Ashes of the Elements Read online

  Esyllt, she thought sadly, is in torment. And, unable to come to me with her trouble, she appears to be trying to sort it out by herself. Oh, but she is so young! And, for all the happy confidence she used to possess, she is in truth but an inexperienced girl.

  Helewise’s late husband had been wont to say, ‘Don’t go out looking for trouble, nor waste time worrying about things that might never happen.’ However, the Abbess, not being quite such an optimist, had always been a great believer in facing up to the worst that could happen, and planning what to do if it did. Usually, she had found, it didn’t. Nevertheless, having decided what to do if it did meant that those terrible four-in-the-morning anxieties, that ate at one’s peace of mind and took away any chance of sleep, could more readily be dismissed.

  The worst that could have happened to Esyllt, Helewise was more and more convinced, was that, in the forest for some as yet unknown purpose on the last full-moon night, she had come across Ewen Asher, fleeing from his treasure-seeking activities in the fallen oak grove. And that he, full of the various thrills of finding valuables and being scared out of his wits, had been unable to resist the armful of well-developed womanhood that had literally tumbled against him. He had stripped Esyllt of her undergarments, been on the point of raping her – perhaps even succeeded, poor lass – when, in her horrified disgust and her terror, she had drawn the man’s own knife and stuck it into him.

  As if that were not enough, Helewise thought miserably, now the poor child has to sit up here knowing that another is in jail awaiting trial for the murder.

  What would happen if, as seemed highly likely, Seth Miller were found guilty and sent for execution? Would Esyllt let him hang, or would she come forward?

  Helewise already knew the answer to that. Not that it was in the least consoling.

  Trying to banish from her mind the dreadful images of a well-developed female body jerking and twisting on the end of a rope, while the face blackened and the swollen tongue began to protrude, abruptly she got up, went into her room and firmly closed the door.

  * * *

  She was on the point of going across to the Abbey church for some quiet moments of prayer before Nones when, from somewhere outside, she heard raised voices, followed by the thump of running feet. She was actually moving across to the door when someone’s fist began banging on it; opening up, she was met by the face of a stranger.

  ‘Abbess Helewise?’ the man gasped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Abbess, do you have Sir Josse d’Acquin, King’s knight, putting up here?’ he demanded urgently.

  ‘Indeed. He is resting at present, down in the vale. Where the monks tend the pilgrims who—’

  ‘Abbess, forgive me, but please will you send for him?’ The man’s distress was evident. ‘We need his help!’

  ‘Of course,’ Helewise said, already leading the man back outside and looking round for someone who could take a message to Josse. ‘Ah! Brother Michael!’ she called. ‘Will you come here, please?’ Turning back to the man, she said, ‘Now, where do you come from, and what is the trouble?’

  The man watched Brother Michael come hurrying across from the infirmary. His face intent, at first he didn’t answer.

  ‘Who sent you?’ Helewise repeated, rather more firmly.

  ‘Eh? Oh, yes. I’m Tobias Durand’s man, I serve him and the Lady Petronilla. And, oh, God!’ Momentarily his face crumpled, as if overcome all over again by whatever dire happening it was that required Josse’s help. ‘Abbess, we shall need your prayers, yours and all the sisters’,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ she demanded.

  He swallowed, and, making a very evident effort to control himself, said, ‘There’s been a death at the hall.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Helewise, watching Josse as he waited with ill-concealed impatience for his horse to be brought, thought that he did not seem any more fit for a fairly long ride with, at journey’s end, a serious problem to face, than she was herself.

  ‘Will you not rest for this night, and set out in the morning?’ she suggested, knowing he would say no but unable to let that prevent her from asking. ‘You and I both inhaled that wretched smoke, we are both, I am quite certain, still suffering from the after effects of whatever narcotic was in it.’

  He looked down at her. ‘I am grateful for your consideration. Helewise, but—’ He looked away. Then, as if he had remembered where they were, and that, back in the Abbey, the informality which had relaxed their relationship out in the wild forest must be forgotten as if it had never been, he said, ‘I am perfectly well, thank you, Abbess. And it is my duty to go when I am summoned.’

