The Rose of the World

FIFTEEN

Ninian blotted the departure from everyone he loved out of his mind. It was just too painful. There was plenty to think about to distract him, and for the first few hours he concentrated on ensuring he kept off the road, making his way along little-known tracks and trails and keeping to the forest fringe wherever he could. He decided not to make for one of the big channel ports. Josse had said the search parties would explore the road to the coast, and it seemed reasonable that they would also hunt for him in places such as Hastings and Pevensey. It did not matter. Ninian knew of other ways of getting a man and a horse across to France.

He had dismissed the idea of going in disguise. If he tried to make himself look like a peasant, they’d spot him instantly because poor men didn’t ride horses like Garnet and they’d arrest him as a horse thief. He wore his good boots and, under his old leather jerkin, good-quality but well-worn tunic and hose. His heavy travelling cloak went over the top, its hood drawn forward to throw a shadow on his face, and there was nothing to distinguish him from any other traveller.

He crossed the South Downs on paths that were little more than animal runs. Descending towards the sea, he kept a lookout for a small jetty that he knew of where the fishermen went out into the deep water for cod and whiting. Spotting it, he was relieved to see that two boats lay in the shallows. He haggled briefly with the skipper of one of them and arranged his passage across to Boulogne.

The boat was going to sail on the evening tide. With the skipper’s help, Ninian got Garnet safely aboard. Then he found a sheltered spot on deck, wrapped himself in his cloak and, exhausted by fear and emotion, went to sleep.

He woke to find that the boat was in mid-Channel. The water was rough, but not enough to trouble him. He leaned his elbows up on the deck rail and stared out. Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, and land was visible ahead. His belly gripped tight with apprehension. Soon he would have to disembark and head off into the unknown. Would he be able to find Acquin? Josse had given him directions, but Ninian had scarcely taken them in. Perhaps he would be able to ask… But then another anxiety rose up. Josse had been utterly confident that his brothers would take Ninian in, but what if he was wrong? On his own admission, it was years since Josse had seen them. Supposing they closed their doors against him and refused to have anything to do with him? Supposing they had gone away? Supposing they were all dead?

Very firmly, he told himself not to be so stupid. One of Josse’s oft-repeated sayings was: don’t hunt troubles out; wait and deal with them if and when they come looking for you. It was sound advice. Ninian was going to take it.

The skipper brought his craft to shore at a small port to the south of Boulogne. He helped Ninian ashore, wished him well and set off back to sea even before Ninian was out of sight. Ninian had never felt more alone in his life.

He pressed on all day, although his progress was slow. Unnerved by other travellers, frequently he slid off Garnet’s back and led the horse off the road to hide until they had passed. When darkness fell, he had no idea how far there was still to go. He found a sheltered spot in an apple orchard, bedding down in the corner furthest from the road and making a small fire to keep him warm and to heat water for a comforting drink. On the boat he had shared the fishermen’s supplies, so he had not yet touched the food Josse had given him. The bread was dry as bone now, but he was so hungry that he ate every last crumb. He was glad he had good teeth.

He woke at first light. There were people passing on the road, and the sound of their voices had disturbed him. He lay perfectly still, his heart hammering. Had they seen him? Had they come from the coast? Against all logic, he found himself almost certain they had been sent by the king and, with unbelievable speed and efficiency, had found him after less than a day…

The tramping footsteps went straight past, and the cheery voices faded in the thin air. Rebuking himself for his folly, Ninian got up, rolled up his blanket, saddled Garnet and rode on.

He found Acquin late that afternoon. He had taken several wrong turns, and the people he had asked for directions hadn’t heard of it. He had envisaged a large village or even a small town, well known and much frequented, but the truth was different. There was little to the place but a church and the fortified manor itself. His first glimpse was of the tops of two high watchtowers and, as he rode closer, he made out the long, low roofs of the buildings within the strong outer walls. He passed a church and a few meagre dwellings sheltering beneath the high walls. Then, following the walls, he turned up to the left and soon found himself in front of imposing gates, firmly closed.

There was a small opening in one of the wooden gates, presumably to allow those within to see who had come calling. He peered through it. Storerooms, workrooms and stables lined the courtyard on two sides, and on the third was what must be the family’s accommodation. The short day was already darkening, and lamps had been lit. Smoke rose up from the slate roof.

