A Shadowed Evil Read online

  She did understand. She whispered, ‘Of course I will.’

  A short time later, Josse and Isabelle went to seek out Herbert, eating by himself at one end of the board in the Old Hall. ‘Josse needs you to ride out with him today,’ Isabelle told her son. She explained about Garth having recognized Peter Southey’s horse, and the hope that they would in this way be able to trace where Peter had come from.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear he’s dead, Mother,’ Herbert said. ‘You didn’t spare yourself in your care of him, and it’s sad it should end like this.’

  ‘Sad for Peter, in particular,’ Isabelle said tartly, although Josse noticed that Henry’s words – and the kindness with which he had spoken them – had softened her tense expression.

  ‘Of course I’ll go with you, Josse,’ Herbert said, getting to his feet and brushing crumbs off his tunic. ‘I’ll fetch my heavy cloak, and I’ll be ready to leave as soon as you want to go.’

  Josse and Isabelle watched him hurry off. Josse wondered if the alacrity with which he’d agreed to the outing suggested he welcomed an excuse to get out of the claustrophobic atmosphere in the house. If so, Josse admitted honestly to himself, then I’m the first to agree with him.

  Very soon, Herbert was back. He carried a thick, fur-lined cloak interlined with padded wool, and he had put on a stout pair of boots. But he no longer looked as cheerful as he had a little while ago: Cyrille was trotting along behind him, and it was clear she wasn’t happy.

  ‘Good morning, Cyrille,’ Isabelle greeted her. ‘It is unusual to see you at this hour. I hope all the activity didn’t disturb you?’

  ‘I was told of that poor young man’s unfortunate demise,’ Cyrille said, ‘and, naturally, I found it impossible to sleep after that.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Isabelle echoed faintly.

  ‘And now my husband tells me that he has to go out on some ill-conceived expedition to try to trace where our late guest came from,’ she went on, glancing at Josse with narrowed eyes and an icy expression, as if she knew full well who to blame for this idiotic enterprise. ‘And all because you failed to take my advice,’ she finished, turning back to Isabelle, a note of triumph in her voice.

  Josse, watching intently, hoped Cyrille wasn’t going to say, I told you so …

  She very nearly did: ‘I warned you, Isabelle, did I not,’ she went on, ‘that the mixing of pain-relieving herbs with those that promote sleep is a delicate matter, and one perhaps best left to the hands of a skilled practitioner.’ She gave a smug little nod, which said, as clearly as words, I would not have made such an error.

  Isabelle said nothing. She simply stood there, facing Cyrille, her unblinking eyes fixed on her until eventually Cyrille was forced to look away. ‘Oh, well, you must all do as you see fit,’ she said, with an attempt at nonchalance. ‘If anybody needs me, I shall be in my chamber.’

  Isabelle shot a furious look at the plump little figure hurrying off down the hall. Watching her, Josse was quite surprised she overcame the temptation to give her daughter-in-law a good kick to hasten her on her way.

  Josse and Herbert were setting off. Herbert had brightened up again as soon as they were out of doors, and now looked decidedly cheerful. He knew the way to Henshaw, and was confident that they would find Sir Godfrey’s stables without difficulty; his was, it appeared, a well-known name in the vicinity.

  As the two of them rode out through the gates, Helewise stood at the top of the steps watching. Josse turned round once, and she gave him a wave and an encouraging smile. She went on standing there until they were out of sight.

  She prayed for them. Putting her whole heart in the quietly muttered words, she begged that they would uncover the information they sought and return, swiftly and safely, to Southfire.

  For she had a premonition: although she did not know where or how, or to whom, she was utterly certain that something awful was going to happen.

  ELEVEN

  Josse and Herbert kept up a good pace. Their horses were full of energy after too many days shut up in the stables, and eager to go. For some time, the ride was too exhilarating and too energetic to allow speech but as the horses slowed to an easy trot and the two men positioned themselves side by side, Herbert looked across at Josse and said, ‘She’s not as bad as she seems, you know.’

  There was no point in saying innocently, Who isn’t?

  ‘Er—’ Josse began.

