Whiter than the Lily Read online

  WHITER THAN THE LILY

  Alys Clare

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Postscript

  About the Author

  First published in Great Britain in 2004 by Hodder and Stoughton

  An Hachette UK Company

  Copyright © 2004 by Alys Clare

  The right of Alys Clare to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN: 9781444726688

  Book ISBN: 9780340831120

  Hodder and Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW 13BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For Richard, beloved companion on Romney Marsh 810 years later

  Rosa rubicundior,

  lilio candidior,

  omnibus formosior,

  semper in te glorior!

  Redder than the rose,

  whiter than the lily,

  most lovely of all and

  forever my pride!

  Carmina Burana:

  cantiones profanae

  (Author’s translation)

  The walled garden lay as if stunned under the hot May sunshine. After an indifferent spring, it seemed that Nature was eager to make up for lost time and, since the middle of the month, the weather had been dry and unseasonably hot.

  The grass was dotted with daisies and, at a distance from the sheltering group of apple and nut trees in the far corner, three or four fairy rings made a pattern of darker green on the lawn’s brightness. Herbs and flowers grew abundantly in the beds. Predominant among the lilies, pansies, poppies, sage, lavender and thyme were the tall stems of rue, its yellow flowers brought early into bloom by the sun and pushing their way vigorously up to the light. Roses climbed in profusion over the southern and westward walls, their bright pink flowers giving a fragrance to the warm, still air. Wormwood and yarrow, southernwood and bramble competed for space in the hedge beyond the nut trees; in the shade of the hedge, in its own marked-off space, grew mandrake.

  Between the herb beds, narrow paths wound through the grass. On the furthest path stood a young woman. She had just picked a rose and, holding it to her face, her eyes were closed in pleasure as she breathed in the scent.

  She was tall, slim and fair, so fair that, in the bright light, her skin appeared white. Her hair, too, was almost white; a blonde so pale that it resembled ripe flax. She had thrown back the veil that she usually wore to shield her face from the sun and now the faintest blush of pink was beginning to colour her cheeks. She was dressed in silk, expensive, heavy silk, imported from France and acquired, at considerable cost, from a merchant in Romney. The silk was the palest pink of an opening bindweed flower and – not in the least by accident – it exactly matched the soft colour in the girl’s smooth skin.

  Graceful, rapt, eyes still closed, she was beautiful.

  So beautiful, thought the old man watching her from a window above, that she puts the flowers to shame. Who has need of a garden, if he can but gaze on one such as she?

  He put up a hand to rub at his eyes. His sight troubled him constantly, although he did not care to admit it. Until quite recently, it had only been close things that he could not see well but now he was also beginning to have difficulty with his long sight. The rubbing did not help; in fact, he realised, it had made matters worse. Letting his hand fall into his lap, he leaned forward in his chair, narrowed his eyes to fierce slits and resumed his intent study. Concentrating very hard, he fixed his watering eyes on her.

  Still holding the rose in one long, pale hand, she was moving along the path now. Then, in a swift, supple movement that made the watching man catch his breath, she bent down to pick some small flower from the grass. A daisy, he thought, wishing he could see. Or perhaps a violet. Yes, probably a violet, and she was going to prepare for him some of those sweetmeats made from violets steeped in honey that he enjoyed so much.

  Ah, but how he loved her! Loved her for the care she took of him, for the store of remedies for his many ailments that she seemed to keep within that sleek head. Loved her for her affectionate nature and her playful ways, she who made him laugh sometimes like the boy he wished with all his heart that he still were.

  She was patient with him, aye, patient and loving. When they lay in their bed and he reached for her, his wife, she had ways of making his old flesh respond and rouse itself. But, despite the small caressing hands, the regular addition of rosemary to his food and the testicle-shaped beans beneath his pillow, it was becoming steadily more difficult to reach any sort of satisfaction, for himself or for her. He worried ceaselessly that her youth and her ardour might tire of his efforts.

  Besides that worry there was another. He prayed daily for a child and, as well he knew, so did she. Their intimacies were usually of a nature for her to conceive – not always, but surely with sufficient frequency – and there had been times when she believed herself to be carrying his child. But on each occasion – there had been no more than three – at the moon’s turning she had begun to bleed. The loss from her womb had been accompanied by quiet and heartbreaking tears from her beautiful blue eyes, tears which had set off his own so that, balked of parenthood, they wept together and found some small comfort in each other as they did so.

  I would give her the world, he mused, staring down at her as, leaving the path, her small feet in their calf-leather slippers lightly crossed the grass. The world, aye, and everything in it. I do give her anything she asks of me, not that she asks for much, bless her loving heart.

  But I cannot give her a child.

