Whiter than the Lily

15

But Josse had reckoned without Brice’s swift reactions. Just as Horace lunged forward towards the slim man on the bay mare, Brice spurred his horse and, coming in hard from Josse’s right, leapt towards him, his right hand waving what Josse thought was a short sword in the air above him.

Horace took an instinctive avoiding step to the left.

It was not Horace’s fault.

He had been trained for war. He recognised an armed man advancing on him and he knew what to do so as to avoid the killing blow to his rider’s body. And in that moment of drama, he had not the time to look down and check on the ground beneath his large feathered feet. Why, indeed, should he? He was on a track, and tracks did not normally fall away to empty space under him.

Except that this one did.

Although the three people up on the road could not have known, the place from which Brice had elected to gaze out over the marsh was very dangerous. There were some stunted bramble bushes along its outer edge and they hid a spot right at the edge of the cliff where, in the spring rains, fast-flowing rainwater had eroded the chalk from around a huge boulder, which had tumbled away down the escarpment to the flat land below.

In dodging the threat from his right, Horace had put his forefeet right in the place where the boulder used to be.

Pitched forward alarmingly, the big horse tried to gather himself. But the momentum of the fall was too great for him to step back and his hind feet were borne over the edge of the cliff. Frantically scrabbling for purchase, Horace lurched forward down the steep slope and Josse, his left hand firmly grasping a hank of the horse’s mane, clung on as tight as a burr on a hound’s back and tried to throw his weight backward in a desperate attempt to help arrest their downhill flight.

He quite thought that it was the end of both of them and he spared a brief pitying thought that this wonderful animal who had served him so well for so long should be brought to his death by Josse’s mistake; he who should have paid more attention to that well-used, well-worn track up there!

But the slope was steepest right at the top of the cliff; after perhaps twenty paces — which felt to Josse as if he were falling totally out of control — the gradient eased. Horace, still travelling far too fast for a big, heavy horse going over treacherous ground, began to slow down.

And, as he took a final leap from the lowest slopes of the escarpment on to the flat ground below, Josse began to think that he wasn’t going to die after all.

There was a shout from above and Josse, turning, saw Brice at the top of the slope. The huntsman was beside him and both men were waving; Josse thought they were calling out to summon their companions down on the marsh. Hurriedly looking around him, he realised that he could still be surrounded if a party of riders approached from out on the marsh; making a swift decision, he turned Horace to the left and, spurring him on to a gallop, thundered off eastwards along the base of the cliff. He reasoned that in that direction lay the sea, and the sea meant ports and people. It might, he sincerely hoped, also mean safety.

After about a mile, he slowed down and stopped. As Horace’s fast breathing gradually calmed, Josse sat listening.

Other than the peaceful, natural sounds of a marsh in early summer, there was nothing to be heard.

And, now that the surging alarm of the flight down the cliff and the fear of armed men hunting him had abated, he wondered if he had judged the situation correctly.

Brice drew his sword! he reminded himself. He rode right at me.

But another interpretation had occurred to him. Brice had said, hadn’t he, that he knew who the newcomer was? And then Josse had drawn his own sword and ridden straight at the man on the bay. Well, if Brice did indeed know the man, then was it not perfectly reasonable to have defended him from Josse’s sudden onslaught?

‘I think, old friend,’ Josse said aloud, patting Horace’s sweaty neck, ‘that I have been a fool.’

And the worst folly of it all, he thought glumly as slowly he began to ride back the way he had come, is that I cannot now recall why it was that I should be so certain the newcomer meant me harm …

By the time he had returned to the place where he had slipped down the escarpment, there was no sign of either Brice or the huntsman. I am on my own again, Josse thought, and, thanks to my own recklessness, no further forward in my search than I was yesterday or the day before.

But there had been something, hadn’t there? Standing up above the marsh, Brice had said he thought he might have found the place they were looking for, only — what had he said? — it wasn’t where he expected it to be.

Well, Josse thought, if he could only picture in which direction Brice had been looking when he spoke, then that might provide a pointer. Staring up at the cliff top, he tried to remember.

And all at once an image slid into his mind. Just before Brice had raised his head to look along the track at the approaching huntsman, he had been staring straight down at the base of the escarpment beneath his feet.

He had mentioned a line of willows that ran along beside a stream. Slowly turning his head, Josse thought in amazement; and there they are! And the stream is there too; I have been jumping to and fro across it for two days.

Could it be? Was Brice right?

No, he couldn’t be because he had mentioned a corral and a long hall. There was no corral, unless that line of old, worn stumps had once supported a barricade. But, even if it had, where was the hall?

He was looking straight at the escarpment when he saw it. Half concealed by a copse of willows — they grew on the cliff side of the stream as well as on the marsh side — he thought he had seen something that did not belong there. It was the edge of a thick, reed-thatched roof.

Going stealthily nearer, he realised that he had been right. It was a roof, some fifteen or twenty paces long, and it covered a building so worn by wind and weather and so stained by the camouflaging lichen that he was quite certain he would never have made it out unless he knew exactly where to look. It had, he thought in wonder, so thoroughly taken on the aspect of its surroundings that it blended in completely.

