The Rose of the World h-13 Read online

  ‘No, nothing,’ Josse replied. ‘Backache,’ he added tersely.

  Geoffroi’s shoulders slumped. He resumed his searching.

  They pressed on northwards through the dense woodland and presently came to the place where the trees began to thin out. Ahead was the road that curved around the northern border of the forest. To the left it led to Hawkenlye and, if you branched off it to the right, down to Tonbridge. In the opposite direction, the track led away to the east and the south-east, circling the forest and heading off into open countryside.

  Side by side, Josse and his son emerged on to the road. Josse looked both ways, but there was nobody in sight. He glanced down at Geoffroi. ‘What should we do now?’ he asked. The question was rhetorical; it was hardly fair to expect an eleven-year-old boy to supply the answer to a question that had his father stumped.

  Geoffroi frowned, an unaccustomed expression on his round, cheerful face. ‘We could follow the road for a while,’ he suggested. ‘We might find somebody working in the fields who was there yesterday and saw her — them — pass by.’

  It seemed to Josse a pretty vain hope, but he had nothing better to suggest. They fell into step and set off westwards along the road, keeping a lookout for any distant figure in the open ground to their right.

  It was Geoffroi who heard the sound. He stopped, caught at Josse’s sleeve and said, ‘Father, stop.’ He screwed up his face in concentration. Then: ‘Listen! I can hear horses.’

  Josse strained his ears, and soon he, too, caught the faint sounds. A horse — no, two horses — coming towards them from the west. Travelling fast.

  Josse stepped to the side of the road and pulled Geoffroi with him. If the riders were out on business of their own, they would pass straight by. If not…

  Josse and Geoffroi waited.

  The horses came into view around a bend in the track. Visibility was poor there on the fringes of the forest. The trees were almost bare now, but those lining the road were vast, their huge trunks and wide-spreading branches blocking the light. Nevertheless, as Josse peered at the riders, he thought he recognized one of them. He was, unless Josse was mistaken, one of Gervase de Gifford’s men.

  He stepped in front of Geoffroi and, as the riders approached, raised a hand in greeting. The man in the lead pulled his horse violently to a halt, and the man behind, taken unawares, almost rode into him. When they had recovered, the first man said, ‘You are Sir Josse d’Acquin, aren’t you?’

  ‘Aye.’ Josse’s heart was pounding. He stared into the man’s face. He had brought news, of course he had. Was it good news? Oh, God, was it bad?

  The man had slid off his horse and thrown the reins to his companion. Now, approaching Josse, he made a sketchy bow and said, ‘Sheriff Gifford sent me to find you. I’ve been trying to find Hawkenlye Manor, but it’s too well hidden for me, even though I’d have said I knew the lands well hereabouts…’ He paused, frowning.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ Josse said, barely managing to control his agonizing impatience.

  The man must have picked up something of Josse’s mood. ‘Forgive me, sir,’ he muttered. Then he said, ‘They’ve found a body. The sheriff wants you to come with us, quick as you can.’

  Josse felt as if his legs would collapse under him. A wave of nausea took him, and he saw black spots before his eyes. A body. Geoffroi was beside him, clutching at his hand, seeking reassurance.

  Josse made himself stand upright. Fighting to keep his voice level, he said, ‘Whose body?’

  The man had had time to realize his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, sir, that I am, really sorry.’

  I’m sorry…

  ‘Who is it?’ Josse shouted.

  ‘It’s not the little girl. It’s a man, sir.’

  Not the little girl. Josse put up his free hand and covered his face, for a moment shutting out the world and simply praying silently, over and over again, Thank you. Then, recalling Geoffroi beside him, he composed his expression and dropped his hand.

  ‘I will return to the house to leave my son there and to fetch my horse, then I will go with you,’ he said. He was quite surprised at how calm he sounded. ‘Will you wait here for me?’

  The men glanced at each other. ‘I should return,’ the first man said dubiously. ‘Sheriff said not to be too long about it, as I was leading one of the groups looking for her.’

  ‘I’ll stay,’ the other man said. ‘My horse is blowing hard from the ride over here. She’s not as young as she was.’ He gave the mare an affectionate pat.

