The Winter King--A Hawkenlye 13th Century British Mystery Read online

  As soon as he knew they would not be overheard, Josse leaned close to Helewise and revealed to her what Meggie had told him about Benedict de Vitré’s murder.

  Her eyes widened. ‘Meggie is sure of this? And the death really could not have come about because of some natural cause?’

  ‘No. Apparently not,’ he replied.

  There was quite a long silence. Then Helewise said softly, ‘Who would have wanted Benedict de Vitré dead?’

  ‘His wife, for one.’ Quietly, Josse repeated to her what Meggie had told him regarding the potions prepared by Sabin for Lady Richenza.

  ‘But he was not killed by any potion,’ Helewise pointed out. ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘for a wife to wish to free herself from a fat, ugly and cruel husband’s attentions is one thing. For her to resort to killing him is quite another.’

  ‘She didn’t mind administering a potion that would render him impotent,’ Josse remarked.

  ‘But that is hardly the same as killing him!’ Helewise flashed back. ‘Besides, from what we are told, Lady Richenza is small and slight in stature, and little more than a child. Can you in truth see such a girl possessing the strength and the skill to wield that slim and deadly killing blade?’

  ‘It need not have been her own delicate hand that did the deed,’ Josse replied. ‘Lady Richenza was wife to a very wealthy man. Is it not possible that, in her despair, she helped herself to the means to employ another to kill him for her?’

  ‘No, I do not think so,’ Helewise said firmly. ‘She had already taken measures to rid herself both of her husband’s ardour and the possibility of bearing his child,’ she added reasonably. ‘With those ends achieved, she surely had no need to kill him.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Josse was not convinced.

  ‘I can think of others who might have wished Lord Benedict dead,’ Helewise pressed on. ‘As we ourselves know from our own experience, he was ruthless and brutal in his work for the king. He took and took again, having no mind for the miseries he and his men left in their wake. His men murdered people, Josse – surely you have not forgotten that poor family who drowned when Lord Benedict’s thugs drove them into the river?’

  ‘I have not forgotten,’ Josse grunted. ‘You think, then, that someone decided to have their revenge? Some man who lost his gold and his property to the king’s coffers via Lord Benedict’s collectors, or who was forced to watch his loved ones suffer in the wake of such theft, just happens to be skilled with the assassin’s blade?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Helewise admitted. ‘It is unlikely, I suppose, but I do, however, see it as less unlikely than Lady Richenza hiring a killer.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Josse said again.

  ‘There is another possibility,’ Helewise said after a while. ‘According to what we have learned from Meggie and, via her, from Sabin, Lord Benedict was spending lavishly before his death. The manor house was being extended; apparently the lord and his lady were richly dressed, and Lady Richenza wears costly jewels.’ She hesitated.

  ‘Go on,’ Josse prompted.

  ‘It is perhaps foolish,’ she said with a smile, ‘but I reason like this: Lord Benedict was collecting revenues on behalf of the king, but, to judge by his own recent expenditure, it is almost certain that he was creaming off a portion of what he amassed for his own benefit.’

  ‘It is always possible that King John knew and approved,’ Josse interrupted. ‘Benedict was working hard for him, and the king can be generous when the mood takes him.’

  Helewise glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. Her grey eyes held a worldly expression, as if to say, really?

  ‘Perhaps,’ she went on after a moment, ‘some truly loyal follower of the king discovered what Lord Benedict was up to and took the necessary steps to stop him.’

  ‘Very drastic steps,’ Josse remarked. He thought about it. ‘It’s possible, I grant you, for men tend to lose their heads and their hearts when they fall under King John’s spell.’ She opened her mouth to reply, but he forestalled her. ‘Possible, but not, I think, probable. It is more likely that a true king’s man, with proof of Lord Benedict’s perfidy, would report the matter direct to the king.’ And John, he thought, would have taken his own revenge, and Benedict’s death would have been far longer and more excruciating than a swift blade straight into the heart.

  It was not a thought to share with Helewise.

  She was nodding slowly. ‘You are right, I suppose,’ she admitted, ‘although I cannot shake off the thought that this death is somehow connected with what Lord Benedict was doing for the king.’

