Ashes of the Elements

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Map

  Part One: Death in the Grass

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two: Death in the Forest

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Three: Death in the Hall

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Also by Alys Clare

  Copyright

  for Richard and Lindie Hillier,

  present-day lord and lady of Acquin

  Estuans interius

  ira vehementi

  in amaritudine

  loquor mee menti:

  factus de materia,

  cinis elementi,

  similis sum folio,

  de quo ludunt venti.

  A violent fury burns inside me as,

  With bitterness, I speak to my heart;

  Made from the fabric of

  The ashes of the elements;

  Like a leaf, I am tossed on the wind.

  Carmina Burana:

  cantiones profanae

  Author’s translation

  Into the profound silence of the forest at midnight came a sound that should not have been there.

  The man raised his head. Still panting from his recent exertions, he tried to quieten his rasping breath, the better to hear.

  He waited.

  Nothing.

  Spitting on his hands and preparing to go back to work, he tried to summon a wry smile. It must have been his imagination. Or perhaps some night creature, innocently abroad. And his own nerves, plus the great forest’s reputation, had done the rest.

  Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he renewed his efforts. The sack was already getting nice and heavy; a little bit longer and he would—

  The sound came again.

  And this time it went on.

  He stood up, the sweat of toil on his forehead and his back suddenly icy cold, his damp skin breaking out in goosepimples. In a flash of intuition, he thought, I should not be here. As if some dark and ancient memory were stirring, he realised, with sick dread, that the midnight forest was a forbidden place. For very good reason did people fear to venture into it …

  Ruthlessly he stopped that terrifying train of thought before it could undermine him. Carefully putting aside the axe with which he had been hacking at the fallen oak’s thick roots and lower trunk, he clambered out of the hollow he had dug under the majestic old tree. Then, using the thick ground cover of early summer to conceal himself, he gathered his courage and began to creep towards the source of the sound.

  Because, if this were someone having him on, enjoying themselves at his expense, then he was going to make sure they knew he wasn’t amused. If it were Seth and Ewen, God damn their eyes, sneaking out and spying on him – on him! the brains behind the whole thing! – then he’d get even. He’d …

  But the sound was louder now, increasing in insistence so that the man could no longer block it out. Could no longer try to tell himself that it was Seth and Ewen, playing tricks.

  Seth and Ewen couldn’t make that sound. It was doubtful, really, that any human could.

  The man ceased his furtive crawling. Ceased all movement and all thought, as the strange, eerie humming seemed to sweep over him and absorb him into itself.

  He felt himself begin to smile. Ah, but it was a lovely bit of singing! Well, it was more like chanting, really, like the very sweetest sounds of some abbey choir, only better. As if it didn’t come from men or women, but from the cold, distant stars themselves.

  Hardly aware of what he was doing, he began to move forward again. He was no longer creeping stealthily through the undergrowth; enchanted, he was obeying a summons he barely recognised. Straight-backed, head held high, he strode through the ancient trees and the new green growth towards the open space that he could see ahead.

  And stopped dead in his tracks.

  Eyes round, mouth gone dry, he stared at the incredible sight. Lit by the full moon directly above the clearing, so that its bright rays bathed the scene as if intentionally, he watched in total amazement.

  He’d never believed those old tales! He’d dismissed them as the ramblings of daft old women. Women like his own mother. And, latterly, his wife, who’d tried to stop him disappearing into the great Wealden Forest, especially by night, nagging on and on at him, over and over again till he’d had to hit her. But, even when he’d done so – broken her nose, that last time – she’d still persisted. Gone on telling him it wasn’t safe, wasn’t right.

  Hah! He’d show her! Her, and the rest! They wouldn’t nag at him when they knew what he’d found!

  And, anyway, even if there were some element of truth in their old legends, then it wasn’t quite the way they said it was. Wasn’t he here, now, witnessing with his own eyes the very proof that, for all that they still muttered about those dread things, they’d got it wrong?

  He’d show them, all right! Just see if he didn’t! He’d—

  He felt the gaze upon him as if it were a physical assault. His braggart thoughts came to an abrupt end as, screaming through his numbed mind, bursting from his mouth like a wail of agony, came the one word: ‘NO!’

  Turning, bounding over brambles and tufts of tough grass, he raced away from the clearing. Running, panting, gasping, stumbling, he heard sounds of pursuit. He sneaked a quick look over his shoulder.

  Nothing.

  Nothing? But he could hear them!

  Forcing his legs to work, he raced on. Oh, God, but it – they? – was all around him now, quietly, stealthily, menacingly, surrounding him with such a sense of threat that his sobbing breath came out as a terrified howl.

  For still he could see nothing.

  Heart hammering, legs and lungs in agony, he spurred himself on. Half a mile, a mile? He could not tell. The trees were thinning now, surely they were! A little further – not much, oh, not much further! – and he’d be in the open. Out on the grassy fringes of this ghastly forest, out in the clean, cool moonlight …

  There was brightness ahead. As he ran on, stumbling in his desperate exhaustion, he could see the calm, sleeping land out there. As he passed the last few giant trees, he could even see the cross on the top of Hawkenlye Abbey’s church.