  ‘There’s water in the stream that passes under the road, just down there,’ Geoffroi said helpfully, pointing along the track. ‘If you loosen her girths and give her a breather and a good drink, she’ll soon be better.’

  The man smiled at him. ‘That’s good advice, young lad,’ he said. ‘I shall do just that.’

  Relieved that he had avoided having to take either man back to the house — although he was not entirely sure why — Josse grabbed Geoffroi’s hand and hurried away.

  The mare had indeed recovered by the time Josse rode Alfred out on to the track. He had left a message with Tilly to say what had happened and where he was going, and he knew she would deliver it efficiently as soon as any of the others came in. Geoffroi would add any necessary details. The most important thing was to make sure none of them experienced the same shocking moment that he had done, when the man broke the news.

  Now Josse followed his companion — whose name, he told Josse, was Tomas — down the road. They rode fast, pushing the horses as hard as they could. On, on, they went, round the great bulge of the forest and the curve that swept past the abbey. A narrow path led off to the left — Josse had ridden that way and knew it led to the forest hamlet of Fernthe — and the main track went on to dip down into a shallow valley. Ahead, Josse knew there was a turning up to the right that led, via a steep-sided and ancient road, up to Saxonbury, but that was not where they were going. Before they reached it, Tomas indicated a trail that led off to the west, quite soon veering to the north-west.

  Tomas turned in the saddle and gave Josse an encouraging grin. ‘Not far now,’ he said. He waved a hand to the right. ‘River’s over that way. The body’s on the edge of a little copse of trees beside it.’

  The land on either side of the track was flat and few trees grew. Soon Josse was able to make out the stand of oaks. He could see five or six horses, their reins held by a lad scarcely older than Geoffroi, and a group of men stood huddled together. Several of them were banging their arms across their bodies to keep warm.

  Josse nudged his heels into Alfred’s sides and the horse took off, passing Tomas and taking the long, gentle rise up to the oak trees at a gallop. He pulled the horse up and, as soon as Alfred was approximately at a standstill, slipped off his back and threw the reins to one of the men.

  He had spotted Gervase, crouched over something that lay on the ground, covered by a cloak. He ran up to him, and Gervase, turning to face him, slowly stood up.

  ‘Who is he?’ Josse demanded. ‘Has he-’ Has he anything to do with Rosamund? he almost said. But that was foolish. However would Gervase be able to tell?

  ‘I do not know his name,’ Gervase said. His eyes on Josse’s were full of compassion. ‘It is possible that you may.’ He bent down and folded back the cloak.

  Josse stared at the dead face. The body lay on its back, arms outstretched, the right leg bent beneath the left, which was extended. It was that of a young man in his early twenties, with long, light-brown hair and a clean-shaven face. His clothes were of good quality, the tunic bound with a rich brocade trim in shades of yellow and gold. There was a large pool of caked blood beneath his left nostril, extending down over his mouth and chin and dribbling on to the tunic, and he had a black eye. A bruise darkened the left side of his jaw.

  ‘He’s been in a fight,’ Josse said, kneeling down beside Gervase.

  ‘He has, and he gave as good as he got.’ Gervase uncovered the hands, placed side by
side on the corpse’s belly. The knuckles of the right hand were grazed, reddened and swollen. It looked as if one of the punches that the dead man had landed had broken a small bone in his own hand. The left hand was bruised over the first and middle finger knuckles.

  ‘Not quite as good,’ Josse observed.

  ‘What’s that?’ Gervase demanded. He sounded tense.

  ‘You said he gave as good as he got,’ Josse said. ‘He didn’t, for he is dead and his opponent, whoever he was, has fled.’ He straightened up, feeling another twinge in his back.

  ‘Do you think the blows to his face were enough to kill him?’ Gervase asked.

  Josse stared down at the body, trying to bring to mind all that he had ever learned about violent death. ‘I would not have said so,’ he stated eventually. ‘I would guess that he suffered those fists in his face while he was still on his feet and fighting back, for his nose has bled a great deal and the bruising has come out on his face and his hands. Men don’t bleed much once they are dead,’ he added. Sister Euphemia had told him why, once, but he wasn’t sure he remembered the details.

