Bodrugan paused before turning into the house. 'You are aware', he said, and there was something hesitant in his manner, 'that William, being a minor, will forfeit his lands to the King until he attains his majority?'
'I am, Sir Otto.'
'The confiscation would be little more than a formality in ordinary circumstances,' Bodrugan went on. 'As William's uncle by marriage, and therefore his legal guardian, I should be empowered to administer his estates, with the King as overlord. But the circumstances are not ordinary, owing to the part I took in the so-called rebellion.' The steward maintained discreet silence, his face inscrutable. 'Therefore', said Bodrugan, 'the escheator acting for the minor and the King is likely to be one held in greater esteem than myself — his cousin Sir John Carminowe, in all probability. In that event, I don't doubt he will arrange matters smoothiy for my sister.' The irony in his voice was unmistakable.
Roger inclined his head without replying, and Bodrugan went into the house. The steward's slow smile of satisfaction was instantly suppressed as the young Champernounes, with their cousin Henry, entered the court, laughing and chatting, having momentarily forgotten the imminence of death. Henry, the eldest of the party, was the first to sense, intuitively, what must have happened. He called the younger pair to silence, and motioned William to come forward. I saw the expression on the boy's face change from carefree laughter to apprehension, and I guessed how sudden dread must have turned his stomach sick. 'Is it my father?' he asked.
Roger nodded. 'Take your brother and sister with you', he said, 'and go to your mother. Remember, you are the eldest; she will look to you for support in the days to come.'
The boy clutched at the steward's arm. 'You will remain with us, will you not?' he asked. 'And my uncle Otto too?'
'We shall see,' answered Roger. 'But you are the head of the family now.' William made a supreme effort at self-control. He turned and faced his younger brother and sister and said, 'Our father is dead. Please follow me,' and walked into the house, head erect, but very pale. The children, startled, did as they were told, taking their cousin Henry's hand, and glancing at Roger I saw, for the first time, something of compassion on his face, and pride as well; the boy he must have known from cradle days had not disgraced himself. He waited a few moments, then followed them.
The hall appeared deserted. A tapestry hanging at the far end near the hearth had been drawn aside, showing a small stairway to the upper room, by which Otto Bodrugan and the Ferrers must have ascended, and the children too. I could hear the shuffle of feet overhead, then silence, followed by the low murmur of the monk's voice, Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.
I said the hall appeared deserted, and so it was, but for the slender figure in lilac: Isolda was the only member of the group who had not gone to the room above. At sight of her Roger paused on the threshold, before moving forward with deference.
'Lady Carminowe does not wish to pay tribute with the rest of the family?' he asked.
Isolda had not noticed him standing there by the entrance, but now she turned her head and looked at him direct, and there was so much coldness in her eyes that standing where I was, beside the steward, they seemed to sweep me with the same contempt as they did him.
'It is not my practice to make a mockery of death,' she said.
If Roger was surprised he gave no sign of it, but made the same deferential gesture as before. 'Sir Henry would be grateful for your prayers,' he said.
'He has had them with regularity for many years,' she answered, 'and with increasing fervour these past weeks.'
The edge in her voice was evident to me, and must have been doubly so to the steward. 'Sir Henry has ailed ever since making the pilgrimage to Campostella,' he replied. 'They say Sir Ralph de Beaupr+® suffers today from the same sickness. It is a wasting fever, there is no cure for it. Sir Henry had so little regard for his own person that it was hard to treat him. I can assure you that everything possible was done.'
'I understand Sir Ralph Beaupr+® retains full possession of his faculties despite his fever,' Isolda replied. 'My cousin did not. He recognised none of us for a month or more, yet his brow was cool, the fever was not high.'
'No two men are alike in sickness,' Roger answered. 'What will save the one will trouble the other. If Sir Henry wandered in his mind it was his misfortune.'
'Made the more effective by the potions given him,' she said. 'My grandmother, Isolda de Cardinham, had a treatise on herbs, written by a learned doctor who went to the Crusades, and she bequeathed it to me when she died, because I was her namesake. I am no stranger to the seeds of the black poppy and the white, water hemlock, mandragora, and the sleep they can induce.'
Roger, startled out of his attitude of deference, did not answer her at once. Then he said, 'These herbs are used by all apothecaries for easing pain. The monk, Jean de Meral, was trained in the parent-house at Angers and is especially skilled. Sir Henry himself had implicit faith in him.'
'I don't doubt Sir Henry's faith, the monk's skill, or his zeal in employing that skill, but a healing plant can turn malign if the dose is increased,' replied Isolda.
She had made her challenge, and he knew it. I remembered that trestle table at the foot of the bed, and the bowls upon it, now carefully wrapped in sacking and carried away.
'This is a house of mourning,' said Roger, 'and will continue so for several days. I advise you to speak of this matter to my lady, not to me. It is none of my business.'
'Nor mine either,' replied Isolda. 'I speak through attachment to my cousin, and because I am not easily fooled. You might remember it.'
One of the children started crying overhead, and there was a sudden lull in the murmur of prayers, the sound of movement, and the scurrying of footsteps down the stairs. The daughter of the house — she could not have been more than ten — came running into the room, and flung herself into Isolda's arms.
'They say he is dead', she said, 'yet he opened his eyes and looked at me, just once, before closing them again. No one else saw, they were too busy with their prayers. Did he mean that I must follow him to the grave?'
Isolda held the child to her protectively, staring over her shoulder at Roger all the while, and suddenly she said, 'If anything evil has been done this day or yesterday, you will be held responsible, with others, when the time comes. Not in this world, where we lack proof but in the next, before God.'
Roger moved forward, with some impulse, I think, to silence her or take the child from her, and I stepped into his path to prevent him, but stumbled, catching my foot in a loose stone. And there was nothing about me but great mounds of earth and hillocks of grass, gorse-bushes and the root of a dead tree, and behind me a large pit, circular in shape like a quarry, full of old tins and fallen slate. I caught hold of a twisted stem of withered gorse, retching violently, and in the distance I could hear the hoot of a diesel engine as it rattled below me in the valley.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE QUARRY was steep, carved out of the hillside, spread about with holly and clumps of ivy, the debris of years scattered amongst the earth and stones, and the path leading out of it ran into a small pit, and then another, and yet a third, all heaped about with banks and ditches and knolls of tufted grass. The gorse was everywhere, masking the view, and because of my vertigo I could not see but kept stumbling against the banks, with one thought paramount in my mind — that I must get out of this waste land and find the car. It was imperative to find the car.
I caught hold of a thorn-tree and held on to it to steady myself, and there were more old cans at my feet, a broken bedstead, a tyre, and still more clumps of ivy and holly. Feeling had returned to my limbs, but as I staggered up the mound above me the dizziness increased, the nausea too, and I slithered down into another pit and lay there panting, my stomach heaving. I was violently sick, which gave momentary relief, and I got up again and climbed another mound. Now I saw that I was only a few hundred yards from the original hedge where I had smoked my cigarette — the mounds and the quarry beyond had been hidden from me then by a sloping bank and a broken gate. I looked down once more into the valley, and saw the tail-end of the train disappearing round the corner to Par station. Then I climbed through a gap in the hedge and began to walk uphill across the field and back to the car. I
