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  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t be so sure,’ Joanna replied. ‘But, with your permission, I’ll tell her the story again, many times. It is important that she knows it.’

  ‘Because the Eye is her inheritance,’ he said. ‘Aye. I had worked that out for myself.’ It was not the only thing he had worked out; between the shock of being presented with his daughter and the opportunity to talk about it, he had had time for a great deal of thinking.

  There was a pause, heavy with unspoken things.

  Then Joanna said, ‘It was Meggie who held the Eye into the water.’

  ‘I thought it might have been.’

  As if she felt the need to defend herself, Joanna hurried on, ‘They’d asked me before, Josse, and I refused. Even when they told me about the prophecy and I knew it must mean Meggie, I wouldn’t let her do it. I was afraid for her safety, with a fatal sickness affecting the Abbey and those within it. But beyond that, I was afraid of seeing you again.’

  She paused as if to allow him space to comment, but he was not ready yet. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see you; it was that I felt I’d managed to make my life without you and I guessed you had done the same. Seeing each other would only open old wounds.’

  ‘And has it?’

  She turned her eyes to his. Her eyes were much darker than her daughter’s – almost black in the dim light – and he felt a surge of unexpected pleasure at this confirmation that Meggie’s eyes were indeed like his father’s and not like Joanna’s. There will always be something of the d’Acquins in her, he thought, whatever her life brings to her.

  But then Joanna said very quietly, ‘Of course it has.’

  Hastening away from treacherous ground, Josse said, ‘I asked you earlier why you did not tell me that you were pregnant with her but now I think I know. Joanna, you do not want to live the life that I lead, do you? Even if I promised you all the freedom you needed, you were not born to be somebody’s wife.’

  She reached out and took his hand, pressing it to her face. ‘No, Josse. I know now what I was born for and it isn’t that. But don’t let that fact make you think I do not love you for, in my way, I certainly do. Meggie was conceived in love and now, seeing you again, I realise that love is still there.’

  Was it in him too? He watched her, head bent over his hand, and the answer soon came. ‘As is mine for you,’ he said gently. ‘What, then, are we to do?’

  She straightened up and edged closer to him and he put his arms round her. ‘I may not want to share your life as your wife,’ she said tentatively – perhaps, he thought with a wry smile, she’s just realised that I haven’t in fact asked her to marry me; not recently, anyway – ‘but that doesn’t mean I never want to see you again.’

  ‘I’m glad. I should not like to think that this was the last time.’

  ‘Apart from our feelings for each other, there’s Meggie,’ she went on. ‘She has a father as well as a mother and it is your right, if you so choose, to influence her upbringing.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Josse frowned. ‘What am I and what have I to offer her, against the world you now occupy? You’ve just told me you’re the daughter of one of your people’s most powerful women and that your birth, and presumably Meggie’s, were foreseen because the child was somehow predicted.’

  ‘That is how I understand it, yes.’

  ‘Then, Joanna, what influence can a man like me have on such a one as she?’

  ‘Do not underrate yourself, Josse. If Meggie’s birth was foreseen, then what happened between us that led to her conception was also part of the prediction.’

  It was a shock. His mind instinctively tried to reject the thought that his role in the advent of this wonder child had been preordained. He was about to ask why me? but, deciding it would sound too like an invitation for her to list his virtues – and that would be a short list – he didn’t.

  It was all too much to take in.

  As if she realised this – which would not surprise him as she seemed to pick up virtually everything else – she said, ‘Josse, there’s no doubt that Meggie has some special touch. The Eye changed the water instantly and we all saw it. And the charged water did seem to possess a unique healing power.’

  ‘The Abbess is doing well,’ he said, aware that his thoughts had gone off at a tangent. ‘But then the water was only the second form of treatment; you had already brought her back.’

  ‘You asked me to save her life,’ Joanna said gently. ‘I could not refuse. Not only for her sake – and I know full well she is a good woman – but also for yours. Josse, you would be lost without her.’

  ‘I did nearly lose her,’ he mused. For a dangerous moment he allowed himself to imagine life without her. He’d have gone back to New Winnowlands, probably returned to Hawkenlye now and again, but with the Abbess in her grave every inch of the place would have been nothing but an agonising reminder that she was no longer there.

  The cumulative emotional shocks of the recent past seemed to gather themselves together and rush at him. He felt Joanna’s compassion wrap around him like a warm, soft blanket. It was the easiest thing in the world to drop his head into her lap and weep.

  Later, lying side by side beneath the covers up on the sleeping platform, he said, ‘Joanna, this is what I suggest. I will return to my life at New Winnowlands’ – such as it is, he almost added – ‘and you, naturally, will pursue the path that has been set for you, developing your healing skills and guiding Meggie’s steps along her own destined path. I trust you to protect her and do your best for her; I do not think you would allow any harm to come to her.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Joanna said quickly.

