The Enchanter's Forest Page 6

After some time the Abbess spoke. ‘How do we prove it?’

  ‘I believe,’ said the Domina, ‘that, as far as the people are concerned, it is a matter of proving that Merlin is in truth entombed elsewhere.’

  ‘Is he?’ demanded the Abbess.

  ‘They say so,’ replied the Domina enigmatically.

  ‘And his tomb is there for all to see?’ the Abbess pressed.

  ‘Oh, yes. I have seen the spot where they say Merlin lies entombed with my own eyes. There is a spring that bubbles out of the ground whose water is ever cool and sweet. Above it is a great slab of granite, shadowed by a thorn tree. It is told, is it not’ – she had fixed the Abbess with a penetrating stare – ‘that Nimü penned the enchanter up beneath a hawthorn tree?’ Before the Abbess could speak, the Domina pressed on, her voice now low, hypnotic. ‘There is a long white banner tied to the thorn bush and it floats and dances in the breeze. They come to worship and they scare themselves, daring one another to stamp on the great granite slab and then running wild in horror when the power is unleashed.’ There was a pause as the echoes of her dramatic voice faded and died. ‘But,’ she concluded in her normal tone, ‘they come to no lasting harm.’

  ‘And this – this place of which you speak, it is in truth the burial place of Merlin, magician to King Arthur?’ The Abbess pressed the point.

  ‘So they say, lady.’

  ‘Is it nearby?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But it is possible to visit there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then – then I should go and see for myself,’ the Abbess said decisively.

  The Domina eyed her and Tiphaine thought she saw a certain admiration in the look. ‘It is far away and to go there necessitates a voyage over the sea,’ she warned. ‘You would be absent from your Abbey for considerably more than a matter of a few days, Helewise.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ The Abbess’s face fell. ‘Then I shall ask another.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘One who I know will agree to accept the mission.’

  ‘You speak of Josse,’ the Domina commented.

  ‘Yes.’

  The Domina nodded. ‘I believe that he is a wise choice,’ she agreed, ‘and I in my turn will propose a guide who will ensure that he reaches his destination safely.’ She was watching the Abbess closely; Tiphaine, who had a shrewd idea what was coming, thought she could guess why.

  ‘Who is this guide?’ the Abbess asked. ‘Josse will not be in any danger, will he?’

  The Domina shrugged. ‘There is always a certain peril in travel but he will be at no greater risk than anyone else. As to his guide, the person whom I have in mind has visited the place where they say Merlin lies buried and will not have any difficulty in recalling the way. Moreover, the presence of this guide will ensure Josse’s safety in realms where it could be perilous for outsiders to tread. He will be taken to the spot, shown the granite slab and the spring that they call Merlin’s Fountain. He may then bring the account of his visit back here to you and you may do with the information as you see fit.’

  The Abbess was nodding her enthusiasm. ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she said eagerly. ‘The word of Sir Josse that Merlin lies buried elsewhere, and that he therefore cannot possibly be the skeleton on the far side of the forest, will suffice to raise doubts as to Florian’s claims. People are less credulous than men such as Florian believe; Sir Josse’s word added to the fact that Florian has been making so much money from the supposed tomb will surely convince all but the most unintelligent that the whole arrangement is nothing more than a fake.’

  ‘So it is to be hoped,’ the Domina said.

  ‘You said that this place lies over the seas.’ The Abbess returned to the practicalities. ‘Where is it? In Ireland, perhaps?’

  ‘Not Ireland,’ the Domina replied. ‘It is in Armorica.’

  ‘Armorica?’ The Abbess frowned.

  ‘You may know the land as Brittany,’ Tiphaine supplied.

  ‘Brittany!’ exclaimed the Abbess. ‘Merlin lies buried in Brittany?’

  But the Domina did not answer.

  The Abbess was looking doubtful now, as if she were entertaining second thoughts about the wisdom of sending Josse off on such a trip to a place so far away.

  Perhaps reading the thought, the Domina said softly, ‘Remember, he will have a sound guide with him.’

  ‘Yes, of course, so you assured me.’ The Abbess sounded relieved. ‘Who is this man? One of your own people?’

