Whiter than the Lily

17

It was night, and Josse had crept right up to the long hall. The Saltwych community appeared to be asleep and, as far as Josse had been able to ascertain, they did not post a guard during the hours of darkness.

He had left Horace some distance away, in a hawthorn brake where the stunted, twisted trees had provided both concealment and a stout trunk to which to hitch the horse’s reins. The sky was clear and Josse could see the stars, whose faint light was the only illumination; the moon had not yet risen. As he had made his stealthy way from the thorn brake to the Saltwych settlement, silver strands of mist had risen from the marsh to twine around his legs and feet as if they were silken bonds that tried to hold him back.

He stood in the shelter of the long hall’s thatched roof for some time, perfectly still, listening. Other than the calming sounds of animals’ and humans’ snores and deep regular breathing as they slept, not a sound. Finding a gap in the warped planks of the wall, he peered through it and, by the last glow of a torch set in the wall that was slowly spluttering to extinction, made out the sleeping forms of men and women. If one of the women were Aebba, there was no way of knowing. The chieftain’s area had been closed off by a hanging that had been drawn across the doorway; presumably he and his immediate circle — including, no doubt, the man with the silvery eyes — were within, but Josse did not think it necessary to confirm it. Necessary or not, it was far too dangerous; the very idea of sneaking inside the hall and peering around the heavy hanging made sweat break out on his back. If he were to be caught, there would be no mercy and he was beginning to think he had made a bad mistake in coming.

It was not a good thing to think. Still, he was here now and he might as well try to accomplish what he had set out to do. Moving silently along the length of the hall, he stepped out from under the thatch and made his careful way to inspect the huddle of outbuildings. There were four of them, as far as he could see, and all were circular in shape, quite small — about three or four paces in diameter — and in an even worse state of repair than the long hall. One smelt of woodsmoke — the bakehouse? — and another seemed to be a workroom of some sort; Josse thought he could make out a workbench through the partly open door. He stepped inside and felt along the rough wood of the bench. His fingers touched the cold metal of tools, then something that gave a faint clink as his hand knocked against it, the tiny sound magnified by his fear. Feeling the links of a chain, he waited for his heartbeat to slow down.

The last hut, furthest away from the hall and set apart from the others, was empty. Or so he thought, stretching up to look through a knothole in the planking. But it was dark inside and he went round to the door to see if he could open it. The door was bolted on the outside with a heavy wooden bar that had been thrust through four iron hoops, two on the door and one on each of the walls on either side.

He was turning away when it occurred to him that you only bolt a door on the outside to keep somebody in.

It could, of course, be livestock; a sickly hound, a farrowing sow. But there was no animal smell and Josse did not think that whatever was inside walked on four legs.

Standing right up against the door, as if he hoped to muffle any sound he made by his body, he took hold of the wooden bar and slid it slowly and carefully to the right. Despite its weight, it moved easily, as if this action were a frequent occurrence. When it was clear of all four hoops, Josse placed it very carefully on the ground. He had, he was almost certain, made not a sound.

He pulled the door towards him, opening it just enough to cast a little of the night’s soft radiance within. The light fell upon a beaten earth floor — not very clean — and upon a dark shape, perhaps a bundle of old sacks, lying against the wall on the far side of the hut. He was just wondering why it should have been thought necessary to bolt the door on a heap of sacks when the sacks gave a low, mournful groan.

His heart gave a great lurch of alarm. As the shock subsided, he knelt down and put out a hand …

… and touched a bare ankle, around which was the chill clamp of a shackle attached to a chain. Following the chain upwards, Josse found its other end, securely fastened to a ring set in the wall.

Whoever the prisoner was, he — or perhaps she, for the ankle felt slender — was clad in sacking and lying on the bare floor. Muttering quiet words of assurance, Josse felt for where he thought the shoulder ought to be and gave it a gentle shake. There was a wad of some rough cloth beneath her head and, stuck to her cheek, it moved with her.

