A Shadowed Evil Page 19

  She shoved out at the unseen thing with all her might, and her hands encountered flesh, muscle and bone beneath the repellent, slippery fabric. ‘Get out!’ she hissed. Beside herself with fury, anger burning through her and destroying reason and moderation, she yelled, ‘Get away from here and leave him alone, or I’ll pursue you and I’ll kill you!’

  Suddenly the thing wasn’t there any more. Feeling around wildly, staring into the darkness, she cried, ‘Where are you? Where have you gone? Come back, you coward!’

  She paused, gasping, trying to hold her breath long enough to listen.

  Nothing.

  Then, from inside the room, a very small voice said, ‘Help.’

  Olivar was in Helewise’s arms when Isabelle burst into the room carrying a lamp, Jenna at her heels with what appeared to be a cudgel in her hands.

  ‘What happened? Is he all right?’ Isabelle put down her lamp and crouched beside the bed, eyes on Olivar, hand on his forehead stroking back the thick fair hair.

  Olivar buried his face against Helewise. ‘Not hurt,’ Helewise said softly. ‘Frightened, though. Could we have some more light?’

  Isabelle gave a tut of impatience. ‘Of course. I should have thought. Jenna, put down that stick and light some candles, please.’

  The soft light spread through the little room, chasing the shadows back into the corners. Olivar, responding, raised his head. ‘Has it gone?’ he whispered. His blue eyes were huge, and his face was deathly white.

  ‘Yes,’ Helewise said.

  Jenna – kind Jenna, Helewise thought – made a show of going out into the passage, raising Isabelle’s lamp and staring hard in both directions. ‘Nothing to be seen out here,’ she said with a reassuring smile.

  Isabelle looked at Helewise over Olivar’s head. ‘Did you see anything?’ she asked.

  Helewise nodded, putting a finger to her lips. Then she said robustly, ‘Just a shadow, and it’s gone now.’ Olivar’s whole body shuddered. ‘However, both Olivar and I have had a bit of a fright,’ she went on, ‘so, if nobody minds, we’re going to stay together for the rest of the night and keep each other company.’ She felt Olivar relax in relief.

  ‘What a good idea,’ Isabelle said, for Olivar’s sake speaking with determined cheerfulness. ‘Jenna, fetch some more bedding, and then I think we’d all better go back to bed.’ As she got to her feet, she mouthed to Helewise, Tell me in the morning? and Helewise nodded.

  She held Olivar in her arms until his soft, steady breathing told her he was asleep. Then, still lying beside him, she moved over to give them both more room, snuggled the blankets up over her shoulders and started to think.

  It had been no phantom or ghostly presence haunting this ancient house that had so frightened Olivar. Josse was quite right, she reflected; she too had come to sense the house’s spirit, and it was indeed benign and protective. If there was a ghost here, then it was a loving one.

  But what had come erupting out of Olivar’s room just now – this very room, she thought with a shiver – had been made of flesh and blood. It had breathed. Beneath the strange, chilly garment it wore, it had been warm; she had felt it. So who was it? Out of the six adults – the thing had been too big to be a child – and the handful of servants in the household, who could have taken it into their head to don some weird costume and frighten a small child out of his wits? And tonight wasn’t the first time; two nights ago, it had been Josse who had raced to Olivar’s aid, and, from what Olivar had told him, it had happened before.

  Who could be doing such a very cruel thing, and, perhaps even more important, why?

  Resigning herself to several hours’ more wakefulness as she set about trying to puzzle it out, Helewise made herself relax and began to think.

  Josse soon discovered that riding through the Great Forest in the rapidly deepening darkness wasn’t nearly as easy as he had anticipated. Quite soon, he began to regret his impetuosity, reflecting ruefully that Young Herbert had been right about it being wiser to wait till morning.

  He managed to follow what seemed like a good, straight track, going in roughly the right direction, for some miles after entering in under the trees as he left Pard’s Wood. He was not familiar with this area of the forest, but presently the first stars began to appear, and, with a certain amount of relief, he located the North Star. He grinned, realizing that its position demonstrated he was indeed going north-eastwards.