  ‘Oh, I know how it looks,’ Herbert hurried on. ‘She’s a good wife to me, though, in her own way, and I was so lonely after Maud died that I—’ He stopped. ‘But you don’t want to hear about that,’ he muttered. ‘She likes to be in control at all times, both of herself and others,’ he went on after a brief pause, ‘and she thinks she knows best how to do things, and she has all these little ideas for making our lives more comfortable that she really wants us to adopt – for our own sake, of course, not hers – because she really cares about us all.’ His voice had risen. He waited until he was calm once more, then added quietly, ‘Josse, you have to try to see it from her point of view.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose so,’ Josse said doubtfully.

  ‘The trouble is,’ Herbert said, ‘she thought she was going to be mistress of Southfire. When she agreed to marry me, I might have inadvertently given that impression, you see, because she’d always said what a beautiful old house it is, and how much she’d admired it from afar, which you can easily understand because it’s so much bigger than anything she’d ever known. I can’t say for sure, because it’s not the sort of thing a man asks his wife, but I believe she comes from – er, from rather humble stock, and I sense her life has been hard.’

  ‘Did she and Olivar not inherit from William Crowburgh?’ Josse asked.

  ‘Good God, no,’ Herbert said fervently. ‘Poor William suffered a series of disasters, apparently, and when he died he was virtually penniless. It was one of the reasons I first fell for Cyrille,’ he hurried on, ‘because, after William’s death, she was put in such a frightful position and she was being so brave about it.’ He added thoughtfully, ‘I suppose what she needed most was security, and the prospect of being the mistress of Southfire Hall was—’

  ‘She cannot be mistress until you are master,’ Josse interrupted bluntly, ‘and you won’t be master until your grandfather dies.’

  ‘I know!’ Herbert cried. ‘And, even then, there’s my mother. You see, Cyrille doesn’t really understand how our family works, how we’ve always lived quite happily all together, with no need of someone to be in overall charge.’ His pronunciation of the words suggested to Josse that he was quoting his wife. ‘She – Cyrille, I mean – seems to think that the moment Grandfather is dead, I will move my mother out into some dower house that I’ll somehow conjure up out of thin air, and that not only will Mother disappear from Southfire, she’ll also take Editha, Jenna, Gilbert, Philomena, Henry, Emma, Cecily, Brigida and Philippa with her.’

  ‘Aye,’ Josse murmured, ‘she makes that plain enough.’

  Herbert looked amazed. ‘You – you’d noticed?’

  ‘Of course, lad,’ Josse said impatiently. Then, more kindly, ‘Does she not understand that, even if it would be appropriate to find different accommodation for Isabelle, you cannot abandon your responsibilities to the rest of your kin? Responsibilities,’ he went on relentlessly, ‘that will only intensify once you are master of Southfire Hall.’

  ‘No,’ Herbert said miserably. ‘No, Josse. She doesn’t even begin to understand that. And, anyway, Southfire is our home!’ he cried plaintively. ‘Our family’s lived there for generations, and we all love it. That’s why the first extension was built, back in Grandfather’s day, to make room for an expanding family, and why we’ve now added the new extension, with the solar, the chapel and all that extra living accommodation.’ He hesitated. Then he went on, his voice soft and almost dreamy, ‘It’s the only place any of us really want to live, you know. It’s as if we belong to the house, and somehow it’s a part of us – it’s in our fa
mily’s blood.’

  ‘Cyrille is also a member of your family,’ Josse pointed out. ‘You made her so when you wed her.’

  ‘Yes,’ Herbert whispered. For a moment, his expression was utterly bleak. Then, attempting a smile, he said, ‘We’ve let the horses catch their breath. Come on, let’s push them on.’

  He kicked his mount to a canter, and Josse, doing the same, thundered after him.

