‘And I hear good things of Hawkenlye Abbey,’ the Lord was saying. ‘Do not think that, because I dislike one man of the Church, it follows that I feel the same about every other man and woman in holy orders. That Abbess, now, they say she is a fine, fierce woman.’
‘She didn’t like Father Micah either.’ The admission was out before Josse could ask himself if it was truly wise to make it. ‘That is, of course she’s terribly upset that he’s dead-’
‘Oh, terribly.’ There was clear irony in the Lord’s voice.
‘-and there will be prayers for his soul at the Abbey, I know, and a deal of grieving.’
‘Come, now, Sir Josse, that really is an unlikely exaggeration.’ Again, the Lord gave his short laugh.
Josse gave a half-hearted grin. ‘Very well. Not very much grieving. Just the natural shocked reaction to sudden death.’
‘Sudden accidental death, think you?’ The question was put so subtly that Josse, increasingly fuddled, did not immediately understand its importance.
‘I cannot yet say.’ He went to take another sip of ale but found to his vague surprise that he had once more emptied his mug. ‘He could have slipped on the icy track and slammed his face hard against something that did not give but, on the other hand, someone could have forced his head backwards.’ Absently he upturned his mug. ‘I do not know.’
There was silence in the hall. A log settled in the hearth, giving out a soft sound like a sigh. From somewhere quite near at hand Josse heard voices; a woman’s voice and, in one short, terse sentence, a man’s. He tried to make out the words but could not, which was surprising because they were clearly audible. Then through the fog in his head he realised. The woman was speaking in an unknown language. There was a sudden cry of distress, of pain, and a high, strained voice cried out briefly, abruptly silenced. Of course, Josse thought, the Lord of the High Weald’s wife was foreign. What did he say? Turkish? Aye. Something like that. And, poor soul, some quality of the frailty and sickness that kept her in her bed must give her pain. Poor woman.
Unreasonably pleased to have solved the little mystery of those overheard words in a foreign tongue, Josse beamed at the Lord. ‘It is good to have met you,’ he exclaimed.
‘And you.’ The Lord’s expression was amused.
With some effort, Josse stood up. ‘I must go,’ he announced. ‘It is not far to Hawkenlye, where I lodge tonight, but I would like to be back before dark.’
‘You are welcome to stay here. We eat well in my hall.’
I am sure you do, Josse thought, if the quality of your ale and your venison is anything to go by. Venison. The thought suddenly struck him. The deer could only have been shot in the Great Forest, which made it poaching. And the penalty for that was almost as bad as that for living outside Christian wedlock with someone of a different faith.
About to make some remark to that effect, Josse opened his mouth. Then the Lord also rose to his feet. He towered over Josse who, having taken into consideration that this huge man had a house hold of sons and grandsons who were probably equally huge, decided that the wise option was to keep quiet. If anybody asks me, he told himself sternly, I shall say, venison? What venison?
‘Thank you for your hospitality.’ He made a bow to the Lord, who returned it.
‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ he replied. Then, as if granting a great favour, he added, ‘You may come again. I shall inform those who guard my land that you are welcome here.’
Josse was helped out to the courtyard, where the guard who had admitted him stood holding Horace. The Lord tried to get him into the saddle but it proved too much of a challenge, even for such a big man. The guard was fully occupied in holding on to a frisky Horace and so the Lord called out to someone else — whose name, Josse thought, was Morcar — to come and help.
Another man quickly emerged from one of the dwellings. He resembled the Lord too much to be other than his son and he was nearly his father’s equal in size. Josse, at last safely mounted, touched his cap in thanks.
Then the gates were dragged open and he rode away.
He realised how drunk he was as he left the deep track leading down from Saxonbury and turned on to the path that skirted the forest. I was a fool, he thought; I allowed my host to refill my mug far too frequently. I should have stayed alert. I was there on official business, and what have I to report? Very little, other than that the Lord of the High Weald had good reason to loathe Father Micah and that he has a family of men quite capable of killing a man by breaking his neck.
But somehow — and the reasoning entirely escaped him — Josse did not believe that Father Micah’s murderer was of the Saxonbury household. If indeed there was a murderer.
‘Accident or murder?’ Josse wondered aloud as he jogged along.
And he knew that, even had he not been suffering the after-effects of the Lord’s ale, there was not going to be an easy answer.
8
During the afternoon Helewise received a visitor. Sister Ursel had announced that the Sheriff had arrived and wished to speak with her and Helewise, heart sinking, had prepared herself for a meeting with the odious and not very bright Sheriff Pelham.
But to her surprise it was a very different sort of a man who was shown into her room. He was smartly dressed, of a little above average height, slim and, she had to admit, handsome, with well-cut and smoothly dressed brown hair and light-green eyes. Bowing gracefully, he said, ‘I am grateful, my lady Abbess, that you have found the time to see me. I am Gervase de Gifford.’
Accepting his greeting with an inclination of her head, she said, ‘I understood that Harry Pelham held the office of Sheriff.’
‘He may have given that impression,’ Gervase de Gifford said easily. ‘The de Clares have use for such men, but it is a mistake to give a man more authority than that with which he is equipped to cope.’
Wondering whether that amounted to a yes or a no, Helewise said, ‘Won’t you sit? There is a stool beside the door there.’
He looked where she pointed. Apparently he took in instantly the fact that, once seated on the low stool, he would be at a considerably lower level than she, sitting on her throne-like chair. He said courteously, ‘Thank you, my lady, but I prefer to stand.’
‘As you wish. Now, you said you wished to speak to me?’
‘Yes, my lady. Concerning the dead priest, Father Micah. My lord, Richard FitzRoger de Clare, has asked me to discover what details are known of the death.’
‘Very few. I have despatched Sir Josse d’Acquin, who is a friend of the Abbey, to find out more.’
‘Sir Josse d’Acquin,’ de Gifford murmured. ‘Yes. The man is known to us.’
Wondering just who he meant by ‘us’, Helewise asked, ‘You are tasked with bringing to justice anybody who may be implicated in the Father’s death?’
‘I am.’ Gervase de Gifford gave her a smooth smile.
‘You may call again,’ she said, sounding grand even in her own ears, ‘and discuss the matter with Sir Josse, once he has returned.’
‘You think, my lady, that he will bring information?’
‘I know he will.’
She met de Gifford’s gaze calmly. She wanted to say, he will do better in his enquiries than some fashionably dressed servant of the grand family at Tonbridge Castle, but she held her peace.
‘You will tell Sir Josse that I called.’ In the mouth of de Gifford, it sounded more like an order than a request.
She said, ‘Yes.’
Then, taking the hint, he bowed again and left the room.
She was still thinking about Gervase de Gifford when Josse came to see her after Vespers. He instantly apologised for coming so late. ‘I was entertained too well up at Saxonbury,’ he confessed, ‘and I had to sleep it off.’
Disarmed by his frankness, she said, ‘Saxonbury?’
He told her that he had visited Father Gilbert and gone on to see someone calling himself the Lord of the High Weald because Father Micah was known to have been there the day before he was found dead. She listened intently as he described his conversation with the Lord.