  Then the track gave out. Abruptly, with no warning, a great tangle of bramble and hazel appeared before him like a hedge. It was far too big and high to jump, and, in any case, the track leading up to it was neither level nor straight enough for him to put Arthur at the obstacle with sufficient speed. He would have to go round it.

  He managed to find a way, eventually, but by now clouds had gathered, and he could see the stars only intermittently. When finally he made out the North Star again, he had travelled too far east. This, however, proved to be an advantage: although he now had considerably further to go before he emerged above Hawkenlye Abbey, he now knew where he was, and soon found his way to a reasonably well-defined track.

  Speaking encouragingly to Arthur, he kicked him into a trot and hurried on his way.

  The abbey lay at the foot of a long, gentle incline leading down from the forest. Barely a light showed, and the gates were closed for the night. Riding up to them, Josse dismounted and tapped softly, calling out, ‘Is anyone there? It’s Josse, Josse d’Acquin.’

  To his surprise and relief, a gap appeared between the gates and a veiled head appeared, eyes peering up at him. ‘Do we know any other Josses?’ Sister Madelin said, smiling. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re doing here at this time of night, Sir Josse, and I’m sure you’re not going to tell me, but you’d better come in.’ She glanced at Arthur as the big horse followed Josse. ‘And let me take care of your horse,’ she said, a faint note of disapproval in her calm voice. ‘You have clearly been riding him hard.’

  ‘Has Abbess Caliste retired yet?’ Josse asked as they walked across the forecourt.

  ‘No, I think she’s in the church,’ Sister Madelin replied. She glanced at Josse. ‘Please, sir, don’t keep her up,’ she added. ‘Whatever trouble has brought you here, the abbess needs her sleep.’

  Josse was about to protest, but, realizing that Sister Madelin’s concern for her superior was utterly reasonable, stopped. ‘No, I’ll try not to,’ he said meekly. ‘Thank you for looking after Arthur.’

  She nodded in reply, and went on towards the stables.

  Abbess Caliste was emerging from the abbey church as Josse approached. She held out her hands to him, for a moment just looking up at him, a smile increasing the serene beauty of her face. Then: ‘A late-night visit, Sir Josse, usually presages ill. What can we do for you?’

  ‘I believe my cousin is here, in the infirmary.’ Oh, let her still be alive, he prayed. ‘Her name is Aeleis, and her son brought her to you ten days or so ago.’ He looked at Abbess Caliste, who, he knew, was aware of every patient in the infirmary and how well, or otherwise, they were doing. Silently he begged her to smile and say, Oh, yes, Aeleis! She was quite unwell but she’s much better now.

  But Abbess Caliste wasn’t smiling. Reaching out to take Josse’s hand, she said, ‘Oh, Josse, I’m so sorry. We’ve done what we can for her, and she’s not in pain now, but I’m afraid she has not got very long in this world.’

  Josse felt himself slump down on to the church steps. He put his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. Aeleis, my little Aeleis, he cried silently, I’ve found you again, but now I’m going to lose you.

  After a little while, he felt a warm presence beside him as Abbess Caliste sat down and put her arm round him. ‘She will not die tonight, and probably not in the next few days,’ she said gently. ‘You have been given the gift of some precious time with her, Josse. Don’t waste it in sorrow that it cannot be longer.’

  He raised his head to look at her, only then realizing he had tears on his face.
‘Can I see her straight away?’ he demanded, wiping his sleeve over his eyes.

  ‘Of course,’ Abbess Caliste replied. ‘She’s in a room by herself, so you can be with her as much as you want and nobody else will be disturbed.’ She got up, holding out her hand. ‘Come with me.’

  Sister Liese came to greet the abbess as she and Josse entered the infirmary. Sister Liese gave Josse a smile of welcome, then turned enquiringly back to Abbess Caliste. ‘Sir Josse is cousin to Aeleis,’ Caliste murmured, her mouth up close to the infirmarer’s ear. Sister Liese, with a compassionate glance at Josse, nodded and, beckoning, led the way down the long ward and into a little corridor leading off to the left. Stopping beside a partially open door, she said, ‘She is in here.’

  Sensing that he wanted to be alone with their patient, the two nuns quietly walked away.