  ‘With your permission, I will visit you here from time to time. If you are away or do not want to see me, then I’m quite sure you will find a way to ensure that I do not find you.’

  It sounded hard and she must have thought so too. ‘I would only do that if there were some pressing reason,’ she replied. ‘There are certain times of the year when we—’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said swiftly. He did not think he could bear to know the details of this strange other life that Joanna lived and into which his only child had been born.

  ‘Very well.’ She hesitated. ‘It is – beneficial, Josse. The power is frightening sometimes but nobody is made to handle it before they are ready.’

  ‘A sixteen-month-old child may wield a magical healing stone, however.’

  It was unkind and he immediately regretted it. But she said evenly, ‘Meggie is a special case.’ Then, quickly: ‘But you have my word that I will never allow her to do anything that I believe to be beyond her.’

  And with that, he realised, he would have to be satisfied.

  They lay in each other’s arms. He very much wanted to make love to her – of course he did – but his child lay beside him and it did not seem right. Eventually he slept.

  He left her early in the morning while Meggie was still asleep. Quickly, with no words of farewell and no turning back. He hurried through the forest, just waking to the first light of the new day, and was back at the Abbey in time for Prime.

  Then he went straight to the infirmary and took his seat on the stool by the Abbess’s bed. She was asleep but that was where he needed to be.

  When she’s better I’ll tell her, he resolved. I’ll tell her that when we were first thrown together, Joanna and I were lovers and that she conceived my child. I’ll describe Meggie to her and I’ll tell her how beautiful my daughter is. I might even tell her that it was Meggie’s strange power that made the Eye of Jerusalem work as it was intended to.

  He watched the Abbess’s sleeping face. With only the simple cap in place of her coif and veil, she looked like any other woman and it was sometimes quite difficult to recall that she was far from being that.

  Joanna.

  Helewise.

  Meggie.

  On the other hand, he thought with a grin, maybe I won’t tell her anything at all.


  Postscript

  Hawkenlye Abbey 27th March 1194

  The King was back.

  News came quite quickly to the Abbey because Josse had been involved in the triumphal receptions prepared for Richard at Rochester and Canterbury, culminating in the state entry into London on 23rd March.

  Knowing that everyone within and on the fringes of the Hawkenlye community would be avid to know the latest news, Josse made sure to make frequent return visits to the Abbey. The King, he reported, looked fit and well; Queen Eleanor looked happy but very tired. Along every mile of the King’s progression from Sandwich, where his party had landed on 12th March, people lined the streets and cheered; it was a fine display of wholehearted welcome for a returning monarch.

  But, as Josse confided in the Abbess, now sitting up in bed and quite clearly desperate to be allowed up, the joyful celebratory mood had not in truth come about spontaneously. It had been a major part of Josse’s job – and that of his companions also summoned to assist in the arrangements for the homecoming – to whip up a bit of enthusiasm in a cynical population among whom the prevailing mood was resentment at the terrible privations forced upon them by the ransom demands.

  However, a king was a king and a magnificient, colourful spectacle had its own way of raising the spirits. Cheering was apparently even more infectious than the foreign pestilence that had so recently devastated Hawkenlye and, in the end, Josse was quite sure that King Richard must have believed his people were overjoyed to see him back and reckoned the unbelievably high price they had had to pay for him was money well spent.

  On the night of 23rd March, Josse arrived at the Abbey with incredible news. The King and his mother were to embark on a round of visits to abbeys where there would be services of appreciation for Richard’s safe return and where the King would take the opportunity of thanking the religious communities that had prayed so hard for his delivery. He was to visit St Albans, Bury St Edmunds and . . . Hawkenlye.

  Josse had half-feared to deliver the announcement since he was worried by what such anxious excitement would do to the convalescent Abbess. But he had reckoned without her calm confidence; on expressing the careful sentiment that she must be sure not to overtire herself, she said, ‘Sir Josse, Hawkenlye Abbey has entertained royalty before. Queen Eleanor has been a frequent visitor and, as I am quite sure you will recall, Prince John also stayed with us not so many years ago. We shall do our best to make the King welcome and that will have to suffice.’

  Her recent close brush with death, he reflected ruefully, seemed to have increased her serenity; as the day of the visit approached, he wished he had her steely nerves.

  The morning of 27th March dawned bright and dry. The Abbey looked as if every inch had been scrubbed, buffed and polished. The new building in the Vale was completed just in time; Catt had done a magnificent job. It was a long, low building, simply but stoutly made, and Catt had been meticulous in the details so that the room was well insulated and would be practical and easy to keep clean. He had finished it off with straw thatch; the roof was a joy to behold.

  Many of those who had been cured of the sickness either remained at or came back to the Abbey to attend the great service of thanksgiving. The King might not know they’d had a narrow escape, they reasoned, and he might be under the impression that the thanks were for his release. But it didn’t matter, the people reasoned, because they knew and – much more importantly – so did God that they were really giving thanks for their own deliverance.

