Faithful Dead (8 page)

Eventually he said, ‘Was this corpse that of an old man, did they think?’

‘No. A man perhaps in his twenties, probably no older than that.’

The Magister said neutrally, ‘I see.’ What exactly he saw, clearly he was not going to reveal it to Josse.

Which meant that Josse was going to have to ask. ‘This Galbertius Sidonius,’ he said, with more aggression that he had intended. ‘Was – is he a young man?’

The Magister’s eyes turned towards him, staring at him for some time. Eventually he said, ‘No.’ There was a pause and, for a brief instant, an expression almost of wonder crossed the pale face. Then the Magister said softly, ‘Not young.
Ancient
.’

Josse felt his heart sink. How he would have liked to return to the Abbess and tell her that the mystery was solved! But it had been a faint hope; all along, the likelihood had been that his mission would prove that the dead man was
not
Sidonius rather than that he was.

The Magister spoke again; there was, Josse had noticed, a faint accent: Welsh? He said, still regarding Josse with those dark eyes, ‘You had reason to wish that your dead man was Galbertius Sidonius?’

‘Eh? No, not really.’ It was too difficult to explain about the Abbess, and wanting to help her by identifying the corpse, so he didn’t try. In fact, he said nothing further.

But the Magister had not finished with him. ‘You know of this man, this Sidonius?’ he probed. ‘For all that you told my lord the Prince that you do not.’

‘No!’ Josse protested vehemently. ‘Believe me, sir, I do not!’

A smile broke the pale, solemn face. ‘I do believe you,’ the Magister said. ‘I know when a man lies to me, and you, I see, speak true.’

Staring hard at him – the levity in his voice as he had made the reply seemed to permit a certain relaxation in his approach – Josse thought that there was something familiar about the older man. He said, ‘Forgive me, Magister, but have we met before? Were you perhaps at court when the King and his brothers were lads, in the time of King Henry, their father?’

‘I was.’

‘They call you Magister,’ Josse pressed on, ‘but may I know your name?’

‘It is no secret,’ the older man said mildly. ‘My name is John Dee.’

John Dee . . .

The name, like the face, had a familiarity to it. Josse thought hard. Did he recall a man called Dee when he had attended the young princes? No. He did not believe he did. Brows descending in a frown of concentraton, he pushed his memory further back.

And, from nowhere, remembered Geoffroi, his father, telling tales beside the fire to his young sons. Of a man who read the future in the stars, who warned of events that were to come, who saw the wind with his deep, dark eyes and whom sailors – always a superstitious bunch – feared as a sorcerer.

Sorcerer. How the word had thrilled and scared the small boys crouched at their father’s knee! How they had both yearned for him to go on and tell them more, and prayed that he would stop before he frightened them so much that they would not sleep!

The sorcerer’s name had been John Dee.

‘My father knew you!’ Josse exclaimed. But no, that wasn’t quite right; Geoffroi told stories not of someone he had met, but of a legendary figure from the past. A man who had advised kings and princes, yes, but many years ago. The courts to which the John Dee of Geoffroi d’Acquin’s tales belonged had been those of the first William and, later, that of his ill-fated, short-reigning son, the second William, and his brother, Henry.

Kings who, or so it was whispered, kept at least one foot in the Old Religion . . .

This man who now lay in the bed before Josse was far too young to be one and the same as that figure from the fireside tales! But he was probably a descendant.

‘I know of you, John Dee,’ Josse said, reverence in his voice; it was not every day you met the kinsman of a magician. ‘My father used to tell us tales of the John Dee who advised the first of the Norman kings, who, I would venture to conclude, was your ancestor?’

The Magister said nothing for a moment. Then, softly: ‘John Dee was always there, and always will be.’

Ah, yes, Josse thought. It was as he had thought; the post of court sorcerer, or magician, or seer, or sage, or whatever they called it, must be an hereditary one. Passed always from father to son, as was their traditional family Christian name of John.

