Ashes of the Elements (27 page)

Josse patted the hand knotted tightly in his sleeve. ‘I understand, lady.’ He did, all too clearly. The elderly wife, knowing her husband’s nature, trying to pen him into a bargain, only to find he was unable to keep to its terms. Reneging, being found out, promising to do better, tempted back again to the sweet and joyous young woman waiting for him.

Had Tobias really loved Petronilla? Seen her as a woman – a wife, indeed – and not just as a wealthy provider?

It seemed as unlikely as it had always done.

But then Josse recalled the young man’s face as he had looked at his wife, smiling at her so affectionately as he spoke of how he had comforted her when her father had died, how, together, the two of them were having such a grand time improving her late father’s house.

I don’t know, he confessed to himself. I just don’t know.

‘He told me this morning that he had been with her again,’ Petronilla said softly. ‘He had just come in, and I imagined he had been out riding in the cool of the early morning. He summoned me to the breakfast table, and I remarked on the glow in his face.’ She sobbed, choked on her emotion, then, after a pause, went on. ‘A terrible dread took me, and I said, oh, Tobias, tell me it isn’t true! Tell me I’m wrong, and that you haven’t been back to her! And, at first, he swore he hadn’t, and I believed him, believed all was well, so I threw myself into his arms and hugged him, and – oh – and I – he—’

For a moment, she couldn’t go on. Then, as if she knew she must, she said, with a touching dignity, ‘He did not return my embrace. He tried to, but his arms were so stiff, and he held his beautiful body away from me. As if, despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help but compare my thin bones with the luxury of her warm, soft flesh. And, finding me wanting, be unable to hold me to him as he had done her. And then I knew.’

The tears were now drenching the breast of her dark gown, but she did not try to mop them up. And, Josse thought, she could no more have stopped them than flown through the air.

‘My lady, I am so sorry,’ he murmured.

She looked at him. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It is, I dare say, a matter for sorrow.’ She sighed. ‘I could not stop myself, Sir Knight. All those broken promises, all those times when he had sought his joy with her, and now – oh! now! – he was turning away from me.’ Belatedly she drew a tiny, embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and, although it was clearly inadequate for the task, began to wipe her eyes, her nose and her wet face. ‘I picked up the footstool that stood beneath table, and, as he moved out of my arms and went to go down the steps, I hit him with it.’

‘Caught him right on the back of his head,’ Josse murmured. ‘Aye, lady. I know.’

She eyed him steadily. ‘I killed him,’ she said. ‘Did I not, Sir Knight? I killed the love of my life, because he could not be true.’

There was a long silence between them. Josse stared down at the dead man lying at their feet, then, furtively, up at the wrecked face of the man’s widow.

She had suffered, poor soul. Would go on suffering, bereft as she was of her handsome young husband, left alone to grieve. And, combined with the grief, the guilt. The blow to the back of the head might not have been the one which killed him, but it had led to that terrible fall on to the corner of the step. Enough reason, surely, to give rise to a guilt powerful enough to eat away at mind, soul, and, eventually, body.

Surely that was punishment enough.

Briefly he allowed himself to imagine what would lie ahead for her, if he did as he ought and summoned a sheriff. Arrest, imprisonment, trial. And, after a terrible time in some foul jail, she would, if they found her guilty, be led out one bright morning and hanged.

No.

It was unthinkable. And, besides, it wouldn’t bring Tobias back.

Josse had, throughout Petronilla’s quietly spoken confidences, been standing on her left side. Now, with growing ostentation, he began tweaking at his right ear.

‘Dear me,’ he said, quite loudly ‘this ear of mine!’

After some time, she turned to look at him. ‘What ails you, Sir Knight?’

He met her eyes, held the gaze. Would not let her look away. Then, very carefully, he said, ‘It’s funny, but I just don’t seem to hear well on my right side. Do you know, lady, I haven’t picked up a word you’ve said, not since you entered the hall and thanked me for coming.’

She looked astonished. ‘But—’ she began.

He held up his hand. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Lady, let it be.’

For a moment, the grief, the shock and the horror left her face, and she looked as she must have done long ago, before the doomed love for Tobias had awakened in her. She whispered, ‘Oh, Sir Josse. There is still some kindness in this world.’

Leaning forward, she put a light kiss on Josse’s cheek.