  ‘God help me, God help me, God help me,’ he chanted, repeating the words until they lost all meaning. Then, suddenly, he was out in the open, and, after the darkness beneath the thickly growing trees, the moon made the night as bright as day.

  Ah, thank God. Thank God!

  Safe now, and—

  But what was that? A whistling noise, close by, speeding closer, closer.

  The agonising pain as the spear drilled through the man’s body was intense but brief. For the spear’s point was sharp, and, thrown with deadly accuracy, it pierced his heart.

 
He was dead before he hit the ground.

  PART ONE

  DEATH IN THE GRASS

  Chapter One

  In the small room which was Abbess Helewise of Hawkenlye’s own sanctum, the Abbess leaned forward to refill her visitor’s mug.

  ‘May I pour you some more?’ she asked. ‘It is a good restorative, and I am aware that you—’

  She broke off. It was hardly diplomatic, to remind her guest that she needed restoring.

  ‘You are aware that I have a tedious journey ahead of me and that I am far from being in the first flush of youth? Ah, Abbess, how right you are, on both counts!’ With a gutsy laugh, the woman held up her cup. ‘Yes, pour more for me. It is quite delicious.’

  Relieved, the Abbess did as she was bid. ‘A concoction of Sister Euphemia’s,’ she said. ‘My infirmarer. She is skilled in the use of herbs. This wine she makes from balm, thyme and honey. It is popular with her patients.’

  ‘I have no doubt.’ The older woman glanced at the Abbess. ‘Some of whom, I dare say, are not above prolonging their sickness so as to go on receiving of Sister Euphemia’s bounty.’

  ‘Probably,’ Helewise agreed. ‘Although, in truth, our precious holy water remains our most popular medicine.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the holy water.’ The visitor sighed. ‘I had intended, as you know, to pray this morning at the Blessed Virgin Mother’s shrine, down in the vale. But I fear I will not have time.’

  Abbess Helewise, reluctant to appear pushy and impertinent, nevertheless knew how her visitor felt about the community at Hawkenlye. In particular, about the miraculous spring that was the reason for the Abbey’s existence. It was, after all, at her insistence that there was such a grand Abbey there in the first place. And it was even more due to her that the Abbey was presided over by a woman. ‘Could you not spare even half an hour?’ Helewise said gently. ‘Could the world not wait for you, my lady, just this once, while you do something purely for your own pleasure?’

  The Abbess’s guest gave her a rueful glance. And, with a short laugh, Queen Eleanor said, ‘No, Abbess. The world, I fear, is far too impatient for that.’

  There was a brief and, Helewise thought, companionable silence in the little room. Risking a glance at the Queen, she observed that Eleanor had her eyes closed. Leaning back in her great throne-like wooden chair – Helewise’s chair, in fact, although Helewise was willingly perched on a wooden stool so as to give her guest the most comfort that the Abbey could offer – the Queen’s still-beautiful face was, Helewise thought, a little pale.

  Even if she has not the time to visit the shrine, Helewise decided, then we shall at the very least feed her before she departs. Silently rising and moving to the door, she opened it and crooked a finger at the nun standing in attendance outside.

  ‘Yes, Abbess?’ Sister Anne asked eagerly. Like all the nuns, she was aware what honour a visit from the King’s mother bestowed on the Abbey. Such was the community’s love for Eleanor that Sister Anne – also like all of them – would have walked barefoot over hot coals if the Queen had demanded it.

  Helewise laid a warning finger across her lips. ‘Hush. The Queen is resting,’ she whispered. ‘Sister, please will you go the refectory and ask Sister Basilia to prepare a light meal? The Queen looks so weary,’ she added, half to herself.

  ‘That I will, and gladly!’ Sister Anne hissed back. ‘Poor lady, it’s no surprise, why, all that travelling, and at her age, too! Why, she should be—’

  ‘The food, Sister?’ Helewise prompted gently.

  ‘Yes, Abbess, sorry, Abbess.’ Sister Anne blushed and hurried away.

  Helewise went back inside the little room, quietly closing the door behind her. She did most things quietly, with a serene grace of which she was unaware. Even the large bunch of heavy keys that always hung at her belt were quiet, kept from jingling and rattling together by the Abbess’s hand laid on them whenever she moved.

  Queen Eleanor opened her eyes and looked at the Abbess as Helewise resumed her seat. ‘You are too big for that stool,’ she observed.

  ‘I am quite comfortable,’ Helewise lied. ‘My lady, I have taken the liberty of ordering food for you. Even if you must rush off after but one night with us, will you at least take a moment to eat before you go on your way?’

  Eleanor smiled. ‘You are too kind,’ she murmured. ‘And, yes, indeed I will.’ She shifted in her chair, with a quick wince of pain. ‘Your sister out there was quite right. I am far too old for all this charging about.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Helewise said quickly. ‘She shouldn’t have spoken with such disrespect.’

  ‘Disrespect? No, Abbess, I heard only kindness.’

