Fortune Like the Moon Page 23

  He had gone on trial for that. The Abbess and that big knight, who had been sent to investigate the deaths, had given evidence. Not willingly, or so folk said. Neither, apparently, had spoken out vindictively against Milon; they’d just answered the questions asked of them truthfully. Tried, as far as they could, to speak up for him.

  But the truth had been bad enough to hang him. Murder. He’d murdered Elanor, his pretty, lively young wife. He had admitted as much as they led him out to his execution. He had gone to his Maker pleading for forgiveness, crying out that he hadn’t meant to kill her, that her death had been a terrible accident, that he’d give anything, anything, his own life, even, to have her alive again, laughing and dancing by his side.

  Olivar sympathised. Although, in truth, he had to admit that his beloved Gunnora hadn’t been a woman to laugh and dance – bless her, she was not given to frivolity – still, he, too, would have willingly laid down his own life if, by doing so, she would live again.

  But the laws of nature did not operate that way. And nor did the laws of God.

  * * *

  When Milon was dead and buried, Brice had made up his mind to put the whole wretched business behind him. Despite having lost his wife, having his wife’s sister die through a terrible accident which continued to devastate his brother, and having his bastard cousin-by-marriage die by the hangman’s noose for killing his bride, still, he had returned to normal life. With what some people were calling indecent haste.

  Let them, Olivar thought. They didn’t know Brice. Didn’t understand his direct, uncomplicated nature, his lack of sentiment; even his own brother was tempted sometimes to call him shallow. No, he corrected himself, Brice wasn’t really shallow. He was practical, down-to-earth, a little unimaginative. But he was a good man. He would marry again, in time, although no bride, surely, would bring him what would have come his way, had Dillian not died before her father did. Few fathers-in-law owned estates like Winnowlands.

  Other than Brice’s gift to Hawkenlye Abbey, the entire Winnowlands fortune was going to the Crown. And there was a rumour, on the face of it unlikely but strangely persistent, that the new King, Richard, planned to award a part of the estate and a not insignificant manor house to that big knight …

  I don’t care if he does, Olivar thought as he neared the river. I wish the fellow well of it. Nobody was ever truly happy at Winnowlands, not in Alard’s household, anyway. Let the man do better if he can. Me, I am beyond such things.

  He clambered down to the water, and, pausing by the shallows, where the salmon ran in spring, he sat down on the soaked grass. They had come here often together, he and Gunnora. That was why, of course; why it had become his special place.

  He had always thought she was intended for his brother. Brice, the elder son at Rotherbridge, would be betrothed to Gunnora, elder daughter of Alard of Winnowlands. Loving her from afar, as he had done for as long as he could remember, he had had to endure the spectacle of Brice and Gunnora together, stiffly and reluctantly leading the dancing, sitting together at table on feast days.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, a tiny glimmer of hope had started to shine. Shortly before her eighteenth birthday, when, everyone expected, the betrothal would be announced, she had come to seek him out.

  ‘I do not wish to marry your brother,’ she had told him. Right here, beside the river, in this very spot. ‘I do not love him, and I fear he would not make me happy.’

  He had tried to read the expression in those deep blue eyes.

  Why was she telling him this? Why, indeed, had she taken the trouble to find out where he was and come to find him?

  Could it – could it possibly – be that she did not love his brother because she loved another?

  Him?

  He had stepped forward. Not to touch her – oh, no, not that, not then – and the tense silence had continued.

  A lady could not be the first to speak in such matters, as well he knew. Had always known. So, heart thumping, mouth so dry that he could hardly speak, he spoke instead.

  Said, simply, humbly, ‘Lady, could you, do you think, love me?’ She had made no answer, merely cast down those great eyes in a delicate gesture of modesty. ‘I love you, Gunnora,’ he had rushed on, ‘I have always loved you! Will you agree to marry me?’

  Then she had looked up. Met his desperate eyes with her own. In which, for a split-second, he had seen what was, surely, an unlikely emotion.

  Triumph.

  But then it was gone, and, in the unspeakable joy of taking her, at last, in his arms, he had forgotten all about it.

  He had fallen in with her plan without a moment’s thought, helped and encouraged her every step of the way. It had seemed such a clever plan! For her to retire behind the stout walls of a convent until Brice was safely married to someone else, then emerge for Olivar to claim her as his bride, what brilliance! And it was foolproof – Alard might well refuse his permission for Gunnora to choose a husband, but he could hardly argue with a daughter’s pious intention of becoming a nun.

  The year he had been forced to endure without her had been constant torment. Before, even though he had thought her out of his reach, he had had the dubious comfort of seeing her regularly. Speaking with her, listening to her voice, watching her graceful ways. But then, to be awarded the great prize of her love, only to lose her behind the walls of Hawkenlye, had been almost more than he could bear.

  The night he went to meet her had been both anxious and terribly thrilling. He had not been able to eat for a week, and he had been subject to fearful headaches, which would come without warning, strike into one side of his forehead like the point of a dagger, and, while they endured, leave him good for nothing but lying in the darkness, periodically vomiting into a pail.

