Josse paused. But there was no point in prevaricating since she must surely be thinking exactly the same thing. ‘De Gifford came hunting for a man known to be violent and whom there was evidence to suggest was making for the Abbey. And then the man’s brother is found hanging by the neck.’
‘My son saw this man,’ the Abbess said slowly. ‘And that same night he fled from Hawkenlye and went we know not where. Sir Josse, surely there has to be a connection!’
‘Not necessarily,’ he said, trying to use his most positive tone to convince her that there was yet room for doubt. ‘For one thing, I find it hard to think what reason there could be for your son knowing a man of Teb Bell’s nature and habits. Why should their paths have ever crossed? For another, we know what Rohaise — and therefore Leofgar — were afraid of, and it had nothing to do with some Tonbridge ruffian looking for his missing brother.’
The Abbess hesitated, and then said, ‘Unless this priest that Rohaise feared was so anxious to locate Leofgar and the family that he employed one or both of the Bell brothers to search for them.’
Josse thought it most unlikely. Nevertheless, he said, ‘Perhaps we should speak to the priest before we head off for Hawkenlye.’
And she simply said, ‘Very well.’
Wilfrid, his son and the blonde young woman he shyly introduced as his wife saw them on their way and Wilfrid told them where to find Father Luke. Josse and the Abbess rode in silence. They carefully followed Wilfrid’s instructions and in time found themselves outside a small and immaculately kept stone cottage that nestled beside the church.
Father Luke was a short and round little man with twinkling blue eyes set in laughter lines and curly grey hair clinging tightly to his bald head as if afraid of being swept away. His black robe was as neat as his cottage, the mud carefully brushed from the hem and only a couple of rusty-looking stains down the front, where the cloth stretched over his protruding stomach. He greeted the Abbess with elaborate and formal good manners, clearly impressed by her title; Josse noticed with amusement that he was not nearly so moved by a mere knight. He offered them what hospitality his humble home might provide but the Abbess, with an impatient shake of her head, declined.
‘I am grateful, Father Luke,’ she said, ‘but Sir Josse and I must be on our way back to the Abbey. I have sought you out merely to ask after two of your flock: Leofgar Warin and his wife Rohaise.’
The priest shook his head. ‘Ah, yes, a sad little family,’ he said. ‘The young wife is deeply troubled and I fear for her child.’ Leaning closer, standing right beside the golden mare’s shoulder, he elongated his stubby neck so that his face rose closer to the Abbess’s and declared, ‘I suggested to her that her child was a changeling and said I would take him away and put him in the care of the monks!’ He smiled and nodded, as if expecting their amazed and delighted approval.
But the Abbess said, ‘What possessed you to do something so cruel?’
All pleasure and pride left his plump face. He exclaimed, ‘But my lady, my intention was to help!’ Hurrying on before she could interrupt, he said, ‘I reasoned that perhaps the lady Rohaise herself was uneasy with the child — well, I could see very well that she was — and I came up with the idea of the changeling for her sake. I thought that if I took the little boy away for a time and then brought him back, I could tell her that a miracle had happened while he was with the monks and that, thanks to their prayers, her own boy was returned to her. Then she — all of us — could adopt the pretence that she hadn’t been happy with the child before for the very good reason that he wasn’t hers! Oh,’ he pleaded, ‘do you not see? I thought to give her a fresh start! I really was trying to help!’
‘Yes, I see,’ said the Abbess. Josse thought that her tone was marginally less stony. ‘And you do not in truth subscribe to the possibility of changelings, Father Luke?’
He laughed, only a little uneasily. ‘Of course not, my lady Abbess! Superstitious nonsense!’
Josse, who remembered why they had come to see the priest even if the Abbess appeared to have momentarily forgotten, gave her a swift glance and then said, ‘Father Luke, you are not aware, I believe, that Leofgar and Rohaise are not at the Old Manor?’
‘Not … No, indeed, sir knight, although in fact they were not there when I called a few days ago and I imagined they were merely off on a ride somewhere getting some fresh air. I was planning to visit them today or perhaps tomorrow and-’
Before he could continue and possibly ask any questions that Josse and the Abbess would not wish to answer, Josse interrupted. ‘So you did not send two men out to look for them?’
‘I did not!’ Father Luke’s astonishment was written all over his puzzled face. ‘As you rightly surmise, I did not know they were from home!’ His frown deepening, he said, ‘And why should I send someone out to find them?’
Josse shrugged. ‘To implement this plan of yours of taking Rohaise’s son away from her, perhaps.’
Father Luke had the grace to look ashamed. ‘No, indeed, for I-’ But then a thought apparently occurred to him, by his dismayed expression not a pleasant one. ‘Oh, dear sweet God,’ he whispered, ‘oh, you think that Leofgar has fled because I was going to take Timus away? Oh, but I was trying to help them!’
He looked as if he were about to weep. The Abbess, Josse noticed, was staring at him with the first signs of compassion on her face which he thought, under the circumstances, was generous. He said, ‘Aye, Father, we understand that your intentions were good, even if-’ No. He would not go on. Father Luke’s conscience was already troubling him quite enough. ‘We must be on our way, Father,’ he said instead, ‘for we wish to reach the Abbey by dusk fall.’
Father Luke nodded vaguely, eyeing the Abbess uneasily. She wished him a fairly distant good day and turned Honey’s head, kicking the mare’s sides and heading off down the path. Josse, pitying the priest staring miserably after her, said, ‘Thank you, Father, you have been very helpful.’
‘But I don’t understand!’ Father Luke cried. ‘Why should the Abbess of Hawkenlye ride all the way over here to ask about Leofgar Warin and his wife?’
Josse wondered if to tell him. But then he thought, she didn’t, and he decided to follow her example. Instead he shrugged and said, ‘She keeps her own counsel, Father. You know how it is.’ He gave the priest a man-to-man grin and, before Father Luke could say anything else, hurried away after the Abbess.
‘The man is a fool,’ said the Abbess as she kicked the mare into a canter, ‘and his good intentions’ — the very way in which she spoke the words was a mockery — ‘may have cost my son dear.’
‘Aye.’ Josse had to agree with her. But, knowing her so well, he knew too that quite soon her anger would fade and she would begin to see the matter from the priest’s viewpoint. Then she would regret having spoken unkindly about him, confess her impatient and bitter first reaction and no doubt be given penance for it.
Hoping to take her mind off Father Luke and his blundering attempts to help, he said brightly, ‘Home to the Abbey and your own bed tonight, my lady!’
But she turned and gave him a severe look that had the effect of preventing any further such conversational attempts. And, for the rest of the journey back to Hawkenlye, they rode in silence.
As they led the horses into the stables, Sister Martha came out to meet them. She gave the Abbess a low and reverential bow and then, just as Josse spied the extra horse already tethered in one of the stalls, said, ‘My lady, Sir Josse, Gervase de Gifford is here. He has been shown to your room, where he awaits you.’
‘Very well, Sister Martha.’ The Abbess turned on her heel and strode off towards her room, Josse following close behind. He was about to make some remark to the effect that Gervase’s business with her must be pressing, for him to have waited even when there was no guarantee that she would be returning to the Abbey today, but something about her straight back and the determined set of her shoulders suggested that she had also realised this and did not want to talk about it.