The building was made of wood. And, Josse had to admit, it looked as if it were a long hall. Beside it he could just make out the outlines of a handful of small outbuildings.

Ignoring the prickle of apprehension that flew up his spine, he nudged Horace with his knees and walked slowly forward. This was the place where Galiena’s kin dwelt, the place from which she had been taken as a baby to be given to Raelf and his barren first wife. Well, then it was to here that Josse’s mission must lead him, whether he was apprehensive or not.

As he rode steadily over the springy ground, something strange happened. The day was fine, with strong sunshine beating down from a deep blue sky and neither a cloud to be seen nor any hint of moisture on the slight, warm breeze. Yet, as if from nowhere, strands of mist seemed to curl up out of the marsh as if some invisible being had set fire to the sparse, dry grass and it was sending a soft smoke up into the air.

But it could not be smoke, because Josse could detect no smell of burning. Checking Horace, he watched. And the tentative first tendrils of vapour quickly grew until the scene ahead of him — all around him, he realised, looking round with a start of alarm — was concealed behind a shifting, flowing, nebulous film of white.

He could no longer see the hall beneath the cliff. Neither could he see the willows or the stream alongside which they grew. In the sudden sea fret that had floated across the marsh — as it not infrequently did, although Josse was not to know it — he was as a blind man on unfamiliar territory.

It seemed unwise to ride on. Speaking reassuringly to Horace, who did not appear to like the mist any more than Josse did, he sat and waited for it to clear.

The silence was total. It was as if the fog were muffling all the normal small, everyday sounds that are taken for granted until they are no longer there.

First blind, now deaf, Josse thought grimly. Then: if they’re out there and they are familiar with this ground, then I’ll never be an easier target than I am now.

So closely did the sound follow on the thought that he thought for an optimistic moment that he had imagined it. But then it came again: the clear ring of metal.

It sounded like a horseman, approaching unseen through the brume. The sound came from Josse’s right … but then it came again from his left. Not one but two of them.

Putting his hand on his sword hilt, Josse strained to see them. And presently they materialised out of the mist: four men, all armed, on short, sturdy ponies.

They were pale, as if they lived their lives in the shadows, and light-eyed. Three were hooded; the fourth wore some sort of round helm on his blond hair. Forming themselves into a semicircle facing in towards Josse, they stared at him in intent silence.

Then the man in the helm said, his words carrying a peculiar accent, ‘What do you want here?’

Josse had been staring, half hypnotised, at the brooch that fastened the man’s cloak. It was round and bore a design of a running wolf chasing its own tail. It shone in the opaque light with the unmistakable brilliance of gold. Looking the man in the face, he replied, ‘I am searching for a place called Deadfall.’

There was a murmur from one of the other men and what sounded like a brief, humourless laugh. The man in the helm said, ‘This is Saltwych, or so it is known to us. Men do call it Deadfall, or so I am told.’

Again, one of the other riders made some comment. Josse heard it, quite clearly, but he did not understand it; the man had spoken in an alien tongue.

The helmed man said, a hint of menace in his voice, ‘What is your mission at Deadfall?’

I am here on an honest quest, Josse told himself. I have done no wrong, have not even trespassed on private land, as far as I am aware. I will not be intimidated.

‘I have come from Hawkenlye Abbey with news of a death,’ he said quietly.

‘Hawkenlye Abbey?’ The man frowned. ‘I know it not. Why should a death in that place be news that you have to bring to us here?’

Josse was reluctant to explain. He did not know whom he was addressing; the man might be an important figure in the community who dwelt in this penumbral place, and therefore entitled to hear first of what had happened to the daughter whom they had given away. He might equally well be nothing more than a guard whose job it was to give the alarm when strangers came too close. ‘It is a delicate matter,’ he said. ‘I would tell of it first to-’ To whom? And how could he express himself without causing offence? But the four men were close upon him now and he realised he had no option but to speak his mind. ‘I wish to speak first to whoever leads your community,’ he said firmly.

There was more muttering but the man in the helm gave a curt nod, as if he understood the etiquette that demanded grave tidings be given first to the head of the group.

‘Wait here,’ he commanded. ‘I will announce you and ask if they will receive you.’

Putting spurs to his horse, he trotted off into the mist.

The remaining three riders were now very close to Josse and Horace was uneasy. Murmuring to him, Josse put a calming hand on the horse’s neck. Then suddenly the man on his right said haltingly, ‘You are — fit to go to hall?’ One of the others laughed as if at a private joke. ‘It is great honour,’ the man went on. Reaching out, he brushed at Josse’s tunic, which was showing all too many signs of nights spent in the open. ‘Must not go inside in dirty clothes!’ the man said. ‘Must tidy hair, clean mud from boots!’

Now all three men were laughing, but quietly, as if they did not want to be overheard. Glancing swiftly at the man on his left — he was young, little more than a boy — Josse was quite sure he saw fear in the pale eyes.

Dear God, Josse prayed silently, what sort of a place have I stumbled into?