  ‘One of our people, yes. But not a man.’ The Domina’s face was expressionless. ‘I speak of a woman. She has been to Armorica and has stood beside the great granite slab. She of all people will ensure that your Josse achieves the journey there and back again as safely as it is in her power to make it. And she is powerful: be in no doubt of that.’

  ‘It’s Joanna,’ the Abbess breathed. ‘Isn’t it? You mean to send Joanna to be his guide.’

  And the Domina said, ‘Of course.’

  Chapter 4

  Unaware of what was being planned for him by the two powerful women out in the forest, Josse had dressed himself in his habitual tunic and hat and set off on Horace for the heathlands to the south and east of the Great Wealden Forest where he understood that Florian of Southfrith had his home. He lives with his beautiful wife in a modest but very fine manor house near Hadfeld, Brice had said. Well, the man’s name and the place where he had his abode ought to be enough for Josse to locate him.

  He had followed the same path that he had taken the previous day for the first part of his ride then, when he emerged on to the open, heathery country on the far side of the forest, branched off to the south-east. The going was easy and he let Horace amble along at a steady, unhurried pace. While he remained close to the dense woodland behind him, withies, hazel and rowan grew alongside the track, giving him some shade, but as he progressed further into the open countryside, the trees finally gave out and he felt the full strength of the morning sun beating down on him. Now it was the gorse that held sway: the gentle slopes over which he rode were glowing with the dense yellow of the flowers, so that the air was redolent with the sweet, heavy, intoxicating scent. Horace’s big hooves brushed the wild thyme, which contributed its own clean smell. Josse could hear the delicate twittering of linnets and he spotted a pair of wheatears – white arses, as they were commonly known – flying low over the heather.

  It was, he decided, a perfect day for riding and he wished that he had no fixed purpose but could saunter on until fatigue and hunger finally drove him home. But he did have a purpose, and an urgent one at that. Clucking to Horace, he increased his pace to a smart canter and set himself to the task of finding Hadfeld.

  Presently he noticed that the landscape was changing. Encroachments had been made into the heathland and there were increasing numbers of assarts, where the untamed countryside had been claimed and converted into farm land. Sheep grazed the wiry heathland plants and there were large areas of bracken, fenced off like a crop, and Josse guessed the plant was being grown for fuel. Nothing ate bracken; he recalled Sister Tiphaine once telling him that it caused sickness in most animals but that, in small doses, it was useful as a contraceptive. He smiled to himself; whatever could they have been talking about to have prompted her to tell him that interesting little fact?

  He came to a hamlet of four or five low, huddled little dwellings, outside one of which a couple of women sat over a huge basket of nettles. Observing as he approached, Josse noticed they were tearing the tops from each stem and throwing them into a cooking pot, setting the remaining stems and leaves aside in another basket. One of the women looked up and gave him a grin; she was a round-faced woman in perhaps her mid-twenties, pleasant looking except that she was missing all but three of her teeth.

  ‘You have a good harvest there,’ he remarked, returning her smile.

  ‘Aye, and the blisters to prove it,’ she said with a bubbling laugh. ‘But nettles is free, sir knight, and ours for the picking, and the tender young shoots make a tasty me
al. The rest of our haul will go for nettle beer.’ She winked at him as if anticipating the pleasures of an evening of mild intoxication.

  ‘I wish you joy of it,’ he said. ‘Am I on the right road for Hadfeld?’

  ‘Aye, more or less. Keep on till you reach the stone cross and then turn left, then right. That’ll take you to Hadfeld.’

  ‘Who are you after?’ the other woman asked. She was older but had the same features; an elder sister? ‘I’ll wager it’s young Florian.’

  ‘Aye, it is,’ Josse agreed.

  ‘Thought as much.’ The woman nodded sagely.

  ‘Do many folk come seeking him just now?’

  ‘Aye, but most of them in truth are seeking Merlin’s Tomb, which is nowhere near Hadfeld but lies just within the forest, some—’

  ‘Thank you; I know where the tomb is,’ Josse interrupted.

  ‘Been there already?’ the first woman asked.

  ‘I . . .’ Josse hesitated, reluctant to discuss his business with two inquisitive strangers.