He sat back on his stool, regarding the man in the bed with pleasure. ‘John Dee,’ he said, awe in his voice. ‘John Dee.’

Dee waited to see if he was going to add anything more challenging. When he did not, Dee said, ‘I do remember your father. For all that he told tales not of my present doings but of events from the past’ – there was a faint sparkle of humour in his eyes – ‘I did not hold it against him. A good man, Geoffroi d’Acquin.’ The humour vanished, to be replaced by a sharp, calculating look. ‘He lives still?’

‘No.’ Josse shook his head. ‘He died – oh, all of sixteen years ago, now. Back in ’76.’

‘Ah, yes.’

Staring at Dee, Josse had the strange sensation that he had known all along that Geoffroi was dead.

Why, then, ask?

As if to distract him from that vaguely disturbing thought, Dee was speaking, a hypnotic note in his voice that, against his will, instantly grabbed Josse’s attention. ‘Ah, what sorrow that was,’ he murmured, ‘for a man of but fifty summers to die, cut down, like the Corn King, with the harvest.’

‘Aye,’ Josse said softly, remembering. ‘That he was. We––’ But then his head shot up as, with a shiver down his back, he stared at Dee. ‘How did
you
know?’ he demanded. ‘I never mentioned that he died in the summer!’

But Dee was speaking again, the soft, lulling note stronger now; Josse, knowing himself to be disturbed over something but unable, for the life of him, to remember what it was, had no choice but to be quiet and listen.

‘His death was inscribed on the fabric of the past, present and future, as are those of us all,’ Dee whispered. ‘It is but as a book, to we who learn how to read it. Your father’s time came, and he was taken.’

‘Aye,’ breathed Josse. He felt as if he were dreaming, yet, at the same time, still awake. Awake sufficiently, anyway, to be aware of the smell of the herbs on the fire. The soft, comfortable padding of the stool beneath his buttocks.

Dee’s strange voice.

‘Your father’s death is the reason,’ Dee continued. ‘The reason why I tell you that the stranger must come to you.’

‘Nobody has come!’ Josse protested; the effort of speech was hard, and he felt as if he were pushing his words out through thick, muffling cloth.

Dee, appearing briefly surprised – was he not used to people answering him back when he held them in thrall? – made a smoothing, soothing gesture with his right hand. It wore, Josse noticed, a large, pale blue-green stone; in his head a distant voice said,
aquamarine. The Seer’s stone
.

And the right hand, he recalled as if from nowhere, was the power hand . . .

Either the hand gesture or the ring – or both – worked on Josse as, presumably, Dee had intended. Mute, receptive, he sat waiting for what would happen next.

‘I say again,’ Dee murmured, ‘the stranger will come to you. Possibly not he himself – the picture is unclear – but one who comes from him.’

‘But––’ It was no use; whatever skill or power Dee was using was now too strong for Josse to fight.

‘He will come,’ Dee said, waving his hand again. ‘Only wait, and he will come.’

Josse felt his eyelids grow heavy. His head went down, chin tucked into his chest, and he saw darkness bloom before him. Then – he had no idea how long afterwards – he gave a sudden snort-like snore, and woke himself up.

He sat up straight, rubbed his eyes and stared at Dee, who was watching him with amused eyes.

‘The herbs on my fire aid my breathing,’ Dee said, in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘But, to those unused to their smoke, they can induce sleep. I apologise, Sir Josse, for having caused you the embarrassment of nodding off when your intention was to cheer a sick man by your visit.’

Josse, horribly confused, said, ‘Aye. No. Sorry, sir.’ Standing up, he managed to knock the stool over, and he tripped up over one of its legs as he lunged for the door. ‘Goodbye, Magister,’ he added.

‘Farewell, Josse d’Acquin! Go in safety!’

Dee’s valediction was – there was no mistaking it – accompanied by rich, happy, slightly mocking laughter.