  Some families had been torn apart by the sickness, but, as compensation, in some cases new families had been formed. A strong young woman who had brought in and lost her father adopted an orphaned child and a crippled boy. A young merchant took pity on a widowed bride and promised to take care of her. When Waldo was eventually able to take his little brother and his baby niece back home to the house in Hastings, Catt had undertaken to make sure the children got safely home. And Catt himself appeared to cast rather a lot of glances in the direction of the strong young woman . . .

  Nobody, it seemed, would be able to forget the brush with death; those who survived would perhaps find life the sweeter for having come close to losing it.

  The arrival of the King was a moment that none who witnessed it ever forgot. He was magnificently dressed in white trimmed with scarlet and rode a fine black horse. Queen Eleanor, veiled against the dust of the roads, wore a dark cloak over a gown as golden as summer sunshine. Mother and son alike glittered with fine jewels; it was as if the King were stating plainly that he might have suffered the ignominy of imprisonment but look, everyone, here he was as strong, splendid, regal and rich as ever.

  The thanksgiving service went on for a long time. Josse stood in his place among the King’s men watching the Abbess in an agony of anxiety; she had only got out of bed two days ago and he was so afraid that today would prove too much for her. But Sister Euphemia stood on one side of her and Sister Tiphaine the other; they could be trusted, he told himself, not to let harm come to her.

  The service was followed by a feast, modest in comparison to what the King must surely be used to but, as the Abbess had calmly said, the best that the community could offer. The King seemed satisfied; he was as usual, Josse observed, too busy talking to pay much attention to his food but he did seem to enjoy the wine.

  The King and Queen Eleanor were escorted down to the Vale to look at the new building. The King exclaimed on the magnificent thatched roof and Catt was commanded to step forward as the craftsman who had made it. Watching him, Josse was struck with the dignity of the man; not in the least overawed, he answered the King’s questions briefly and politely with no hint of nerves.

  He’s rightly proud of his work, Josse thought. And probably Catt, like the Abbess, had been too deeply affected by the recent past to be unduly discommoded by the presence of royalty.

  And I bet, Josse concluded, that King Richard can’t lay thatch to save his life . . .

  The wonderful day came to an end; the royal party rode off to seek out their night’s lodgings down in Tonbridge Castle and peace descended.

  Josse would be leaving too the next morning; he was part of the escort that would see the King and Queen Eleanor safely up to Nottingham, where they were to hold a meeting of the Great Council.

  ‘Will you come back and tell us what transpires?’ the Abbess asked as he took his leave of her in the morning.

  ‘Aye, that I will,’ he agreed. ‘Although I do think, my lady, that I should first pay a visit to New Winnowlands; I have been absent for a long time.’

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘Just as long as I know that you won’t desert us, Sir Josse.’

  Oh, I won’t do that, he thought as he rode away. Not now I know that every piece of my heart is now held captive here.

  Turning his thoughts to the exalted company in which he would spend the next few days, he kicked Horace and cantered off on the road to Tonbridge.

  Author’s Note

  There is no historical evidence to suggest that John sent an assassin to kill Arthur of Brittany in the early months of 1194 although, since Richard had nominated Arthur as his heir, John must certainly have viewed the boy as an obstacle between himself and the throne that would otherwise be his if Richard were to be prevented from regaining his liberty.

  However, Arthur continued to be a provocation to John after the latter was crowned king. He made a botched attempt to wrest John’s territories in western France from him, during which he committed the impertinent folly of trying to hold his grandmother Eleanor hostage in the castle of Mirebeau, in Anjou, and use her for bartering purposes. In the devastatingly efficient revenge assault on Mirebeau, Eleanor was released unharmed and taken away to safety; Arthur was captured. John’s magnates recommended maiming the young man, who was now about fifteen years old, in such a way that he was ‘deprived of his eyes and genitals’ and thus rendered unfit to beget any offspring who might follow him into treachery. Although this monstrous suggestion was
not carried out, Arthur did not reappear and rumours began to circulate that he was dead.

  Arthur’s true fate is not recorded. One tale – which achieved widespread credibility at the time – was that in Rouen at Easter 1203 John got drunk and, his frustration finally getting the better of him, killed Arthur with his own hands and, having weighted the body with a stone, slung it into the Seine. Whether or not this version is accurate, it remains true that Arthur was never seen again after Easter 1203. It was widely believed to be tantamount to suicide to mention the lad’s name, especially in the same breath as that of the king, which pretty much speaks for itself.

  About the Author

  Alys Clare is a history enthusiast who has written many novels under a different name. Alys Clare lives in Kent, where the Hawkenlye mysteries are set. You can reach her on her website www.alysclare.com