A Shadowed Evil Page 7

  Josse, thinking it was a joke – his uncle’s grand house is no peasant dwelling – laughs politely.

  Uncle Hugh regards him, his eyes kindly. ‘Oh, it’s true, young Josse,’ he murmurs. ‘Not many years ago, even a man such as I thought nothing of bedding down only a few paces away from his animals, and, indeed, the great majority of people still live like that, and will go on doing so.’

  ‘Oh,’ Josse says. Then, in case Uncle Hugh is about to begin one of those you-don’t-know-how-lucky-you-are lectures beloved of grown-ups, he heads him off. ‘And was there a house here before your mother’s great-grandmother built her hall?’ he prompts.

  Uncle Hugh’s eyes have gone sort of soft. ‘Ah, now, here we leave the world of fact and enter into the realm of legend,’ he says mysteriously. Leaning closer to Josse, he says softly, ‘When I was a lad, a few years younger than you, young Josse, my nursemaid would tell me stories. She was old – Lord, she was so old!’ His face twists into an expression of wonder, as if, even now, he can scarcely credit what he is saying. ‘She had been nurse to Sithe’s children – Sithe it was who built the hall – and she claimed that, when she was a girl, she knew Sithe’s mother, Aeda.’ Uncle Hugh is staring at Josse with round eyes, as if he expects Josse to be deeply impressed. Since Josse has no idea who Aeda was, or why Uncle Hugh’s old nursemaid having known her should be so impressive, Josse is at a loss.

  ‘Oh, my!’ he says inadequately.

  But he doesn’t think Uncle Hugh has heard. ‘They used to have fires on the downs,’ he is saying, his voice sounding strange; sort of distant, Josse thinks. ‘They were tended by special people, for to look after the wildfire was a great honour.’

  ‘Were they beacon fires?’ Josse asks. He has heard of beacon fires, and knows they have long been used as a means of passing a signal very rapidly over long distances.

  ‘Hm? Beacon fires? Yes, I suppose they served that function,’ Uncle Hugh says. ‘But it wasn’t their original, true purpose. The fires on the Caburn, and here at Southfire, were sacred fires, and they—’

  But just then, at the very point where it’s getting really interesting, Uncle Hugh stops. Glancing down at Josse, a sheepish expression on his face, he mutters something like, ‘Not meant to speak of that in front of the youngsters.’

  ‘Was there a building here before Sithe built her hall?’ Josse asks again, forcing himself to sound very patient and polite. He really wants to know, for he is thinking of those mysterious tunnels that open off the dark crypt. It’s surely not likely that Sithe excavated so extensively beneath her wooden dwelling, so if she didn’t make the floor and the hearth, who did?

  Uncle Hugh looks relieved, as if glad that Josse has asked him about something he is prepared to discuss. ‘Well, young Josse, I can’t swear it’s true, but old Nena – that’s my nursemaid I was telling you about – had a great fund of tales, and she used to say that, once upon a time, when this land was occupied by the invader who came from the south, wonderful dwellings called villas were built on the places where conditions were most favourable. Now these villas, Nena said, were so luxurious and so comfortable that each one, even if belonged only to an ordinary man, was fit for a king. She said one such villa was built up here, where Southfire Hall now stands, because the people from the south knew this was a good place, and that any dwelling constructed here would have a nourishing, protective spirit.’ Josse is about to question this rather extraordinary and totally fascinating statement, ask his uncle to elaborate, but Uncle Hugh is in full flow. ‘She said that once, when she was a girl, she had discovered old tunnels and passages that she said had been excavated back then. Of course –’ he smiles indulgently – ‘Nena was a great one for stories, and I expect she made it up. She said,’ he adds, again leaning close and lowering his voice, ‘that those old villas were heated by means of narrow, brick-sided trenches that ran beneath the floor, and that fires were lit so that the warm air ran down all the little tunnels! She said –’ now he was whispering – ‘that they used to send small boys crawling down the tunnels to light the fires and to clear away obstructions, and quite often the boys got badly burned, even killed, and that, if you listened very carefully on a still, dark night, sometimes you could hear their terrible screams.’