Ninian was cold and lonely. He reached out and rang the heavy rope that worked the clapper of a big bell, and its deep note rang out.

A young man with light-blond hair emerged from the stables, wiping his hands on a sacking apron. He stared out suspiciously at Ninian. ‘Who are you?’

Ninian had forgotten they would speak French. It was Josse’s native tongue. Ninian had been forced to learn and speak it when he had lived with the terrible man his mother had married. He thought briefly, bringing to mind the right words, and replied in the same tongue: ‘My name is Ninian de Courtenay. I have come from the house of Sir Josse d’Acquin, in England. If you please, I would like to speak to Sir Yves d’Acquin.’

The lad looked at him in surprise. Then he nodded and hurried away. Quite soon afterwards he returned, accompanied by another man. He was shorter and less heavily built than Josse, but he had the same dark eyes and thick brown hair. He had a round, pleasant face and laughter lines around his eyes and mouth. He looked at Ninian and said, barely suppressing the excitement, ‘I am Yves. Is it true? Have you come from Josse?’

‘I have,’ Ninian agreed. ‘He sends his greetings to his brothers and their families — ’ quickly, he reeled off all the names of the brothers, the wives and the children — ‘and he asks that you take me in, for I am his adopted son.’

Yves was already shooting back the bolts and opening one of the gates. ‘Come in!’ he cried. ‘I felt sure that you were who you said you were, even before you proved it by your recital of every last one of my immediate kin. Stephan, take his horse — ’ Ninian slid down and handed the lad Garnet’s reins — ‘and tend him well, for he looks as if he has ridden all day.’

‘I got lost,’ Ninian admitted as Garnet was led away and Yves ushered him inside. ‘I left in a hurry, and I didn’t listen properly to Josse’s instructions.’

Yves stopped, turning to look at him. ‘You left in a hurry,’ he repeated worriedly. ‘There is trouble?’

‘Josse is perfectly well, as is everyone else,’ Ninian said quickly, cross with himself for causing this affectionate, friendly man anxiety. ‘Something happened. They — er, some quite important people think I killed someone and injured two others. I was in a fight with the two men, but any injury I inflicted was in defence of myself and others. I swear to you that I have killed nobody.’

Yves was looking at him intently. ‘It’s not every man who can claim that, in these troubled times,’ he observed. He went on staring at Ninian, who found himself steadily becoming uneasy under the scrutiny. Eventually, Yves spoke again. ‘My brothers say I am too quick to trust my own instincts, but all the same I intend to do precisely that,’ he said. ‘I like you, Ninian de Courtenay. I know a little of who you are and how you come to be Josse’s son, and I would judge that you are a man who tells the truth, at least to those he cares about. Finally — ’ he started to move on as he spoke, leading Ninian along a passage towards an arched doorway — ‘I do not believe that my brother would have sent you to me unless your credentials were impeccable.’ He waved a hand, inviting Ninian to go on into the room beyond the arch. ‘Come and meet my family.’

Back at the House in the Woods, Josse and Helewise sat on by the fire after the rest of the household had gone to bed. Before she retired, Tilly had returned and quietly left a jug of spiced wine beside the hearth. Josse had just stuck a hot poker into it, and the fragrant steam was scenting the hall.

‘I wish Meggie was here,’ Josse said, breaking the companionable silence.

Helewise thought she knew why. She had observed how, when young Geoffroi had gone to sit beside his father after supper, Josse had at first clutched the boy convulsively to him, swiftly releasing him when he realized the grip was too tight. Having just been forced to wave goodbye to one of the people he most loved, Josse obviously wanted to keep the others close.

‘She will be home soon, I expect.’ She tried to make her tone calm and reassuring. ‘We all mourn Ninian in our own way,’ she added softly.

‘Don’t use that word!’ he snapped.

She rose and went to sit beside him. Taking his hand, she bent to kiss it. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I only meant we mourn his presence here with us. No more.’

With a tentative hand, he reached out and lightly touched her cheek. ‘I know,’ he said gruffly. ‘I didn’t mean to shout at you.’

She got up and poured wine for them both. She handed one of the pewter goblets to him and, raising her own, said, ‘To Ninian, wherever he is. May God keep him safe until he can return to us.’