  He felt the familiar grief overtake him. He had reached down his hand to her belly and the soft hair of her groin that morning; heartened by a good night’s sleep and aroused by the warmth of her bottom pressed into his stomach as she slept, he had woken with his blood pounding. But she had gently taken hold of his wrist and whispered, ‘No, my dearest love, for my courses are beginning.’

  They had tried not to dwell on it, tried not to let it spoil the bright day. And, after all, were not the spring and the early summer times of hope?

  She must have felt his gaze on her. Perhaps, he thought fondly, close to my heart as she is, she senses my distress.

  For, reaching the corner of the garden where two walls met and a low door gave access to a little hut, suddenly she stopped, turned and, looking straight up at him, gave him a sweet smile and blew him a kiss.

  For a long
time he went on staring at the space where she had stood for that brief moment. Then, as the summer scents and the heat from the sunny garden steadily pervaded the room, slowly his eyelids began to droop. Settling himself more comfortably in his high-backed chair, resting his grey head on the small lavender-scented cushion that she had made for him, he slept.

  Down in the little hut, the young woman was busy. She loved it in there, where the walls smelt of cut wood and the reed thatch of the roof housed small and usually unseen creatures whose soft rustlings and sudden brisk movements provided cheerful company for her as she worked.

  The hut had been built with its back to the bricks of the walled garden, in the driest place that could be found. It had two little windows in its outward-facing side and, on sunny days, the shutters were always fastened back to allow a good circulation of air. Positioned out of the prevailing south-westerly wind and in the shade of the high wall, the temperature inside the hut remained fairly constant; the girl had stipulated the necessity for this when she had given her orders regarding the hut’s construction.

  It was the place where she dried and stored her herbs and where she prepared her simples and potions.

  Along the rear wall was a wide wooden workbench, on which she laid out her herbs after picking. She had recently been gathering rosemary, eager to collect some of the plant’s first potent flowering, and the air inside the small space still smelt sweetly of the herb. Above the bench, several wooden poles had been fastened lengthways under the hut’s roof and from them hung bunches of herbs in the process of drying. On shelves at the end of the hut were a great many stone jars, neatly sealed with wax so as to keep out all air and moisture.

  She was skilled in herb lore and knew exactly what she was doing.

  Now, staring down with unfocused eyes at the empty workbench waiting for her to begin, she ran through in her mind what she would need.

  She had forgotten something.

  Swiftly she left the hut, went back through the low doorway and emerged into the garden. She looked first up at the window, watching the sleeping face of her husband for some moments before moving on. Assuring herself that he really was asleep and could not see her, she then let her eyes roam all around the garden.

  Nobody was about. Nobody was watching.

  Turning to her goal, she ran across the grass and, working carefully but as quickly as she could, collected the missing ingredient.

  Back inside the hut, she chanted softly under her bream as her hands cut, chopped and tore. Sometimes she reached for another tool – the mortar and pestle for crushing, the flask of freshly collected spring water to dilute – and, always, her practised hands knew exactly where to go without her having to remove her eyes from her potion to look and direct them.

  In time, she had finished. Finished, at least, all that she could do today. One final element had still to be added but she could not do that until the Moon had moved from Scorpio into Sagittarius – the last ingredient must be gathered with the Moon in a Fire sign, for then it would give the necessary heat – and there was a good fall of dew.

  In two nights’ time, she thought calmly. I shall rise naked from my bed and slip out in the dark hours before dawn.

  It was something that she did quite frequently. She did not think that her husband knew, for she timed her absences to coincide with his deepest sleep. She shared much of her life and her thoughts with him but some things she needed to do alone.

  She covered her potion with a moist cloth, then put a stone lid on the pot and tied it into place. Then she put it right at the back of the top shelf.

  She looked around the little hut as she wiped and dried her hands. Everything was clean and tidy, just as she liked it. Satisfied, she fastened the door and, with a light step, set off for the house.

  1

  Josse d’Acquin, riding out in a new tunic to visit his neighbour Brice of Rotherbridge, reflected that it was good to be alive on a hot summer’s morning with the prospect of a good dinner ahead of him.

  The invitation had come as quite a surprise. Josse and Brice had been on politely friendly terms since their first acquaintance four years ago, but the relationship could not have been called close. Then, a few days back when Josse and his man Will had got themselves thoroughly hot, sweaty and filthy supervising the unblocking of a ditch, Brice’s manservant had arrived with the summons.

  Josse was ashamed of having been caught in such a state. He had intended only to stand above the ditch and supervise his small and singularly dull-witted working party, only somehow he had found himself down in the mud and the sludge showing them what he wanted them to do. Will, clambering reluctantly down beside his master, had sucked at his teeth in disapproval. ‘Aye, man, I know what you think and I’ll thank you not to make that disgusting noise at me!’ Josse had hissed at him.