  Josse feels sick. He remembers those little tunnels that he and Aeleis crawled along only today. He imagines a fire suddenly erupting, a blast of hot air, flames, smoke, trying to fight his way back and out to safety and getting stuck. Burning. Dying in agony. Nausea rises in his throat, and he swallows hard.

  ‘My dear boy, I’m sorry!’ Uncle Hugh’s concerned voice brings him back to the safety of the present. He is looking anxiously at Josse. ‘Dear Lord, but you’ve gone quite white! I am sorry,’ he repeats, ‘I had no idea that old tale would upset you!’ Uncle Hugh is a kind man.

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ Josse assures him. He has no intention of telling his uncle about his and Aeleis’s discoveries down beneath the house. Since he isn’t going to explain, however, there is a danger that Uncle Hugh will think his nephew a bit of a girl, frightened by an old nursemaid’s horror story. ‘I loved the story,’ he adds. ‘It didn’t upset me at all – it was just that I …’ He thinks frantically. ‘Just that I’m getting quite hungry, and for a moment I felt a bit faint.’

  Uncle Hugh, who seems to know all about the prodigious appetite of growing boys, takes Josse at his word. He pats him on the shoulder, chuckling, and says, ‘Ah, what it is to be young, and have the day revolve around meal times!’ He struggles to his feet, reaching to pick up his boots. ‘I will see you at supper, young Josse,’ he says, and he strolls away.

  Josse stretched, carefully so as not to disturb Helewise. He was sleepy at last, for the long excursion into the past had been almost hypnotic; as if he was already half in a dream. He thought back over all the memories that had just come pushing and shoving into his mind. How Aeleis had said she was never scared. How his mother had said that the spirit of the house would comfort him if he was sad or upset. How his Uncle Hugh had said the ancient people knew it was a good place to build, for it had a nourishing, protective spirit. How his own forebears had lived here, in this spot, for so long. It was no wonder, he reflected, that he felt so welcome here. The place was his ancient home; the very stones called out to him.

  There was something else right on the edge of his thoughts; another memory, but a more recent one, and not of his uncle, or indeed any of his kinsmen on his mother’s side. He frowned in the quiet darkness, trying to bring it to mind. Something to do with tending the sacred fire …

  As if in response to his attempts, suddenly the violent image exploded in his head. Without understanding how, he knew without a doubt that it was a vision he had experienced before. He saw immense flames searing up into the night, in vivid shades of violet, purple and gold, brilliant against the night sky. He saw a woman, very tall, dressed in a pale robe and with a circlet of silver around her head, set on thick hair woven in complicated braids. She cried aloud, a sound that sounded like singing, but he did not understand the words.

  He seemed to hear a voice – his own voice – say, There is no magic in my family. Another voice – a beloved voice, that of Joanna, his lost love – replied gently, There is, Josse.

  He stirred restlessly, disturbed by his thoughts. What was happening to him? Why, suddenly, was all this coming back to him, and with such vividness, such force? Was it somehow important that he remember these things? But why?

  Drowsiness was overcoming him at last. He didn’t fight it, for he knew he was weary. He made himself relax, glad of Helewise’s warm presence next to him.

  He closed his eyes. Yawned. Felt the pleasure of surrendering to sleep. And, just as consciousness faded, he thought – perhaps he dreamt – that someone said, The house is making it happen.

  He smiled, already barely awake. His last thought was, How absurd!

  FIVE

  In the morning, before they went to join the family and br
eak their fast, Helewise and Josse sat side by side on the bed discussing Olivar. Helewise had briefly explained last night about how the little boy had come to the room where she had sat with the injured man, and how his mother had come and sent him back to his room.

  ‘I did wonder why he wasn’t presented to us that first evening,’ she said now. ‘Everyone else was, yet his absence wasn’t explained. He wasn’t even mentioned till later, when Isabelle told us about him. Wasn’t that rather odd? Especially since he’ll inherit in his turn from Herbert, now that he is to be adopted as Herbert’s ward.’

  Josse frowned. ‘It is odd, aye, but it’s not really any of our business.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  He put his arm round her, holding her close. ‘You told me that Cyrille had sent him to his room for two days because he’d been naughty, so, presumably, she must have decided that being allowed out to meet us would have been a treat, and therefore not in keeping with being punished,’ he said.

