The Rose of the World

SEVENTEEN

The day was drawing to a close, but Josse could not bear to wait until morning. He curbed his impatience for long enough to visit Abbess Caliste, explaining briefly what he had just discovered and asking if she would send someone over to the House in the Woods to take the news to Helewise. Then he ran back to where Alfred was tethered, mounted up and rode as hard as he could down the hill to Tonbridge.

Gervase was home, and Josse found him about to sit down to eat with Sabin and his three children. Sabin invited him to join them but, apologizing, he explained that he had come on a matter of urgency and must speak privately to Gervase.

‘What is so important that you must drag me from my food?’ Gervase asked lightly as they retreated to the far end of the hall.

‘I am sorry, Gervase, I-’

‘No need to explain, old friend,’ Gervase interrupted with a smile. ‘I know you would not be here, out of breath and mud-spattered, if it were not vital. What has happened?’ Abruptly, his expression changed, his face growing tense. ‘Is there news of the lad?’

‘No,’ Josse said shortly. Gervase’s relief was evident.

He explained, as succinctly as he could, everything that had led him to conclude that Olivier de Brionne had been responsible for Hugh’s death. Gervase listened, occasionally asking Josse to elucidate some point, and, when Josse stopped speaking, stood deep in thought.

‘Well?’ Josse demanded. ‘What do you think? Am I right?’

Gervase turned to him. ‘It would appear so, yes, although the evidence is far from conclusive. But,’ he added firmly as Josse opened his mouth to speak, ‘I do believe the case against Olivier is stronger than against Ninian, who was only suspected of the murder because Olivier suggested it. As, indeed, he would, if it was in truth he who killed Hugh.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Josse could hardly bear to ask.

Gervase punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Josse, for the past few days I have gone on sending my men out on a manhunt for someone they have no chance of finding, for, as you and I both know, the man in question is by now safely across the Channel.’ He hesitated, frowning. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more than to tell them tomorrow morning that the search parties may stand down, with the explanation that another suspect has turned up. However, there is still the matter of the wounding of the king and Olivier, for which Ninian stands accused.’

‘It was a fight at close quarters!’ Josse protested. ‘Who can say who wounded whom?’

‘I know, Josse, but we still have to convince the king of that,’ Gervase replied. ‘In the meantime, the pretence that we are still looking for Ninian here in England must, I am afraid, continue.’ He grinned at Josse. ‘If you will now accept my wife’s invitation to come and eat, we will offer you a bed for the night, and tomorrow you and I will go and present this tale of yours to the king. If he reacts as I fully expect him to, he will no doubt command us to arrest Olivier de Brionne, inspect his right hand and accuse him of killing his brother.’

Late that night, leaving his wife asleep, Gervase crept out of their bed and fell on his knees beside it, burying his face in his hands. Had he been a more fervent believer, he might have said he was praying. He was used to deception — in his role as sheriff, he often spoke blatant untruths in pursuit of a greater good — and normally his conscience did not bother him.

But, as he was so painfully discovering, apparently it all depended on who was being deceived…

Gervase was looking his usual elegant self as he and Josse set out early the next morning, and Sabin had done her best to spruce up Josse, even to the extent of trimming his ragged hair. Gervase’s groom had prepared their horses, and the coats of both shone in the autumn sunshine. It was not every day, Josse reflected, that a man rode off to seek audience with his king, and it was worth a bit of effort.

They crossed the Thames around noon, via the newly-completed stone bridge that, the previous year, had finally replaced the successive wooden versions which had spanned the river there for a thousand years. Trying not to look like an overawed country bumpkin, Josse stared at the impressive structure. Its many pointed arches slowed the flow of the river, so that white water constantly boiled and splashed against the piers. In the middle of the bridge stood a chapel dedicated to St Thomas Becket. Josse would have liked to stop and look, but he was not there for his own entertainment.

The White Tower loomed higher and higher above them as they steadily approached. As a symbol of the king’s power, Josse reflected, it was hard to beat. Regular coats of whitewash kept it shining bright and impossible to ignore, and its forbidding appearance was like a constant, unspoken threat.