  He turned to face Gervase. ‘I’m wondering why you waited here with him until I came to join you,’ he said. ‘It must be quite some time since you found him, and the day is chilly.’

  Gervase raised an eyebrow. ‘You are always so insistent that you must be allowed to see a body where it fell, Josse,’ he replied, ‘and I for one do not dare to risk your scorn and your wrath by going against you.’

  ‘My scorn and my-’ Josse began, and then he realized that Gervase’s tone had been ironic. ‘Aye, well, that’s as maybe,’ he muttered, embarrassed.

  He heard Gervase give a soft laugh.

  ‘I will have a look around,’ Josse announced firmly, choosing to ignore it. He bent down to the body again. ‘There’s little to learn from the spot where he fell — ’ gently he lifted one outstretched arm — ‘and I’d say he went over backwards, perhaps as a result of one of those heavy blows.’ He touched the bare flesh of the throat and then slid his hand inside the costly tunic. ‘His garments are fine quality… and his body is very cold.’ Slowly, he stood up. He looked around, taking in the surroundings. Narrowing his eyes, he stared up into the stand of trees. With a soft exclamation, he hurried up the slope and began a close inspection of the ground.

  ‘I believe someone camped here,’ he said when Gervase hurried to join him. ‘Look. A horse stood there, and for some time, I would say. There are some oats scattered, and about a horse length away, a pile of droppings.’

  ‘A single horse,’ Gervase murmured.

  ‘Aye, and a sizeable animal.’

  ‘The dead man’s horse?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Josse had seen something else and, slowly and carefully, he was moving across to look. ‘There was a camp fire here,’ he said, pointing to where cut turfs had been laid over a patch of burned earth. ‘And one — no, two people lay beside the fire.’ He indicated the areas of flattened grass.

  Gervase frowned. ‘Two men camped here but with only one horse. What, they’re Templar Knights, sharing their mount for the sake of brotherhood and poverty?’

  Josse grinned briefly. ‘Maybe, but I would suggest rather that the killer rode away on his horse.’

  ‘What of the victim’s horse?’

  ‘If, indeed, both victim and murderer rode to this place, then presumably the killer took the dead man’s horse away with him.’ Josse was searching again, slowly circling the trees, but soon he gave up. ‘I can’t read the hoof prints. You and your men have walked and ridden all over the ground, and it’s impossible to say if a mounted man rode away leading a second horse.’

  ‘So what-?’

  Josse held up both hands as if fending Gervase off. ‘No more!’ he exclaimed. ‘I need time to think about what we have found here.’

  Gervase held up his hands. ‘Yes, of course.’

  They walked side by side back to where Gervase’s men stood around the body.

  Josse glanced down at the dead man, whose face was now covered by a piece of sacking. ‘We will take him to Hawkenlye Abbey,’ he announced. ‘The new infirmarer is acquiring quite a reputation, and if she can’t tell us what killed this man, I will personally go to fetch Sister Euphemia out of her well-earned retirement and ask her.’

  He watched as Gervase’s men put the body on a makeshift stretcher, made out of the man’s cloak fastened around two heavy branches cut from one of the oak trees. The procession formed up and — with Gervase and Josse in the lead, and Tomas and his old mare at the back — they began to wind their way slowly back to Hawkenlye.

  When they had gone only a short distance, Gervase cleared his throat a couple of times and then said, ‘Josse, as you know, Dominic Warin came to see me.’

  ‘Aye,’ Josse replied. ‘Some matter you wanted to discuss with him, I understand.’

  For some moments Gervase did not answer. Sensing his discomfiture, Josse turned to look at him. Gervase’s usual air of amused detachment appeared to have deserted him. ‘Well?’ Josse prompted.

  ‘There is a band of robbers in the area,’ Gervase said, the words emerging in a rush, as if he disliked having to utter them. ‘I am spreading the word to all men who have large manors and houses, for to be forewarned may afford some protection.’ Again, he hesitated. ‘I asked Dominic to tell me what valuables he possesses, suggesting he make certain that they are safely hidden or locked away,’ he hurried on. ‘I propose that you do the same, Josse, and I am happy to come to the House in the Woods to check on your security.’