There came a sound from the midst of the white fog before him; it was faint and, again, suppressed by the mist, but it sounded as if someone had blown on a horn. The three men leapt to attention, all amusement wiped from their faces, and formed a line beside Josse, one man on his right, two on his left.

The man who had spoken to him gave him a nod and said, ‘We go.’

Then, moving as one, Josse included, all four of them began to go forward into the blind whiteness.

As they went, it seemed to grow thinner until it was no more than a thin veil that confused sight. Then, through its silvery sheen, Josse could once more see the hall and the huddle of outbuildings.

His attendants — he hoped that was what they were, although in fact they seemed more like guards — pressed close on either side of him. As they neared the collection of buildings, he saw, dismayed, that there were more men standing on either side of the hall and all of them were armed.

His guards rode with him right up to the wooden hall. Then they fell away, the man who had spoken to him making a gesture that said plainly, go on!

Feeling very vulnerable in the open space between the horsemen at his back and the swordsmen in front of him, Josse rode on alone. When he was only a few paces from the hall, he spied what he thought must be the door, although its presence was only indicated by a small gap in the wooden planking of the wall, as if it had been opened just a little to admit fresh air.

One of the men standing by the door approached and indicated that Josse should dismount. He did so, putting Horace’s reins into the man’s outstretched hand. Then, eyes holding the other man’s, he straightened his tunic and put his right hand on his sword hilt. With a faint smile, the man said, ‘Nobody carries arms when he is admitted into the company in the great hall. Your weapons, please.’

With reluctance, Josse unbuckled his sword belt and handed it over. The man nodded at the dagger in its sheath, and Josse passed that to him as well. Then, the smile broadening until it seemed to hold a tiny amount of genuine warmth, the man said, again in that strange accent, ‘Your sword and dagger will be safe. I will guard them for you.’

With a brief bow — it seemed wise to reply to courtesy with courtesy — Josse said, ‘I am grateful.’

Then the man pushed the door open and, extending a hand palm uppermost, indicated that Josse should go inside.

He did not know what to expect. The light was poor; the long hall was tucked away beneath the cliff and the willows, and not much light penetrated through the partly opened door. Josse could see little but, to judge from the presence of the guards outside and from the remarks of the three horsemen, he thought that the hall might be a place of splendour. Long tables groaning beneath food and drink, splendid tapestries on the walls to keep out the draughts, the crossed swords and shields of defeated enemies and the heads of noble creatures felled in the hunt as decorations. The home, perhaps, of a rich lord who valued his privacy and maintained his borders by a show of arms. And there was the man with the helm to consider too — that brooch he had worn on his shoulder must be worth a fortune …

Stepping forward, Josse’s foot slipped and he stumbled into what seemed to be a shallow groove cut in the floor. The stench of animal urine rose around him, hardly what he had thought to find in this place. But perhaps the hall was built in the old style; he wondered if this first area were a stable or a pen for livestock. Men had always lived alongside their animals when they believed that there was a need to keep the creatures safe; many men still lived that way. Withdrawing his foot — his boot made an unpleasant squelch as he pulled it from whatever substance made up the noisome slurry — he moved on.

He went through a wood-framed doorway set in a wattle screen that appeared to be some sort of internal division and decided that he had been right about the first space inside the door being for the animals. This second area smelt strongly of smoked meat and, above him, he could make out bulky shapes hanging suspended from the beams that held up the reed thatch.

As within the first area, there was nobody there.

And if the lord whom Josse had been imagining did indeed live in the luxury that wealth bestowed, then there was still no sign of it.

He went on through another partition and now he felt warmth. Abruptly there was light as whatever dark material had been before the hearth, blocking its glow, was removed.

Before Josse had a chance to do more than have a swift glance around him — bare walls made of planks that were warping so that gaps had begun to appear between them … smoke-blackened rafters and cobwebs hanging down from the reed thatch … bare floor thick with dirt — someone spoke.

And a voice that demanded instant attention said, ‘You have penetrated to the depths of this hall. You have come with news of a death. Why do you bring it here to us?’

Looking across the hearth, firelight after darkness rendering him almost as blind as he had been outside in the mist, Josse made out shapes, forms. Beyond the fire, set against the far wall of the hall, was a raised dais. Standing upon it, darker patches in the darkness, were two tall wooden chairs, the taller of the two splendid and resembling a throne. Both seats were occupied.

In the hearth, a log fell with a shower of bright sparks. As the sudden brightness lit the dim interior, Josse was staring towards the figure in the lower of the two chairs. Light fell on the face — the man was leaning forward to study Josse as curiously as Josse was studying the outlines of the pair in the wooden seats — and Josse recognised the bright eyes.

With a start of horror he recoiled, stepping back involuntarily from the hearth as memory made the sweat break out across his back. Catching his foot in something on the dirty floor — he had a fleeting impression of softness, as if he had tripped on a tattered fur rug — he fell heavily, banging the back of his head hard against the beaten earth.

A blazing trail of stars seemed to flash across his vision, then everything went black.