There was no response and so he shook her a little harder and, hating himself, gave the soft flesh quite a hard pinch. Again, nothing, other than a soft moan. Getting his arm round behind the girl’s back — he was sure now that it was a girl — he propped her up and said, right into her ear, ‘Can you hear me? Do not be afraid, I wish only to help you.’

The head lolled heavily forward and sticky rats’ tails of ill-smelling hair fell across the face. Was she unwell? Was that why she had been isolated in here? Suddenly fearful that he had done something foolishly rash that might result in some dread sickness developing in his own body, he cursed under his breath. Then reason came back; for one thing, you did not normally chain up a sick person — unless they were mad and dangerous — and for another, she was cool to the touch with no hint of fever.

Why was she chained there all alone? And why, if she were not ill, was she so unresponsive?

The thought came to him that she might be drugged.

Carefully he laid her heavy head back down on the hard earth. How was he to get her out? The first problem would be how to get that shackle off her ankle and he remembered the workroom with its array of tools. If he could find something that he could use, then he-

From somewhere quite close, somebody coughed.

Josse froze.

Dear God, he had left the door of the hut ajar! There was a watchman after all and he was doing his rounds, would any moment now be outside the hut!

But then there came the blessed sound of water falling on the earth. There was a grunt of satisfaction — a deep grunt, so it was a man — then he must have finished urinating for there was silence once more. Then, faintly, there came the sound of a wooden door closing.

Josse crouched for some time, utterly still. Then, when his cramped legs could stand it no longer, slowly he stood up.

He stared down at the girl, who had not stirred. There was nothing he could do for her just then, he realised that now. Any attempt to free her would make a noise, and then he would probably end up chained in there beside her.

I won’t leave you here, child, he told her silently. I don’t know what you’ve done but, whatever your crime, it’s inhuman to chain a child away in the darkness and drug her to insensibility. I will come back for you.

Then he crept out of the hut, carefully closed the door and replaced the wooden bar and hurried away.

As he ran, crouching, back to the thorn brake, he realised that the mist had thickened considerably while he had been at Saltwych. He could make out the hawthorn trees — just — but they were disappearing fast into the milky whiteness. Breaking into a sprint, he raced over the last fifty paces and gained the shelter of the trees. Horace, moving his feet in restless unease, gave a soft whicker of greeting; patting his neck, Josse unfastened the reins, swung up into the saddle and said, ‘You are not near as relieved to see me as I am you, old friend.’ Then, giving the horse a cluck of encouragement, they hurried away towards the track that led up to the top of the escarpment.

The way up through the trees was even more sinister by night and darkness reduced the visibility almost to nothing; Josse and Horace went by instinct alone. Reaching the top, it was a relief to emerge into the relative brightness of the starlight. Dismounting, Josse was about to find himself some sheltered spot in which to sleep away what remained of the night when they jumped him.

There were at least two of them, he knew that because he saw someone grasp Horace’s reins just as another man threw a length of cloth of some sort over his head and flung him to the ground. He opened his mouth to yell out his protest when a large hand was clamped across his lips and a voice — a man’s — hissed in his ear, ‘Do not make a sound! They are abroad and they must not find us!’

Josse gave an almighty lurch and the man pinning him down almost lost his grip. But, powerful though Josse was, his assailant had the strength of desperation and Josse realised after a moment that he was not going to escape the man’s hold. Relaxing, Josse gave a nod, which he hoped the man would take for assent, and waited.

The man got off him. The cloth was pulled off his head and he found himself face to face with Brice.

‘I am sorry, Josse,’ Brice whispered, ‘but we had to stop you making any sound. We have been waiting for you to warn you. They are looking for you.’

‘Why? What-’ Josse began, but Brice shook his head.

‘Not now. We are not safe here. Come with me.’

Horace, Josse saw, had been led away by Brice’s companion — was it the huntsman? It looked as though it was — and was already some distance down the road. He was heading eastwards, along the cliff-top road and towards the distant sea. Of Brice’s and the huntsman’s horses there was no sign. Urging Josse to hurry, Brice set off at a run after Horace and the huntsman.