‘Amen,’ Josse muttered, instantly taking a gulp of the wine.

Helewise went back to her seat on the opposite side of the hearth. Earlier, she and Josse had shared what sparse information their day’s enquiries had discovered. Something that he had told her concerning his visit to Lady Beatrice was puzzling her. She thought about it — years as a nun had taught her to think before she spoke, so as not to waste time on idle chatter — and then said, ‘Josse, I have been worrying about this scheme of Hugh’s to use our Rosamund as a gift with which to gain the king’s favour.’

‘Aye, it’s shameful,’ he agreed. ‘I-’

She interrupted him. ‘It is, of course, but that wasn’t what I meant. You paint a picture of Olivier as the outcast, the son whom his mother’s husband tolerated but did not love. Surely, if one of the brothers had such a burning desire to gain the favour of an older man, it would not be Hugh, who already had a father’s love, but Olivier. Yet Olivier claims the whole idea was Hugh’s.’

‘Aye, and Hugh is dead and cannot tell us otherwise,’ Josse replied.

‘I was so sure, when I spoke to Rosamund, that I had guessed what happened,’ she said bitterly. ‘Yet I was wrong, for this horseman whom Rosamund heard but did not see rode away again.’

‘Aye, and in any case, had it been Hugh, and had he died there at that time, then what happened to his horse? Olivier would have had to take it away with him, and Rosamund would have told us had that been the case. She loves horses, doesn’t she?’

‘Indeed she does,’ Helewise replied. ‘Besides, she said that she rode with Olivier on Star. She’d certainly have described in great detail any horse she’d been loaned to ride by herself, especially the sort of mount ridden by a wealthy man.’

Neither of them spoke for some time. Then Josse sighed heavily and said, ‘We still have no proof that it wasn’t Ninian who fought Hugh.’ He drained his goblet and set it down beside the empty jug. He straightened up and looked at her, his expression so sad that she almost leapt up to take him in her arms.

Something in his eyes held her back. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said shortly. ‘Sleep well, my lady.’

She listened as his heavy tread faded to nothing. My lady, she thought. Perhaps it was unconscious, brought about by the stress of the moment, but he had called her by the formal name that had been her right when she was abbess of Hawkenlye.

Slowly, she got up and went through to her own quarters. She made her preparations for the night, then went into her small sleeping chamber, quickly removing headdress and outer tunic and lying down. The bed was soft — far softer than the hard plank bed she had slept on for so long in the Hawkenlye dormitory — and the blankets were thick, soft wool. She even had a fur bedcover for when the weather was very cold. It was so luxurious, and Josse had provided it all for her.

She wanted more than anything to go to him. She loved him, and she knew he loved her. Even though she had made the vast break away from the cloister and Caliste had succeeded her at Hawkenlye, she seemed somehow to have brought her former life with her. People still sought her out for help and advice — well, she didn’t mind that at all, since in leaving the abbey she’d had no intention of ceasing to serve God, in whatever way he dictated — and apparently, in the minds of almost everyone around her, she was still a nun. Still an abbess.

And Josse had just called her by her old name.

She turned on her side, sad and hurt, and tried to still her thoughts so that she could get to sleep.

That same evening, Hawkenlye infirmary’s most illustrious patient finally reached the limit of his tolerance. He was a restless man by nature, his quick and able mind ever flying on to the next thought or challenge and his body swiftly leaping to follow. For far too long these well meaning but stern women had made him lie in bed because of a wound that really was not very serious. He knew he should respect them, for they were nuns and he had always been taught that the brides of Christ were to be honoured. The trouble was that they made him feel like a child again. He found himself automatically obeying when the infirmarer said do this, don’t do that, for no better reason than that the sister’s smooth-skinned, handsome face within the close-fitting wimple and headbands was so like his mother’s. As was her air of serene confidence that the person to whom she had just given a command would do just as she said, even if he was the king of England.