  ‘But she’s his mother!’ Helewise protested. ‘I agree that it wouldn’t have been right to curtail the punishment – although, in my view, two days is a little excessive for someone only six years old – but why didn’t she at least tell us about him? When Herbert presented her to us, why didn’t she say, “I look forward to introducing my son to you, but it will have to wait because he’s been sent to his room for throwing stones at the cat,” or whatever it was he did.’

  Josse chuckled, but then, apparently noticing her expression, straightened his face. ‘It’s what you or I would have done, my love,’ he said. ‘But there are as many different styles of being a parent as there are parents, and perhaps Cyrille has found she has to be strict with her son in order to make him obey her.’

  ‘He didn’t seem like the sort of child who would cheek his mother, constantly rebel against her and perpetually get into scrapes,’ she persisted. ‘He struck me as a very sweet, rather timid little boy.’

  ‘And you spoke to him for how long?’

  She had to concede the point. ‘Yes, all right, it wasn’t very long. But it was enough for me to form quite a strong impression, nevertheless.’

  He went on hugging her. ‘What should we do?’

  She loved him for that: although she could tell he thought she was worrying needlessly, still he was prepared to do what he could to help.

  Hugging him back, she said, ‘There isn’t much we can do. As you rightly said, it’s none of our business. But—’

  ‘But you feel sorry for the lad,’ Josse finished for her.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll wait till he’s allowed to rejoin the rest of the family, and then see if we can get to know him, and judge if you’re right about him being timid. How’s that for a start?’

  She smiled up at him. ‘For a start, dear Josse,’ she echoed, ‘it will do very well.’

  But Olivar didn’t appear. Cyrille, it seemed, had kept her word, and made her son stay isolated in his room for another day as punishment for having left it the previous evening to go and investigate the injured man.

  Helewise tried, without making it obvious, to study Cyrille de Picus. She, too, however, was absent for the first part of the day. Helewise heard Isabelle ask where she was, and Herbert reply that she was feeling a little tired, and had decided to spend the morning resting. ‘Is there anything she needs?’ Isabelle asked. ‘Would she like someone to sit with her?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Herbert replied. ‘She has her needlepoint and her book of devotions, and is content with that.’

  Since it was agreed that, Peter Southey being out of danger, there was no more need for him to be constantly tended, Helewise found herself at a loose end. Used to being so busy that frequently the days seemed to come to an end almost as soon as they had begun, she had little idea what to do with her unaccustomed leisure. Josse must have noticed that she was restless, and he invited her join him on his daily visit to his uncle.

  Accepting with alacrity, she followed him into the extension, and along a labyrinth of passages to the old man’s room. Josse tapped on the door, and a soft female voice said, ‘Come in.’

  Editha sat beside the bed, holding one of her father’s hands. Hugh was propped up on a bank of pillows, but his eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep.

  Editha greeted Josse and Helewise with a smile. She started to get up, reaching out to draw forward a padded settle set against the wall, but Josse forestalled her. Editha sank back in her chair, a slight frown on her face.

  ‘Kind of you, Josse,’ she said, quite sharply, ‘but I am perfectly capable of moving a settle, whatever others may say.’

  Helewise caught Josse’s eye. It was clearly a reference to Cyrille. ‘I’m sorry,’ Josse said as he and Helewise sat down. ‘I thought that—’

  Editha smiled tightly. ‘No, I am sorry, Josse. I shouldn’t have barked at you.’ The smile vanished, and she sighed. ‘I am not as strong as I once was, it is true, and my joints stiffen in this cold weather so that at times I can barely move, but I am not in my dotage yet, and I resent being treated as if I’m standing on the edge of the grave, and have lost my wits as well as my mobility.’ Her voice had risen in anger and now, with a glance at her father, she made an obvious effort to bring herself under control.

  ‘Cyrille perhaps thinks only of your comfort,’ Josse began hesitantly – unwisely, in Helewise’s opinion, watching Editha’s flashing eyes – ‘and—’

  ‘Cyrille thinks only of Cyrille,’ Editha interrupted him. ‘She desires to portray herself as wiser and more experienced, in every single area of life, than everyone else. Furthermore, she believes that perpetually telling us all what a fine nurse she is demonstrates her loving, compassionate nature.’