Soon the man turned off the road and led the way up a narrow and overgrown track that wound through thick undergrowth into a copse of ancient beech and oak trees. They came to a small clearing and the man led Horace over to a makeshift corral where two other horses were tethered. Brice said, ‘Do not worry — your horse will be fed and watered,’ and, taking Josse’s arm, led him into a rough shelter made of woven branches and roofed with bracken. Motioning him towards a seat made from a length of log, he said, ‘Please, sit down. I will fetch food and drink for us as well.’

He was gone for only a short while, returning with bread — rather dry — and some strips of dried meat. He also brought ale in a flask. Setting these offerings out neatly on the grassy floor of the shelter, he said, ‘Again, I apologise, Josse, for treating you so roughly and I thank you for coming here with us. You had only my word that there was danger in remaining exposed out there on the cliff top.’

Josse studied him. Then he said, ‘I have no reason to doubt your word, Brice. I do not now believe that you mean me harm.’

Brice dropped his head. He said quietly, ‘Thank you for that.’

‘But,’ Josse went on, ‘be that as it may, I need an explanation.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Brice sounded distracted. Getting up, he went to the entrance of the shelter and looked out, returning with a glum expression. ‘I had hoped to have help in this tale that I am about to tell you,’ he murmured, ‘but it seems that it is to be left to me.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Which I suppose is only fair, since much of what has occurred has come about because of my own insistence in having that upon which I had set my heart.’

‘Ah,’ Josse said, and even to him the brief syllable sounded knowing. He was beginning to think that he understood.

Brice looked up at him sharply. Then he said quietly, ‘Aye, Josse d’Acquin. They do say that little escapes your notice.’ Then, after a short pause as if he were gathering his words, he said, ‘You are aware, I know, of the tragedy that befell my wife.’

‘Aye.’

‘Well, I felt much guilt over the manner of her death and, until I did penance with the good monks at Canterbury, I was near to drowning in remorse and self-pity, neither of which was going to bring Dillian back. Did you ever wonder how I picked myself up and got on with my life, Josse?’

‘I-’ The truth was that Josse had barely spared Brice’s private life a thought. They had met from time to time, as neighbours tend to do, exchanged greetings, made small talk. ‘No,’ he said honestly.

Again, Brice smiled. ‘Well, men are not in the habit of searching their souls concerning their own or one another’s emotions. We consider, do we not, that sensitive and complicated things of that nature are best left to the womenfolk?’ Not waiting for an answer, he plunged on, ‘I did mourn my wife, sincerely and for a long time. But then I met someone else and I fell in love with her.’

You met Galiena, Josse thought, although he did not speak.

‘She was — matters were delicate,’ Brice went on. ‘We were not free to be together, to enjoy a steady fostering of our feelings for each other; in short, not free to admit our love. We could only meet by careful arrangement and we were helped in this by a sympathetic friend who did us the great kindness of relaying messages between us. She — my lady — liked to ride and it was known that she often set off alone to hunt with her falcon.’

‘Indeed?’ Josse had not known that Galiena enjoyed such pastimes but then, he thought, why should he have been told?

‘Indeed,’ Brice repeated. Misunderstanding Josse’s query, he said, ‘It sounds unlikely, perhaps, for one who does not know her, and I suppose that it is unusual for a woman to hunt alone. But that is her way.’

He spoke of her, Josse noticed, as though she were still alive. It touched him profoundly for, even though the man’s love for her had been adulterous, it also appeared to have been deep and sincere.

‘We spent many happy hours out in the wild country together,’ Brice was saying, ‘and our urgent need not to be seen caused us to find lonely places where men do not go.’ He raised his eyes to Josse, his own naked with the emotions that were driving him. ‘We became lovers, Josse, for we could not wait for matters to work out so that we could ask the Church for her blessing on our union. We-’

But Josse could not contain himself. Even if the two of them had truly loved each other, Galiena was wife to Ambrose; what of him? Were his feelings not to be considered at all? ‘And just how were you expecting this working out of matters to be accomplished, eh?’ he demanded. ‘Were you waiting for Ambrose to die so that you could marry the mistress whom you had already impregnated?’

