Girl In A Red Tunic (38 page)

     ‘“But then there was Sirida. She told me that she had conceived that day in the shelter and she asked for my help. The material things she requested I would gladly have given her but to do so would have acknowledged that she had a just claim on me and this would have meant that I accepted her son as a Warin. This was impossible. The Warin blood runs true and goes back far; to accept the son of my body servant, fine man though he be, as my own flesh I simply could not do.

     ‘“I am truly sorry for what I have done. I offer in mitigation the fact of my accident, which caused me to suffer every day for the rest of my life. Physical discomfort I endured without complaint; what I could not bear was men’s pity for a eunuch. May God have mercy on my soul.”’

     The Abbess looked up. ‘It was written by his confessor,’ she said softly. ‘The date at the bottom is April 1172, a month or so before Benedict died.’

     Nobody spoke for some time. Then Leofgar said, quietly but vehemently, ‘I
knew
Arthur was not one of us.’

     The Abbess turned to him. ‘So you said in Sirida’s hut and it all but cost you your life.’

     There was, Josse thought, a reprimand in her tone and Leofgar must have heard it too, for he had the grace to look ashamed. ‘Yes, I know. But the thought of him as a kinsman became too much. He has caused me and mine far too much grief, the jumped-up fool!’

     Josse repeated the last three words silently to himself. Compassion flowed through him; poor Arthur, he thought, for he has been struggling all his miserable life towards one impossible end only to be dismissed in such demeaning terms. As if, all along, he had been no more of a threat than an importuning beggar or an over-eager puppy.

     But the Abbess was speaking and he made himself listen.

     ‘I sympathise with you for your trouble,’ she was coolly saying to Leofgar, ‘and indeed I am more relieved than I can say for matters to have been concluded as they have. But, son, can you find no pity in your heart?’

     ‘No,’ Leofgar said. Josse could well understand the young man’s firm denial.

     But the Abbess had not finished. ‘Well, I can,’ she said firmly. ‘Arthur Fitzurse had been told he had a fine, noble, wealthy man as father, yet through no fault of his own he has lived the life of the outcast.’ Flinging out her hands, she cried, ‘Are you not touched at the sight of him in his cheap clothes that he wears as if they were fur and fine linen?’

     ‘No, I’m not,’ Leofgar said stubbornly. ‘He acts as if he’s one of us and he isn’t.’

     ‘Do not,’ the Abbess said warningly, ‘fall into the sin of arrogance, Leofgar, for none of us chooses our parents and some are luckier than others. Where we are born is for God to decide.’

     ‘Yes, but—’

     ‘Hear me out!’ the Abbess commanded. Turning to Josse, she said, ‘Forgive me for my insistence, for indeed I sense that perhaps you are inclined to agree with my son.’

     ‘I—’

     But she did not allow him to speak either. ‘I confess I too am relieved that Benedict did not father Sirida’s child, yet I perceive that he committed a scarcely lesser sin in what he did do. To salve his wounded pride, he allowed another to – er, to do the deed of which he was no longer capable, and the deception was so thorough that we all believed it. All of us, without exception, thought that Benedict Warin was a womaniser until the day he died.’ Her astonished eyes went from Josse to Leofgar. ‘He did this rather than simply confess that his accident had rendered him impotent!’ Shaking her head, she added, ‘I just cannot understand it!’

     ‘But you, my lady,’ Josse said gently, ‘are not a man.’

     ‘I—’ It was her turn to be rendered silent. Again she looked at the two men standing before her, one after the other. Then in a small voice she asked, ‘Is it that important?’

     Josse and Leofgar looked at each other. Then together they said, ‘Yes.’

Chapter 21

Helewise sat in her room waiting for word that Arthur Fitzurse was well enough to talk to her. Leofgar had gone: he had asked her permission to ride off and fetch Rohaise and his son back to Hawkenlye and she had gladly given it; she still did not know where they had been hiding. Too much had happened too quickly for her to think to ask him. The Bells were dead, she reasoned; Sirida would never again leave her hut, Arthur lay wounded in the infirmary; in truth, there could be no further threat to her son’s family from that quarter now, at least not until Arthur had recovered his strength  ...

     Josse, leaning against the door post, was staring absently across the room, a slight frown on his face. She had just announced to him that she intended to tell Arthur the truth about himself and Josse had argued that this was neither kind nor necessary, and therefore she should not do it.

     ‘It may not be kind but it is the truth, and every one of us must have the courage to face the truth, no matter how cruel!’ she had cried.

     ‘Arthur Fitzurse has built his whole identity upon a lie!’ Josse had replied, as heated as she. ‘To remove the very foundations of what he perceives to be his essence is a cruel truth indeed, my lady!’

     ‘It is also
necessary
that he be told,’ she pressed on, ignoring his protest, ‘for it is only by learning who his father really was that he will drop his pursuit of my son and his family!’

     ‘Surely he would not risk another approach to them!’

     ‘How can you be so sure?’ she flashed back. ‘He set Walter Bell upon them and, but for Rohaise’s desperate action, that dreadful man might have slaughtered both her and her child! Arthur is a driven man, Sir Josse, and I would not be able to forgive myself if I held back from telling him the one thing that would stop him dead in his tracks!’

     He had stared at her for a long moment, breathing heavily. Then he had said coldly, ‘You will do as you wish, my lady, as you always do.’

     He is sulking, she thought now, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. He knows I’m right and he doesn’t want to admit it.

     But as her anger died she was ashamed of herself. Here’s dear Josse, she thought, at my side in my time of need as he has so often been. I have always trusted him and, since first we met, he has never let me down. And he’s right: it will indeed be a terrible moment for Arthur Fitzurse when I reveal the truth to him. But do it I must, for my first allegiance is to my son and I would do anything in my power to protect him and his family.

