A Shadowed Evil Page 4

  For the second time that day, Josse was about to speak when Helewise stopped him. This time, too far away to nudge him, she spoke over him. ‘What of her mother, your daughter Jenna? She is surely still of childbearing age?’

  Isabelle turned to her, and there was relief in her face, as if she welcomed someone who spoke without awkwardness about delicate matters. ‘There is a gap of ten years between Emma and her little sister,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Jenna is not a very fertile woman, and, in addition, Cecily’s birth damaged her, so that the risk of future pregnancies must be avoided.’

  ‘There are others,’ Josse put in. ‘Your other granddaughter, and Philomena, and her little girls.’

  ‘Yes, Josse, little girls is exactly what they are!’ Isabelle flashed back. ‘Cecily is eight, Brigida is five, and Philippa – dear God, the child’s very name reveals how we yearn for a boy child! – is but three.’ For a moment, she dropped her face in her hands, kneading her temples as if her head pained her. ‘And Philomena is disinclined to go through another pregnancy. “Undoubtedly it would be another girl,” she says, not without justification, “and heaven knows we’ve got enough already.”’

  Silence fell. It was, Helewise thought, a distressed, resentful silence. She was about to make some mollifying comment, for she had taken to Josse’s cousin Isabelle and found herself wishing to comfort and to help, when Isabelle spoke again.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said, reaching out to take their hands. ‘Here you are on your first evening, distressed, I dare say, about Father, wanting to relax and no doubt ready for your bed, after the journey you had, and all I can do is moan!’

  ‘You’ve done a lot more than that,’ Josse protested. ‘You have welcomed us with a kind and open heart, and provided the sort of feast we haven’t seen in a long time.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Helewise agreed. Then – for, even as she spoke she had been thinking – she said, ‘Why, Isabelle, does this absence of a male heir to come after Herbert disturb you so deeply just now?’

  Isabelle turned shrewd eyes to her, then muttered over her shoulder, ‘This one doesn’t miss much, Josse.’ A smile creasing her face, she said, turning back to Helewise, ‘Having posed the question, would you care to suggest an answer?’ Helewise hesitated. ‘Go on,’ Isabelle urged, ‘you won’t distress me or anger me, I assure you.’

  ‘In that case,’ Helewise began – it was Josse’s turn, she noticed with a private smile, to try to stop her going on; he was making frantic throat-cutting gestures at her behind Isabelle’s back, but she ignored him – ‘in that case, I would suggest that your concern has somehow to do with your new daughter-in-law.’

  ‘Your arrow strikes right in the gold,’ Isabelle murmured. ‘Not that new a daughter-in-law, for she married my son last year.’ Her hand went up to her forehead again, and she closed her eyes. ‘Cyrille is but thirty-two,’ she said – As young as that? Helewise thought, for she had judged the woman to be nearer forty than thirty, if not older – ‘and, in all likelihood, she will give my son children; boys, perhaps.’

  ‘And that is not a welcome thought?’ Helewise prompted gently.

  Wordlessly, Isabelle shook her head. ‘I cannot warm to her,’ she said, dropping her voice to a barely audible whisper as if she feared Cyrille had got out of bed and crept back up the passage to listen.

  ‘Perhaps she won’t get pregnant,’ Josse said bluntly.

  Isabelle met Helewise’s eyes, and both of them grinned. ‘Dear old Josse,’ Isabelle said. ‘Straight to the essence of the matter. But, in any case,’ she went on, her smile fading, ‘Cyrille already has a son, whose every thought, comment and moment she controls with rigid care, for she is determined he shall be a credit to her.’ She made a small sound eloquent of her disapproval. ‘Cyrille was married before, to a boyhood friend of Herbert’s named William Crowburgh, and when William died two years ago and Herbert went to pay his respects and give his commiserations to the widow, that meeting led to friendship, love, and, eventually, marriage.’ She paused. ‘Herbert is, for now, young Olivar’s stepfather. He is, however, in the process of adopting him as his heir.’

  Josse was looking mystified. ‘Then wherein lies the difficulty?’

  Again, Isabelle and Helewise exchanged a glance. Because the boy is hers, Helewise thought. She thought it diplomatic to leave Isabelle to say it.

