You would, he thought, have had to be looking out for it. Clever young man, to forge your way through at a place where the greenery was most resilient. But not quite clever enough to check that you really had left no mark.
Pushing his way through the thick foliage, Josse was careful to avoid the two small half-broken branches which were the only sign of Milon’s passage. It might be necessary to show them as proof of his theory.
Once off the path, the young man had been less cautious, and Josse followed his tracks more easily. After going for some fifteen paces, he found himself in a tiny clearing, in the midst of the undergrowth. The short grass had been trodden flat, and someone had made a crude shelter out of broken branches; presumably one of Milon’s night-time vigils had been spent in the rain.
Something caught his eye; a small object, half-hidden under dead leaves. Kneeling down, he uncovered it. It was the two halves of an oyster shell, placed together; lifting up the top one, he saw inside a tiny pearl.
He had seen something like it before. Searching his memory, he had a sudden image of his old nurse, saying her prayers after the marriage of Josse’s younger brother. She had, he knew, been praying for the newlywed couple’s fertility, and when she had finished, she placed a single pearl in an oyster shell. It had worked; Josse’s sister-in-law’s firstborn son had come into the world eleven months later, swiftly followed by two girls and another boy.
They met here often, those other two young newlyweds, he now thought. Crept in here in the darkness, hand in hand, lay down on the bare ground, made love. Which one, he wondered, brought this object here? Milon, anxious for a child to inherit the fortune he was expecting, or Elanor, passionately in love with her new husband, wanting so badly to please him with a pregnancy?
As with Josse’s sister-in-law, the charm had worked.
Suddenly very sad, he put the oyster shell back in its hiding place. The little clearing was full of their spirit, those two young people, and, for the first time, he felt a distinct distaste for what he had to do.
But, if my reasoning is right, Milon killed her, he reminded himself. And both of them were greedy and envious enough to plot the murder of Gunnora.
Resolving firmly to keep his compassion for those who deserved it, he made his way out to the track.
* * *
He found himself a quiet spot on the bank of the pond, some fifty paces from where he had discovered the secret hiding place, and sat down to think. He was full of a strong conviction that Milon was still near at hand; he had to be, for he had urgent business at the Abbey.
Only one thing, as far as Josse could deduce, linked Milon definitely with the murder of Elanor, and hence with that of Gunnora. And that object — although Milon could not know it — now lay safely in Abbess Helewise’s cabinet. Where did the young man imagine it was? It must have been a terrible moment, when he discovered it was not on his wife’s body; fleetingly Josse wondered why not. Why, when he was fairly sure she had been wearing it beneath her robe when he had interviewed her the day before she died, had she removed it before setting out that night? Wrapped it up carefully with her wedding ring, hidden it beneath her palliasse? It seemed a strange thing to do.
Never mind that, now.
Milon, then, would have found the cross missing. Would realise she must have left it in the convent, would guess, probably, that she’d have hidden it in the one place a nun could look upon as her own. Her cubicle in the dormitory.
He had to come back for it! Surely he did! And quickly, before Elanor’s bed was allocated to another new postulant who might discover what was hidden there. I’d waste not a moment in searching for it, Josse thought, if I were in his place. It reveals the true identity of the postulant Elvera, and, once it is known that she is Elanor d’Arcy, then Milon is automatically involved.
His mind returned to the other two crosses, belonging to Gunnora and Dillian. Milon, he thought, must somehow have got hold of Dillian’s cross. Had it perhaps been left to her aunt, Milon’s mother-in-law, on Dillian’s death? Likely, since the woman was Dillian’s only surviving female relation other than Elanor, who already had her own cross. Well, however he had got his hands on it, he had known what to do with it. Leave it by Gunnora’s body, as if dropped by a panicking, fleeing thief, so that those who found her would think she had been killed during a robbery.
But they hadn’t thought that. Because Abbess Helewise had known it couldn’t be Gunnora’s own cross, which was then, and still was, securely in her care.
His mind was becoming fudged. I need to do something, he decided, something positive and, hopefully, useful, to fill the day ahead.
He decided, after brief thought, to go down to Tonbridge. It was possible he might hear word of Milon, if he asked a few questions; the lad wasn’t easy to overlook, with his fancy clothes and haircut. It seemed unlikely that he would risk putting up at an inn in the town, but, on the other hand, he had to eat. And there were precious few places selling food in the Wealden Forest.
I will ride down to Tonbridge, Josse thought, and treat myself to a decent dinner and a few mugs of Goody Anne’s excellent ale.
Then tonight, when it begins to get dark, I shall return here and wait for Milon.
Chapter Thirteen
Tonbridge was full of people; it was, Josse realised, market day.
All activity in the little town centred around the church today. Glancing up at it, Josse observed that, some time in the fairly recent past, it had been enlarged; more evidence, he reflected, on the growing fortunes of the town. On three sides, the church was surrounded by stalls, as if the merchants and stallholders were crouching under the sandstone walls for protection. There was the sound of chatter and laughter as people bartered with the stallholders and gossiped with one another; the occasion was as much for the exchange of news as for the purchase of new goods and chattels.
Were they, Josse wondered, talking about the murders up at the Abbey?
Of course they were. He did not fool himself for a moment that this wouldn’t be the chief topic of conversation. And whatever was said here stood a good chance of being repeated in more influential circles up in London.
Promising himself that he would lay a thoroughly satisfying solution before the King as soon as he possibly could, Josse pushed on through the market.
Many of the stalls sold local produce, including, on the outer fringes, livestock; there were also craftsmen’s stalls, where, had Josse wished to, he could have bought himself a new belt or a nicely turned wooden milking stool. In addition, and reflecting the proximity of the town to the main trade route from Hastings and Winchelsea up to London, there were a handful of stalls selling more exotic wares. Fine linen, spices, some brilliant pieces of jewellery which, Josse was sure, would lose their shine before the month was out …
Catching a waft of some spicy smell that instantly transported him back to the Languedoc, resolutely he turned his back on the delights of the market and elbowed his way through the throng back towards the bridge.
* * *
The inn, too, was busy, and Goody Anne was doing a robust trade in food and drink.
She greeted Josse as if he were a regular customer who had inexplicably been absent for months.
‘There you are!’ she exclaimed. ‘How are you, now? Well, I trust? A mug of ale this warm day? There! That’s the idea!’
Josse wondered if she had greeted her regulars with such affectionate enthusiasm when she had still plied her former trade. If so, then he wasn’t in the least surprised she had made enough money to set herself up in the inn.
‘I’m well, thank you, Mistress,’ he said when he could get a word in. ‘Grateful for your good ale, and hungry enough for ten men.’