The Winter King (28 page)

He studied the king. It was the first time he had ever seen him, and that, he thought, probably applied to everyone there, other than John’s own retinue. Only the great lords like the late Benedict de Vitré actually got to meet their King. Sebastian had overheard some of the local men of power make the sort of boastful, bragging comments that suggested they were on intimate terms with the monarch, but Sebastian thought they were probably exaggerating. At most, they might have seen him in the distance at some court function. Much, indeed, as they were seeing him now.

Sebastian brought himself out of his brief reverie. It was time to start another circuit.

At a trestle down at the far end of the hall – where, lit only by cheap lamps, it was dark and shadowy and a very long way below the salt – a sallow-faced man sat mechanically chewing his way through whatever appeared before him. He was quite calm, for, as invariably happened, his meticulous planning had paid off, and everything had gone as smoothly as silk. He had reconnoitred extensively, finding the safest place to hide his horse, the least overlooked way into the fenced enclosure of Medley, and a handy and little-used passage that gave direct access to the hall. He had insinuated himself over the course of several visits, so that, although nobody knew exactly who he was or what role he performed, his presence was accepted. The man on his left had greeted him with a friendly slap on the back as he took his place on the bench, and said, ‘Come on, Hugh, hand me that mug and I’ll soon fill it up for you!’

The sallow-faced man’s name wasn’t Hugh. He was called something else by his present paymaster, and that wasn’t his real name either. Not that it mattered; with a quick grin that did not reach anywhere near his eyes, he complied.

His mug had just been filled for the third time. Not a drop had passed his lips: he had to maintain a state of high alert. It had been easy, as his companions surrendered their wits to drink, to empty his mug on to the rushes that covered the floor. By the time this feast was over, he mused, ale would not be the only liquid soaking into the rushes.

The sallow-faced man watched, and waited. Had anyone taken the trouble to study him, he or she would have been hard put to describe him: short, dark hair, lean face, clean-shaven, mid-coloured eyes, medium height, simply dressed in dull shades; cloak with a deep hood, thrown back. It could have applied to scores of men.

He was good at being nondescript. Long experience had taught him it made him safe.

The short autumn day had faded to evening. More candles were lit, and the fires in the central hearth were stoked up, sending a blaze of orange sparks up into the high roof of the hall. Lady Richenza, who had long ago stopped even pretending to eat, sat back in her high-backed chair, watching the king picking at the last stubborn piece of flesh on a chicken drumstick, occasionally dipping it in the pool of gooseberry sauce on his silver platter and sucking at it.

Lady Richenza had a headache, and wished they would all go away so that she could retire to her bed. Her wonderfully soft, wide, warm bed, which now – thank the dear, good, merciful Lord above – was blessedly empty of her late and entirely unmourned husband.

The entertainments had begun, and the dancers, musicians, jugglers, tumblers and jesters were every bit as gaudy, as ribald and as noisy as Sebastian had feared. His expression of shocked amazement when she had first told him that there were to be entertainers at her late husband’s funeral feast had been wonderful; she had found it hard to bite back her laughter. Now, as the rowdiness swiftly accelerated, she thought in bitter triumph,
There, Benedict, you evil old sod! See how I choose to celebrate your death! And look at how ready everyone is to be happy! Nobody else mourns you any more than I do.

Lady Richenza watched as a line of ten acrobats came flying up the hall, five each side of the central hearth, twisting, flipping, cartwheeling, until they were just beneath the dais, whereupon they gave the king a deep bow, turned and tumbled back again. They were very good, Lady Richenza had to admit. To a man – to a woman, too, she noticed – they were lithe and slim; so supple that they appeared to have no bones. They were dressed in close-fitting black, and each wore a short, brightly coloured tunic sewn with some sort of glittering shapes – made of metal, she thought – which caught the light of the flames so that, as the troupe twisted and turned, they seemed to be on fire.

Like everyone else in the hall, she couldn’t take her eyes off them.