  Isabelle again took Josse’s hand. ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ she said softly, ‘I like Olivar very much; he’s only six, he’s lost the father he adored and is utterly bewildered, and he’s a very sweet, lovable child. I know he can’t change who gave birth to him, but, all the same …’ She didn’t finish the sentence. Helewise didn’t think she needed to.

  ‘What exactly—’ Josse began.

  He was interrupted by sudden noises from outside. A voice crying out; heavy thumps, as if a fist wielding something hard were banging it against the gates; the sound of running feet within the house; a door opening.

  Josse was already out of his chair. ‘I will go and investigate,’ he said, striding away towards the door.

  ‘Josse, no, the servants will attend to it!’ Isabelle called after him. He ignored her.

  ‘He prefers,’ Helewise remarked tonelessly, ‘to see to things himself.’ Isabelle looked at her. Both women laughed.

  Quite soon, Josse was back, accompanied by the older man who had earlier taken their horses, a man in the livery of a senior indoor servant – a steward? – and a goggle-eyed boy almost breathless with the excitement of the moment. Addressing Isabelle, Josse said, ‘There’s been an accident. A man and his horse have had a bad fall. It seems he was trying to make for Lewes, along the track that runs on the top of the downs, but in the worsening weather, his horse missed its footing. Both are badly injured, and, in addition, they have been out in the severe weather for some time. It’s been snowing,’ he added.

  Isabelle was already on her feet. ‘Nicholas,’ she said, addressing the servant, ‘fetch Willum, Matthew and Tab and a hazel hurdle, go out and very carefully bring the injured man inside. Take him to the guest chamber beside the chapel.’ The steward hurried off. Isabelle turned to the old groom. ‘Garth, you must do what you can for the horse.’

  ‘Aye, my lady.’ The groom touched his fingers to his forelock, then hurried off in the steward’s wake.

  ‘Now,’ Isabelle said, apparently talking to herself, ‘I need hot water, cloths for washing wounds, blankets to warm the poor soul, a fire in his room—’

  Gently Helewise touched her arm. ‘Josse and I will help,’ she said softly.

  Isabelle gave a curt nod. ‘Thank you. It’s a pity this had to happen on your first night with us, but there it is. Follow me.’

  Then, already giving instructions about where to find blankets and kindling, she hurried out of the hall with Josse and Helewise trotting along behind.

  THREE

  He must have fallen face-down, slightly to the left. He had dislocated his left shoulder and he had a huge bump in the middle of his forehead. The impact appeared to have broken his nose, which had bled freely, drenching his lower face, throat and the front of his chemise with scarlet. Pain and possibly concussion were making his mind wander: when Josse asked him his name, he began to say ‘Pa—’, then a dazed look came into his eyes and he stopped.

  ‘Where am I?’ he demanded, his wide eyes skittering wildly around the room and the faces looming over him. ‘What house is this?’

  ‘It is Southfire Hall,’ Isabelle said soothingly, as with swift, assessing hands she felt up and down his left arm and around the damaged shoulder, ‘and you are welcome here. We will take care of you.’

  He murmured his thanks.

  ‘Can you tell us your name, and where you are bound?’ Josse persisted.

  Isabelle caught his eye, carefully miming an instruction, raising her eyebrows in silent query. Josse swallowed, nodded, and flexed his hands. ‘Keep him talking!’ she hissed.

  ‘Whoever is expecting you, your kin o
r friends,’ Josse improvised, ‘will surely be worrying, and we will send word, if you will say where to send it.’

  There was a long pause. The man was young – perhaps in the mid-twenties, Josse thought, staring down at him – and his blond hair was thick and wavy, reaching to his shoulders. Beneath the dirt and the blood, the structure of his face was good, with well-defined cheekbones and a firm jaw. He tried to speak, swallowed, and tried again. ‘Peter,’ he managed.

  ‘Peter, aye, very good. Go on,’ Josse said chattily. He braced himself.

  ‘My name’s Peter Southey,’ the young man said, his voice stronger now, ‘and no concerned soul awaits me, for I was bound for some inn in Lewes, if any would have opened its doors to one arriving so late on a night such as this. I – aaaaagh!’