  ‘Very well.’ She stood back, feeling the twin emotions of being grateful for his courtesy and his consideration, while, at the same time, missing his warm friendliness.

  Sister Martha at last led Horace out of the stables; the horse’s coat shone as if she had spent all afternoon grooming him. She handed the reins to Josse, and he swung up into the saddle.

  Helewise went to stand at his stirrup. ‘Send me word,’ she said softly.

  His eyes met hers, and, as if he understood her anxiety, smiled. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘That I will. That, or I’ll return and tell you myself.’

  Then, kicking Horace into a trot he set off out through the Abbey gates.

  * * *

  The messenger had gone on ahead to say that Josse was on his way. Riding swiftly, his mind busy with conjecture, the long miles of the journey passed by scarcely noticed.

  He rode into the walled and well-tended courtyard of Tobias and Petronilla Durand’s fine house. This time, it was not the master who greeted him, but the manservant, Paul.

  Solemn-faced, eyes dulled with some wearying emotion, he said in a low voice, ‘This way, Sir Josse. The body lies where it fell.’

  The messenger, appearing from the stables, rushed over to take Josse’s horse. Josse, straightening his tunic with a determined tug, followed Paul up the steps and into the house.

  After the sunshine, the light within seemed very dim, and it took Josse a moment or two to make out clearly the scene that awaited him.

  Then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw what they had called him to see.

  Stretched out at the foot of the short flight of steps that led from the dais, where the dining table stood, down into the main area of the hall, lay a body.

  A long body, dressed in the best, the rich colours of the fabrics glowing in the soft light. The corpse lay face down, and, from the blood staining the stone slabs beneath, it appeared that death had come as a result of some catastrophic injury to the front of the head.

  Josse said quietly, ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘This morning,’ Paul replied mournfully. ‘Just this morning,’ he repeated, as if he could hardly believe his own words. ‘They hadn’t even sat down to breakfast.’

  As Paul crossed himself and muttered a prayer, Josse knelt down and put his hand on the already-cold temple of Tobias Durand.

  Moving his hand so that his palm cupped the forehead, gently he raised up the head. The abundant hair, glossy with health, fell forward over the dead face, and Josse had to push it aside before he could see the wound.

  The damage was terrible. The wound, deep, and shaped almost like a pyramid, must, Josse thought, have been caused by a hard point of some sort … Looking down at where Tobias’s face had lain, he saw the edge of the bottom step. Newly constructed, presumably as part of the renovations which had been carried out following Petronilla and Tobias’s marriage, the step was sharp-edged and unworn, and the riser, tread and side came together to form the corner of a perfect right-angled cube.

  ‘The lady Petronilla said he tripped over his hound,’ Paul said, his voice breaking. ‘He – the master – was larking about, she said, jumping down from the dais to take her hand and lead her to table, and the hound, excited by all the fun and games, started barking, then it bounded up and tangled itself in the master’s legs.’ He sniffed, wiping his nose with
his sleeve. ‘I heard voices, I heard the barking, then there was the sound of something heavy falling. Then there was this terrible silence.’ He sniffed again.

  ‘And you came hurrying into the hall and found him lying here?’ Josse asked gently.

  ‘Aye.’ Weeping openly now, Paul said, ‘My lady is heartbroken, sir. She sets such a store by him, I don’t know how she’ll manage without him, truly I don’t.’

  And what of you? Josse thought. Whatever she decides to do, will the lady Petronilla still have need of her faithful manservant? Or will she, like so many widows above a certain age, decide that she has had enough of the world and retire behind the walls of some tranquil, welcoming convent?

  Now was definitely not the time for such questions, even in the privacy of his thoughts. Judging that it was probably a good idea for Paul to have something to do, Josse began, ‘Paul, this death comes as the most dire shock, to you and the household, indeed, to us all.’ His eyes returned to the long, elegantly clad body, which, death having so recently come, still bore the outward semblance of life.

  Death. So final. So terribly final.

  Josse recovered himself, not without effort, and turned back to the grieving manservant. ‘The rest of the staff must be almost as upset as you,’ he said gently. ‘Could you, do you think, organise them into doing some sort of work?’ He cast round in his mind for a suitable task. ‘What does Tobias usually do in the afternoons?’

