The Enchanter's Forest (39 page)

     Gervase paused as if considering whether he would be right to repeat the rumour. Eventually he said, ‘Try not to let this cloud your judgement, Josse, but for one thing, the image of Ranulf of Crowbergh as a contented family man is not quite right. He is a childless widower.’

     ‘Ah!’ One or two images that had puzzled Josse during the morning’s visit now seemed rather clearer. ‘When did his wife die and what happened to her?’

     ‘She died late last autumn. Apparently she slipped and fell on a frosty path and cracked her skull against a stone water trough.’

     ‘But?’ There had to be a
but
.

     ‘Oh, it’s very likely that was exactly what happened,’ Gervase said. ‘Nobody saw but the path was certainly icy, she had good reason to be walking along it, and it appeared that the fatal wound on her head was made by the corner of the trough.’

     ‘Why, then, the rumours?’ Sabin demanded. ‘The poor man surely had enough to bear, losing his wife so suddenly and in such a manner.’

     ‘True, my love,’ Gervase said, ‘and I would agree with you and condemn such loose talk were it not for two things. One, Ranulf now has his wife’s fortune at his disposal in addition to his own. Two, there is a suggestion – quite a strong one – that he held back from giving the help that might have saved her. She was unconscious and she bled to death and there is nobody to corroborate Ranulf’s claim to have been away from home when the accident happened. His horse was in the stable and he said he was out on foot with his hawk, yet, unusually for him for they say that he and his falcon are an efficient pair, he returned home empty handed.’

     ‘But if he was using his hunting expedition to explain his absence then surely he would have made quite sure he came home with a good catch!’ Sabin protested. ‘He must have foreseen that people would doubt him.’

     ‘Perhaps,’ Gervase said.

     ‘And what possible reason could he have for wanting his wife out of the way?’ she went on, quite cross now on this innocent stranger’s behalf.

     But Gervase and Josse exchanged a look; Gervase, Josse thought, could furnish a reason as well as he could himself.

Sabin urged Josse to stay to supper and, after some token resistance, he accepted. Smells had been wafting through from the kitchen for some time now and his stomach was rumbling loudly enough for the others to hear. Gervase had always kept a good table; with Sabin in residence, the quality of the cuisine had soared up to first class.

     Before they sat down to eat, Gervase suggested to Josse that they go outside to check that Horace was being well tended; it was a totally unnecessary expedition but Gervase, Josse guessed, wished to question him in private about his return journey.

     Out in the evening cool of the courtyard, Gervase said, ‘Was it to avoid Joanna’s accuser that you did not sail from Dinan?’

     ‘Aye.’

     ‘Was there – oh, this is difficult, Josse, but was he justified in believing Joanna was behind the death of her husband?’

     ‘No,’ Josse said firmly. He knew Gervase wanted him to elaborate but he wasn’t going to.

     Gervase let out an exasperated sigh. ‘You’re as bad as Sabin,’ he grumbled. ‘She admitted that Joanna revealed quite a lot about her past that night in then inn at Dinan, but she said it was in confidence and totally refused to tell me anything.’

     Josse sensed that it was not mere curiosity that made Gervase so keen to know. He was, after all, a man of the law. Taking pity on him, he said, ‘Gervase, Joanna was wed against her will to a cruel old man who made her life a misery. She wanted him dead – of course she did! – and she consoled herself by envisaging ways in which he might die. That does not amount to murder any more than does wishing someone dead.’

     ‘The wish might be the more potent weapon, when we speak of a woman such as Joanna,’ Gervase muttered.

     ‘Aye, but back then she hadn’t come into her full power. And since when was anyone accused of murder simply for wishing to be rid of someone they loathed? Great heavens, most of us would be on trial sooner or later if that were the case.’

     There was a silence. Then Gervase said, ‘You’re right, of course, Josse. So, go on with your tale. What happened when we left Dinan?’

     ‘Joanna’s brother-in-law – a man named Césaire de Lehon – set someone to follow us and the man tried to kill us on our way back from the Brocéliande.’

     ‘Good God! You weren’t hurt?’

     ‘No.’ Josse glanced down quickly to ensure his sleeve covered the bandage; there was no need to mention his wound to Gervase and for some reason he felt compelled to minimise the drama. ‘Joanna somehow sensed his approach and we were able to fight him off.’

     ‘Did you kill him?’

     ‘I? No. But I am almost sure that he is dead.’

     ‘Did Joanna kill him, then?’ Gervase’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

     ‘No, no.’ Josse waved away the suggestion. ‘We – er, we had help. From one of the forest people over there. I believe it – I believe he had been following us, protecting us. He came to our aid when we were in danger.’

     Sensing that Josse did not want to say more, Gervase tactfully ceased his questioning on the matter. Instead he said, ‘So you set sail from another port?’

     ‘Aye, St Cast. We were lucky and picked up a small, light craft that utilised every breath of a strong south-westerly and got us home as fast as flying.’

     ‘And after that—’ Again, Gervase stopped. Josse, who did not want to think about
after that
any more than he did about the attack in the forest, was grateful.

     Josse broke the small silence. ‘What will you do about the death of Florian?’ he asked without much interest. ‘Will you go along with what everybody else seems to think and decide that, with the killer very likely miles away by now, there’s little point in doing anything?’

     ‘Josse, I hope you know me better than that.’ There was a mild reproof in Gervase’s voice. ‘Tomorrow I will visit the widow – what is her name?’

     ‘Primevère. She’s extremely lovely, pretty tough and she’s pregnant.’

     ‘Ah. And just bereaved, poor soul. I will tread carefully with my enquiries and try not to upset her.’