  His scream split the air. Josse, with Isabelle watching him hawk-eyed as if to reassure herself he really did know what he was doing, had taken advantage of the young man’s temporary distraction, as he answered the questions, to thrust his knee into the man’s armpit and reduce the dislocation.

  For a moment, Peter continued to sob softly. Then he fainted.

  ‘Well done,’ Isabelle said. ‘If you warn them what you’re about to do, they tense up and the job becomes twice as difficult. It’s good that he’s unconscious,’ she went on, staring down critically at the patient, ‘for now we can get on with tending him without him yelling out and waking the whole household; not that they’re likely to hear, since they’re all over in the original extension.’ She was gently palpating the grossly swollen nose. ‘I’m sure it’s broken,’ she observed. ‘What do you think, Helewise?’

  For some time the three of them worked over the insensate form of Peter Southey. Leaving the two women to discuss and treat his wounds, Josse concentrated on removing the clothing. The heavy, padded tunic was wet with melted snow, and would need drying. The chemise would have to be soaked to get the blood out. As, with great care, he eased the sleeve off the left arm and finally got the chemise free, Josse noticed that the young man wore something around his neck, hanging on a fine leather thong. He sponged the pooled blood off the chest – quite a hairy chest, he observed – and then reached down to pick up whatever hung from the thong.

  Not a crucifix, or a medal bearing the image of the Virgin or a favourite saint, but a small, soft suede bag, tightly tied closed with fine thread wound in an intricate knot. Josse held the little bag in his hand. It was roughly as long and as broad as the top joint of his thumb, and it contained something hard. A precious stone? A piece of gold jewellery? ‘None of my business,’ Josse muttered, and he laid it gently back on the young man’s chest.

  When there was nothing further that could be done for Peter Southey, Isabelle politely but firmly sent Josse and Helewise off to bed. ‘I will stay with him,’ she said, in the sort of voice you didn’t argue with, ‘so that, when he wakes, I shall be able to reassure him that he’s all right. Go!’

  They went.

  Quite a short time later, they lay side by side in the luxurious bed, trying to get warm. They had kept most of their clothes on; the thought of icy sheets on bare skin was not to be contemplated.

  Josse tried to lie still, for he knew Helewise was worn out and needed to sleep, but he was restless. There was a question he had been burning to ask almost since he and Helewise had arrived at Southfire Hall, but, somehow, the occasion to do so just hadn’t presented itself. Now, unless he was prepared to get out of bed and return to Isabelle in her vigil, he was going to have to wait till morning.

  ‘Hell and damnation!’ he muttered softly.

  Not softly enough: ‘What’s the matter, Josse?’ came Helewise’s drowsy voice in the darkness. ‘Can’t you sleep? Are you too cold?’

  ‘I’m warm enough, sweeting,’ he said, hugging her close. ‘It’s not that which keeps me awake.’

  ‘What, then?’ There was a rustle of crisp linen as she propped herself up. He had detected a note of resignation in her voice, as if she knew quite well she wasn’t going to get any sleep either until he had shared what was on his mind.

  ‘I have been wondering since we got here about Aeleis,’ he said. ‘She’s the third of my cousins, Hugh and Ysabel’s youngest daughter, and she was—’

  ‘The tomboy, the mischief-maker and your constant companion,’ Helewise finished. ‘Yes, you told me. And you’re right; she’s not here, obviously, and I haven’t heard anybody mention her name.’

  ‘Neither have I,’ Josse agreed. ‘It worries me. If she was dead, surely they’d have said so? They’d have sent word to us at the House in the Woods, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know, Josse.’ There was a pause, then Helewise went on, ‘What do you remember about her? Tell me all you can, and then perhaps we may hazard a guess at what has become of her.’

  Josse stretched out his arm, and Helewise moved so that she could rest her head on his chest, held warmly against him. ‘Although I was always very fond of Isabelle, and Editha too, Aeleis was my favourite,’ he began. ‘When I first came here I was very homesick, although I dared not admit it, and Aeleis understood. I thought she would scoff at me for being such a baby, but instead she decided to distract me.’ He grinned in the darkness, remembering. ‘And her idea of distraction was to take me exploring with her.’

  ‘Was she still at Southfire Hall when you visited for that Yule season?’