  Back at Southfire, Helewise was in the chapel praying for the soul of Peter Southey, whose body now lay covered with a heavy cloth on a trestle before the altar. He had died alone, with no friend to hold his hand and no priest to hear him make his peace with God. Helewise felt the urge to speak on his behalf. ‘We believe he was a son of this family, Lord,’ she said softly, looking up at the plain silver cross, ‘and, if we are correct, then he had returned to the place that ought to have been his home.’ She hesitated. ‘Even if he planned to declare his position, and demand his rightful place in the line of inheritance –’ she remembered Peter’s odd comment that the family had treated him far better than he deserved – ‘nevertheless, we cannot say for certain that he was scheming to do wrong, or to rob another of what was rightfully his.’ She paused. There was no need, really, to explain all this to the Lord, and she had the feeling she was doing it more for her own benefit, to try to set her own scattered thoughts and emotions in order. ‘He was lonely, Lord,’ she went on after a while. ‘He was sad, and I believe he was grieving. Comfort him, dear Lord, and let him feel the gift of your love, so that he may find peace.’

  She dropped her face on to her folded hands and stilled her mind. Soon, a sense of calm flowed over her.

  Coming out of her meditation, she went back over the events of the morning. Peter’s death. Cyrille’s cruel words to Isabelle. Josse riding away.

  She didn’t want to think about Josse, and so she returned to Cyrille. The flare of intense dislike for the woman seemed even more wrong than usual, here in this holy place, and she tried to fight it. Cyrille is not at ease here in this household, amid this close and affectionate family, she told herself. We – I – should try to understand her, and in that way perhaps come to appreciate why she behaves as she does.

  The core of dislike remained.

  Helewise recalled how, in her previous life, they had been encouraged to overcome antipathy towards another by trying to perform a kind act for them. She smiled grimly: her instant, powerful reaction against doing any such thing for Cyrille told her just how much she needed to.

  She knelt in prayer for a little longer. Then she stood up, turned away from the altar and strode out of the chapel.

  Cyrille was not in the Old Hall or the solar. When Helewise finally asked Isabelle if she knew where she was, Isabelle said shortly that she was resting in her quarters. Helewise nodded her thanks and went to find her.

  The part of the house that Cyrille and Herbert occupied was comprised of a small, square hall with other, smaller rooms on three sides, reached through low archways. The rooms were sumptuously furnished, to a standard of comfort and luxury not found elsewhere in the house. The rushes on the stone floor were fresh, and in places topped with thick furs. The furniture was of oak, polished to a rich, golden shine; the hall smelt of beeswax and lavender. There were hangings on the walls, the brilliant colours of the wools a clear indication of their high cost. Large candles burned in elaborate silver holders; proper candles, Helewise noted, like the ones usually reserved for church on feast days. A fire burned in the hearth, and a basket of logs sat beside it.

  Yet, for all this display of extravagance, the room was empty …

  Or so she had thought; just then, however, as she stared around and wondered which doorway led to Cyrille’s bedroom, she heard a tiny noise from beneath the long table set against one wall. A mouse? She listened, but the sound did not come again.

  Bending down, she raised the stiff white cloth that covered the central section of the table and peered underneath. Crouched on the rushes right in the corner was Olivar.

  ‘Hello!’ Helewise said softly. ‘Are you hiding?’

  His blue eyes were huge with fear, the pupils widely distended. He nodded.

  ‘If I know boys,’ Helewise went on conversationally, sitting down beside the table, ‘and I do, having raised two of my own, I would guess somebody is trying to make you wash your hands, or do your lessons, or go outside and fetch more firewood, or any number of things that adults insist boys do when they’d far rather be playing.’

  Olivar tried to speak, but the words didn’t come.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Helewise said quietly. ‘I won’t tell.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m meant to be out of my room,’ Olivar finally managed, his voice so low she had to strain to hear. ‘She said two days, and I think it is two days, but if it isn’t and I ought to be there still, she’ll send me back for another two days.’ He gulped back a sob. ‘I don’t like it on my own.’ He looked at her, misery in every line of his face. ‘And,’ he added in a tiny whisper, ‘I’m afraid the monster will come back.’

  Helewise crawled in under the table and took him in her arms. He was trembling, and she guessed from his runny nose that he had recently been crying. He leaned against her with a sigh; a sound that went straight to her heart. Remembering her resolve to be kind to Cyrille, she almost laughed.

  But then an idea occurred to her. ‘Your mother is resting, I’m told?’