     ‘Her grief comes and goes,’ Josse said bluntly. ‘It may sound cruel, but I’ll wager she may well lament the loss of the money that her husband was bringing in rather more than that of the man himself.’

     ‘It does sound cruel,’ Gervase agreed. ‘You should not—’ But he bit back whatever reprimand he was about to issue, instead clapping a hand on Josse’s shoulder. ‘Come and eat, my friend,’ he said. ‘Sabin has done wonders for the fare on offer in my house and we have some delicious French wine. Then, if you wish, we will make up a bed for you and you shall stay the night.’

     ‘Thank you,’ Josse said. ‘The food and the drink I accept with pleasure but if you will excuse me, I shall ride back to the Abbey later. I have,’ he finished with a deep sigh, ‘much on my mind and a ride in the cool night air will do me good.’

The meal lived up entirely to expectations and, for the time that Josse sat at Gervase’s table, watching the sheriff’s benevolent smile as he listened to Sabin chattering away happily about their forthcoming wedding, some of the cheerfulness rubbed off on him and he felt his spirits lift. In order to keep Sabin talking – she had an entertaining way with her – Josse asked about the visit to her former mistress in Nantes.

     ‘The Duchess looked well,’ Sabin replied, ‘and there was no sign that the malady is accelerating in its progress through her poor body. When I explained my plans, she did not protest overmuch that she must lose me. Us, I should say,’ she corrected herself, glancing at Benoît. ‘Then I asked if I might present Gervase to her and he quite won her over with his charms!’ She laughed delightedly.

     ‘You exaggerate, sweetheart,’ Gervase protested.

     ‘Oh, no I don’t,’ Sabin flashed back. ‘Anyway, she said she was not a woman to stand in the way of love and she gave us her blessing.’

     ‘She has found another to help her in her sickness?’ Josse asked.

     ‘Yes,’ Sabin answered. ‘I was able to reassure myself that Grandfather and I leave her in good hands.’

     ‘And now I have my beloved books and equipment with me once more!’ Benoît put in with a cackle. Turning his all but blind eyes towards Josse, he added, ‘The books, I admit, are nowadays of more use to Sabin than to me and they will be hers entirely one day. But I still have skill in my hands and my sense of smell is as sharp as ever; I can be of use here, even in my infirmity.’

     ‘You can, Grandfather,’ Sabin assured him affectionately. ‘And I still have much to learn from you.’

     They will be happy, Gervase and his bride, Josse thought. Even the presence of a blind and often crotchety old man under Gervase’s roof did not appear to be a drawback and, indeed, Gervase seemed genuinely fond of the old boy. But, pleased for his friend and his bride though he was, the contemplation of others’ marital bliss was a difficult one for him to bear just then.

     He took his leave when the last jug of wine was empty. Benoît bade him farewell from where he sat; Gervase and Sabin went out into the courtyard to see him on his way.

     ‘I will call at Hawkenlye after going to see Primevère tomorrow,’ Gervase said.

     ‘We will expect you,’ Josse replied.

     He swung up into the saddle and Horace took one or two steps towards the gateway. ‘Ride safely,’ Sabin said.

     Expressing his thanks with a bow, Josse was about to depart. But then, perhaps prompted by all the empty hours of tomorrow with nothing much to fill them and so distract his thoughts, he looked down at Gervase and said gruffly, ‘I don’t mind coming with you to see Primevère if you like.’ Struck with the idea that the offer needed explanation, he said, ‘The Abbess Helewise and I have discussed Florian’s murder at some length and it might help were I to pass on our thoughts to you as we ride.’

     Gervase, good friend that he was, seemed to pick up more than Josse’s words said. ‘Nothing I’d like better, Josse.’ He gave an encouraging smile. ‘I’ll ride along by the Abbey and collect you.’

     Josse nodded briefly, then wished them both goodnight and, the familiar ache for Joanna already returning, rode off into the darkness.

Chapter 19

Helewise knew that she could no longer put off sharing her suspicions with Josse. Early the next day she sent one of the nuns to seek him out down in the Vale and, very shortly after the summons, he tapped at her door and entered her room.

     His face was grey beneath the suntan and his eyes looked sunken and dull, the lids slightly puffy. He said, his tone unenthusiastic, ‘My lady Abbess? You sent for me?’

     She longed to speak of the subject that just had to be uppermost in both their minds but she held back. We are old friends and have deep affection for each other, she told herself. If he wants to ease his pain by sharing it with me, he will. All the time he chooses to keep it to himself, I cannot say a word.

     Although it grieved her, she made herself smile and said, ‘Yes, Sir Josse. I am uneasy in my mind about several things concerning our visit yesterday to Primevère and I hoped you might be willing to discuss them with me.’

     ‘I am at your disposal,’ he said expressionlessly. Then, a very small amount of enthusiasm entering his voice, ‘That is, until Gervase arrives, for I have offered to go with him to Hadfeld today.’

     ‘I see.’ That’s good, she thought; he will at least have something positive to occupy him. ‘Then before he collects you, let us walk outside in the sunshine while we talk,’ she suggested, getting to her feet; the prospect of spending any time with this new, sad Josse within the confines of a small room was nothing short of awful.

     She led the way across the cloister, around the end of the infirmary and towards the rear gate. Passing it on their left, they walked on, turned right when they met the far wall of the Abbey and, a little way along it, settled on a stone bench overlooking Sister Tiphaine’s herb garden. There, after a few moments’ contemplation of the sweet plant smells encouraged by the sunshine, she spoke.

     ‘Primevère did not wish it to be known that she is pregnant,’ she said. ‘She excused the pallor and the nausea by saying that the heat did not agree with her.’