Josse and Gervase were stopped by several sets of guards before finally, having left their horses, they were permitted to climb the external staircase that soared up to the entrance, high above the ground. There were further challenges, and then at last two heavily-armed guards led them up to the king’s apartments on the top floors. They were led through a great hall, the roof of which soared high overhead, then into the chamber where, they were told, they must wait for the king.

He did not keep them long. He came into the chamber alone, dressed in a scarlet tunic with extravagant, fur-lined sleeves and edged with panels of embroidery worked in real gold thread and sparkling with jewels. He wore a heavy gold chain around his neck, and on each of his fingers and one of his thumbs there sparkled a precious stone set in more gold. He looked, as he always did, so clean that he appeared to shine.

He stopped before his visitors and extended his hands. Josse and Gervase approached and made their reverences. Then, as if suddenly impatient, the king waved away their attentions and, fixing Gervase with a hard blue stare, said, ‘You are here, I hope, to tell me that you have made an arrest.’

Josse winced on his friend’s behalf. Had it not been for Gervase’s first loyalty, to Josse and his kin, then his answer would undoubtedly have been yes. However, Gervase was a man of authority in his own right, and it soon became apparent that he was not going to be cowed, even by a king. With admirable brevity, he outlined his reasons for believing that Hugh de Brionne’s killer was not the madman from the clearing by the chapel — whom he now named as Ninian de Courtenay — but Olivier. ‘With your permission, my lord king,’ he concluded, ‘I will see Olivier de Brionne to verify what the Hawkenlye infirmarer has stated concerning the bruises on his right hand and, once I am convinced, I will charge him with being responsible for his brother’s death.’

The king, congenitally unable to stand still for longer than half a minute, had begun slowly pacing to and fro as Gervase spoke. Now, coming to a halt in front of the two men, he turned and fixed his eyes on the sheriff. ‘Admirably deduced and utterly reasonable,’ he declared. He glanced at Josse, stabbing a finger in his direction. ‘Of course, this conviction that Olivier is guilty has nothing at all to do with the fact that, if he is, then your lad will no longer be wanted for murder.’ Josse made to speak, but the king had not finished. ‘Oh, Josse, Josse! I have known for some time exactly who this man is.’

‘My adopted son is no murderer, sire,’ Josse said steadily.

‘So you do keep saying,’ the king murmured. His eyes hardened. ‘Nevertheless, he attacked Olivier and me. I have the scar on my shoulder to prove it, although already it is fading.’

Josse steeled himself to speak. He knew the risks — so much depended on the king’s mood, for he could switch from genial host to furious tyrant in the blink of an eye — but, for Ninian’s sake, he had to speak up. ‘Sire, I would speak concerning that fight in front of the chapel,’ he said, wishing his voice sounded more authoritative.

‘Yes?’ The one cold syllable seemed to hang in the air. Josse sensed Gervase go tense, and he could all but hear the sheriff’s warning: take care!

‘Sire, Ninian was deeply concerned for the little girl, Rosamund Warin, who Olivier had brought to you. He had followed your party from the hunting lodge to Hawkenlye, and when he saw two of the group break away and take the child up towards the woods, he was very afraid for her safety.’ Steady, he told himself. He wanted to put it into the king’s mind that Ninian’s anxiety had been justified but, if he went too far and hinted that the king had been about to seduce an eleven-year-old child, then the king would lose his temper and he and Gervase would probably end up in the grim dungeons all those floors below.

He eyed the king, trying to gauge his reaction, but John was giving nothing away. ‘I do not know the details of what occurred,’ he plunged on, ‘but, from Ninian’s point of view, he believed Rosamund was in danger, and he launched himself against the two men who were with her. He did not know your identities,’ he said, ‘and had no idea that one of the men in the clearing was his king.’

John watched him intently. ‘Do you think,’ he said silkily, ‘it would have made any difference if he had?’

That, Josse realized, was the point on which his whole defence of Ninian really hung, and it was typical of the king to have pinpointed it. He made himself meet the king’s eyes. ‘I do not know, sire,’ he said. Then — for it was not wise to treat the king like a fool — ‘Probably not.’