     ‘I am sorry that I spoke so heatedly,’ she said quietly. ‘Please forgive me, Sir Josse.’

     He turned his head and his brown eyes met hers. A grin slowly spread over his face and he said, ‘You are forgiven, my lady. I would never—’ He stopped. From the slight flush that briefly rose in his cheeks, she guessed he had been about to make some remark that was rather too intimate for a knight to say to an Abbess.

     Despite the instant of keen regret, she was quite relieved that he had held back.

     After a moment he straightened up from his relaxed pose and said, ‘Gervase de Gifford should be notified of your safe return to Hawkenlye, my lady. With your leave, I will ride down to Tonbridge and tell him.’

     ‘Shall you reveal what happened?’

     ‘That you were taken captive by Arthur and held against your will?’

     ‘Yes.’

     He hesitated. ‘Would you have me do so?’

     Slowly she shook her head. ‘No. Arthur has suffered enough. And once I have told him what Benedict’s letter contains’ – she gave Josse an apologetic look – ‘he will have no reason to come after any of us again. And—’ She stopped.

     ‘And you feel sorry for him,’ Josse finished for her. ‘Aye. I know.’ His voice was soft. ‘But,’ he said, ‘it is almost certain that he murdered Teb Bell.’

     ‘He did not actually say so!’ she protested.

     ‘No. Maybe not. But a man is dead and we both believe that we know who killed him.’

     She thought for a moment. Then she said, ‘Should Gervase de Gifford ask me about Teb Bell’s death, then I shall have to tell him what I believe to be the truth. He will have to act upon that truth, Sir Josse, for despite our pity, Arthur is very likely a murderer and the sheriff will have to bring him to trial.’

     ‘Aye. And I—’ But then a look of astonishment filled Josse’s face and he said, ‘My lady, how did Sirida know about the deaths of the Bell brothers if, by her own admission, she has not left the vicinity of her hut for twenty years?’

     ‘Yes,’ she said with a puzzled frown, ‘I have been pondering over the same thing.’ Slowly she shook her head. ‘She told me that she has the Sight. If she speaks true, then it can only be that she has ways of seeing that are outside the skills of ordinary folk.’

     For a moment it seemed that neither of them wanted to – could – speak. To break the strange mood – after all, this was an Abbey and she its Abbess; this was no place for superstitious nonsense! – she said rather too heartily, ‘Well, they always said Sirida was a witch!’

     The echoes of her falsely jovial tone died away. There was an odd little silence in the room and she felt suddenly chilly. Then Josse gave a quiet cough and said, with what sounded quite an effort, ‘If you are quite sure that you do not wish to make a worse case against Arthur by adding abduction to murder, then I shall tell de Gifford that Arthur asked you to ride down to meet his mother, whom you knew of old, and that you went willingly but stayed longer than you should. Will that serve?’

     It was very nearly the truth. ‘It will serve very well,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Sir Josse.’

     With a grunt and a swift bow, he was gone.

Presently there was a tap on the door: Sister Euphemia had sent one of her nursing nuns to fetch the Abbess, since Arthur Fitzurse was conscious.

     Helewise followed the young nun across the courtyard and into the infirmary. Sister Euphemia was waiting for her. ‘I’ve stemmed the bleeding at last,’ she said quietly, ‘but he’s weak. Only a brief word, my lady, if I might suggest, for he needs to rest.’

     ‘Very well, Sister,’ Helewise agreed.

     Arthur Fitzurse, bedded down in clean linen, looked very pale and somehow diminished. His dark eyes turned to her as she approached. Moving to stand right beside his bed, she leaned down and said softly, ‘Sir Josse has ridden to Tonbridge to speak to Gervase de Gifford, but I want you to know that you are not to be accused of any crime in relation to having spirited me away to your mother’s house.’

     Arthur stared into her eyes. ‘That is generous, my lady Abbess.’

     She made a grimace. ‘Not really,’ she muttered. ‘I have bad tidings, Arthur,’ she went on. ‘The proof for which you have searched so hard has been found, although it is not what you think. The table in which Benedict Warin hid it is now in my possession and the document that he wrote was still in the hiding place where he put it.’

     Arthur struggled to sit up but, with a gentle hand, she pressed him back. His eyes alight, he said eagerly, ‘Then you know that I spoke the truth! I am his son! I’m a Warin!’

     ‘No, Arthur,’ she said softly. ‘Benedict played your mother false. The injuries he received when he had his accident rendered him impotent; his manservant took his place and it was he who fathered you.’

     The shock was easy to read in Arthur’s face. ‘But – but I cannot believe this! She would have known, surely she would!’

     ‘Apparently not, unless—’ Unless your mother has been lying to you all this time, she almost said. But that was too cruel. ‘She was very young,’ she said instead. ‘And consider the circumstances: the thrill of the forbidden, the danger of slipping out unseen to meet him, the dark little hut, a naked man. And Benedict and Martin were of similar build and not unalike. It is possible, I believe, that Sirida truly did not know that it was Martin and not Benedict who penetrated her.’

     But Arthur was not to be readily convinced. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘She told me what she wanted me to believe. What she wanted to believe herself, perhaps.’ He looked up at her. ‘My lady, she is clever, my mother. She would have calculated that Benedict Warin might have felt guilt over his deception. Even had she realised what he did, she would have gone on pretending she believed it was he who had her in that hut. It would not have served her interests or mine to confess to knowing what really happened.’

     Helewise could not but think that he was right. Just as she was starting to admire him for the fortitude with which he was receiving this shattering news, his manner changed. His face seemed to crumple and, despair in his eyes, he said, ‘But to withhold the truth from me! To have me believe I was a Warin and to sit back and watch my efforts to prove it, knowing all along it was all make-believe!’