Then, straight-backed and dignified, she turned, crossed the hall and disappeared through the doorway that led to her chamber.

*   *   *

He stood in the hall for a long time after she had gone, staring down at Tobias.

Then, abruptly, he, too, left.

Going out into the soft, late sunshine of evening, he called for Paul, and, when he arrived at the foot of the steps, told him that Tobias had died as a result of his fall down the steps, and that, in the summer heat, Paul should now make all haste to have the body coffined and buried.

Advanced though the hour was, Josse decided to set out for Hawkenlye. He was tired, hungry, and faced a long ride, but that, he thought, was preferable to the alternative.

He would have endured far worse, in order to escape from the corpse and the desolate widow he had just left behind.

Chapter Twenty-one

Hawkenlye Abbey was in total darkness when Josse got back, which, given the hour, was hardly surprising. Heading down into the vale, he unsaddled Hector, put a hobble on him to stop him roaming far, then, slapping the horse’s rump, turned him out into the sweet grass of the little valley.

Then he made straight for the bed-roll he had abandoned in such a rush all those hours before. Wrestling around till he’d got himself comfortable, he closed his eyes and was soon deeply asleep.

*   *   *

Brother Saul woke him with bread, a slice of salty cheese and a mug of weak ale.

‘You were late back last night, Sir Josse,’ he said as Josse ate.

‘Aye.’

‘I have taken your horse up to the Abbey stables,’ Saul went on, ‘where Sister Martha is again tending to his every whim.’

Josse grinned. ‘A fine touch with horses, that woman.’

‘And with a particular fondness for yours,’ Saul agreed.

‘Thank you, Saul,’ Josse added, ‘both for seeing to old Horace and for bringing me my breakfast.’

Saul bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Sir Josse, I also bring a message from the Abbess, who says that, when you are ready, would you please—’

‘—go and see her,’ Josse finished, getting up and brushing food crumbs off himself. ‘Aye, Saul, that I will.’

He found the Abbess seated at the table in her room. She looked up at him, compassion in her face. ‘You look tired,’ she observed.

‘I’ll do,’ he replied, grinning. Then, straightening his face, he told her what had happened in the Durand hall.

‘Tobias dead!’ she whispered. ‘By such a mishap!’

He had been trying to decide all the way home the previous night if he would tell her the truth. Now, looking down at her, this wise, understanding woman, with whom he had shared so much, he decided he couldn’t have her go on believing a lie.

So he told her how Tobias Durand had died.

She made no comment. He felt strangely robbed, as if he had been expecting her affirmation that, in not revealing Petronilla’s part in the death, he had acted right.

As if, perhaps, he had needed that affirmation.

But, after a silence that he, for one, was beginning to find uncomfortable, she said, ‘It just goes to show, Sir Josse, does it not, how unwise it is to have unruly hounds free to trip a man at the top of his own steps?’

And he had all the affirmation he could have wished for.

*   *   *

Then he told her of Esyllt’s involvement.

‘A
lover!
’ she said, astonished. ‘Dear Lord, Josse, why didn’t we – I beg your pardon, why didn’t
I
– think of that? A young woman such as she, so lovely, so ripe, so at ease with life, why, it stands to reason that she was as she was because she both loved and knew herself to be loved in return. That, with him out there in the forest, she—’ Abruptly she stopped. With a faint blush, she said, ‘Well, best not to think of that, with the poor young man dead.’

‘It is charitable of you, Abbess, to think kindly on him, considering how he sinned,’ Josse said.

She looked up at him. ‘Who are we to judge?’ she asked. ‘And, in truth, he has paid dearly for his sin.’ She shook her head. ‘Such a waste, and—’ She stopped. Aghast, she whispered. ‘Does Esyllt know he is dead?’

‘Good God!’ Josse had uttered the blasphemy before he had stopped to think. ‘Your pardon, Abbess, I did not mean to offend.’

Frowning, preoccupied, she waved her hand in dismissal. ‘I know that, Josse, I know. She – Esyllt – was absent from the Abbey yesterday, and, as far as I know, has not yet returned. Sister Emanuel is gravely concerned about her, as indeed am I. She gave him a brief but sweet smile. ‘May I prevail upon you once more, and ask you if you will go and look for her?’

