The Rose of the World (27 page)

‘I wish Meggie was here,' Josse said, breaking the companionable silence.

Helewise thought she knew why. She had observed how, when young Geoffroi had gone to sit beside his father after supper, Josse had at first clutched the boy convulsively to him, swiftly releasing him when he realized the grip was too tight. Having just been forced to wave goodbye to one of the people he most loved, Josse obviously wanted to keep the others close.

‘She will be home soon, I expect.' She tried to make her tone calm and reassuring. ‘We all mourn Ninian in our own way,' she added softly.

‘Don't use that word!' he snapped.

She rose and went to sit beside him. Taking his hand, she bent to kiss it. ‘I am sorry,' she said. ‘I only meant we mourn his presence here with us. No more.'

With a tentative hand, he reached out and lightly touched her cheek. ‘I know,' he said gruffly. ‘I didn't mean to shout at you.'

She got up and poured wine for them both. She handed one of the pewter goblets to him and, raising her own, said, ‘To Ninian, wherever he is. May God keep him safe until he can return to us.'

‘Amen,' Josse muttered, instantly taking a gulp of the wine.

Helewise went back to her seat on the opposite side of the hearth. Earlier, she and Josse had shared what sparse information their day's enquiries had discovered. Something that he had told her concerning his visit to Lady Béatrice was puzzling her. She thought about it – years as a nun had taught her to think before she spoke, so as not to waste time on idle chatter – and then said, ‘Josse, I have been worrying about this scheme of Hugh's to use our Rosamund as a gift with which to gain the king's favour.'

‘Aye, it's shameful,' he agreed. ‘I—'

She interrupted him. ‘It is, of course, but that wasn't what I meant. You paint a picture of Olivier as the outcast, the son whom his mother's husband tolerated but did not love. Surely, if one of the brothers had such a burning desire to gain the favour of an older man, it would not be Hugh, who already had a father's love, but Olivier. Yet Olivier claims the whole idea was Hugh's.'

‘Aye, and Hugh is dead and cannot tell us otherwise,' Josse replied.

‘I was so sure, when I spoke to Rosamund, that I had guessed what happened,' she said bitterly. ‘Yet I was wrong, for this horseman whom Rosamund heard but did not see rode away again.'

‘Aye, and in any case, had it been Hugh, and had he died there at that time, then what happened to his horse? Olivier would have had to take it away with him, and Rosamund would have told us had that been the case. She loves horses, doesn't she?'

‘Indeed she does,' Helewise replied. ‘Besides, she said that she rode with Olivier on Star. She'd certainly have described in great detail any horse she'd been loaned to ride by herself, especially the sort of mount ridden by a wealthy man.'

Neither of them spoke for some time. Then Josse sighed heavily and said, ‘We still have no proof that it wasn't Ninian who fought Hugh.' He drained his goblet and set it down beside the empty jug. He straightened up and looked at her, his expression so sad that she almost leapt up to take him in her arms.

Something in his eyes held her back. ‘I'm going to bed,' he said shortly. ‘Sleep well, my lady.'

She listened as his heavy tread faded to nothing. My lady, she thought. Perhaps it was unconscious, brought about by the stress of the moment, but he had called her by the formal name that had been her right when she was abbess of Hawkenlye.

Slowly, she got up and went through to her own quarters. She made her preparations for the night, then went into her small sleeping chamber, quickly removing headdress and outer tunic and lying down. The bed was soft – far softer than the hard plank bed she had slept on for so long in the Hawkenlye dormitory – and the blankets were thick, soft wool. She even had a fur bedcover for when the weather was very cold. It was so luxurious, and Josse had provided it all for her.

She wanted more than anything to go to him. She loved him, and she knew he loved her. Even though she had made the vast break away from the cloister and Caliste had succeeded her at Hawkenlye, she seemed somehow to have brought her former life with her. People still sought her out for help and advice – well, she didn't mind that at all, since in leaving the abbey she'd had no intention of ceasing to serve God, in whatever way he dictated – and apparently, in the minds of almost everyone around her, she was still a nun. Still an abbess.