Like
almost
everyone else …

Deep in the shadows at the far side of the hall, a figure sidled slowly and stealthily along the tapestry-hung wall. The tapestry’s colours were sombre and, dark-clad as he was, he hoped he would not be visible. Little light fell out there beyond the circle of fire, lamp and candlelight and, whenever he reached a place where a torch blazed in its bracket overhead, he crouched down while he passed through its pool of illumination. He did not think there was much danger of being noticed. The tumblers were well into their performance now, and the crowd was shouting out loud cries of appreciation and encouragement. As if in response, the musicians were playing full blast. Nobody was concerned with a figure creeping in the shadows.

He stepped over a comatose body, its head in a puddle of vomit. The body emitted a groan.

The man moved on. Now he was at the far end of the hall. He moved carefully out of the depths of the darkness, crossing the floor on feet as light as a cat’s. Then, in one smooth, continuous movement, he drew the narrow blade out of its sheath inside his boot and leapt up on to the dais. He had positioned himself perfectly, crouching directly behind the king. In a brutal version of a lover’s embrace, he wrapped one arm around the barrel chest, drawing the king close and holding him steady. With the other hand, he thrust in the long, thin blade. His precision was perfect: the blade was aimed between the ribs, its angle inclined upwards so that, as it plunged in, right to the hilt, its tip would penetrate the heart.

And King John would be dead.

Aaagh!

The man’s steady heartbeat suddenly raced.

Making the sort of instant decision that had kept him alive in a highly dangerous profession, the man turned, jumped lightly off the dais and sprinted away.

Side by side, shoulders touching and affording a little comfort, Josse and Helewise stood in one of the curtained recesses of the Hawkenlye infirmary, staring down at the dead body of Luc Jordan. He had been found that morning, lying in a tangle of dead and rotting vegetation in the shallows at the far end of the lake below the abbey. A small family party of pilgrims had made the discovery and, shocked at finding such a violation so close to holy ground, had hurried along to the monks in the vale. Four of the lay brothers had accompanied them back to their gruesome find, and the body was borne up to the abbey.

The boy’s throat had been cut, and although the compassionate hands of Sister Liese and her nurses had removed the blood-sodden clothing and washed the body, still the ghastly wound gaped wide and red.

Above it, his deathly pale face looked oddly peaceful, for one who had died so violently.

‘So now all three are dead,’ Helewise said softly. ‘Those fond young men, who went searching for a grand adventure that would ensure their names resonated through history, have each been dispatched by a skilled and ruthless hand, as if they were no more than an unwanted and inconvenient litter of puppies.’

‘Aye,’ Josse said with a deep sigh. ‘It’s cruel, to see the last of them come to this.’

They stood in silence, although Josse could hear her thoughts as if she spoke them aloud. Eventually he said, ‘We must inform Lord Robert Wimarc of their fate.’ He turned to her with a brief grin. ‘Just as you were about to say, I believe.’

She returned his smile. ‘Indeed I was.’ Then, her features twisting with pity, she added, ‘He must by now suspect something is amiss, if he was indeed expecting his young visitors. It is strange, if he was, that he has not sent out to ask if there is news of them. Hawkenlye is the nearest establishment of any size to Wealdsend, and it seems likely any such messengers would have enquired here; yet none have come.’

Josse said, ‘I cannot say why, but I am all but certain Lord Wimarc does not know anything of the three young men’s proposed visit. Or, perhaps I should say, he certainly did not invite them.’

‘I don’t think Luc said they had been
invited
,’ she replied. ‘It was more that he and the cousins St Clair picked up word that some thrilling scheme was being planned in the secret depths of Wealdsend and, being young and desperate to test their courage and their hardihood, they resolved to seek out the place and offer their services.’ She paused, and Josse saw tears well up in her eyes. ‘They probably thought they’d be welcomed with open arms,’ she whispered.

He reached for her hand. ‘Aye, I know,’ he said heavily. ‘It’s hard.’

She squeezed his hand quickly, then gently disengaged hers. He suppressed a grin: they were, after all, in the Hawkenlye infirmary. For so much of their shared past, her former position here had placed such gestures firmly out of bounds. Memory, it seemed, died hard.

‘We can be there and back while the light lasts if we set out now,’ she said. She was looking at him with what, over the long years, he had learned to recognize as her determined expression.

‘You’re surely not proposing to come with me?’ he demanded, although he knew it was hopeless.

‘Of course I am,’ she replied briskly. ‘We shall be breaking the sad news of three deaths, and even if Lord Wimarc does not know our young men, none but the hardest heart could fail to be moved. It needs,’ she said, with the air of someone adding the final, irrefutable argument, ‘a woman’s touch.’