  Josse did not hesitate. He went on into the little room and stared over to the bed, where a woman lay propped up on many pillows. She had an unruly mass of fair hair striped thickly with silver, which had spread out beneath the simple white coif she wore as if the little cap had given up trying to contain it. Her eyes were closed. Her face was very pale, and in it the features – short nose, wide mouth with even now the hint of a smile, determined chin – were as fine, as clearly defined, as when she was a girl. Under the bedcovers, her body appeared to have retained its strong, athletic build: like many of the women of her family, she was wide at the shoulders, long in the legs, yet full-bosomed.

  But Aeleis was no longer the free-striding, fresh-air-loving woman she had once been. As he stood listening to her short, laboured breaths and to the air that bubbled and wheezed in her chest, Josse understood, with a sinking of the heart, the reason for those many pillows. And he knew that Abbess Caliste had told him the truth.

  Trying to step quietly, he approached the bed. Her smile widened and, in a husky, croaky voice, she said, her eyes still closed, ‘You’ve never been able to perform any sort of movement without making so much noise that you instantly give yourself away, Josse, so it’s no use trying.’ She opened her eyes – greenish-blue like Isabelle’s but paler, although with the same golden lights – and stared up at him. ‘They all seem to know about you here,’ she went on, ‘and, although personally I can’t begin to fathom it, they all sing your praises.’ She shook her head in amazement. ‘My cousin Josse, the nuns’ favourite!’

  ‘Hush!’ he hissed. ‘They’ll hear!’

  Aeleis laughed, and it was the same merry, hearty sound he remembered so well. Now, however, the laugh ended in a cough and a struggle for breath.

  ‘Same old Josse,’ she said when she had recovered. ‘Go on, then, tell me why you’re here.’

  He met her bright eyes. ‘Er – I was passing, and they said there was a patient in the infirmary called Aeleis, and I thought, that’s my cousin’s name, and—’

  She laughed again, but in a more controlled manner. ‘Oh, rubbish,’ she said firmly. ‘You’ve probably heard somehow that I’m dying, and, like the loving cousin you are, you’ve come to hold my hand.’

  She was still staring at him, a challenging expression on her face, and he knew he couldn’t lie. ‘Aye,’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘Thank you for being truthful.’ She was looking up at him expectantly.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hold my hand.’

  He pulled up a stool, sat down as close to her as he could and took one of her hands in both of his.

  There was a short pause as if, simultaneously, the two of them were acknowledging and accepting what was coming. Then she said, ‘How did you hear? Who told you?’

  He knew she didn’t want him to say, Your cranky old manservant at Pard’s Wood. Hard though it would be, he must reveal the whole story.

  ‘I was at Southfire Hall,’ he began. ‘Helewise – she’s my wife – and I went to visit. Your father’s sick, Aeleis, and wandering in his mind, and the family sent for me.’

  The news of Hugh’s illness sent a brief spasm of distress across her face. ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ she said softly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘While I was there, a young man was brought into the house. He’d had a bad fall, and he and his horse were both injured.’ He forced himself to continue. ‘Aeleis, he said his name was Peter Southey, but I believe that was an invention.’ He squeezed her hand tightly. ‘He had Queen Eleanor in a little leather bag on a thong round his neck, and I knew then he was somebody you loved very much. He was your son, wasn’t he?’

  ‘My son,’ she breathed, the words barely audible. Then, instantly: ‘Was?’

  ‘He died, Aeleis. I’m so very sorry. Isabelle and Helewise nursed him day and night, and we all thought he was getting better, but then one morning we discovered he had died in the night.’

  Her eyes had closed again, and her face seemed to have fallen in, so that all at once she looked very old. ‘Did he suffer?’ she whispered.

  ‘No, I’m sure he didn’t. Isabelle was treating him with her willow-bark remedy, and he rarely complained of pain.’

  Two tears spilled down her cheeks. She raised her free hand to wipe them away. She drew a shallow breath, sighed, then, opening her eyes, looked at Josse. ‘I sent him away,’ she said. ‘He didn’t know how sick I was. I told him to stop getting on my nerves hanging around me, and to go away and do something.’ She smiled faintly. ‘He was never very good at inactivity. I didn’t want him to watch me die!’ she burst out suddenly. ‘I meant it for the best, but oh, Josse, Josse, what have I done?’