  Paul scratched his head. ‘I don’t rightly know, sir. He’s often from home. He does take his hounds out sometimes, that I can tell you.’

  ‘Well, that’s one thing, then.’ Josse tried an encouraging smile. ‘And there’s his horse, presumably, needing exercise and then a good rub-down. And, even in this grief-stricken house, there will be need of food. Could you ask the household servants to prepare a meal?’

  Paul drew himself up, as if, regretting his lapse, he was concerned to show that he had now resumed the mantle of his authority. ‘I shall do all that you ask, sir.’ With a formal little bow that briefly wrung Josse’s heart, Paul walked stiffly away.

  Alone with the dead man, Josse felt all round the head for any sign of further injury. No. There was nothing.

  But wait! What—

  ‘You have come, Sir Josse,’ said a quiet voice behind him. ‘I thank you for answering my summons.’

  Spinning round, he saw Petronilla Durand, standing not two paces off and looking down at him.

  She was already dressed in some flowing, dark mourning garment, which served to remove the last vestige of colour from her normally pale cheeks. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the lids swollen. Her headdress of starched white had been tightly fastened, and over it she wore a thin black veil. The flesh of her jaw and chin, in cruel contrast to the smooth linen of the barbette, was sagging and faintly yellow-looking, like that of a recently plucked chicken. Her thin-lipped mouth had taken on a deep downward curve, on either side of which were heavily marked semicircular creases which, Josse was almost sure, hadn’t been there before.

  She had aged ten years.

  Josse stood up, moved across to her and, kneeling once more, took her icy hand in his and kissed it. ‘My lady, my deepest condolences on your loss,’ he said. ‘If there is anything I can do, you have but to name it.’

  She took her hand out of his grasp. Turning away so that he could no longer see the ruined face, she said, with a moan, ‘Bring him back!’

  Josse moved to her side. Had she lost her wits? He said gently, ‘That I cannot do, lady.’

  She shook her head. ‘I know, Sir Knight. I know.’ She sighed.

  ‘Console yourself with the knowledge that he can have felt little pain,’ Josse said. It wasn’t much, he knew, but grieving widows had been comforted by such remarks in the past; he had uttered the facile comment many times himself. ‘The wound is deep, and death would have been instantaneous.’ He couldn’t be sure – not as sure as he was pretending to be – but, if it helped her, then it scarcely seemed important.

  ‘Little pain,’ she repeated. There was a moment of silence, then she said, ‘How poorly you understand.’

  Ah.

  ‘My lady?’ Josse said.

  The pink-rimmed eyes turned to meet his. ‘This house has ever been filled with pain,’ she murmured. ‘And, for all that my husband lies dead, that pain will never cease.’

  It was a strange thing for a widow to say. Did she mean that Tobias’s death had caused the pain? Perhaps, Josse thought, perplexed, but it hadn’t sounded that way. It had sounded as if Petronilla was referring to some deep distress, ongoing, something that had been a constant element in her life.

  Trying to console her – the most hard-hearted man in the world would surely have wanted to bring comfort to that deadly pale, ravaged woman, with her destroyed face – Josse said, ‘Lady, there was joy in this house! Why, I saw with my own eyes the love that was between you and Tobias. Why do you speak of pain?’

  As if Petronilla were regretting her words, she made a visible attempt to undermine them. With a ghastly smile that looked more dreadful on her face than her expression of misery, she said, ‘How right you are, Sir Josse! Indeed, Tobias and I were happy. The pain is in his—’ She glanced briefly at her husband’s body, screwed her eyes shut, and whispered, ‘The pain lies here, at our feet.’

  Josse was very nearly convinced. He would have believed her, thought no more about her odd remark, had a certain line of thought not suddenly arisen in his mind. Looking carefully around to make sure that they were alone, he said quietly, ‘Petronilla, I believe that, when last we met, you may have told me not the truth, but what you would have liked to be the truth.’ No answer. ‘Lady?’ he prompted. ‘Would it not be a relief to unburden yourself?’