He followed her out of the infirmary. Still uneasy in his mind – although he was not entirely sure why – he paused, and beckoned to Sister Liese, who, with an enquiring glance, hurried over.

‘Sister, would you please make sure that a message is sent to the abbess?’ he said quietly. She nodded. He leaned down and spoke in her ear. Her eyes widened briefly, then, wiping the reaction from her face, she whispered, ‘I will go and give her the message myself, Sir Josse.’

There is a connection between Medley Hall and Wealdsend
, Josse thought as he rode ahead of Helewise down the track that led westwards away from the abbey.
I saw the hooded man emerge from the Medley courtyard, and I followed him and witnessed the fastness of Wealdsend open briefly to admit him
.

What was that connection? It could have nothing to do with their current mission, and the deaths of Luc Jordan and the St Clair cousins, for Luc had made no mention of Lord Benedict de Vitré or his manor. Perhaps it was no more than the desire of a recluse to keep at least half an eye on what was going on around him. It was possible that news of Lord Benedict’s death had permeated to the inhabitant of Wealdsend, and maybe he wished to be kept informed.

And how did these events connect to the presence of the various discontented factions in the vicinity at the moment? To the grumbling barons flocking to Nicholas Fitzwalter, and that poor puppet, Caleb of Battle, who had been forced into expressing what none of the great lords dared say? And where, on the good God’s earth, was Lilas?

Josse’s whirling thoughts threatened to rise up and engulf him. ‘One thing at a time,’ he muttered to himself. ‘We’ll pass on our sad news to Lord Wimarc – if he lets us – and then we’ll address everything else.’

‘What did you say?’ Helewise had drawn level with him, and overheard his mumbling.

‘Just thinking out loud,’ he replied. ‘Not that my thoughts have achieved anything.’ Impatient suddenly, he spurred Alfred, who broke into a canter. After a moment, he heard Daisy’s lighter hoof falls hurrying behind him.

Wealdsend presented its usual forbidding face.

‘It looks quite deserted,’ Helewise observed as they drew rein before its gates. ‘You are sure there is someone within?’

‘There was when I came here before,’ Josse said. He nudged Alfred, moving the big horse closer to the heavy gates. Drawing his sword, he banged the hilt hard against the wooden panels, several times. ‘Halloa Wealdsend!’ he shouted, his sudden loud voice making the horses start nervously. ‘We wish to speak to Lord Robert Wimarc!’

There was no response. Josse tried again, this time adding, ‘We have grave news to import, and I have no wish to relay it at the top of my voice!’

‘Hush!’ Helewise held up her hand. ‘I thought I heard something.’

They sat in silence. Quite clearly on the still air came the thud of footsteps on the far side of the fence, sounding very close. Then there was a deep rattle, as if a chain had been moved, and the long drawn-out sound of wooden bars being pulled back. Finally, the gates parted fractionally, revealing a man in plain, dark livery. The fabric – of fine quality – was all of the same sable shade, and was unadorned with motif or device. The man’s face was expressionless, and he exuded a slight sense of menace.

He studied Josse and Helewise for a while, then said, ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Josse d’Acquin, and this is Helewise Warin. We come from Hawkenlye Abbey, with grave news for Lord Wimarc.’

The man inspected them for a little longer, and then Josse caught his swift glance behind them, back down the valley.
He checks to see if we are accompanied
, Josse thought.

The man looked straight at Josse. ‘You had better come in,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

He opened the gates just enough for Josse and Helewise to ride through. Once they were within, he closed and barred the entrance once more. He led them across a wide, grassy space, at the far side of which the main hall and the outbuildings which constituted Wealdsend crouched beneath the rising land beyond.

With a sense of deepening unease, Josse fought to keep at bay the thought that this just might have been a mistake.

T
heir horses were led away by a scared-looking boy who scuttled out from a reed-thatched, wattle-and-daub building on the far side of the yard, which appeared to be the stable block. Like the rest of the structures on that side of the wide, grassy space, it seemed almost to merge with its surroundings, for moss grew on the sloping roof and the earth-coloured daub was virtually indistinguishable from the muddy, churned-up ground.