  Then, at long, long last, they had been reunited. He had taken her in his arms, tried to kiss her, thinking that, after a year apart, she would be as ardent and eager as he.

  He had known, really, when she wouldn’t kiss him on the lips. Had known, only hadn’t been able to believe it.

  She had … No. Even to himself, he could not use the words ‘betrayed him’. Even then, in his dire, dreadful disappointment, he could not bring himself to criticise her. She was mistaken, he told himself instead. That night, seeing me again after so long with the good sisters, she thought she did not want me. It was a shock, seeing me! And I should not have thrust myself on her, I should have had more sense. More patience.

  It would have been all right. Soon, she would have remembered how she and I loved one another. And everything would have happened as we planned.

  But it couldn’t.

  Because she fell down those steps and she was killed.

  And, for all the satisfaction and pleasure that my life has given me since, I should have died with her.

  * * *

  After a long time, he got slowly to his feet. He had brought with him a stout sack, which now he unfolded and spread on the grass. Reaching down into the shallow water at the river’s edge, he selected a collection of large stones, the heaviest that he could lift. He filled the sack, stood up, then, grunting with the effort, dragged it along the grass as he went on around the bend in the river.

  Here, out of sight of the road above, there was a place where the strong, swift current had formed a deep black pool beneath the eroded bank.

  He tied the top of the sack securely, then, using a strong length of rope, fastened it tightly around his waist. It bit painfully into his thin frame, but that hardly mattered now.

  He stood for a moment, thinking of her. Of how she used to smile, in those lovely, endlessly sunny days that long-gone summer, when, so unexpectedly, the future suddenly seemed to promise so much. Of her lips as he kissed her, the swell of her firm young breasts. Her eyes, which he had, he now realised, never really read. Of her long dark hair.

  Gunnora.

  My love. My lost love.

  He had her cross around his neck. Taking it in his hand, clutching it in a strong grasp,
he took one last look at the world.

  On the opposite bank, a young willow was showing a faint hint of green; it looked as if, at long last, spring might be coming.

  Olivar smiled slightly. Spring. Well, even if it was here, it was, for him, irrelevant.

  Raising his eyes to the wide sky above, where somewhere, so he had been told, heaven was, he murmured a last prayer for her, and then one for himself. Mercy. Forgiveness. And, please, dear Lord, the chance that, one day, she and I may be reunited?

  In the midst of that thought, he jumped.

  The weighted sack did its work well. Within seconds, the waters closed over his head, and he disappeared.

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  Into the profound silence of the forest at midnight came a sound that should not have been there.

  The man raised his head. Still panting from his recent exertions, he tried to quieten his rasping breath, the better to hear.

  He waited.

  Nothing.

  Spitting on his hands and preparing to go back to work, he tried to summon a wry smile. It must have been his imagination. Or perhaps some night creature, innocently abroad. And his own nerves, plus the great forest’s reputation, had done the rest.

  Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he renewed his efforts. The sack was already getting nice and heavy; a little bit longer and he would—

  The sound came again.

  And this time it went on.

  He stood up, the sweat of toil on his forehead and his back suddenly icy cold, his damp skin breaking out in goosepimples. In a flash of intuition, he thought, I should not be here. As if some dark and ancient memory were stirring, he realised, with sick dread, that the midnight forest was a forbidden place. For very good reason did people fear to venture into it …

  Ruthlessly he stopped that terrifying train of thought before it could undermine him. Carefully putting aside the axe with which he had been hacking at the fallen oak’s thick roots and lower trunk, he clambered out of the hollow he had dug under the majestic old tree. Then, using the thick ground cover of early summer to conceal himself, he gathered his courage and began to creep towards the source of the sound.

  Because, if this were someone having him on, enjoying themselves at his expense, then he was going to make sure they knew he wasn’t amused. If it were Seth and Ewen, God damn their eyes, sneaking out and spying on him—on him! the brains behind the whole thing!—then he’d get even. He’d …

  But the sound was louder now, increasing in insistence so that the man could no longer block it out. Could no longer try to tell himself that it was Seth and Ewen, playing tricks.

  Seth and Ewen couldn’t make that sound. It was doubtful, really, that any human could.

  The man ceased his furtive crawling. Ceased all movement and all thought, as the strange, eerie humming seemed to sweep over him and absorb him into itself.

  He felt himself begin to smile. Ah, but it was a lovely bit of singing! Well, it was more like chanting, really, like the very sweetest sounds of some abbey choir, only better. As if it didn’t come from men or women, but from the cold, distant stars themselves.

  Hardly aware of what he was doing, he began to move forward again. He was no longer creeping stealthily through the undergrowth; enchanted, he was obeying a summons he barely recognised. Straight-backed, head held high, he strode through the ancient trees and the new green growth towards the open space that he could see ahead.

  And stopped dead in his tracks.

  Eyes round, mouth gone dry, he stared at the incredible sight. Lit by the full moon directly above the clearing, so that its bright rays bathed the scene as if intentionally, he watched in total amazement.