He was sick of the infirmary, sick of the abbey, sick of this tour of the religious foundations, watching the work of his agents as they milked everything they could from the monks and the nuns. Yes, he managed to slip away and go hunting at times, but those times were not nearly frequent enough. Anyway, there was no need for him to involve himself with the group inspecting the abbeys; he had able servants who were as enthusiastic for this work of legalized plunder as he was himself. Coming out into the field of operations to see for himself had been a mistake, in hindsight. The trouble was that he had been bored and more than ready for a distraction. His wife had borne him two children in quick succession and, for the time being, she was too tired, plump and slack to hold much allure. She had ways of making it quite clear she did not want him anywhere near her — not that that would have stopped him had he desired to bed her — and he had decided that life was more pleasant without her sharp tongue and her endless complaints. Let her amuse herself with that half brother of hers. There were plenty of prettier women to be had.

His boredom had stemmed from an additional cause: life had seemed strangely flat ever since he had returned from his triumphant expedition to Ireland. Whatever the rumours might say — and if he knew who had started the mutterings that he had left the country in a ferment, he would have them put lengthily and unpleasantly to death — he knew, in his own mind, that he had outplayed the lot of them and ought to have the undiluted praise that was his due.

Tomorrow he would return to London. He would ride his own horse — he would have no truck with this suggestion of a litter — and he would set a fast pace. He had a vague memory of having told his people to arrange overnight accommodation on the way, but he had changed his mind and now wanted nothing more than to be back in his own sumptuous surroundings.

This would be his last night at Hawkenlye. He would make it one to remember. Calling for his attendants, he told them to fetch his outer garments and help him dress.

King John let his men accompany him as far as the clearing, then told them curtly to remain on guard while he went into the chapel. Opening the door, he went inside. It was not yet fully dark, and the soft light reflecting off the white walls still held the glow of sunset. The curved east wall, over to his right beyond the simple altar, was brilliant with the sunlit colours of the stained glass in the west end of the small building. He stopped and looked up at the window.

St Edmund rode a richly-caparisoned horse and was depicted with his sword arm raised, ready to strike down the enemies of the Lord. He was tall, broad, auburn-haired and blue-eyed, and he resembled John’s elder brother far too closely for it to be coincidence. Only Queen Eleanor, her son reflected, could have got away with it…

He stood quite still in the middle of the little chapel. She was not here, but he believed she would come. This place was clearly important to her. It was where he had first seen her and, when he had fought with the madman who had launched his ferocious attack, she had been here, defending not only the little girl but also — he saw her clearly in his mind’s eye — the chapel.

He would wait for her. If he was wrong and she did not come, he would explore the surrounding woodland. It was dense and dark, and there were alarming rumours concerning the magical creatures that dwelt within its shadows, but he had no time for peasant superstition and he did not believe in magic.

She lived nearby: of that he was certain.

The sun sank down behind the trees, and the brilliant illumination that had lit up the west window slowly faded. Only then did he realize that a lamp burned on the altar. As the shadows grew, it shone relatively more brightly. Presently, it was the only source of light in the chapel. His eyes were drawn to it.

The door opened, and one of his guards looked in. He shouted at him and, with a bow, the man backed out again.

When the door opened a second time, it was to admit her.

Meggie did not know what drew her repeatedly back to the chapel. She knew full well why she wanted to stay at the hut for the time being: because she wished with all her heart that she had gone with Ninian, and, back at the House in the Woods, she knew she would find his absence a constant reproof. He needed her, she kept telling herself. Their mother would have wanted them to go together. But, against those two powerful facts, a third had been even more forceful. The look on her father’s face when he realized she was on the point of hurrying off after her half brother had done something funny to her heart. She had known then she had to stay.

Being in the hut made her feel close to her mother. She sensed Joanna’s vivid presence; she even saw her sometimes, or thought she did, although the image was faint, as if seen through mist. Her mother understood why she could not go with Ninian. Joanna had loved Josse too and knew what he meant to Meggie.

Perhaps it was Joanna who wanted her to keep vigil at the chapel. Meggie had been wrong in thinking that the great lords — one of whom, as she now knew, was the king — had been there because they were hunting for the Black Madonna. The king was after something far more earthly than a mysterious black goddess.

Still, Meggie could not relax. Repeatedly, she found herself returning to the chapel, simply, as she told herself, to make sure all was well. Late in the afternoon, just before sunset, she decided to pay a last visit. She was some way down the path when, with a soft exclamation, she turned and retraced her steps. Going back inside the hut, she took a small, hard object wrapped up in a leather bag out of a specially-crafted wooden box that was screwed to the underside of the sleeping platform. Obeying some indefinable impulse, she had brought it with her from its habitual hiding place at the House in the Woods. Holding it lightly in her right hand, once again she walked briskly out of the clearing.