‘Of course.’ He smiled back.

‘Naturally, I will help,’ she said, getting up. ‘As soon as we have said Sext, I will set out.’

*   *   *

But Josse, who did not have to wait until after Sext, began to look for Esyllt straight away.

They met, those two lovers, up in the forest, he thought, walking out through the Abbey gates. In some clearing, probably not very far in, just far enough to be safe from the world’s eyes.

And—

He would not, after all, have to go back into the forest. For, walking slowly down one of the smaller tracks, on a route that would take her round the side of the Abbey and in at the rear gate, was Esyllt.

He ducked back through the front entrance, turned, and started walking, in no special hurry; it would take the girl more time to reach the old people’s home than it would him. At the far end of the infirmary he stopped, and, his body hidden by its stout walls, peered round to look out at the rear gate.

A few moments later, she appeared.

She still moved slowly, almost like a sleepwalker. Her head was bent so that he couldn’t see her face, but her whole demeanour spoke of misery and dejection.

As she drew level with the infirmary, he emerged from his hiding place and fell into step beside her.

Hearing his footsteps, she looked up.

‘Hello, Sir Josse,’ she said. Her voice was low.

‘Hello, Esyllt.’

They walked on towards the door of the retirement home.

‘Have you come to see my old dearies?’ she asked, with a faint shadow of her former sparkle. ‘You promised, you would, you know. And a true man doesn’t break his word, unless he cannot help it.’ A spasm crossed her face.

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he said. ‘I will come, Esyllt, but not today. For now, I have to talk to you.’ He took hold of her arm, and they went round to sit on one of the sun-bathed stone benches.

He said gently, ‘I have come from Tobias’s house, Esyllt. I know about – I know what you and he were to one another.’

She nodded slowly. ‘Yes.’ Then: ‘What we were.’ Her eyes flew to his. ‘Oh, dear sweet Lord, then I was right!’

He put his arm aroud her. ‘Right about what, my dear child?’

‘He’s dead. Isn’t he?’

As kindly as he could, Josse said, ‘Aye, Esyllt. I’m afraid he is.’

‘How?’

‘By sheer accident. A hound tripped him, and he fell and hit his head.’

She gave a soft laugh. ‘Those hounds! I used to tell him he should train them better, they were always…’

But, as if she realised it didn’t matter any more, she stopped.

Then she said, ‘I knew. When he didn’t come last night, I knew.’

‘You were that close?’ Josse asked wonderingly.

‘Yes. And, you see, nothing would have kept him away. Nothing ever did.’

‘Except death,’ he said.

‘Except death.’

He waited, knowing what would happen. And sure enough, after a while, as the ill tidings sank in and she began to realise that, from now on, she would have to face life without him, gradually the strength went out of her. Crumpling, she sagged against Josse and cried as if she would never stop.

*   *   *

But, as people always do, she did.

And, later, when talking of Tobias was all she wanted to do – all she could do – she told Josse.

Told him much that he already knew, but, in addition, something he hadn’t even guessed.

It was the one thing, Josse surmised, listening to her, which would allow her to derive some faint comfort from her lover’s death. Because, now that he was beyond harm, beyond the reach of all earthly justice and retribution, Esyllt could reveal that Tobias Durand had killed Ewen Asher.

And that, on the full moon night when she had come running out of the forest straight into Josse and the Abbess, bloodstained, naked from the waist down, she had been running from the trysting place which Tobias had found for them.

‘We were making love,’ she told Josse with a reminiscent glow of joy. ‘He was deep inside me, we were so enthralled in one another that we never even heard Ewen racing and crashing through the undergrowth until he was almost on top of us. Then Tobias leapt up, all bare, his manhood still stiff and proud, and that Ewen, he said, Tobias Durant, by my faith! What are
you
doing here?’

‘How did they know one another?’ Josse asked.

Again, a brief smile. ‘Ewen sold Tobias a hawk once, but it took sick and died.’

‘Ah.’

‘Then Tobias picked up his dagger and killed him,’ her quiet voice went on. ‘He had to kill him, you see,’ she said earnestly, ‘because otherwise he’d have told her. Told Petronilla. And Tobias didn’t want that.’

‘It’s hardly surprising,’ Josse said wryly. ‘Clever people like Tobias don’t slay the goose that lays the golden egg.’