Brice stared at him, his mouth open. He shook his head as if in disbelief, then said, ‘Ambrose? Why should we wish that Ambrose-’

Then light appeared to dawn. He said, and the anger was audible in his voice, ‘You believe I loved Galiena? Josse, you make a foul accusation!’ He was on his feet, looming over Josse, large hands clenched into fists.

Quickly Josse got up too. ‘I make the accusation because I have followed the hints and the suggestions that led me to it!’ he shouted back. ‘From the first, when you took me to Ryemarsh, I observed the tension and the suppressed excitement in you as we rode towards your love! Man, you were like a boy in the throes of calf-love!’ Ignoring Brice’s menacing expression, he ploughed on. ‘And then, when we rode out together from Readingbrooke just yesterday, I said that I had guessed your secret and you did not deny it!’

‘Yes, but I thought you-’

But Josse was too agitated to let him speak. ‘You were not of the party that escorted Galiena from Ryemarsh on her way to Hawkenlye, for you had left Ryemarsh the previous evening to return home. Or so you said. Then, after we reached New Winnowlands and I left the group, you met up with her somewhere on the road! I went to your house, Brice, I went to call for you when I set off for Hawkenlye and you were not there! And then she died, your mistress Galiena, and she was poisoned!’ He paused, breathing hard. ‘Good God, I have even found myself wondering if it was you who poisoned her!’

Anger seemed to have drained out of Brice. His face dark with sorrow, he said gravely, ‘Why should I have wished her dead?’

‘Because she carried your child. It was meant to be a pleasant diversion, your lovemaking, and yet it resulted in her pregnancy, she who was married to another.’

But even as Josse said the words, he knew that he was wrong. Terribly wrong.

There was silence in the shelter. Slowly Brice sat down again and, after a while, looked up at Josse. ‘I am horrified that you should believe me capable of such dreadful callousness,’ he said, dropping his head and burying his face in his hands. ‘You know of my past, aye, and I suppose you think that a man whose hot temper led to the death of his wife might similarly lose control and bring about the death of his mistress.’ Removing his hands, eyes firmly on Josse’s, he said, ‘But I swear to you that you are wrong this time. I knew Galiena, of course I did, and I honoured her for her kindness and her generosity, aye, and for her beauty.’ He gave a faint smile, there and gone in an instant. ‘I admit that, had she been free and had my heart not already been engaged elsewhere, I might well have courted her. Under those circumstances, what man worth the name would not have done the same?’

‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. ‘She was comely, aye.’

‘Ambrose is my friend,’ Brice said simply. ‘I did not seduce his wife and become her lover, Josse; I give you my word. And I certainly did not poison her.’

Josse did not know what to say. He had been wrong, he knew that, and he thought he should go back along the misleading, treacherous track that had led him to accuse an innocent man of the fell deed of murder to see if he could discover where he had gone so badly astray.

But Brice took his silence for doubt.

‘You shall believe me, Josse d’Acquin,’ he raged, leaping to his feet again. ‘Wait and I will give you proof!’

Before Josse could protest, Brice had run from the shelter. Going to the entrance to watch, Josse saw him vault the makeshift rail around the horse corral and approach the huntsman, who was still engaged in tending to Horace. Brice bent down to say something — his very stance gave away his tension — and the huntsman nodded, wiped his hands and stepped over the rail beside Brice. Side by side they walked slowly back to the shelter.

Before Brice spoke; Josse realised what, had it not been for his having leapt so confidently to a totally wrong conclusion, he might have realised before.

Brice, the anger gone from his handsome face to be replaced by a very different, softer emotion, took the huntsman’s hand. And as the young man threw back the wide-brimmed concealing hat, Josse looked into a woman’s face.

A woman whom he recognised.

Brice, still smiling, held out her slim hand to Josse and he took it in his. Then Brice said to her, ‘My dearest love, I believe that you have already met Sir Josse d’Acquin. Josse, here is my lady.’

And Josse, burning with embarrassment, looked down into the sea-green and faintly amused eyes of Isabella de Burghay.