  She lowered her head. In a muffled voice, she said, ‘Sir Knight, what can you mean?’

  If she wasn’t prepared to bring it out into the open, then he was. ‘You told me,’ he said, careful to keep his voice down, ‘that Tobias had put aside the ways of his misspent youth. That his side of the bargain which you struck was that he would be a model husband, as respectable as a man married to a lady such as yourself ought to be. And that, my lady, was a lie.’ Again, she kept her silence. ‘Wasn’t it?’ he hissed.

  She rounded on him. ‘All right, yes!’ she hissed back. ‘Are you satisfied now? Do you wish to witness my humiliation as well as my grief? For shame, Sir Knight! For shame!’

  Humiliation was not the word he would have used; intent only on finding out all that there was to find out, he probed on. ‘I know that he was in the habit of visiting the Great Forest,’ he said, ‘because I saw him there, on two occasions. Indeed, he made no secret of his preference for the forest fringes as a fine place to fly his falcon. But that was merely a cover, wasn’t it?’ He wanted to take hold of her, give her the comfort of his touch even as he interrogated her. ‘He was in league with Hamm Robinson, wasn’t he? Hamm, and his fellow thieves Ewen Asher and Seth Miller. The three of them took the risks and did the dirty work, and passed on the valuable objects they found for Tobias to sell. Isn’t that right, Petronilla?’

  She had been watching him as he spoke, mouth opening in a silent gasp. She was going to deny it all, he thought grimly, tell him he was mistaken. What would he do then?

  In tones of ice, she said, ‘I have never heard of any of those men.’

  Well, there was no reason for Tobias to have mentioned their names. But, on the other hand, she sounded so convincing! Josse would have sworn she was telling the truth! With the distinct feeling that he was racing off down a dead end, he said, ‘Maybe not, but all the same, lady, it’s my belief that Tobias knew them, nevertheless.’ Frustration surging through him, he said, ‘I could have proved it, I know I could! I still can, maybe, there must be a way to trace the things they took from the forest, and—’

  She did not let him go on. Disdain making her voice harsh, she said, ‘My husband had no dealings with petty thieves.’ Fixing Josse with a furious stare
, she went on: ‘In God’s name, Sir Knight, he married a rich woman! What need had he to go peddling trinkets?’

  It was a good question. Frowning, Josse began, ‘Well, I would scarcely call them trinkets, and—’

  Again, she interrupted. ‘How can you!’ she cried, her thin hands twisting together in her distress. ‘My husband’s body is scarcely cold, and here you stand, accusing him of some crime more suited to forest peasants than to the gracious, noble man that he was!’

  Josse bowed his head. Poor woman, he thought, she is in shock. The terrible events of this morning still overwhelm her, and here I am with my small accusations, pursuing a matter which, to anybody but me, must appear trivial by comparison. Guilt flooding through him, he raised his eyes and said, ‘Lady, forgive me. My remarks are inappropriate. This business can wait until a later—’ No. He must not even say that. Putting all the sincerity he could muster into his voice, he said gently, ‘Petronilla, I came to help you. Tell me, if you will, how I may.’

  She was staring at him, and, in the light from the open door, he could see her face clearly. The angry, offended expression slowly cleared, and for a moment she looked the proud, haughty noblewoman bearing her pain with dignity. ‘I thank you, Sir Knight,’ she began, ‘there will be matters to attend to, decisions to be made as to…’

  Slowly she trailed, to a halt. As if drawn by some force she could not resist, her eyes returned to Tobias’s body. With a tiny whimper, she knelt down, her full skirts pooling around her, and, with the tender touch of a mother on the face of a sleeping child, she smoothed the thick hair back from the ruined forehead.

  ‘He is dead,’ she whispered. ‘Dead.’

  Then, bending low over the corpse, she began to sob.

  Josse stood the heartbreaking sounds for a moment, then, leaning down, took firm hold of Petronilla’s shoulders and raised her to her feet. ‘Lady, you must be brave,’ he said. ‘Come, sit with me, and we shall send for some heartening drink, something to give you the strength to cope with what you must endure.’