  ‘Perhaps King John did come to hear what Benedict was up to,’ Josse said, ‘and managed to swallow back his fury and his desire to … er, to make an example of the man. Perhaps it was John himself who sent a silent killer to make Benedict pay for what he had done.’

  Helewise stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘Do you really think him capable of such a deed?’ she whispered.

  Josse had spoken in ironic jest, frustrated by the discussion that seemed to proceed without reaching any sensible conclusion. But, the more he thought about his last suggestion, the more he thought it could just be possible. ‘He’d be more likely, I suppose, to make a public accusation and have Lord Benedict punished as an example to others tempted to do the same,’ he acknowledged, ‘but then our king must be aware that he is not popular, and such a high-handed gesture against an important lord could easily turn against him.’ He fell silent, thinking.

  ‘So?’ Helewise prompted. ‘Do you believe King John capable of sending a secret assassin to do away with someone?’

  ‘Aye,’ Josse said gruffly. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘You should speak to Gervase again,’ Helewise urged him the next morning as they sat beside the fire with welcome warming drinks. The weather had turned colder. ‘Four people now know that Lord Benedict did not die a natural death, but was murdered by a skilled and no doubt practised hand. It is not up to you, me, Meggie or Sabin to bring the killer to justice. That’s Gervase’s job.’

  She was right, and Josse knew it. ‘But what if Sabin hasn’t told him about the potions she prepared for Lady Richenza?’

  ‘That is a matter for Sabin,’ Helewise replied firmly. ‘That young woman is more than capable of looking after herself,’ she muttered.

  ‘And we do have Meggie’s assurance that it was nothing in Sabin’s medicaments that killed him,’ Josse mused. ‘Very well,’ he said, making up his mind and abruptly standing up. ‘I shall do as you suggest, and perhaps, as far as this household is concerned, that can be the end of it.’

  She looked up at him, smiling. ‘Leaving you with no mysterious death to wonder about and tease to a conclusion?’ she murmured. ‘Oh, dear Josse, I don’t think you’d like that.’

  ‘There’s still the matter of the two bright young men,’ he reminded her.

  Her happy expression saddened, and instantly he regretted having reminded her. ‘I had forgotten them for the moment,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, how could I? Josse, will you call in at the abbey on your way back from Tonbridge? Maybe someone will have come to claim them.’

  Briefly he put a hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. ‘I will.’

  Despite Helewise’s remarks about Sabin, Josse still felt awkward at the prospect of telling her husband what she had done. As he set off, Josse thought it over. It was not, he had to conclude, a very responsible action for a healer, and particularly not when the healer in question was married to the sheriff of Tonbridge, and so had his reputation as well as her own to consider. But, as Helewise had said, it was a matter for Sabin …

  I shall not mention it, Josse resolved as he rode down the long hill into Tonbridge. If Gervase does, then I shall just have to tell the truth and hope for the best.

  But he found Gervase far too preoccupied with other urgent business to waste any time lamenting the behaviour of his wife.

  ‘There’s a nest of them staying up at the castle,’ Gervase fumed as soon as Josse was inside his hall and
seated by the hearth. There was no sign of Sabin, for which Josse was very grateful. ‘The de Clares are keeping their heads down, as if they don’t want to be associated with Fitzwalter’s lot. Some say they aren’t even in residence, although I am fairly certain that the old man and his son are there.’

  ‘A nest of what?’ Josse demanded, stretching out his hands to the fire’s warmth. ‘Or is it who? And what is it that the de Clares are dissociating themselves from?’

  Gervase leaned back in his chair, momentarily closing his eyes. ‘I wish I knew, Josse. I can only surmise, however, and my conclusions make me very uneasy.’

  Josse had rarely seen his old friend look so troubled. The two of them had had their differences – on occasion, Josse had considered that Gervase could have stood out more firmly against some of the worst excesses perpetrated in the king’s name – but, nevertheless, Gervase’s fine-boned, pale face and anxious expression concerned him. ‘Go on.’