  As soon as she said your mother, Olivar stiffened. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She’s lying on her bed with a blanket over her and earlier she said she was sick. I wasn’t trying to listen,’ he added urgently, defending himself as if he expected accusations to be hurled at him, ‘I’d just gone to see if there was anybody who would tell me about leaving my room or not, and I heard her talking to Father.’ He leaned closer to Helewise and whispered confidingly, ‘He’s not actually my father because he’s dead, but I have to call him Father. She said so.’

  Helewise waited till she was sure her voice would sound normal. ‘I know what we’ll do,’ she said with a cheerfulness she was far from feeling. ‘I’ll go in and speak to your mother, and ask if there’s anything I can do for her. She might need another blanket, or perhaps she feels like a hot drink or something to eat. People quite often do feel hungry, you know, after they stop feeling sick.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘that’s what she says.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then. And after we’ve done whatever she requests of us – we could do any little tasks together, couldn’t we? – I’ll say I’ve got lots of jobs to do today and I could really do with a hand, and would it be all right if you were my helper?’

  ‘What sort of jobs?’ Olivar asked warily.

  ‘Oh well, now, let’s see,’ she improvised quickly, ‘I have to go to the stables to see if my mare is all right, and maybe take her out for a ride as I’m sure she’s getting fat and lazy, and then I have to go to the kitchens and see if the cat’s had her kittens yet, and then I thought I’d offer to take the scraps out to feed the chickens, and after that I thought I’d sit in the solar and see if I can come up with a design for a piece of tapestry, and then—’

  ‘I want to be your helper,’ Olivar said eagerly.

  Helewise got out from beneath the table and held out her hand to Olivar, who followed her. ‘In that case,’ she said firmly, ‘I shall go and speak to your mother.’

  Mutely Olivar indicated which one was Cyrille’s room, and, after hesitating briefly on the doorstep, Helewise called out softly, ‘Cyrille, may I come in? It’s Helewise.’

  There was a rustle of bedding, and Cyrille said, ‘What do you want?’

  Helewise went on into the room. It was small and cosy, with several candles burning to enliven the gloomy daylight penetrating through the one narrow window. Cyrille lay on the high bed, propped up by a bank of pillows, a thick woollen blanket pulled up to her shoulders and a glossy fur pelt over her legs.

  ‘Isabelle told me you were resting and I came to
ask if you needed anything,’ Helewise said pleasantly.

  ‘I need to be left alone,’ Cyrille said ungraciously. ‘Oh, well, since you’re here I suppose you can pour a cup of water for me.’ Imperiously she pointed at a jug and a mug, set on a small brass tray beside the bed. Well within her reach, in fact, but Helewise smiled and did as she was bid. She handed it to Cyrille, who took it without a word and drank a few sips.

  Go on, Helewise ordered herself. ‘I met Olivar outside,’ she said. She was surprised at how nervous she felt. ‘He seems to have nothing to do, so, if you have no objection, I wondered if I could have your permission to enlist his help with a few tasks I have to do today?’

  Cyrille’s eyes shot to hers, their expression suspicious. ‘What do you want him for?’ she demanded. ‘He’s a clumsy boy. He broke my rosary,’ she added, her mouth working, as if the offence had just occurred and she was in the throes of her first, furious reaction.

  ‘I will try to encourage him to be more careful,’ Helewise said meekly. She despised herself for her duplicity but, if it was what it took to take Olivar away with her, it was worth it.

  Cyrille studied her through narrowed eyes, as if suspecting an ulterior motive but unable to work out what it was. Then suddenly she said, ‘Oh, do what you like with him.’

  Not giving her any time for second thoughts, Helewise bowed her head, said, ‘Thank you, Cyrille,’ and backed hastily out of the room.

  Olivar, who had quite obviously been listening to every word, sprang away from the doorway as she emerged and pretended to be very interested in the wax pooling at the foot of one of the candles. He looked up at her, blue eyes intent. ‘Is it all right?’ he whispered.

  She grinned. ‘Yes. Come on –’ she held out her hand and instantly he took it – ‘let’s go and say good morning to my horse.’

  For Helewise, Olivar’s company was the perfect antidote to the distress of Peter Southey’s death. Although Olivar had been suitably respectful when informed that the injured man had sadly died, he was too young to pretend a grief he didn’t feel, and since he hadn’t known Peter, it was foolish to expect him to be upset.