  ‘Aye, she was.’ An image of Aeleis’s laughing face came into his head. She was such a pretty, vivacious woman … ‘She’d been widowed a year or so previously.’

  ‘How tragic!’ Helewise exclaimed softly. ‘She must have been young, to have lost a husband, and the husband young to die.’

  ‘Aye, you’d think so,’ Josse agreed. ‘But she gave no sign of grief. Editha told me it was a blessing, in some ways, that Godric – Aeleis’s husband – had gone, for he had been twelve years Aeleis’s senior, and, according to Editha, so elderly and pernickety in his ways that he might have been older by twenty years or more. He used to wear himself out, apparently, fussing and fretting about his lively young wife.’ He paused, thinking back. ‘Editha also said Aeleis was better off without him,’ he added. ‘She said Aeleis could breathe again, once he was dead.’

  They lay together in quiet companionship for a while. Then Helewise said, ‘I might be very wrong, and please don’t think I am in any way disparaging your cousin, but do you think it possible that she left to find some excitement?’ Josse drew breath to reply, but she hadn’t finished. ‘You said she always sought adventure – danger, even – as a child. She was married, at a young age, I’d surmise, to a fussy old man who must surely have seemed very dull to her, and who constantly tried to restrict her freedom. When he died, might she not have come to the conclusion that, if there was any chance of her having the excitement she craved, she would have to seek it for herself, outside the family home? Why, they might have come up with another dull old man for her if she stayed, especially if her exploits threatened to embarrass her kin.’

  Suppressing his instant reaction to leap to Aeleis’s defence, Josse thought about it and realized he didn’t really need to. Helewise hadn’t been criticizing her; what she had just said showed both understanding and compassion. And she was right: kicking up her heels in some sort of wild, romantic fling, yearning for thrills and not stopping to consider her family’s reaction, sounded exactly like Aeleis.

  He gave a huge, jaw-cracking yawn. ‘Let’s ask Isabelle,’ he said. ‘We’ll find a private moment tomorrow – maybe visit her at her patient’s bedside – and I’ll ask her to tell me what’s happened to Aeleis.’ He drew the bedding more closely up around his ears. ‘Sleep now?’

  ‘Sleep now.’

  It was apparent the next morning that the household had been informed about the unexpected guest. As the family convened, the injured man was the sole topic of conversation. Helewise observed Isabelle, looking somewhat harassed, trying to deal with several people’s questions all at once.

  ‘T
hank you, Jenna, yes, I’d be most grateful if you’d see to having his garments laundered, and no, Editha, there’s no need to offer him your specially soft blanket because he is already as comfortable as we can make him. As far as I know, Cecily, his horse is not going to die, but if you wish to reassure yourself fully, I suggest you go out to the stables and ask.’ Finally, Isabelle turned to the short figure standing right beside her. Watching closely, Helewise thought she saw Isabelle make an attempt at a kindly smile. ‘Now, Cyrille, what were you saying?’

  ‘I was offering to sit with the patient and attend to him,’ Cyrille said grandly. ‘I am, as you know, experienced in caring for the elderly and the sick, and I have my own little ways and methods of making people cosy.’ Something in her tone made it plain that she was quite sure nobody else could possibly possess such skills.

  ‘What a kind thought,’ Isabelle murmured. ‘However,’ she went on, as Cyrille began to speak, ‘I have already made the necessary arrangements for the nursing of our guest, and I myself will be in charge.’

  ‘Oh, is that wise, when you always say how busy you are, and how there are never quite enough hours in the day?’ Cyrille asked, an expression on her round face that contrived to be both pitying and vaguely critical. ‘Why not relinquish this task to me?’

  ‘I don’t—’ Isabelle began. Helewise caught her eye; Isabelle’s good temper seemed rapidly to be running out.

  ‘Isabelle has already asked me to help her,’ Helewise said. She hoped she had interpreted Isabelle’s look correctly; Isabelle’s expression of relief suggested she had. ‘After all, as a guest, I have nothing else to do. Besides, Josse and I were with Isabelle when the injured man was brought in,’ she went on, improvising swiftly, ‘and he knows my face. Better, we think, not to have too many unfamiliar people going into his room.’