There was a long silence, broken only by the swish of thick, costly silk as the king resumed his pacing. Finally, he stopped, turned and faced Josse once more. ‘I am of a mind to be generous,’ he said. ‘You speak with passion and eloquence for your son, Josse — yes, very well, your adopted son — and, indeed, your picture of a man rushing in to take on two armed men because he fears for the safety of a young woman has echoes of the deeds of the chivalrous knights in the tales so beloved by my late mother.’ He paused, clearly thinking hard. Then he said quietly, ‘Rosamund was as safe in my company as in that of her mother, whoever she is. But I will not pretend that I am unaware of the wagging tongues; indeed, one of my close circle believed he would greatly please me by his gift of this pretty child.’ His expression hardened, and he said icily, ‘I will not add fuel to this particular fire; I want this matter to remain between those few people who are already aware of it.’

It was a direct order. Josse and Gervase both bowed their heads in acknowledgement.

‘Revenge would have been singularly sweet,’ the king murmured, ‘but, perhaps, unjustified. Besides,’ he added after a moment, ‘my wound is, as I said, all but healed, and, in the melee before the chapel, I cannot put my hand to my heart and swear it was Ninian who inflicted it. It seems, Josse — ’ some change in the king’s voice made Josse look up and meet his eyes — ‘that your son is safe.’

Gervase said, ‘Sire, have I your permission to send for Olivier? There is no reason to delay the resolution of this sad business, and faced with our suggestion of what really happened, he may realize that there is no point in protesting his innocence.’

‘Well he might,’ the king replied, ‘and I would not prevent your summoning him, except that it would serve no purpose. He is not here.’

‘Not here!’ Josse exclaimed. ‘But he left Hawkenlye when you did, sire, and we thought he had ridden here to London with you.’

‘He may have left with us, although I do not recall seeing him,’ the king said. ‘He certainly did not arrive with us.’

‘Then where is he?’ Josse was looking wildly around.

‘Stop that, Josse, he’s not hiding behind the wall hangings,’ the king said sharply. ‘I do not know where he is. I will send word that I wish to see him and, when he arrives, I will let you know. Is that good enough for you?’ The irony was unmistakable.

‘Aye, my lord king, of course,’ Josse muttered.

There was an awkward pause. Then Gervase cleared his throat nervously and said, ‘Hugh de Brionne paid a high price for his insolent scheme, and-’

‘You think the plan was Hugh’s?’ the king interrupted.

‘Well, Olivier claims it was,’ Gervase said. Josse nodded his agreement.

The king sighed. ‘Hugh would never have come up with anything as dangerous and misguided as abducting a child as a present for his king,’ he said softly. ‘Everything about this matter smacks of Olivier. He is unbalanced, you see.’ He sighed. ‘We should have taken better care of him, but he was tucked away down there in the house on the downs and it was all too easy to forget his existence. By the time I invited him to come and join the circle of my close companions, it was already too late.’

Josse did not understand. ‘Sire?’

‘Hugh de Brionne was already of my company,’ the king said. ‘His father, as you will know, Josse, was a friend of my brother’s, and, indeed, of my father’s as well, and it followed, as these things do, that Hugh in turn would be one of my companions. Then, later, Olivier came too.’

‘But Olivier is not Felix’s son,’ Josse whispered. Despite everything, it was still hard to speak Lady Beatrice’s secret out loud.’

‘No,’ the king said softly. ‘He is mine.’

Ninian wondered how far he would have to ride before he felt safe. The exhilaration of escaping from Acquin kept his spirits high for many miles but, as the hours went on, he began to be haunted by the feeling that someone was following him.

He decided that, reluctant as he was, it was time to put his fears to the test. In a stretch of wooded, hilly country, he kept an eye out for a suitable location and soon found one. He dismounted, led Garnet under the cover of the trees and then took up the position he had picked out. It was on top of the steep side of a long stretch of the road that ran almost straight — Ninian had heard it said that such roads had been left by the Romans — and thus afforded a good view back the way he had come. The road was enclosed on the east by the high stone cliff on the top of which Ninian now stood. On the opposite side, the ground fell away to a valley where a river ran, its water glinting silver in the thin light.

He waited.

Some time later, he saw what he had dreaded: a horseman was approaching. He was still a long way off, but it was clear even from a distance that he was following a trail. He would ride a few paces, then draw in his horse and bend over towards the ground. Ninian guessed he was checking for the marks of Garnet’s hooves.