And Josse had just called her by her old name.

She turned on her side, sad and hurt, and tried to still her thoughts so that she could get to sleep.

That same evening, Hawkenlye infirmary's most illustrious patient finally reached the limit of his tolerance. He was a restless man by nature, his quick and able mind ever flying on to the next thought or challenge and his body swiftly leaping to follow. For far too long these well meaning but stern women had made him lie in bed because of a wound that really was not very serious. He knew he should respect them, for they were nuns and he had always been taught that the brides of Christ were to be honoured. The trouble was that they made him feel like a child again. He found himself automatically obeying when the infirmarer said
do this, don't do that
, for no better reason than that the sister's smooth-skinned, handsome face within the close-fitting wimple and headbands was so like his mother's. As was her air of serene confidence that the person to whom she had just given a command would do just as she said, even if he was the king of England.

He was sick of the infirmary, sick of the abbey, sick of this tour of the religious foundations, watching the work of his agents as they milked everything they could from the monks and the nuns. Yes, he managed to slip away and go hunting at times, but those times were not nearly frequent enough. Anyway, there was no need for him to involve himself with the group inspecting the abbeys; he had able servants who were as enthusiastic for this work of legalized plunder as he was himself. Coming out into the field of operations to see for himself had been a mistake, in hindsight. The trouble was that he had been bored and more than ready for a distraction. His wife had borne him two children in quick succession and, for the time being, she was too tired, plump and slack to hold much allure. She had ways of making it quite clear she did not want him anywhere near her – not that that would have stopped him had he desired to bed her – and he had decided that life was more pleasant without her sharp tongue and her endless complaints. Let her amuse herself with that half brother of hers. There were plenty of prettier women to be had.

His boredom had stemmed from an additional cause: life had seemed strangely flat ever since he had returned from his triumphant expedition to Ireland. Whatever the rumours might say – and if he knew who had started the mutterings that he had left the country in a ferment, he would have them put lengthily and unpleasantly to death – he knew, in his own mind, that he had outplayed the lot of them and ought to have the undiluted praise that was his due.

Tomorrow he would return to London. He would ride his own horse – he would have no truck with this suggestion of a litter – and he would set a fast pace. He had a vague memory of having told his people to arrange overnight accommodation on the way, but he had changed his mind and now wanted nothing more than to be back in his own sumptuous surroundings.

This would be his last night at Hawkenlye. He would make it one to remember. Calling for his attendants, he told them to fetch his outer garments and help him dress.

King John let his men accompany him as far as the clearing, then told them curtly to remain on guard while he went into the chapel. Opening the door, he went inside. It was not yet fully dark, and the soft light reflecting off the white walls still held the glow of sunset. The curved east wall, over to his right beyond the simple altar, was brilliant with the sunlit colours of the stained glass in the west end of the small building. He stopped and looked up at the window.

St Edmund rode a richly-caparisoned horse and was depicted with his sword arm raised, ready to strike down the enemies of the Lord. He was tall, broad, auburn-haired and blue-eyed, and he resembled John's elder brother far too closely for it to be coincidence. Only Queen Eleanor, her son reflected, could have got away with it . . .

He stood quite still in the middle of the little chapel. She was not here, but he believed she would come. This place was clearly important to her. It was where he had first seen her and, when he had fought with the madman who had launched his ferocious attack, she had been here, defending not only the little girl but also – he saw her clearly in his mind's eye – the chapel.

He would wait for her. If he was wrong and she did not come, he would explore the surrounding woodland. It was dense and dark, and there were alarming rumours concerning the magical creatures that dwelt within its shadows, but he had no time for peasant superstition and he did not believe in magic.

She lived nearby: of that he was certain.

