The Enchanter's Forest (42 page)

     ‘Have you no pity for Florian?’ he asked quietly.

     She considered the question, turning her head on one side. Then, dark eyes on Josse’s, she said, ‘No, not really.’ Then: ‘You see, I never really liked him.’

Chapter 20

‘What will you do now?’ Josse asked the sheriff as they rode back to Hawkenlye.

     ‘I am very tempted,’ the sheriff said testily, ‘to take a force of men and sail across to France, locate Ranulf’s estate near Le Mans and demand that he accompanies me back to England to face an accusation of murder and robbery.’

     ‘But how would you prove it, even if you could force him to come?’

     Gervase frowned. ‘There
must
be proof, Josse, did I only know where to look.’

     ‘I very much doubt it,’ Josse replied. ‘Someone steps out of the darkness and kills a man on the forest fringes at dead of night. The man is robbed of his money bags and his horse and his body hidden in the bushes. Who on earth is to say who did the deed?’

     ‘I might find the proof I need if I could locate Florian’s horse,’ Gervase said.

     ‘Aye, now well on its way to some place where it’ll be lost among dozens that look exactly like it,’ Josse countered. ‘Would you take Florian’s groom with you and ask him to point out his late master’s bay? And even if you could prove without a shadow of doubt that Florian’s horse is now in Ranulf’s paddock, then there’s nothing to stop either Ranulf or Primevère saying, oh, yes, the horse did turn up, minus the money bags, and we forgot to tell you, and since nobody here has any use for it we decided to send it out to join the rest of the stock out in France.’

     ‘So, like hiding a tree in a forest, the animal is for ever lost among its fellows and will end its days happily breeding and making a rich man even more money.’ There was a tinge of bitterness in Gervase’s voice.

     Josse grinned suddenly, remembering something the Abbess told him. ‘Correct in all but one respect, Gervase,’ he said. ‘The horse was a gelding.’

     There was silence between them for some time. Then Gervase said passionately, ‘Dear God, but how I hate to see someone commit a crime and walk away a free man!’

     Josse considered several replies. Then he said, ‘I know, my friend. In this case, however, I think you’re going to have to put up with it.’

Back at the Abbey, they both went to see the Abbess.

     She was not alone in her little room: before her stood Ranulf of Crowbergh, and Primevère sat on the small wooden stool kept for visitors.

     Josse, astounded, instinctively banged the door shut behind him and stood against it. Forgetting that he had left his weapons at the gate, as he and other armed visitors always did, his hand had flown to the place where his sword usually hung.

     Gervase, face tense, squared up to Ranulf.

     Who, with a smile, put up his hands and said calmly, ‘Please, gentlemen, there’s no need for violence.’ Turning round to exchange a glance with the Abbess – who, Josse noticed, was sitting straight-backed and regal in her throne-like chair with a slight frown but no other sign of unease – he went on, ‘Primevère and I have been experiencing the most agonisingly divided loyalties. I was all for our setting sail last night for France, where I had planned that we would lie low until – until matters had taken their course, with or without our intervention. Primevère’ – he gave her a loving smile – ‘has persuaded me otherwise and, since the decision really has to be hers, I have bowed to her wisdom.’ He stood back, one hand to his heart, head lowered as if to say, I have said my piece and now it is up to others to explain.

     Which, after a short moment of silence in which the mood was so full of tension that the very air seemed to crackle, Primevère did.

     Gracefully she got to her feet, the luscious silk of her gown hissing as she moved and settling in generous folds around her feet.

     ‘My lady Abbess, Sir Josse, and—?’ She looked enquiringly at Gervase, who introduced himself.

     Primevère smiled. ‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘Patient listeners, stand easy for I am going to tell you a story.’ Briefly her dark blue eyes went around the group, a certain arrogance in her stance commanding their attention, then she began. ‘It is of someone who was born to discontent; someone who, despite being brought up the pampered favourite in a comfortably wealthy family, still could not be happy, for their nature had a peevish streak of self-preservation that always said, I am worth more than this! This person grew to adulthood and became arrogant, adopting the attitude that they were so special that others ought to recognise this and treat them accordingly.’

     She speaks of Florian, Josse guessed; she must indeed retain some love for him, for speaking of him in this way makes her look so very sad.

     ‘This person became manipulative and cunning,’ Primevère went on, ‘and, with time and desperation, cunning turned to dishonesty and then, as the last vestige of conscience was lost, to evil. In pursuance of their own wicked aim, they no longer recognised right from wrong and did not know where to stop.’

     The tomb, Josse realised; she refers to his heartless manipulation of gullible people by pretending to have discovered Merlin’s bones.

     ‘Now I will tell you the tale of someone else,’ she was saying, ‘a woman whose tragedy was that she fell out of love with the man she had married and could no longer accept him as a wife should, turning him out of her bed and, as time went by, shunning his conversation, even his very company.’ She paused, eyes bright with tears, and Josse observed her pain as she spoke of her own experience. She must have felt the stab of empathy for, turning to him, she said softly, ‘It was miserable for her, Sir Josse; how much worse it was for the man to whom she was wed.’

     Gervase seemed to shake himself free from the spell of her words; stepping towards her, he said roughly, ‘Madam, murder has been done and yet you would engage our sympathy for the perpetrators! Remember that—’

     Surprisingly it was the Abbess who, raising her hand, said quietly, ‘Please, Gervase. Hear her out.’

     For an instant Gervase stood his ground. Then, with a faint bow towards the throne-like chair, he subsided.

