Whiter than the Lily

16

He opened his eyes to see someone staring down at him. It was a small child — a girl child — and, as soon as she saw that he was conscious, she called out something that he did not understand then, leaping up, rushed away.

He turned on to his side — he had, he discovered, been flat on his back — and stared after her. She wore a tunic in some sort of rough fabric that looked like sacking and her long plait of pale hair hung down to her waist. The delicate white skin of her bare feet was begrimed and filthy.

A recollection floated into his head. He had opened his eyes once before, he was almost sure of it, and seen someone … Not the child but an adult. A woman. And there had been something odd about her … He frowned, worrying at the image until it began to clear. Aye, that was why it was strange, because if he had seen who he thought he had, then she should not be there because she was at Hawkenlye Abbey.

He was still staring in the direction in which the little girl had run away. He seemed to be lying in the middle section of the hall; he could see the joints and haunches of smoked meat hanging from the blackened rafters above. The child had run off towards the door and he shifted his position slightly so that he could peer round the wattle screen.

Aye, that was where she’d been, the woman who ought not to be there! She had been standing in the outer area of the hall and looked around the screen at him, tentatively, as if ready to draw her head back swiftly if he saw her.

As he recovered from having knocked himself out, he began to wonder. Maybe it had been part of a dream, for why on earth should she be here? Deciding that all he could do was to keep his eyes open and see if he spotted her again, he resolved to put the matter out of his mind. Instead, he turned his attention to sitting up — which made his head ache more fiercely — and seeing if he could attract anyone’s attention.

But in fact there was no need, for soon the little girl came back with an older woman — her mother, presumably, for there was a likeness between them — who, with a solicitous smile, asked Josse how he was feeling and offered him a drink.

He was about to take it from her when he stopped. Was it wise, to take food or drink from suspicious strangers? As if the woman perceived his doubt, she said, ‘It is a concoction made from the willow. It will help your sore head.’ Putting out her hand, she touched the bump on the back of his skull with gentle fingers. ‘You fell hard, stranger, and the floor is unforgiving.’

Still he was uncertain. With a soft sound of impatience, the woman gave the mug to the child, said something to her and both she and Josse watched as the little girl took a mouthful, swallowed and made a face.

The woman smiled at Josse. ‘It is bitter to the taste. But I will give her a honey cake to take the effect away.’ Then, her face straightening, ‘Now will you drink?’

It seemed foolish not to, so he sipped at the drink — it was indeed very bitter — until it had all gone. He was not sure whether it was merely his imagination, but he had a fancy that the throbbing in his head began to lessen immediately.

The woman was watching him intently. ‘You feel better?’

‘Aye. I do,’ he agreed.

‘Ah. Then,’ she said as gracefully she rose to her feet, ‘I am ordered to take you before the clan chieftain.’

She helped him to stand and, understanding without being told, waited at his side until his head stopped spinning. His eyesight was a little blurred, he noticed. He blinked hard a few times and it seemed to help. Then he nodded to the woman and she led him through the doorway and into the end chamber of the hall.

Now only one seat was occupied; in the larger of the two wooden chairs sat a tall, fair-haired man. Although Josse had not studied him closely when he had first entered the room — he had had eyes only for the other man, in the lower chair — he was almost certain that this was the same man who had sat on the throne-chair then. His long hair was fair and bound with a narrow circlet of gold above his brow. He was bearded and the tails of a moustache hung down either side of his firm and generous mouth. He was broad in the shoulder, his muscular strength displayed by the sleeveless tunic that he wore. Around both upper arms he wore gold arm-rings.

The light blue eyes fixed on Josse, he said, ‘You have news for me, stranger. Since you have taken pains in the bringing of it, let me hear now what tidings you bring.’

Standing on the opposite side of the hearth, Josse tried not to think about the figure who had previously sat in that other chair — perhaps he had dreamed that, too — and, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders, gave his credentials. ‘I am Josse d’Acquin and I have come from Hawkenlye Abbey. I am constrained to inform you that a kinswoman of yours has recently met her death there.’

Watching the chieftain, Josse had no doubt that Galiena had indeed stemmed from here; everyone he had encountered so far shared her pale skin and colouring and the man in front of whom he now stood could easily have been her true father.

‘My kinswoman?’ the chieftain asked. ‘You are certain?’

‘My lord’ — Josse was not sure if that was the correct form of address, but it would have to serve — ‘I speak of a woman known as Galiena of Ryemarsh. She was adopted as a baby by a family that dwells at Readingbrooke; the lord’s name is Raelf. I went to them to tell them of Galiena’s death and, although they grieved for their daughter, they told me that she was not of their blood but that she had been born in a place known as Deadfall. And this community of yours, I understand, is known by outsiders as Deadfall, although your people tell me that you speak of it by a different name.’

‘Yes, we call our dwelling place Saltwych,’ the chieftain agreed. ‘Of old, men extracted salt from the flood plains of the marsh. But the shingle bank that guards the salt marsh from the sea has grown with time and now the tides come no more to flood the land. The name, however, is a long time dying.’ He gave Josse a smile. Then, as it faded, he said with sudden sharpness, ‘Galiena, you say? And how old was this woman?’