They have followed me all the way from Acquin, Ninian thought. He was surprised at how calm he felt. He could understand how the king’s men had tracked him to Yves’s manor, for anyone who knew of Ninian’s relationship to Josse would have guessed that he might well flee to seek refuge with Josse’s family. However, it seemed an extraordinary piece of ill fortune that the pursuers had unknowingly guessed correctly as to the direction that Ninian had taken when he left Yves.

But, of course, they hadn’t. He smiled grimly as the realization dawned. The king had many men at his disposal. There would be a group hunting for Ninian along roads leading away from Acquin in each direction.

He wondered if he should try to overpower the man. He baulked at any stronger word, even in his own mind; he could not contemplate killing someone purely because that person was following orders. Could he somehow imprison the man, but in such a way that he would be found and released once Ninian was far enough away?

No, no! He was angry with himself. There would be no point in such an action, for this man would be expected to report back to the rest of his group and, when he didn’t, they would instantly become suspicious and the whole lot of them would come swooping down on Ninian like crows on a corpse.

There was only one thing to be done: Ninian would have to disappear. So far, for the sake of speed he had been travelling on the roads and the better-maintained tracks. At night, tired, dirty, hungry and with money in his purse, he would lodge at small, out-of-the-way inns. Well, now all that would have to change. He would set out across country, checking his direction by the sun and the stars, and at night, when he and Garnet could go no further, he would sleep out in the open.

The weather was very cold, especially at night. Silently, Ninian blessed Yves, for providing him with extra clothes and wrappings.

Down on the road, the man had stopped. He sat leaning forward over the pommel of his saddle, one arm up to his head as if he were wiping sweat off his face. That was odd, for the day was chilly. Perhaps he had been riding hard.

It did not matter. What was important was that, for the moment, he had come to a halt. Ninian crept backwards, away from the cliff top, and moved quickly and quietly back through the undergrowth to where he had tethered Garnet. He mounted, checked the sun and then, branching away from the road, set off.

The man on the horse was in agony. He did not think he could ride any further, and he did not know what inner strength had kept him going this far. Fire raced through his body. It hurt abominably to move, but the pain barely lessened when he stayed still.

He was trying so hard to follow orders. Find him.

He had done what the voices had commanded. He had found his man, tracking him to the place where he had guessed he would go, then paying that fool of a groom for information. He had paid lavishly but, even so, the greedy young man had demanded more, whining about having an elderly mother and a prospective wife to please. It had been so easy to stop him, although the man wished now that he had removed the bag of coins from the dead hand. The voices were really cross with him about that.

It was sheer luck that had enabled him to pick up his quarry after leaving the little village. He had stood at a place where four roads came together and, shutting his eyes, spun round a few times. When the dizziness forced him to stop, he happened to be facing in the right direction.

The orders had gone on echoing in his head. Catch him. Silence him. He had tried; God knew how hard he had tried, riding on, ignoring his increasing pain, ignoring the demands of common sense that told him to stop, find help, creep away somewhere and rest until he felt well again.

Every time he thought about giving up, they began again with their nagging and their haranguing, warning him, shouting at him, until he barely knew what he was doing.

He must be stopped, they insisted. He carries the blame for your crime. If ever he is permitted to speak in his own defence, the truth will come out.

Do not let him get away.

He had come to a halt. He wondered vaguely how long he had been standing there, with his lathered horse growing cold beneath him. He must go on. Feebly, he tried to kick his heels into his horse’s sides, but the gesture had no effect. He put his hand down to his side. Then, alarmed, he slid his fingers inside his tunic and under his shirt. He felt wetness. When he withdrew his hand, his fingertips were stained with blood and pus.

His head ached so much that he could barely see.

He closed his eyes. Presently, he slid off his horse and fell with a thump down on to the road. His horse ambled away, put down its head and began to tear at the thin grass on the verge.

Some time later, a miller returning home from market with an empty cart came across him. He caught the horse, which had wandered some way along the road, and then went to the huddled shape lying motionless right in his path.

The man was dead. The miller crossed himself, muttered a few words and then raised the body with powerful arms and laid it in the cart.

Olivier de Brionne, son of Lady Beatrice and bastard of the king of England, was taken away to be laid out by an elderly village midwife and, when she was done, buried in a small churchyard somewhere in the middle of France.