  ‘He’ll be after our young Florian to demand his money back,’ the woman said to her companion in a whisper deliberately pitched loud enough for Josse to overhear. Glancing up at him, she added, ‘The cure lasted but a day and then back came the troubles, double fold.’

  Despite himself, Josse laughed. ‘I am not sick, thank the good Lord, and it was not to seek for help that I visited Merlin’s Tomb.’

  ‘Then you’re the lucky one,’ the older woman said, all levity suddenly absent from her voice and her face, ‘for there’s more ’n one family hereabouts lighter in the pocket and still tormented by worry over whatever it was drove them to the forest tomb in the first place. People ain’t best pleased with young Florian,’ she added darkly. ‘If you’re a friend of his, sir knight’ – the look she cast at Josse suggested she would think the less of him if he were – ‘then maybe you should warn him to watch his step and his back.’

  He met her gaze levelly. ‘I am no friend of his,’ he said quietly. ‘Now’ – he deliberately changed the subject – ‘Florian’s dwelling is indeed at Hadfeld, as you imply?’

  ‘Aye, it is,’ the first woman confirmed. ‘You’ll likely find him away from home, since he spends each and every day down at his tomb. But his wife will be there. You could wager that fine horse of yours on that, and your hat.’ Both women chuckled.

  ‘Thank you, both of you,’ Josse said. With a courteous nod of the head, he kicked Horace and went on his way.

  The reason why the women had been so sure that Florian’s wife would be at home became evident as soon as Josse rode up to the house. Building work was under way and a woman stood on a mounting block very near to where the workmen were toiling, closely watching every move they made.

  Josse dismounted and tethered Horace to a ring set into the wall beside the open gates. The house was not large but it was well-built and compact, with a pleasing symmetry to its dimensions. Flower beds had been placed either side of the door, beneath small windows set high above them in the smooth stone. There were lilies and gillyflowers in bloom, sweet-smelling and sending out a strong perfume. Outbuildings on the far side of the house appeared to have been carefully repaired. Money had been spent – recently, by the look of it – and must, judging by the buzz of activity and the gang of workmen, still be pouring out.

  Walking across the courtyard, Josse approached the woman on the mounting block. He swept off his hat and said, ‘Madam? Have I the honour of addressing the wife of Florian of Southfrith?’

  Without so much as glancing round, the woman said, ‘He is not here and is unlikely to return until the light fails. You’ll find him at Merlin’s Tomb.’ The bored resignation in her tone suggested that this was not the first time she had made the remark that morning. In addition, the woman spoke of her husband so scathingly that Josse thought he detected dislike.

  ‘Aye, so I have been informed,’ Josse said, maintaining a polite tone; he did not find it easy when the woman had not the manners to turn and address him face to face. Recalling the reason he had thought up for visiting Florian’s home, he went on, ‘They told me your husband is having a solar built’ – it had been a good guess, as had just been proved – ‘and I wanted to ask him if he’s satisfied with the builders he has engaged and, if so, what the name of the master builder is.’

  ‘He’s over there’ – she pointed, with a long, fine hand bearing a large garnet set in a gold ring, towards a thin, dark, nervous-looking man standing on top of a partly built wall with a plumb line in his hand – ‘and he’s called Josiah.’ She spoke with an accent and Josse guessed that her native tongue was French. ‘As to satisfaction, it is not possible to say until the work is complete.’ At last she turned to look down at Josse and he saw a pale face, the smooth skin very slightly olive in complexion, the black eyes almond-shaped under fine, dark brows. She was unsmiling and she stared at him as if he were something smelly on the sole of her narrow calfskin slipper. Lifting her delicately pointed chin in a gesture of pure arrogance, she said, ‘And just who are you?’

  In no hurry to answer, largely because he could tell she found it irritating, Josse studied her. She was not tall – petite would be the word, he decided – and the slim-fitting silk gown showed a narrow waist and hips but surprisingly generous breasts; the bodice looked as if it had been designed for a woman even better-endowed. The gown was of a pale pearly grey and the colour must have been chosen with care, for it complemented the woman’s skin tone perfectly. Her eyes, he now saw, were not black but very dark blue. What he could see of her hair, which was drawn back off her face and covered by a circle of fine silvery net held in place with a silver circlet, was glossy, smooth and black as midnight.

