shot forward to start examining the table, feeling over its surface, underneath it, up and down its stout legs. ‘Where’s the hiding place?’ Leofgar demanded. ‘Where is it?’

Josse, his hands flat on the table top as he ran his fingers over the smooth wood, was watching the Abbess. Frowning, she murmured, ‘I am not sure …’ Then she knelt down and her head disappeared under the table.

Suddenly she exclaimed, ‘Yes! I do believe …’ Grunting with effort, her voice coming from under the table and strangely muffled, she said, ‘Help me, Leofgar, the catch is stiff,’ and he too knelt down so that only his rump and legs were visible. There was a grating sound, then suddenly Leofgar shot backwards and sat down heavily.

The Abbess straightened up. In her hands was a small wooden box, dusty and dirty. ‘It was fixed to the central support of the frame,’ she panted. ‘You would never have found it unless you knew where to look.’

‘And even then it did not come away without brute force,’ Leofgar added. Getting up, he came to stand beside Josse. Then, voicing the question that Josse burned to ask, he said, ‘Is there anything in it?’

The Abbess had raised the lid, whose hinges gave a screech of protest. As Josse watched her face, she put her hand inside and extracted a piece of parchment, rolled up tightly and bound with frayed, faded ribbon.

She put the box down and, resting the parchment on the table, gently began to unroll it. There were a few lines written in brownish ink in what Josse thought was a cleric’s hand; silently the Abbess read through them, moving her lips as she digested the words.

Then slowly she raised her head and looked at her son. ‘Benedict Warin was not his father,’ she breathed. Then, joy spreading over her face, ‘Oh, dear God, but I am so relieved!’

Leofgar was picking up the parchment. But Josse, still watching the Abbess, said softly, ‘Why such relief, my lady? It is not that rare for a man with a barren wife to lie with another woman and beget a child on her.’

But she shook her head. ‘No, I know that. It is not the reason for my reaction.’ She paused as if weighing her words. Leofgar, Josse thought, casting a glance at the young man, was too enthralled in his inspection of the parchment to listen. Then the Abbess said, ‘Sir Josse, I loved my father-in-law. I knew him to be flawed, for he was in truth a womaniser. But had he known that Sirida had borne his child and yet done nothing to help her, that I should have found hard to forgive.’

‘Aye, and-’ Suddenly Josse caught sight of Leofgar’s face. ‘What is it, lad?’

Leofgar looked at Josse, then at his mother. ‘Before you exonerate my grandfather,’ he said slowly, ‘I think you had better look at this.’ He held out the parchment. ‘There’s more written on the reverse side. My Latin is not as good as it should be and neither is my skill in reading’ — he gave the Abbess a swift and rueful grin — ‘so perhaps you would be kind enough to read it for us, Mother.’

For all the courtesy of his words, Josse observed, there was authority in his voice; Leofgar was in truth very like his mother.

The Abbess picked up the parchment again and read what was written on the other side. Her expression altered and hardened. When she had finished there was a short pause. Then she said, ‘So that is how it was.’ Glancing at Josse, she added, ‘The first side of the parchment states simply that Benedict is not the father of the child borne by the woman Sirida. But this,’ — she lightly tapped the other side — ‘this is rather more expansive.’

Then she began to read.

‘“I, Benedict Warin, confess my sin and record it so that after my death the truth be known. Ivo, my legitimate son, is and remains the one true fruit of my loins, for the damage I suffered when I was dragged by my horse robbed me of my manhood and I was never more able to satisfy a woman. In my pride and my shame I told no man of my condition save my faithful Martin, who acted as my substitute in those actions that I could no longer perform for myself. Being full of pride at my reputation as a man who loved women, I could not bear for the shameful truth to be known and so I continued to pursue pretty girls and persuade them to come with me to my shelter in the forest. It was dark there and they did not know that it was not I but another who serviced them. It was of no great import; for Martin was a considerate and I believe a skilful lover and the girls were not heard to complain. The subterfuge was, I believed, harmless and it allowed me to retain that part of my former identity that I could not bear to give up.

‘“But then there was Sirida. She told me that she had conceived that day in the shelter and she asked for my help. The material things she requested I would gladly have given her but to do so would have acknowledged that she had a just claim on me and this would have meant that I accepted her son as a Warin. This was impossible. The Warin blood runs true and goes back far; to accept the son of my body servant, fine man though he be, as my own flesh I simply could not do.

‘“I am truly sorry for what I have done. I offer in mitigation the fact of my accident, which caused me to suffer every day for the rest of my life. Physical discomfort I endured without complaint; what I could not bear was men’s pity for a eunuch. May God have mercy on my soul.”’

The Abbess looked up. ‘It was written by his confessor,’ she said softly. ‘The date at the bottom is April 1172, a month or so before Benedict died.’

Nobody spoke for some time. Then Leofgar said, quietly but vehemently, ‘I knew Arthur was not one of us.’

The Abbess turned to him. ‘So you said in Sirida’s hut and it all but cost you your life.’

There was, Josse thought, a reprimand in her tone and Leofgar must have heard it too, for he had the grace to look ashamed. ‘Yes, I know. But the thought of him as a kinsman became too much. He has caused me and mine far too much grief, the jumped-up fool!’

Josse repeated the last three words silently to himself. Compassion flowed through him; poor Arthur, he thought, for he has been struggling all his miserable life towards one impossible end only to be dismissed in such demeaning terms. As if, all along, he had been no more of a threat than an importuning beggar or an over-eager puppy.

But the Abbess was speaking and he made himself listen.

‘I sympathise with you for your trouble,’ she was coolly saying to Leofgar, ‘and indeed I am more relieved than I can say for matters to have been concluded as they have. But, son, can you find no pity in your heart?’

‘No,’ Leofgar said. Josse could well understand the young man’s firm denial.

But the Abbess had not finished. ‘Well, I can,’ she said firmly. ‘Arthur Fitzurse had been told he had a fine, noble, wealthy man as father, yet through no fault of his own he has lived the life of the outcast.’ Flinging out her hands, she cried, ‘Are you not touched at the sight of him in his cheap clothes that he wears as if they were fur and fine linen?’

‘No, I’m not,’ Leofgar said stubbornly. ‘He acts as if he’s one of us and he isn’t.’

‘Do not,’ the Abbess said warningly, ‘fall into the sin of arrogance, Leofgar, for none of us chooses our parents and some are luckier than others. Where we are born is for God to decide.’

‘Yes, but-’

‘Hear me out!’ the Abbess commanded. Turning to Josse, she said, ‘Forgive me for my insistence, for indeed I sense that perhaps you are inclined to agree with my son.’

‘I-’

But she did not allow him to speak either. ‘I confess I too am relieved that Benedict did not father Sirida’s child, yet I perceive that he committed a scarcely lesser sin in what he did do. To salve his wounded pride, he allowed another to — er, to do the deed of which he was no longer capable, and the deception was so thorough that we all believed it. All of us, without exception, thought that Benedict Warin was a womaniser until the day he died.’ Her astonished eyes went from Josse to Leofgar. ‘He did this rather than simply confess that his accident had rendered him impotent!’ Shaking her head, she added, ‘I just cannot understand it!’

‘But you, my lady,’ Josse said gently, ‘are not a man.’

‘I-’ It was her turn to be rendered silent. Again she looked at the two men standing before her, one after the other. Then in a small voice she asked, ‘Is it that important?’

Josse and Leofgar looked at each other. Then together they said, ‘Yes.’