  But Will knew from long experience that his master’s bark was a great deal worse than his all but nonexistent bite. He continued his tutting and sucking, adding a not quite inaudible commentary along the lines of ‘T’ain’t right for ’im to dig along o’ the likes of them, t’ain’t good for discipline,’ sentiments which, although Josse might have agreed with them, were hardly helping matters.

  Josse’s embarrassment at having Brice’s long-nosed manservant stare down at him in disdain had prompted him to purchase the new tunic, as if to show that he could look smart – and scrupulously clean – if he wanted to. The tunic was of dark forest-green velvet, came to just below his knees and flared out in generous folds at the hem. He had been assured that it was cut in the latest fashion. It had certainly cost enough, especially when he had allowed the merchant to persuade him into buying matching gloves and a hat shaped rather like a turban. Josse was not at all sure about the hat.

  The landscape was changing now as he left the High Weald behind and approached the marshland. Brice’s manor was partly on the high ridge-top land – the manor house was on an elevation overlooking a wide creek – but most of his acres were down on the levels. It was widely believed that he had earned a small fortune in wool.

  Drawing rein, Josse paused for a moment to look out at the view below him. He was further upstream along the same creek that flowed past Brice’s manor house and now, with the tide going out, the small water course was a mere trickle, its sides slick with wet mud which erupted occasionally into bubbles that exploded with a soft pop and a brief but noisome whiff of marsh gas.

  On the far side of the creek was a low bank, beyond which the ground fell away into a wide marshy valley. Flat and fairly featureless – unless one counted the softly-coloured patchwork of little fields, the few small, stunted trees and the sheep – it ended in a rise of the land some two or three miles away. On that higher ground, Josse worked out, trying to get his bearings, would be the villages of Northeham and, further east on the low cliffs above Rye Bay, Peasmarsh and Iden.

  Rousing himself from his contemplation of the serene scene before him – it really was a lovely day and the wide marshlands looked their best in the strong sunshine – Josse clucked to Horace and turned for Brice of Rotherbridge’s manor house.

  The courtyard was shaded by a brake of willow and alder trees growing alongside and, peering ahead into the cool gloom, Josse called out to announce his arrival. After a moment there was the sound of hurrying feet and Brice’s young servant came out of the stables.

  ‘Morning, Sir Josse,’ the lad said, grinning up at Josse.

  ‘Good morning – er—’ What was the lad’s name? Josse tried to remember. The boy had grown in four years almost to manhood but the lank hair, low forehead and broken front tooth were unmistakable. Still, the smile of welcome seemed genuine and, as he responded, suddenly Josse recalled the lad’s name. ‘Ossie!’ he exclaimed triumphantly.

  ‘Aye, that’s right, sir,’ Ossie said, the grin widening. ‘I’ll take your horse, will I, sir? There’s cool water in the stable and I’ll give him a bit of a rub down, seeing as how he’s got himself into a sweat.’

&n
bsp; ‘Aye, I’d be grateful,’ Josse said, dismounting. ‘Warm day, eh, Ossie?’

  ‘That it is, sir,’ Ossie said with a dramatic sigh, as if warm weather were one of the plagues of Egypt. ‘Dare say we’ll be paying for it afore long.’ He stared glumly at Josse, then said, ‘Go on inside, sir. You know the way? Master’ll be waiting for you.’

  Josse crossed the yard and went up the steps into the hall. As Ossie had said, Brice was waiting for him and, as Josse approached, he quickly rose from his seat on a bench beside the wide hearth and hurried to greet him.

  Studying him, Josse reflected that four years had, if anything, made the man look younger rather than older. Of course, four years back he had recently lost his wife and he had been, Josse reminded himself, carrying a heavy burden of guilt over her death. It had been a difficult time for both men and the residue of awkwardness, Josse had sometimes reflected, probably accounted for why the two of them had kept their distance from one another. Still, Josse was here now, a welcomed guest in Brice’s house, and perhaps this unexpected invitation was Brice’s way of saying that he too regretted the lack of closeness between them and wanted to put matters right.

  Josse studied Brice as his host held out a mug of cool ale. The dark brown hair showed not a trace of grey, the tanned face was smooth and unlined and there was a hint of laughter in the brown eyes. Brice held himself well and his broad-shouldered frame was clad in fine linen and a richly bordered burgundy tunic that looked even more costly than Josse’s.

  He looked, Josse concluded, raising his cup in response to Brice’s courteous toast to ‘old friends well met once more’, like a man in his prime. And, moreover – just what was it about him? Something in his expression … aye, there was definitely some suppressed excitement in those eyes. He looked like a man treasuring some thrilling secret thought.

  The conversation flowed for a while over mundane topics – the weather, the health of Brice’s sheep, the steadily rising price of wool. And presently, as conversations always did just then, it turned to the King.