‘Er — seventeen. No, eighteen, I think. I do not know for sure,’ Josse said. This man, he was thinking, was perhaps in his late thirties or early forties and could certainly be her father. Feeling the tension in his neck and shoulders, he tried to relax. It was not, after all, as though he were in danger!

Was it?

The chieftain’s hand was on his belt buckle and, as he sat staring down at Josse, his hand played over the intricately carved design that stood out in relief from the bright metal; the buckle, too, looked like gold or possibly silver gilt. Then he removed his hand and Josse saw what the design represented. It was a naked man with a headdress of eagle heads and in each hand he carried a long spear.

Then the man spoke. ‘You believe, Josse d’Acquin, that we are in the habit of giving away our children?’ Then, as Josse hesitated, he commanded curtly, ‘Speak!’

‘I do not know, my lord.’ Josse had decided that diplomacy was the wisest choice, bearing in mind the many armed men who stood within earshot. ‘I only report what others have told me.’

‘Of course you do,’ the chieftain said, mild irony in his voice. For some time there was silence and then, as Josse was beginning to feel distinctly uneasy, the man on the throne appeared to make up his mind. ‘You are mistaken,’ he stated flatly. ‘This woman who has died at the Abbey is not of our blood.’

‘But-’ Josse began. Then he stopped and, with a bow of the head, waited for the chieftain to continue.

‘You have come far to bring us the news and, although whoever sent you to us has in fact misled you, still your intention was good. And in addition you have suffered hurt here.’ Breaking off to raise a hand and call out some swift commands, he turned back to Josse and said, ‘Please, eat and drink with us before you go on your way. The day is still young and you can be on the road well before nightfall.’

There seemed no point in argument. Josse bowed again and told the chieftain that he would be honoured to accept the proffered hospitality.

A trestle table was set up and a carved wooden chair set at its head for the chieftain. A bench was put along one side and Josse was invited to be seated. As the chieftain took his place he said, ‘It is not right that a man should share my board and not know my name. I am Aelle, son of Aethelfrith of the line of the Iutae, who of old trace their lineage back to Woden. You are welcome, Josse d’Acquin, in my hall.’

While Josse was still absorbing this remarkable statement, food and drink were brought and quickly his host filled a rough earthenware mug with ale and thrust it into his hand. Bread still warm from the oven was placed on trenchers and a steaming black pot of some stew was dumped on the table. A brawny-armed woman stepped forward and ladled out portions for Josse and the chieftain. Obeying Aelle’s injunction to eat, Josse tried the stew and found that, despite the appetising smell, it consisted mainly of cabbage, onions and leeks, with a background of turnips to provide ballast. There was the smell and the faint taste of meat — pork, Josse thought — but he guessed it was only in the stock in which the stew had been cooked.

Eating and drinking as Aelle had commanded, he realised a profound truth about these strange people. They might be descended from kings — from gods, if Aelle were to be believed — and they might wear still the proud treasures of their past; Aelle’s circlet and arm rings, the shoulder brooch of the guard who had apprehended Josse. But their long hall was dirty and in ruins, their bare feet trod in their own filth and they subsisted on vegetables. The very guards who had detained Josse outside had made what he now appreciated to have been joking references to the need for him to brush the mud off his tunic before entering the hall, as if its squalor were a fact that had grown acceptable — even ironically amusing — by long familiarity. In short, they were deep in poverty.

Josse wanted more than anything to leave. He could have understood why a girl babe such as Galiena might have been given away; indeed, it would have been a brave and humane gesture to place her with a barren woman who longed for a child of her own and who could offer more than a life in this run-down, desolate and forgotten corner. But Aelle had denied all knowledge of her, and that appeared to be that.

Without any appearance of haste, Josse finished his food and drained his mug. Then, bowing to his host, he voiced courteous thanks and appreciation for the victuals and announced that he would be on his way.

Aelle walked with him to the door and watched as he reclaimed his weapons. Horace was brought and Josse mounted up. Then he said, ‘Farewell, Josse d’Acquin. I wish you success in your efforts to find the kinfolk of this dead woman and I regret that we were unable to help you.’

Repeating his thanks, Josse kicked Horace to a trot and rode away.

They would be watching him, of that he was certain. He set off towards the track leading up to the good road that ran along the cliff top and he resisted the urge to turn round. An innocent man would not keep checking to see if he were being followed. He found the steep track and set Horace to climb it and it was only when he was in the concealing shelter of the trees and the undergrowth that lined the upper road that he drew rein and, dismounting, found a vantage point from which he could look down on the marsh.

He could not see a soul.

Had they gone back to their dwelling? Forgotten all about him?

If they were innocent, he reasoned, then aye, that was what they would have done. But they were not. For all that Aelle denied the giving away of a child eighteen years ago, Josse did not believe him. There was far more going on at Deadfall — or Saltwych, as they called it — than it appeared on the surface. For one thing, there was that figure who had sat in the second chair. Unless Josse were imagining things — a possibility, he acknowledged, given that he had suffered a blow to the head — then who, or what, was he? And the fall was not relevant, Josse thought, with a sudden realisation that would have been exciting had it not been so frightening, because he had seen the man before he fell and knocked himself out. And that had not been the first encounter; Josse had seen him on the night of the storm.