Josse was back at Hawkenlye long before the Abbess would have expected. As Sister Ursel brought her the news of his return, she was filled with a sense of foreboding; whatever he had found out, she thought, it could surely not have been the identity of the body in the new grave.

It was late – too late for an audience, for the nuns were retiring for the night – so Helewise sent word back to Josse that she was glad for his safe return, wished him sound sleep and a restful night, and that she would see him in the morning.

The fact that, all night, she burned with anxiety to know what he had found out was, she told herself firmly, another small penance for the sin of having neglected a dead body for six weeks.

She received Josse after Tierce. She had been awake for hours, but word came from the Vale that Josse slept on, and she ordered that he should not be disturbed. When, at last, he stood before her, she could tell from his face that his mission had not achieved the result they had both hoped for.

‘The Prince had gone,’ he told her, after carefully closing the door against eavesdroppers, ‘but one of his party remained behind. He’s sick in bed with a bad cold. He told me that Galbertius Sidonius is not a young man.’

‘Oh. I see.’ It was only when she knew for certain that the dead man had not just been tentatively identified that she realised how much she longed to give him a name. ‘There is no doubt?’

‘Absolutely none. The Magister – that’s what they all call him, although his name is John Dee – is as sharp as they come. We can take his word for it, my lady.’

‘Oh.’ She could not think of anything else to say.

Josse stood before her, brows knotted in a ferocious frown of concentration. ‘I wish I could have come back with something positive,’ he muttered, ‘instead of presenting us with another blank stone wall. I––’

He was interrupted by a soft tap-tapping on the door. Helewise, startled, said, ‘come in!’ and, as the door was slowly opened, the lined, old face of Brother Firmin appeared in the gap like a tortoise poking its head out of its shell.

‘My lady Abbess,’ the old monk said, making a low and very formal reverence.

‘Brother Firmin,’ she replied. She restrained her impatience as he went through his usual litany of opening remarks – was she well? what a fine day it was, thank the Good Lord; how gracious it was of her to spare him a moment of her precious time, and he would be brief, he promised her.

When he had finished, she said, forcing a smile, ‘What can I do for you, Brother Firmin?’

‘Eh? Oh, well, it’s not really me so much as him.’ He jerked his head towards the half-open door. ‘May I tell him to step into your presence, my lady Abbess?’

‘Yes, please do.’

She did not have to wonder for long who ‘him’ might be; as soon as the old monk began to say, ‘You can come in, Brother Augustus,’ he was there before her table, and his bow was as deep and reverential as even Brother Firmin could have wished.

‘Brother Augustus.’ She could not keep the affection out of her voice. ‘You wished to speak to me?’

‘Aye. There’s something I’ve thought of.’ The young man shot a swift and apprehensive glance at Brother Firmin, who was watching him with a slightly accusing expression, as if he felt the youth should not be wasting his Abbess’s time. ‘I’ve been thinking, and––’

Helewise held up her hand and, instantly, Augustus fell silent. She turned to the old monk. ‘Brother Firmin, I know that you love to pray in the Abbey church by yourself but that you rarely have the chance, so busy are you down in the Vale. But I believe there are few people within at present; would you care to take this opportunity for some private worship?’

The old man’s eyes lit up, and she had a stab of self-reproof at her duplicity. ‘May I really?’ he whispered. She nodded. With another deep reverence, he was gone.

She turned back to Augustus, who was smiling his gratitude. ‘Now, Brother Augustus,’ she said. ‘Will it be easier to tell just Sir Josse here and myself ?’

‘Aye, and thank you.’ He shot Josse a friendly grin then, taking a deep breath, said, ‘I woke early this morning, like you do when something’s niggling at you. I lay there, trying to think of nothing in particular and let the thought come to me in its own time, and eventually it did.’ He met her eyes and said, ‘Sorry. I’m being as long-winded as my dear esteemed Brother Firmin. Oh! Sorry!’ He blushed, apparently instantly ashamed of the mild criticism.