     ‘Thank you,’ Primevère murmured. She had been slowly pacing the small room and now she stopped right in front of Gervase. ‘The perpetrators,’ she said, repeating his words. ‘You refer, I think, to Ranulf and me, believing that I was the woman who tired of her husband and that I persuaded my lover to help me rid myself of him? I do not deny that Ranulf and I are lovers and have been since last winter. Ranulf lost his wife, you see, and although she did not love him, he still loved her and his grief at her death was compounded by the cruel rumour that instead of trying to save her life he had left her to die.’ Now the deep blue eyes were hard as they stared up into Gervase’s, as if Primevère were silently saying, you may not have started the rumours but you most certainly have passed them on.

     For a brief moment Gervase looked sheepish. Then, rallying, he said coldly, ‘I have only Ranulf’s word for that.’

     ‘Mine too,’ Primevère said, ‘for I was there that day and both Ranulf and I did what we could for her.’ Gervase was about to speak but she anticipated his question. ‘I did not speak up, and I was wrong. I would have done had Ranulf been arrested, but as it was it seemed best not to invite further slandering of his good name by advertising the fact that his neighbour’s wife had been with him on the day his wife died.’ Now Primevère spun round to face the Abbess. ‘Ranulf and I have sworn to the Abbess Helewise that we were not lovers then, although neither of us can deny that we already loved each other.’

     ‘And I believe them,’ the Abbess said.

     ‘But you are now,’ Gervase said bluntly. ‘You are pregnant, madam, are you not, and not by your husband?’ There was a gasp and swift movement from the corner where Ranulf stood and he went to stand by Primevère’s side.

     ‘I am, and the child is Ranulf’s,’ Primevère replied. ‘And—’

     ‘Enough,’ Ranulf said forcefully. His arm around her waist, he looked around the group, fixing Josse, the Abbess and Gervase in turn with a direct stare. Then, bending his head to hers, briefly he touched her forehead with his lips. ‘Enough,’ he whispered to her.

     She looked up at him. ‘I must finish,’ she said.

     He looked at her for a long moment. Then, shoulders slumping, he whispered, ‘Very well.’

     ‘You killed Florian, didn’t you?’ Gervase appeared to be addressing both of them. ‘An unwanted husband was a hindrance at the best of times; even more so when the lady here was expecting an unwelcome child.’

     Two heads turned sharply to face him and the protest ripped out of both Primevère and Ranulf: ‘
No
.’ Ranulf was about to continue but Primevère whispered, ‘Please?’ and, with an obvious effort, he stopped.

     ‘
Not
an unwelcome child,’ she said with dignity, ‘for, although conceived out of wedlock, this baby could not be more loved and wanted if he or she were the heir to the throne. And’ – now she faced Gervase again – ‘for all that it must seem to you that for us to kill him was the obvious and rational solution, I have to tell you that neither Ranulf nor I had anything to do with the death of Florian. Should you doubt us, we can provide someone who knew that we were together on the night he was killed.’

     ‘I’m sure you can,’ murmured Gervase.

     Ranulf’s face darkened. ‘Have a care,’ he said. ‘You make a vicious implication, and it can and will be proved to you that you speculation and guesswork are entirely wide of the mark.’

     The slight emphasis on
speculation
and
guesswork
were, Josse thought, a calculated insult; since guessing and speculating were in truth exactly what he and Gervase had done, under the circumstances it seemed justifiable.

     Primevère had moved her position so that she now stood between Ranulf and Gervase. With dignity she said again, ‘Let me finish.’

     And, after a tense moment, both men stepped back.

     Josse, suppressing a flash of admiration, waited for her to complete her tale.

     ‘Florian’s death has set me free to marry the man I love and when Ranulf spoke just now of wanting us to sail over to France, he referred to his suggestion that the two of us go over to live on his estate near Le Mans for a time. We would have married quietly somewhere on the journey and at home Ranulf would have presented me as his new and pregnant bride. There we would have stayed until either those who killed Florian were caught and brought to justice or until the law gave up and stopped hunting for them.’ She shot a glance at Gervase. ‘But then we discovered who was behind the murder and it changed everything.’

     ‘Who is it?’ Gervase demanded. Then, furiously, as his anger finally boiled over: ‘I have had enough of rambling tales that skirt and obscure the truth; if you really do know who killed your husband, tell me now or I shall arrest the pair of you.’

     As the echoes of his harsh voice died away, nobody in the room doubted that he meant it.

     Primevère bowed her head meekly. ‘Very well,’ she said quietly. Then she raised her eyes to meet those of Gervase. ‘Florian’s habits were well known,’ she began, ‘and everyone both at the tomb and at Hadfeld was aware that he came home two or three times a week with the takings. Usually he had a guard with him and so the first task of the murderer was to arrange it so that one night, Florian rode alone. A guard was approached; it was Hal, the one with the scars and the broken nose. The murderer, judging correctly that Hal was a violent man, had found out that he was on the run for killing a man in a fight, and that useful little fact gave the murderer power over him. Not that Hal needed much persuasion; a large share of the proceeds of the robbery was sufficient incentive to enlist his help.’

     ‘But surely the killer wanted the money!’ Josse protested.

     ‘No, Josse,’ Primevère said with a sad smile, ‘for the person behind Florian’s death was already wealthy. It was not for personal gain that my husband was killed.’

   
The person was already wealthy
.

   
Agonisingly divided loyalties
.

   
The decision has to be hers
.