The sun sank down behind the trees, and the brilliant illumination that had lit up the west window slowly faded. Only then did he realize that a lamp burned on the altar. As the shadows grew, it shone relatively more brightly. Presently, it was the only source of light in the chapel. His eyes were drawn to it.

The door opened, and one of his guards looked in. He shouted at him and, with a bow, the man backed out again.

When the door opened a second time, it was to admit her.

Meggie did not know what drew her repeatedly back to the chapel. She knew full well why she wanted to stay at the hut for the time being: because she wished with all her heart that she had gone with Ninian, and, back at the House in the Woods, she knew she would find his absence a constant reproof. He needed her, she kept telling herself. Their mother would have wanted them to go together. But, against those two powerful facts, a third had been even more forceful. The look on her father's face when he realized she was on the point of hurrying off after her half brother had done something funny to her heart. She had known then she had to stay.

Being in the hut made her feel close to her mother. She sensed Joanna's vivid presence; she even saw her sometimes, or thought she did, although the image was faint, as if seen through mist. Her mother understood why she could not go with Ninian. Joanna had loved Josse too and knew what he meant to Meggie.

Perhaps it was Joanna who wanted her to keep vigil at the chapel. Meggie had been wrong in thinking that the great lords – one of whom, as she now knew, was the king – had been there because they were hunting for the Black Madonna. The king was after something far more earthly than a mysterious black goddess.

Still, Meggie could not relax. Repeatedly, she found herself returning to the chapel, simply, as she told herself, to make sure all was well. Late in the afternoon, just before sunset, she decided to pay a last visit. She was some way down the path when, with a soft exclamation, she turned and retraced her steps. Going back inside the hut, she took a small, hard object wrapped up in a leather bag out of a specially-crafted wooden box that was screwed to the underside of the sleeping platform. Obeying some indefinable impulse, she had brought it with her from its habitual hiding place at the House in the Woods. Holding it lightly in her right hand, once again she walked briskly out of the clearing.

As she emerged from beneath the trees, she saw a group of armed men lounging around outside the chapel. One of them said something to the others, making a vulgar gesture with his hand and jerking his head in the direction of the chapel. Meggie leapt back under cover. She knew, then, who was inside.

She feared him, for she knew what he wanted of her. Yet when he had spoken to her, against all logic she had found herself liking him. She had had no dealings with men such as him; Josse had once lived in those elevated circles, but now, on his own admission, he was an ordinary family man doing his best for those he loved. She did not really understand the power of sophisticated, intelligent, determined charm . . .

Her own feelings must in any case be put aside, for he was in the chapel, only a few feet above the place where it held its secret. She waited until the men were not looking – that was easy, for now another of them was telling a joke or a lewd story, and all their attention was on him – and, slipping out from the shadows, she ran round to the chapel door, opened it and went inside.

He turned to look at her. ‘Meggie,' he said softly. ‘I knew you would come.'

She made herself walk closer to him. Standing right before him, she made a low curtsey. ‘We are honoured by your presence here, my lord,' she said.

He reached out for her hand and raised her up, putting his fingers under her chin so that she lifted her head and looked at him. They were roughly of a height; if anything, she was a little taller.

It was difficult to take in anything other than the bright eyes. He was in his forties now, the strong body getting fat around the middle, but she found that those factors weighed little against the compelling power of his gaze.
He is dangerous
, she told herself.
Do not forget it
.

‘I shall leave the abbey in the morning,' he said softly, ‘but I could not go without saying goodbye to you.'

‘You flatter me, lord,' she replied.

‘I have wanted you since I saw you outside with your little friend,' he went on. ‘That mad fool Olivier must have seen me watching you both and mistaken the object of my attention.' Anger briefly contorted his face: there and gone in an instant. He moved closer to her, and she felt the heat of his body. ‘What I want,' he murmured, ‘I usually get.' He ran his fingers down her hair. ‘Such beautiful curls,' he murmured. ‘You smell clean, Meggie. I like clean people.'