  ‘Does it not?’ Josse asked innocently.

  Editha regarded him for a long moment. Then she said curtly, ‘No.’

  The three of them sat in a rather awkward silence for a while. Then Editha said, ‘Again, I apologize; you have come to see how Father is, and I have yelled at you concerning my own problems and haven’t said a word about him.’ She looked tenderly at Hugh, whose eyes were slowly opening. ‘He has slept long, and sometimes, when that happens, he wakes up and has one of his good days.’ Leaning forward, she said gently, ‘Father? Are you awake? Would you like something to eat?’

  Now Hugh’s eyes were fully open, and he was looking at the three people at his bedside. ‘Dear Editha,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, I am indeed awake, and I would very much like some food. And one of your sister’s herbal concoctions, if she would be so kind.’ Editha raised his hand to her lips, kissed it, then got up and hurried out of the room.

  Hugh now turned to Josse. ‘Still here, nephew?’ he asked with a smile, which spread as he went on, ‘I take it as a bad sign, that my family seem to be gathering around me. Anyone would think I was dying.’

  ‘Uncle Hugh, I’m sure—’

  But Hugh stopped him. ‘Now, Josse, we all have to die, and I do not fear it,’ he said quietly. ‘But let us speak of more cheerful matters.’ He was staring at Helewise, a roguish gleam in his eyes. ‘You have brought a beautiful woman to see me, and you haven’t even had the courtesy to tell me who she is.’

  Josse looked straight at her. Unable to resist the temptation, she half-closed one eye in a tiny wink. Then, grinning, he turned back to Hugh and said, ‘This is Helewise, Uncle.’

  Hugh stretched out his thin hands, and Helewise took them. ‘I am delighted to meet you,’ he said. ‘Josse always was choosy, even as a lad, and I can see now why he waited so long to take a wife. You are most welcome, my dear.’

  ‘Thank you, Uncle Hugh. May I call you that?’

  ‘I should be happy if you did. Now,’ he said, with the air of someone getting down to business after the completion of the pleasantries, ‘how do you find my household? Is my grandson’s new wife still managing to get up everyone’s nose?’

  ‘She – er, she does have a slightly unfortunate manner,’ Josse sai
d.

  Uncle Hugh burst out laughing; a happy, spontaneous sound, that brought colour and vitality to his thin, pale face. ‘You have clearly spent too much of your life with great lords and ladies, young Josse, for you speak like a diplomatic courtier. Let us have plain speech; I no longer have time for the luxury of circumlocution.’ He eyed them, one after another, then said in a low voice, ‘I do not trust her.’

  Not trust her? Helewise was surprised at the remark. Even after so short a time at Southfire Hall, she could understand that getting along with Cyrille wasn’t easy, to say the least, but surely that was only because the poor woman was still finding her feet amid her new family, and hadn’t yet learned the benefits of tact and perception. For Uncle Hugh to call her untrustworthy was a lot more serious, and, watching Josse, Helewise could see he wasn’t sure what to make of it. ‘Why not, Uncle?’ he asked.

  But Hugh shook his head. ‘I am not prepared to say; not yet, anyway. They tell me I am old, and getting very woolly in my mind, and it may well be true.’ He frowned. ‘My thoughts ramble, and odd fancies occur to me which, I suppose, may have no basis in reality.’ He put up a hand to massage his forehead. ‘It is hard at times, I admit, to determine truth from imagination, and I do dream a lot.’ He glanced at Josse. ‘It is my rants, I suspect, that have prompted the family to send for you, young Josse.’

  He had hit upon the truth, and Helewise, amused, watched as Josse cast around for a diplomatic way of admitting it. ‘Well, er—’

  Hugh laughed again. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, my lad!’ he said. ‘I know my daughters, and I know, too, that what they do is out of love for me.’ He paused. ‘I am very lucky, to be cared for so devotedly.’

  There was a brief silence. Then Hugh went on, ‘Harold de Crowburgh was my friend. He was probably my best friend, and that is saying a lot.’

  Josse looked at Helewise, eyebrows raised. She, momentarily confused, recovered more swiftly, instantly working it out. ‘Harold must surely have been the father of William Crowburgh, Cyrille’s first husband?’