The Enchanter's Forest (30 page)

     If the Domina’s people resented the presence of a commercial and probably fraudulent enterprise so close to the forest lands which they held sacred, Helewise thought, then might not one of their number take matters into his or her own hands and quietly dispatch the man behind it? The forest people had been known to kill when something or someone treated their holy places with contempt, as Helewise well knew, for she had once discovered a body with a flint-tipped spear in its back. The dead man had disturbed something that he should have left alone and seen something that he was not supposed to see; the forest people had not allowed him to live to tell the tale.

     But the Domina had, after consultation with Helewise, agreed on a very different and far less violent method of stopping Florian’s activities. In the midst of her preoccupation, Helewise paused to send some thoughts Josse’s way, wondering how he was getting on over there in Brittany and praying – without very much hope, she admitted to herself – that he would not even now be storing up great sorrow for himself when the time came, as it inevitably would, for him and Joanna to part.

     Making herself return to her notes, she thought, but this killing might have been done without either the Domina’s knowledge or consent. There must surely be other powerful figures among the forest people; might not one of them have decided that this business of going across to Brittany to view and verify the true Merlin’s Tomb was taking altogether too long? And in any case there was no guarantee that Josse and Joanna’s mission would be successful. Joanna might not succeed in finding the place, or Josse might not actually be able to convince himself that Merlin was buried there any more than he was in the forest near Hadfeld.

     The bones. Those giant bones . . . Her mind slipped away and she found herself imagining them, wishing she had yielded to the temptation to go and have a look while she had been at the tomb. If they were not Merlin’s, then whose were they?

   
They give off a force
, Josse had said. He told her he had felt he was in the presence of a great power that he did not understand.

     Were they the bones of a saint? Helewise wondered. It was unlikely that a saint would have been buried out in the forest, but then Josse believed Florian had found the bones elsewhere and reburied them at the tomb site. Had he robbed a churchyard? Broken into a reliquary? But no – if some church was missing its valuable relic – and she had never heard of a whole skeleton, only a finger bone or perhaps a couple of ribs; in rare cases, a skull – then surely word would have spread of the outrage?

     Perhaps the bones were those of some holy man whom the church had not recognised but who nevertheless had power . . . But that was sacrilege, she told herself firmly, for to worship bones – or anything else for that matter – without official sanction surely must amount to raising false idols.

     A giant. Josse said the man would have been taller than him by a third of his own height.

     Do I believe in giants? Helewise asked herself. Again she wished she had seen the bones with her own eyes, for she was struck with the idea that the huge skeleton might be nothing but a clever fraud; Florian might have cobbled together the bones of more than one man, perhaps also including animal bones.

     She flung down her stylus in frustration; she was getting absolutely nowhere.

     She made herself set out on a different approach. What other facts did she know of Florian of Southfrith?

     She made a new heading – the dead young man’s name – and then wrote down all that she could recall of the facts told to her by Melusine. He was the youngest of three with two elder sisters, one a nun somewhere in north Kent, one well married and living in France; Angers, wasn’t it? No – Poitiers. She wrote it down. He had been married to Melusine’s daughter Primevère – her only daughter – for two years. He had boasted of wealth in order to win the young lady’s hand in the face of stiff opposition; his means later proved to have been exaggerated and he had further impoverished himself by hurrying to give his contribution towards King Richard’s ransom before he was even asked. Primevère was an heiress – Helewise heard in her mind Melusine’s haughty tones as she said
My late husband was Theobald of Canterbury; I am from Angers and I am an heiress in my own right
. So Primevère would never have been a pauper, even had Florian not come up with his great money-spinning scheme, for the doting and wealthy mother would have swooped down and rescued her precious child long before Florian spent the last of his pennies on her.

     The vague idea that had been growing in Helewise’s mind – to do with the possibility that Primevère, on her mother’s own admission bored with her new husband, might have had him killed in order to enjoy his money without having to endure him – faded away and died. It just did not work for, if Primevère had in truth been ready to leave her husband, she could have gone to her mother, explained simply that she was tired of Florian and the two of them could have moved away and set up home together elsewhere. Not being in need of her husband’s money, why on earth would Primevère want him dead? And anyway Helewise only had Melusine’s word for it that Primevère no longer loved her husband; to Helewise, the young woman’s grief had seemed only too real.

     Perhaps Melusine had reasons of her own for claiming that her daughter’s marriage was dying, if not dead  . . .

     Something suddenly occurred to Helewise. She saw again the pretty picture of Primevère lying on her bed, apparently sick, with her pale face supporting the claim. Yet there had been that fall of luscious, extravagant, gleaming hair. And, now Helewise came to think of it, the young woman’s eyes had been bright, the whites shining and clear; apart from the pallor, Primevère had looked the picture of health.

     Supposing – just supposing – she had only been pretending to be sick? It must be possible to create the image of pale cheeks; why, a small amount of flour would surely do the trick.

     Although she simply did not know why Primevère, lucky enough to be well, might wish to pretend she was sick, nevertheless Helewise wrote down
Primevère: what ails her and is she genuinely unwell?

     Then she sat back and stared at her list.

     And she realised that, a considerable time spent in deep thought notwithstanding, she didn’t seem to have come up with anything very helpful. Also, that she had absolutely no idea of what to do next.