As she emerged from beneath the trees, she saw a group of armed men lounging around outside the chapel. One of them said something to the others, making a vulgar gesture with his hand and jerking his head in the direction of the chapel. Meggie leapt back under cover. She knew, then, who was inside.

She feared him, for she knew what he wanted of her. Yet when he had spoken to her, against all logic she had found herself liking him. She had had no dealings with men such as him; Josse had once lived in those elevated circles, but now, on his own admission, he was an ordinary family man doing his best for those he loved. She did not really understand the power of sophisticated, intelligent, determined charm…

Her own feelings must in any case be put aside, for he was in the chapel, only a few feet above the place where it held its secret. She waited until the men were not looking — that was easy, for now another of them was telling a joke or a lewd story, and all their attention was on him — and, slipping out from the shadows, she ran round to the chapel door, opened it and went inside.

He turned to look at her. ‘Meggie,’ he said softly. ‘I knew you would come.’

She made herself walk closer to him. Standing right before him, she made a low curtsey. ‘We are honoured by your presence here, my lord,’ she said.

He reached out for her hand and raised her up, putting his fingers under her chin so that she lifted her head and looked at him. They were roughly of a height; if anything, she was a little taller.

It was difficult to take in anything other than the bright eyes. He was in his forties now, the strong body getting fat around the middle, but she found that those factors weighed little against the compelling power of his gaze. He is dangerous, she told herself. Do not forget it.

‘I shall leave the abbey in the morning,’ he said softly, ‘but I could not go without saying goodbye to you.’

‘You flatter me, lord,’ she replied.

‘I have wanted you since I saw you outside with your little friend,’ he went on. ‘That mad fool Olivier must have seen me watching you both and mistaken the object of my attention.’ Anger briefly contorted his face: there and gone in an instant. He moved closer to her, and she felt the heat of his body. ‘What I want,’ he murmured, ‘I usually get.’ He ran his fingers down her hair. ‘Such beautiful curls,’ he murmured. ‘You smell clean, Meggie. I like clean people.’

‘I smell of herbs,’ she said. ‘I work with them.’

He nodded. ‘Very laudable.’ His eyes seemed to bore into her. ‘You have light in your face, and your eyes flash like sun on the water,’ he murmured. Then he took her face gently in his hands and kissed her.

For a moment the temptation was strong to kiss him back. This man held Ninian’s life in his hands. If Meggie were to give him, willingly and generously, what he so clearly and so badly wanted, perhaps he would grant her the one thing she really wanted and spare her half brother’s life. Besides, man of broad experience that he was, the prospect of making love with him was not unappealing.

A voice like cold water spoke in Meggie’s head. It was a voice which, other than in dreams and visions, she had not heard for more than a decade. Her mother said, firmly and clearly: have no truck with kings, for they take what they want and do not give anything in return.

Meggie pulled away. The moment of weakness was gone. She knew her mother was right. He would not give up the pursuit of Ninian, even if she slept with him until he grew tired of her. More than that — worse than that — if she allowed him close to her, she might inadvertently give away some small fact that would lead him to the very person she was so desperate to protect.

He moved his hands so that he gripped her shoulders. ‘You would give me the sport of forcing you, would you?’ A cruel smile crossed his face. ‘Oh, Meggie, and there I was believing you were about to yield to me right here in the sanctity of my late and much-mourned mother’s chapel!’ He gave her a shake. ‘I will have you,’ he said, his voice as soft and dangerous as a snake’s hiss.

He released her briefly, dragging at the neck of her gown and at the lacings of his own tunic. She knew she had to act then or be lost. Grasping the leather bag, which hung from her belt, she loosed the drawstrings and took out the object within.

Then she held up the Eye of Jerusalem and, just as she had so desperately hoped, the light of the lamp burning on the altar shone on it, brought its incredible heart to life and flashed blue fire all around the chapel.

The jewel was her inheritance, coming to her from her father and her grandfather, accompanied by the prediction that she would be the first person in its incredibly long history to discover its full potential. She had worked with it as much as she dared, tentatively exploring its incredible power, nerving herself to push her experiments steadily further, even though she had frequently terrified herself and regularly caused herself at worst injury, at best a crushing headache that took days to dissipate. But magic was like that; she never complained.