  He’d never believed those old tales! He’d dismissed them as the ramblings of daft old women. Women like his own mother. And, latterly, his wife, who’d tried to stop him disappearing into the great Wealden Forest, especially by night, nagging on and on at him, over and over again till he’d had to hit her. But, even when he’d done so—broken her nose, that last time—she’d still persisted. Gone on telling him it wasn’t safe, wasn’t right.

  Hah! He’d show her! Her, and the rest! They wouldn’t nag at him when they knew what he’d found!

  And, anyway, even if there were some element of truth in their old legends, then it wasn’t quite the way they said it was. Wasn’t he here, now, witnessing with his own eyes the very proof that, for all that they still muttered about those dread things, they’d got it wrong?

  He’d show them, all right! Just see if he didn’t! He’d—

  He felt the gaze upon him as if it were a physical assault. His braggart thoughts came to an abrupt end as, screaming through his numbed mind, bursting from his mouth like a wail of agony, came the one word: ‘NO!’

  Turning, bounding over brambles and tufts of tough grass, he raced away from the clearing. Running, panting, gasping, stumbling, he heard sounds of pursuit. He sneaked a quick look over his shoulder.

  Nothing.

  Nothing? But he could hear them!

  Forcing his legs to work, he raced on. Oh, God, but it—they?—was all around him now, quietly, stealthily, menacingly, surrounding him with such a sense of threat that his sobbing breath came out as a terrified howl.

  For still he could see nothing.

  Heart hammering, legs and lungs in agony, he spurred himself on. Half a mile, a mile? He could not tell. The trees were thinning now, surely they were! A little further—not much, oh, not much further!—and he’d be in the open. Out on the grassy fringes of this ghastly forest, out in the clean, cool moonlight …

  There was brightness ahead. As he ran on, stumbling in his desperate exhaustion, he could see the calm, sleeping land out there. As he passed the last few giant trees, he could even see the cross on the top of Hawkenlye Abbey’s church.

  ‘God help me, God help me, God help me,’ he chanted, repeating the words until they lost all meaning. Then, suddenly, he was out in the open, and, after the darkness beneath the thickly growing trees, the moon made the night as bright as day.

  Ah, thank God. Thank God!

  Safe now, and—

  But what was that? A whistling noise, close by, speeding closer, closer.

  The agonising pain as the spear drilled through the man’s body was intense but brief. For the spear’s point was sharp, and, thrown with deadly accuracy, it pierced his heart.

  He was dead before he hit the ground.

  * * *

  Helewise stood for some time, watching the Queen’s party disappear down the road. As Eleanor had predicted, all those mounted men had indeed made an almost intolerable amount of dust. Thinking that a breath of clean air would be pleasant, Helewise delayed her return within the Abbey walls, and set out instead for a brisk walk along the track that led off towards the forest.

  The warm air of early June was bringing the wild flowers into bloom, and a soft, sweet perfume seemed to fill the air. Somewhere nearby, a blackbird sang. Ah, it was good to be alive! Straightening her shoulders and swinging her arms, Helewise increased her pace and marched towards the first of the trees. She would not go far into the forest, she decided, because it was always dark in there; even in June, the sun did not seem to penetrate, so that the atmosphere always struck chill. She would just take a brief turn around the perimeter of the woodland, a mile or so, no further, then—

  She almost trod on him.

  Hastily stepping back, twitching the full skirt of her habit away from the blood pooled on the fresh green grass, she pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle the horrified reaction.

  He was dead. He had to be. He was lying face down, and the long shaft of a spear protruded from his back; from the angle, it appeared that the point, buried deep in the torso, must have penetrated the heart.

  He was dressed in the rough clothing of a peasant. The hose were coarse and
ill-fitting, and the tunic had been patched and darned. Neatly; someone had taken care with those tiny stitches. He must have had a wife, Helewise thought, or maybe a loving mother. Some poor woman will be grieving, when she learns of this. If she were his wife, it will mean loss of husband and loss of breadwinner. A bad day for her, whoever she is.

  As the initial shock receded, it occurred to Helewise to wonder what the man had been doing on the fringes of the forest. And had he been lying there long? Had she and her nuns been going about their business for some days, while, all the time, this poor wretch lay dead not half a mile from the Abbey?

  She bent down and touched the back of the man’s neck; it was, she couldn’t help but notice, filthy dirty. There were lice active in his greasy hair; would they not have left the corpse, had the man been dead for any length of time? Surely such little blood-suckers only supped on fresh, uncongealed blood … The flesh retained some semblance of warmth, although, Helewise realised, that could be because he was lying at least partly in the sun. Tentatively she picked up one of the man’s outflung arms: the limb was getting stiff. The rigor that came to the dead was beginning.

  Had he died, then, during the past night?

  Helewise stood over the corpse, a frown deepening across her brows. Then, abruptly, she turned away. Hurrying back towards the Abbey, she thought, I must get help. I must send word to the sheriff. This is a matter for him.

  Breaking into a trot—not a dignified mode of locomotion for an Abbess, but she didn’t notice—she reflected that it was just as well this death—this murder—hadn’t come to light during Queen Eleanor’s visit. Had it done so, then everyone would have been far too preoccupied for the Queen and the Abbess to have had their calm and private little tête-à-tête.