  Sensing a mild reproof, Helewise said, ‘I meant only that it is not appropriate for us to gossip about how Your Majesty sees fit to conduct her life.’

  Even to Helewise, it sounded a pompous and fawning little speech, so she was hardly surprised when Eleanor gave a sudden shout of laughter. With a glance up at the Queen, Helewise grinned briefly and said, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So I should think,’ Eleanor murmured. ‘My very favourite retreat, so conveniently placed between London and the coast, and its Abbess’ – she met Helewise’s eyes – ‘also my favourite, incidentally, starts speaking like any other ingratiating subject wishing a boon of me.’ Leaning forward suddenly, she said, ‘Helewise, please, never become like everyone else.’

  Not entirely sure what the Queen meant, nevertheless Helewise said, ‘No, my lady. Very well.’

  There was a timid tap on the door, and, in answer to Helewise’s ‘Come in,’ a novice from the refectory sidled into the room, bearing on one arm a wide pewter dish. ‘Her Holiness’s meal,’ the girl whispered.

  ‘Majesty will do,’ Eleanor remarked mildly. ‘I am not a pope, merely a queen.’ She frowned briefly. ‘A queen mother, indeed, now,’ she added under her breath.

  Helewise had been longing to ask the Queen a hundred questions about that very matter for the past twenty-four hours, but, lacking anything that could possibly be regarded as an opening, had managed to learn little more than the barest details. Now, watching the Queen swiftly demolish the appetising and prettily presented meal – Sister Basilia had put a posy of dog roses on the edge of the dish – Helewise waited until the last piece of bread had wiped up the last drop of gravy. Then she said, ‘The marriage will be a success, do you think, my lady?’

  Eleanor leaned back in her chair, patting at the corners of her mouth with a linen square. ‘A success?’ She gave a faint shrug. ‘It depends, Abbess Helewise, what you mean by success. If you mean, will the union prove fruitful, then I can only say that I pray day and night that it will do so. If you mean will my dear son and his bride find joy in one another’s company, then my answer is that I very much doubt it.’

  Helewise said softly, ‘Ah.’ There was, she reflected, little else she could say.

  ‘It had to be done!’ Eleanor exclaimed. ‘I knew, as soon as I saw Berengaria, that she was not the ideal bride for him. But what was I to do?’ She spread her long hands, palms up, the fingers heavy with rings, towards Helewise. ‘Richard has been King of England for almost two years, and, but for four months, he has been out of the country.’ Eleanor clenched one of her hands into a fist and, with some vehemence, thumped it down on to the long table which, desk-like, stood in front of Helewise’s chair. ‘Crusading, always crusading!’ she cried. ‘First, he alienates his new subjects by that brazen sale of offices, then he dashes off to France to receive his pilgrim’s scrip and staff! A brief pause while he supervises the mustering of his enormous fleet, and then off he goes to Outremer!’ Eleanor’s wide, dark eyes held passionate anger. ‘Not a thought, Helewise, for what he has left behind him for others to sort out! Not a care that, even before he left, already there was talk that he did not intend to return! That, far from applying himself to the great duty of reigning over England, he had ambitions to become the next King of Jerusalem!’

  ‘Surely not!’ Helewise excla
imed. The rumours were not, in fact, new to her; she had heard them before, many times. Heard worse, too; some said darkly that King Richard’s conduct since ascending the throne was so ill-considered that surely he must be unbalanced. That he suffered from some secret sickness which affected him in both body and mind, and which would probably kill him before the Crusade was out. But those rumours, Helewise decided, she certainly wouldn’t pass on to Richard’s mother.

  Certainly, not while those remarkable eyes still looked so furious.

  ‘Why must he insist on this course!’ Eleanor was saying. ‘What, really, does it matter to the average Englishman who rules over the Holy City?’

  ‘But surely—’ Helewise began.

  Eleanor’s eyes fixed on to hers. ‘Helewise, do not try to tell me that you give a jot either way,’ she said. ‘Whilst it is all very laudable to express the opinion that Our Lord’s city must be occupied and governed solely by Christians, I cannot believe that you truly feel that the aim of recapturing it is worth all the effort. The expense of it, Abbess! Not to mention the pain, the losses, the anguish. The deaths.’ Her face fell, as if, speaking of such things, she was imagining them happening to her beloved son.

  Helewise leaned towards her. ‘Your son is a great man, my lady,’ she said gently. ‘A superbly brave and capable fighter, even if—’ She broke off.

  ‘Even if that is all he is?’ Eleanor said.

  ‘But what a man!’ Helewise, desperate to make up for her gaffe, put all the sincerity she could muster into her voice.

  ‘You see, Helewise,’ Eleanor went on, as if she had barely noted the interruption, ‘he is a man’s man. A fighting man, as you say, a man who belongs in an army. At the head of an army, leading it to victory!’

  ‘Amen,’ Helewise intoned.

  ‘Of course, I’ve been crusading,’ Eleanor said dismissively. ‘When I was married to that fussy old woman, Louis of France.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Helewise murmured. Should she really be hearing this? Was it not virtually treason, to hear one monarch decry another, even if he were dead?