One thing that she had discovered was that the great sapphire had the ability to send her into a trance. She had sat with it in the hut one night, idly swinging it to and fro so that the light of the fire burning in the heath caused it to flash intermittently. Transfixed by the sight, she had felt her eyes go unfocused and her mind empty itself of whatever she had been thinking about. She had only emerged from the Eye’s spell when she had fallen over sideways on to the floor.

Few people knew about the jewel. Her father did; so did Helewise. So did one or two others. Josse and Helewise had reluctantly agreed to allow her to try out her discovery on them, and both had succumbed to the stone’s trance-inducing power even more swiftly than she had done.

Now, when so much depended on it, she prayed to her guiding spirits that it would not let her down.

She swung it gently on its gold chain. He tried to grab it, but she flicked it up out of his reach. She went on swinging it, and the blue light flashed out so brightly that it was almost blinding. She remembered to look away; this was no time to entrance herself.

There was a change in him. His hands dropped to his sides, and the brilliant eyes followed the stone in its arc — left, right, left, right — their intense blue seemingly lit from within by the light radiating through the great sapphire.

She said, very softly, ‘You do not want me. This place is hallowed, and to make love to a woman in it would violate its sanctity. There is a power here that you cannot comprehend, and it does not do to offend it.’

She went on swinging the Eye. He was deeply under its spell now, his face blank, his eyelids heavy. She knew she must stop soon. If he went right under, he would fall on to the hard stone floor and possibly injure himself. The noise of his falling might bring the guards running, and she would instantly be arrested and taken away in chains for assaulting him.

‘Leave this place,’ she intoned, almost singing the words. ‘Go away from here. I am not for you, for my fate is connected with the secret of this place and I would not have you risk its vengeance by taking from me what I do not freely give you.’

The trance was deepening. Slowly, she lessened the Eye’s swing until it hung still. Then she enclosed it inside her palm, and its light went out. Now they were just two people standing face-to-face in a small, simple chapel.

His eyes opened fully. He seemed totally bemused. He looked around him, apparently searching for something. Finally, he turned to her. ‘Meggie?’ he said. He sounded as if he doubted even that.

‘I am here, my lord,’ she said calmly. The jewel was back in its bag, hidden in the folds of her skirt. ‘What do you wish of me?’

He shook his head violently. ‘Nothing! You are — you are-’ He frowned, clearly confused. Then, with the ghost of a smile, he said, ‘You, my dear, are a vestal virgin. Keep your fire burning…’ The frown deepened, and for a moment he spun round as if some memory stirred. ‘There was a fire,’ he muttered. ‘A blue fire.’

‘There is a lamp on the altar.’ She pointed. ‘I have observed myself how some trick of the light allows its flame to catch in the blue of the window there.’ She indicated St Edmund on his horse, the sky blue above his head.

He did not look convinced. He was eyeing her suspiciously. ‘I would believe there was magic here,’ he murmured, ‘and that you, my Meggie, were a witch, only I do not believe in magic and, whatever the ignorant peasantry may say, there are no such things as witches.’

She bowed her head. ‘No, lord.’

His hand was under her chin. She raised her eyes and looked at him. ‘I leave for London in the morning,’ he said. He looked momentarily puzzled, as if half-recalling that he had already told her. ‘I wish that I could take you with me.’ He leaned forward and kissed her mouth, gently, affectionately. ‘But you belong here, witch of the wildwood.’

He took one long, last look at her. Then he turned away and strode out of the chapel.

She made herself wait. She heard his voice, shouting out some command, and another man’s raised in reply. There was the faint patter of conversation, quickly fading. When she was sure they had gone, she hurried over to the flagstone trapdoor and, raising it, flew down the steps into the crypt.

She did not bother with a light. She knew every inch of the place and, besides, the goddess’s power drew her unerringly. She fell to her knees before the niche where she knew the Black Madonna sat, opening her heart and pouring out her gratitude.

A long time later, she rose to her feet, went back up the steps and left the chapel. She looked down at Hawkenlye, most of its lights darkened now. She sent King John a silent good night.

Then she hurried off through the woods towards the hut and her bed.