  Gervase opened his eyes again, turning to Josse. Leaning closer, he said very quietly, ‘This must remain strictly between the two of us, Josse. Should word ever come back to me that I even thought about saying what I’m about to say, I shall deny it. You understand?’

  Worried now, Josse muttered his assent.

  His mouth close to Josse’s ear, Gervase said, ‘You are aware, no doubt, of what will happen next, should the king not accept the Pope’s terms for ending the interdict and the excommunication?’ Before Josse could respond, Gervase answered his own question. ‘Innocent will declare him formally deposed, which will relieve his subjects of all allegiance to him. The Pope will then grant the kingdom to Philip Augustus of France, who’ll no doubt waste no time in saddling up his army, kitting them out for war, and ferrying them over the narrow seas to claim his new territory for him.’

  Josse had heard the rumours. Foreknowledge, however, did not make them any less disturbing. ‘You think it will come to that?’

  Gervase shrugged. ‘Who can say? Possibly. Probably, for the king is intransigent.’

  ‘What has this to do with the men gathered at the castle?’

  ‘Hush, Josse! Not so loud!’ Gervase hissed. ‘Their leader is Nicholas Fitzwalter.’

  It was clear from Gervase’s face that the name should mean something to Josse. Beyond a very faint memory of some mention of the man, it didn’t. Josse looked enquiringly at Gervase.

  ‘Good Lord above, Josse, you do bury yourself away out there in those woods of yours,’ Gervase muttered. ‘You should at least try to keep up with what’s happening in the world. Nicholas Fitzwalter speaks for a large faction of discontented barons, and his eloquence in describing their grievances against the king has won him fame. Or perhaps I should say infamy.’

  ‘You’d better tell me what these grievances are,’ Josse replied, ‘although even a wood-dwelling innocent such as I can probably guess most of them.’

  Gervase grinned briefly. ‘Yes, you probably can,’ he agreed. ‘It’s a predictable litany of misdemeanours: they complain of the king’s financial ruses, perpetually bleeding from them what remains of their wealth. They are heartily sick of the constant fines, and what our great monarch is pleased to refer to as reliefs, although the only man to gain much relief is John himself. They complain that he forces the destruction of castles said to have been built or fortified without his express approval. They moan that no castle or estate left in his wardship is safe from his ruthless depredations and, allied to that, they are furious that he marries off heiresses and wealthy widows to men who are unworthy of them, with no thought but his own profit. And – this seems to be what chiefly enrages them – there are the forest laws.’

  ‘The forest laws,’ Josse echoed dully. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Lords and their hunting,’ Gervase said wryly. ‘You know what they’re like.’

  ‘Indeed I do.’

  Leaning close again, Gervase whispered, ‘Do not think, Josse, that Fitzwalter and his faction are prompted by anything but self-preservation. They have no thought for the lot of the poor, suffering common folk; they have but one aim, and that is to limit the power of the king so that he can no longer milk them as he does.’

  Josse nodded slowly. I am not surprised, he thought. I have lived too long on this good earth to expect men to be altruistic. ‘How widespread is the support for this … this faction?’ he asked.

  ‘It is by no means universal,’ Gervase said swiftly. ‘Many barons are still loyal to the king.’ Lowering his voice, he added, ‘Fitzwalter is, I believe, organizing no more than an offensive of words: he and the other barons wish to persuade others to their cause. They will use whatever means they can drag up to persuade others to their viewpoint, and I fear it will be a dirty fight. It is to this end that they gather here, in my own town.’ He gave an expression of disgust. ‘Why did it have to be here?’ he muttered angrily.

  ‘You said earlier that rumours claim the de Clares are not in evidence,’ Josse reminded him. ‘Yet you believe they are there?’

  ‘I do,’ Gervase agreed. ‘Old Richard de Clare is no supporter of the king, and his son – that’s Gilbert – follows where his father leads. They may not yet have declared themselves, but, before long, they will. Of that I am convinced.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it, since I know little about either man.’ Josse leaned on one arm of his chair, going over all that he had just heard.