  She would have been one of the loveliest women he had ever set eyes on. But beauty, in Josse’s opinion, needed a smile: the scowl that the woman wore drew her brows together, etched downward-sloping lines in the beautiful face and soured the wide mouth; in short, she had the look of a malevolent child thwarted of its latest unreasonable demand.

  ‘I am Josse d’Acquin,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I see.’ The frown eased a little. ‘And you say that you are wanting to build a solar?’ She sounded as if she found the suggestion faintly risible.

  ‘Er – it has been suggested.’ That was the truth; Josse’s servant Will had been dropping hints these five years past at least and more than once a local mason had just happened to pass by – undoubtedly summoned by Will – to propose to Josse the same idea.

  ‘New buildings don’t come cheap,’ the woman said rudely. She eyed his garments minutely, from the feather in his favourite and well-worn broad-brimmed hat to his comfy old riding boots.

  Refusing to be drawn, Josse merely said, ‘So I imagine.’

  She took hold of a fold of her skirt, swishing the gorgeous silk to and fro so that it made a soft, rustling sound. He caught a glimpse of an underskirt in a deeper shade of silver grey and saw a flash of exquisite, pure white lace, stiff and costly. She tapped her slim foot in its soft leather slipper. ‘Of course,’ she said languidly when she had evidently reassured herself that Josse had noticed every item of the display, ‘my husband is a very wealthy man.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Josse said mildly.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘That must be quite delightful for you, my lady.’ He wondered if she would detect the irony.

  ‘Naturally, it is.’ Apparently not. ‘My husband claims that it is his privilege to give me pleasure by buying me whatever I desire.’ She gave an artificial little sigh, as if she could not quite believe her generosity in allowing her husband the huge favour of allowing him to spend his money on her.

  ‘Perhaps he is fresh to marriage?’ Josse asked. ‘It is well known that a new bridegroom often indulges his bride.’

  ‘We are two years wed,’ she said sharply. Then, forcing a smile that went no further than her lips: ‘Florian likes to ensure my favour, sir knight. I had many suitors and he does well not to
forget that he had to face much competition for my hand.’

  Watching her, Josse thought but did not point out that her former popularity was hardly relevant now that she had made her choice and was married to Florian. It seemed highly likely that she used the reminder of it as a stick with which to beat the unfortunate Florian whenever his attention slipped from his decorative, spoiled wife and his purse-strings began to draw closed.

  Josse was beginning to feel very sorry for Florian of Southfrith.

  It was hot in the courtyard. The sun was beating off the flagstones and the walls of the house and the air was dry and full of dust. The woman on her mounting block, predictably, had taken the only patch of shade. A better-mannered person would, Josse thought, by now have invited him inside the house and offered him something cool to drink. Florian’s wife contented herself with staring at him impatiently and making it perfectly apparent that she wished he would go away.

  ‘I am grateful for your kindness and your time, lady,’ he said, increasing the irony. Bowing, he added, ‘I will leave you to your overseer’s duties.’ And that, he decided as he straightened up, was verging on plain rude; to suggest to a rich man’s wife that she was forced to labour like a workman was an insult.

  Colour flew swiftly into her face. She seemed about to make some vitriolic reply but, with an effort, she controlled herself. Then she turned her back.

  Josse walked back across the courtyard and out through the gate, freeing Horace’s reins from the hitching ring and swinging up into the saddle. Looking back, he saw the door to the house suddenly open from within. A woman dressed in black emerged on to the steps; she wore a long veil whose edge came down low over her eyes so that Josse could not see her face clearly. However, her figure, her posture and the harsh voice which called out in French suggested strongly that she was the young woman’s mother.

  ‘Primevère, que fais-tu là au plein soleil?’ demanded the older woman. Primevère, Josse thought. Primrose. A singularly unfitting name for Florian’s haughty wife, whose looks and nature were far removed from the simple prettiness of a primrose. ‘Tu seras bronzée comme une rustre!’ The older woman spat out the pejorative word like an oath.