  She was crying hard now, with the same jerky, painful sobs she used to emit when she was little and some imagined slight had touched her fiery temper and made her yell with frustration. Just as he had done all those years ago, Josse took her in his arms, stroked her hair and simply held her until the storm was past.

  Some time later – she had mopped her face and he had poured out some thick sweet-smelling medicine into her cup from the jug beside the bed – she said, ‘I’ll tell you about him, if you like.’

  ‘Aye,’ Josse said, ‘that I would.’

  She patted the bed. ‘Settle down by me here, then, I can’t go on craning my neck to look up at you. That’s better.’ She leaned against him with a soft sigh of contentment. ‘He wasn’t really called Peter Southey; his name was Parsifal de Chanteloup.’ A chime of memory rang in Josse’s head, and he heard Uncle Hugh’s voice: It was some foreign-sounding name – De Chanticleer? De Chamois? De something, anyway. Hugh had almost got it right. So Aeleis had married the man called de Chanteloup, just as the rumour had said, and this boy Parsifal – Josse could imagine Uncle Hugh’s face when he heard the whimsical name – was the result of the union. ‘… and, as you surmised, Josse,’ Aeleis was saying, ‘I did indeed love him very much.’

  He realized he’d missed a bit of her explanation, but he didn’t ask her to repeat it. ‘Your father had heard something about you being at a Windsor court Christmas,’ he said, ‘and he thought you’d been causing scandal by your behaviour, so he’ll be pleased to know you did marry your de Chanteloup, and bore him a son.’

  She gave him a strange look. Then she said mildly, ‘Yes, such things were always so important to Father. He placed respectability far above happiness.’

  ‘You have been happy, Aeleis?’ Josse asked. Suddenly it was very important to know she had.

  She smiled. ‘Oh, yes, Josse. The years we’ve spent together have been happier than anyone has the right to expect. We had such a time! He was such fun, always ready to try anything I suggested, and he didn’t care what anybody thought or if people took offence and refused to have anything to do with us. We had each other, and that was more than enough for both of us.’

  Did she mean herself and her son? It seemed so. What, then, became of her husband? ‘Did your husband—’

  ‘Parsifal made enemies, though,’ she was saying, her face sombre. ‘One in particular, but, given the qualities of that par
ticular person, one was more than enough. Parsifal believed she had the power to curse, Josse, and, no matter how hard I tried to persuade him there were no such things as curses, and it was all an unfortunate coincidence, he wouldn’t believe me.’ She sighed again. ‘Sometimes, lying here, I wonder if he was right.’

  ‘Who cursed him, and why?’ Josse asked in a whisper. Despite himself, and despite Aeleis’s robust rejection of the efficacy of cursing, he had just felt a cold shiver down his back.

  ‘He was once betrothed to a woman,’ Aeleis said. ‘His uncle arranged it, and—’

  ‘Your husband’s brother, you mean.’ It sounded as if her husband had indeed died, for why else would his brother take it upon himself to arrange the lad’s marriage?

  She waved away the interruption. ‘And both he and the woman’s father thought it would be a good match. His uncle – his name was Bertrand – became more and more desperate as Parsifal grew from boyhood into manhood, because he was constantly getting into mischief and causing scandal, and Bertrand, being such a rich and important figure, could bear anything but scandal.’ She grinned. ‘So, hoping it would make Parsifal settle down and turn into a dutiful young nephew, he – Bertrand – found a decent, obedient, devout young lady from somewhat humble stock, persuaded her family that Parsifal was the ideal husband, and the marriage contract was drawn up.’

  Once again, Josse was hearing Uncle Hugh’s voice: She got her heart broken, that poor young girl, although she wasn’t as young as she made out, not by a long chalk.

  ‘But Parsifal wouldn’t have it,’ Aeleis said with pride. ‘He wasn’t a man you could push around, and, although he was young then – eighteen, at most – he refused utterly to do as Bertrand commanded. He would have nothing to do with it: he didn’t let Bertrand tell him anything about the bride, and he wouldn’t agree to meet her. In the end, one of her kin – her father, I believe – took matters into his own hands and rode over to Bertrand’s house with the young woman to demand a confrontation, but Parsifal got word they were on their way, lost his temper, packed his belongings and stormed out of Bertrand’s house, never to return.’