  ‘They’ve got an influential Cistercian with them at the castle.’ Gervase’s quiet voice broke in on Josse’s musings. ‘Ralph of Odiham. Do you know of him?’

  ‘No,’ Josse admitted. ‘I do know that the Cistercian order have no love for King John.’ All religious houses, he reflected, had suffered greatly under the interdict, but the king’s treatment of the Cistercian order had been particularly harsh and humiliating.

  Gervase was nodding. ‘Ralph of Odiham’s a power in the Order, and it seems he’s throwing his weight behind this Battle monk who’s being paraded about. He’s attached himself to the lad like a burr to your cloak hem, and Caleb too is here in the town.’

  ‘Caleb. Is that his name?’

  ‘They’re using him, Josse,’ Gervase said angrily, ignoring the question. ‘Caleb’s an innocent, and he’s speaking from the heart when he says these terrible times are God’s punishment for our wickedness. That’s all very well in a monastery,’ he went on, ‘where they’ve got nothing else to do but pray all day, but it’s a different matter for we who have to make a life of some sort out in the world. Why, we—’

  It sounded, Josse reflected, as if Gervase was winding up for a long complaint. ‘Why is this Caleb in Tonbridge?’ he interrupted. He didn’t think it was the moment to take issue with Gervase’s assertion that those in the religious life did nothing but pray, but, nevertheless, he felt a moment’s hot fury on behalf of Abbess Caliste and her people.

  That question seemed to further anger Gervase. Leaning close again, he lowered his voice and said, ‘I don’t know for sure, but my men keep their ears and their eyes open, and they reckon Nicholas Fitzwalter’s had spies out, searching the country for people like Caleb who are prepared to speak out loud against what the K— er, what’s being done in our land.’

  Even here, within his own four walls, he is afraid to utter what he would like to say, Josse thought sadly.

  ‘A trio of wool merchants arrived here from Battle not long before Caleb was brought into the town,’ Gervase went on in a practically inaudible whisper. ‘At least, they said they were merchants. Rumour has it that they have now thrown off their lowly disguises and, dressed in their true and considerably more wealthy colours, are now up at the castle with Fitzwalter and his faction.’ He sighed. ‘Who knows how many others are out there, combing England for poor, helpless saps like Caleb who don’t begin to understand the peril of mixing with ruthless and unscrupulous men?’

  Unscrupulous men. Now what, Josse wondered, did that bring to mind?

  He heard Meggie’s voice in his head, clear as a bell. Sh
e’s been experiencing visions in which she’s seen dangerous things, and there’s a possibility that unscrupulous men may try to use her for their own ends.

  Aye, that was it – she’d been telling him about some old girl she’d been called to see in Hawkenlye’s infirmary. Abbess Caliste will keep her safe, she had reassured him.

  But what if some agent of Nicholas Fitzwalter already knew about this woman and her ‘dangerous things’? How safe would Hawkenlye’s walls prove to be, against a deputation from the barons now collecting in Tonbridge Castle?

  Suddenly he was on his feet, striding across the hall towards the door. ‘Josse, where are you going?’ Gervase called after him, sounding half-amused, half-angry.

  ‘Something I must do,’ Josse replied.

  Gervase hurried over to him, a detaining hand on his arm. ‘But you haven’t told me why you’re here! What did you want to see me about?’

  Josse cursed under his breath. Gervase’s ranting had driven his mission right out of his head. Briefly he debated with himself: was there time to tell Gervase about Benedict de Vitré’s murder, or should he hurry straight up to the abbey to check on the old woman in the infirmary?

  A few moments will not hurt, he told himself.

  Turning to face Gervase, he told him what Meggie had discovered on Lord Benedict’s dead body.

  By long custom, on arriving at Hawkenlye Abbey Josse went first to see its abbess. As she rose to greet him, he remembered Helewise’s request. He returned her greeting, then said, ‘Is there any news regarding the two dead young men?’

  ‘No,’ Abbess Caliste said sadly. ‘I find it inconceivable that nobody has missed them, but, as yet, none have come asking about them.’

  ‘I tried to take the news to Lord Wimarc,’ Josse said, ‘but Wealdsend appeared to be deserted.’