     I have spent far too much time on this already, she rebuked herself sternly. In order that my musings shall not be entirely wasted, I must worry my thoughts to a conclusion and then leave the matter alone and get on with my work.

     She tried to still her whirling mind, hoping that a moment’s serenity would allow some sense or pattern to emerge from the chaos. She laid down her stylus, folded her hands, closed her eyes and, deliberately relaxing the tension in her neck and shoulders, laid her head back against her tall chair.

     After some time she thought, but I have been making this far more complicated than it is, for surely by far the most likely answer is that someone – a visitor to the tomb, or, as I was beginning to suspect when I was with Primevère, one of the guards – knew that Florian would be alone when he carried away his takings that night, followed him until he was well away from anybody who might hear him cry out and then hurried on ahead to set up the rope that broke his neck. Why, I have only to look around me to see what poverty there is in this land of ours. People are desperate, as is demonstrated by the way in which they are flocking to the so-called Merlin’s Tomb in the hope of some miracle that will give them a helping hand. Why, then, should I seek to complicate what is almost certainly murder for gain, the gain being a good horse and several bulging bags of money?

     She kept her eyes closed, trying to maintain the state of deep and clear-sighted concentration. At first it seemed to her that she had convinced herself that the obvious solution was the right one. But then, like the first fluffy cloud in a clear sky that heralds a storm, the face of the guard at the tomb to whom she had spoken slid into her mind, swiftly followed by that image of the pale-faced Primevère reclining against her pillows.

     Someone at the tomb might well know more than has yet been revealed; she would send Augustus and Saul over there to ask around. As for herself, she would give Primevère a little time to recover from the shock and the grief of Florian’s death, then she would ride back to Hadfeld and, with an experienced nurse beside her such as Sister Euphemia if she could be spared and Sister Caliste again if she could not, visit the young widow on the pretext of trying to help her in her sickness and her sorrow.

     She was just thinking resignedly that in truth she had not yet finished with this killing when a new realisation seared across her mind, temporarily driving everything else out: with Florian dead, Merlin’s Tomb would surely now be closed and the pilgrims would come back to Hawkenlye.

     The great surge of relief that this happy thought brought with it was swiftly and very thoroughly displaced by a flood of guilt. How can I of all people, she demanded in silent anguish, be glad of anything that comes about because of such a death? That poor young man had his neck broken and his body thrown into the bushes to rot, and here am I feeling
happy
! She was horrified that, even after all her years as a nun and a Christian, still such a thought could have got through her guard. Getting up, she left her room and went across to the Abbey church where, in its empty and lofty silence, she prostrated herself before the altar and begged first for forgiveness for her wicked thought and then for the Lord’s mercy on the soul of Florian of Southfrith.

In the small hours of that morning, Josse knelt over the body of Joanna as she lay on her back in the dell in the Brocéliande forest, biting down on the keening howl of grief that was trying to burst out of him. She lay pale and unmoving just where she had fallen and he was not sure that he could detect any signs that she was breathing. Meggie was watching him from the snug burrow of her blanket, her brown eyes wide; she did not speak and had made no move to rush to her mother’s side.

     Josse did not know what to do.

     He had been crouching there above her for an immeasurable time that could have been hours or just a few moments and, as the light of dawn waxed around him, he noticed that blood from the wound on his right forearm had dripped down on to Joanna’s cheek, running down her neck to pool in the hollow above the place where her collar bones met. My blood, he thought distantly, staining her pale skin. He tore his eyes from her and looked at his arm. The blood was beginning to congeal.

     He thought, I must do something to help her.

     He laid his sword and his dagger carefully down on the mossy grass and then, using his left hand in an effort to spare himself any more pain from his right, very gently he edged his fingers behind her head.

     There was a large lump at the base of her skull. Feeling around, he discovered that by bad luck she had fallen on to a boulder lying in the grass. Her head seemed to have been jerked backwards, the boulder pushing her neck forward while her head fell back behind it. His exploring fingers went on across her head, tangling in her thick, soft hair, but he found no other wound.

     He put his cheek to her mouth, trying to detect any drawing-in or expulsion of air. He thought he felt a very faint breath, but it could have been a product of his own fierce need. Bending down further, he laid his ear against her breast, just over her heart  . . .

     . . . and, after a few unimaginably terrible moments, heard a heartbeat.

     It was faint and worryingly irregular, but it was there.

     His world had just begun turning again.

     He leapt up and hurried across to where Meggie lay beside the remains of their fire. ‘Meggie, I need your mother’s blanket because she’s hurt and we must keep her warm,’ he said to the wide-eyed child, trying to keep his voice cheerful. ‘Then when I’ve made her comfy, you and I will build up the fire. Will you help me do that, Meggie?’ Solemnly Meggie nodded. ‘That’s my good girl,’ Josse said approvingly. Then, catching up Joanna’s blanket and his own as well, he went back to her.

     He did not think he ought to move her, tempting though it was to draw her closer to the fire. He had seen people with concussion before and he knew from experience what could happen if an unconscious man unable to say where he was hurting was dragged along the ground. Once in his soldiering days a man had fallen from his horse and landed on his head. The troop had been in a hurry and the commanding officer had snapped out to two of the man’s comrades to pick him up and sling him across his saddle. When the man had rapidly recovered consciousness, it was briefly to scream out with agony before the blood in his lungs drowned him: his fall had broken three ribs, one of which had, as he was lifted and put on his horse, punctured a lung.