  ‘That’s good of you, Gervase,’ Josse said, surprised, ‘although I can’t bring to mind much that any of us possess that’s worth locking away.’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised.’ Gervase gave an awkward laugh. Before Josse could reply, he added, ‘I have some experience with thieves, Josse. I know what they look out for; I can help you, if you are willing.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I am…’ Josse said slowly. His mind was working busily. Why on earth was Gervase discussing this unlikely suggestion of his, when there was another, far graver issue preoccupying them all?

  Because he is my friend, he realized, and he thinks in this way to take my mind off my fears.

  He turned to Gervase with a smile, about to thank him for his kind concern. But Gervase’s expression stopped the words before he could speak them. Whatever this was about, it was a great deal deeper than a sympathetic gesture from a compassionate companion.

  Then he knew.

  Feeling the same fear-induced nausea that had flooded him when Tomas had told him about finding a body, he said in a hoarse whisper, ‘You fear that these thieves may not stop at stealing property. You believe they may have taken Rosamund.’

  Gervase’s eyes widened in horrified protest. ‘No, Josse!’ Violently, he shook his head. ‘No, my friend. Believe me, I have not the least reason to suspect such a thing.’ He muttered something, but Josse could not make it out.

  Josse was not convinced. ‘Then why do you mention these robbers at all, when you must know that concern for any valuable possessions I might have is the last thing on my mind?’

  He had spoken far more fiercely than he had intended. Gervase hung his head, as if accepting the rebuke. Instantly sorry, Josse reached out a hand. ‘I am sorry, Gervase,’ he said. ‘You were trying to distract me, I know.’ He took a couple of breaths, and he felt his heartbeat slow down. ‘I promise I’ll think about what treasures I own, and when next you are at the House in the Woods I’ll show you where I hide them and seek your advice as to how to keep these robbers’ filthy hands off them.’

  Gervase nodded, but did not reply. In silence, they rode on to the abbey.

  FIVE

  Josse stood beside Gervase, watching Hawkenlye’s infirmarer work her way all over the dead man’s body. It had been taken to a curtained recess, then stripped and washed by two young nuns working under the close eye of their superior. Josse had studied the infirmarer as she stood th
ere, her full attention on what her nurses were doing. He did not know her well, and his first impressions were favourable. When one of the young nuns — nervous, perhaps, under the infirmarer’s unwavering stare — dropped a bowl of dirty water all over the clean sheet on which the body was lying, Sister Liese had issued no sharp reprimand, but quietly told the girl to fetch another sheet and then mop up the mess.

  Now, observing her as closely as she had watched her nuns, Josse’s tentative admiration for her grew. She handled the body as if it still lived, he observed, touching the wounds to the face and the hands as if the man could still wince at the pain. She was modest, too, and after a quick inspection of the torso, groin and legs, she had pulled up the sheet so that the body was covered as far as the waist.

  ‘He has been hit over his ribs.’ Sister Liese’s soft voice broke into his reflections. ‘There is bruising. See?’ She beckoned to them without turning round, as if she knew they were watching. Josse and Gervase stepped forward, and Josse saw the dark discolouration over the lower half of the man’s rib cage.

  ‘Left side again,’ he muttered.

  Sister Liese turned to look at him. Her eyes — light, and halfway between blue and green — fixed on his. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘and the damage to the face is worse on the left. The man who punched him favoured his right hand.’

  She turned back to the body. Now she raised the head with one gentle hand while she slipped the other beneath it. She felt around for some moments, and Josse knew what she would find.

  He waited and, after a short time, Sister Liese smiled briefly and said, ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘He fell flat on his back,’ Josse said. ‘There must have been a stone, or a rock, that his head struck.’

  ‘Yes, I agree.’ Sister Liese reached out and took Josse’s wrist in a surprisingly firm grasp. She raised the dead man’s head again and placed Josse’s fingers on the base of the skull. He felt a deep dent, and over the spot the thick hair was sticky with blood.

  ‘Not, strictly speaking, murder,’ Gervase said. ‘What do you say, Josse?’