It was the eyes, he thought. He had never seen eyes like that. Silvery, luminous, as if they were lit from within by some unearthly radiance.

Why had the man disappeared? Why had he been there at first — and, what was more, in a position of honour beside the chieftain — and then gone, disappearing without trace or mention, as though he did not exist?

He does exist, Josse thought.

And the silver-eyed man was not the only oddity; there was also the matter of the woman who should not be there. Josse had kept a surreptitious lookout for her while he was entertained at Aelle’s board and his vigilance had been successful. She had been careful — very careful — and he had only caught a rapid glimpse of her as she stood, behind two other women, and peered between them into the chamber where Josse and Aelle were eating.

He was sure she had not seen that he had noticed her; he had been facing away from her and seen her from the very edge of his field of vision.

It had been her, he knew it. She was not a handsome woman but she was a striking one. And what in God’s holy name was she doing in Saltwych when the proper place for Aebba, serving woman of the late Galiena Ryemarsh and now in attendance on the lord Ambrose, was surely at her master’s side?

He was going to have to return to Saltwych. He would go by night and he would be very careful not to be seen.

Aelle had said that Galiena was not of his blood. He claimed that his kin did not give up their children for adoption. Well, he might be telling the truth. But if so, if the people who lived at Saltwych were nothing to do with Galiena, then what was Aebba doing there?

There was a connection; there had to be. Frowning, Josse puzzled away at it. Aebba had set out in the party that had escorted Galiena to Hawkenlye and Galiena had dismissed her and sent her back to Ryemarsh when they came into view of the Abbey gates. Then the woman had gone with Ambrose when he went to join Galiena at Hawkenlye, this time arriving at the Abbey and staying there. Then Galiena died — Josse had a sudden vivid memory of Aebba’s expression as she stared down at her young mistress’s face — and Aebba, in the absence of any other duties, set about caring for Ambrose. Josse himself had seen her when she brought clean linen down to her master staying in the Vale.

How, then, did she come to be here at Saltwych?

Perhaps, he mused, Aebba knew of Galiena’s true lineage and, on the girl’s death, had come on the same mission that Josse had tried to carry out: to inform Galiena’s people that she was dead. But there was something amiss with that reasoning … After quite a lot of puzzling, Josse worked out what it was. Galiena had not liked Aebba; he was sure of it. He recalled the girl’s mutinous expression when Ambrose had suggested that Aebba be one of the party to escort Galiena to Hawkenlye Abbey, and he also remembered his own surprise that Galiena did not dismiss the woman and find herself a servant more to her liking. Was it reasonable, then, to assume that Galiena had entrusted the secret of her true birth to this serving woman whom she had disliked? No. It was not.

Something occurred to Josse that he had not thought of until now: did Galiena actually know her true parentage?

He stood deep in thought for some time. He finally concluded that it was a question that he could not answer. Ambrose did not appear to know, for he had sent Josse to Readingbrooke, to break the news to the people there whom he believed to be his late wife’s family.

But Ambrose, he reminded himself, had cause to do harm to Galiena, for she bore another man’s child and jealous husbands had been known to kill their wives for less. So perhaps he had known about Saltwych but had chosen to keep his knowledge to himself.

I am fumbling in the dark, Josse thought in frustration. There is so much that I do not know — that, I believe, is being deliberately obfuscated and kept from me.

He would go down to Saltwych as soon as it was dark. He would leave Horace securely tethered at a safe distance and he would creep up on the settlement as cautiously as he knew how. He would spy on the inhabitants, eavesdrop, search around those outbuildings to see what was kept in them. Audra had told him the truth, he was sure — why should she not? — and Aelle had lied. They did know about Galiena at Saltwych and the more Josse thought about it, the more convinced he became that they were somehow involved — implicated? — in her death.

They had herbal knowledge, that was plain, for had he himself not been treated with a remedy that was swifter and more effective than anything that he had been given before? And, for an old soldier who had sustained his share of wounds and sundry hurts, that was saying a lot. So could one of those strange people have made up a poison designed for slipping into something that Galiena would consume? And, not having succeeded at Ryemarsh, followed her to Hawkenlye and put the poison into Sister Tiphaine’s potion?

No. Not there, for the potion had not harmed the Abbess Helewise when she so bravely — so recklessly — drank from it.

And, anyway, why? Why should Aelle’s people want Galiena dead? Ambrose was a very wealthy man and the Saltwych community lived in dire poverty, but how could they expect to benefit from Ambrose’s wife’s death if the lord did not even know of the connection? But then perhaps he did know …

Oh, it was hopeless!

Smacking a fist furiously against the trunk of a birch tree, Josse tried to stop the whirling thoughts. I cannot solve the puzzle until I find out more, he thought, massaging his bruised knuckles. And find out more I shall.

He sat down, made himself as comfortable as he could against the birch tree and waited for darkness.