A woman sat by herself in an elaborately-carved oak chair beside the wide hearth. She was dressed in a tight-bodiced, wide-skirted gown of dark velvet, and a veil covered her head and much of her face, held in place by a gold circlet. Hearing their footfalls, she raised her head and turned to look at them.
‘I said no visitors, Stephen,’ she said in a low voice made husky by grief.
‘Beg pardon, my lady, but this is the sheriff and this is Sir Josse d’Acquin, a friend of the master,’ the servant muttered. He added something in a whisper that sounded like they found the body.
It was not strictly true, but it was no time to quibble.
Lady Beatrice stared at them. She pushed back the veil, and Josse saw that she was perhaps in her late thirties. He also observed that, haggard with sorrow as she now was, she was still very beautiful. Her smooth brown hair was drawn back from a centre parting, and her large eyes were almost black. Her skin was good, her nose straight and delicate, and her mouth wide and shaped for laughter.
She was far from laughing now.
Greatly affected, Josse approached her and, bowing, took her cold hand in his. ‘You have my deepest sympathy, lady,’ he said. ‘You and I have not met before, although, as your man here says, I know your husband from our service together under King Richard.’
She nodded. Josse was about to go on, but Gervase interrupted. Stepping forward to stand beside Josse, he said, ‘I apologize for my abrupt manner, my lady, but it is my duty to discover how your son died. May I ask how you know of the tragedy? Sir Josse and I came here to tell you, but it seems to me that you have already been informed.’
She studied him. ‘Leofgar Warin came and broke the news last night.’
‘Leofgar,’ Gervase breathed. Turning to Josse, he murmured, ‘He did say he knew the family. I would have asked him to come and tell them, only I understood he was in haste to return home.’
It had been a kindness, Josse reflected, for Leofgar to put aside his own pressing needs in order to perform such a sad task. He wondered how Felix had taken the news.
He considered how best to ask her. He said, ‘Lady Beatrice, is your husband not with you? Has he, perhaps, retired to bed to nurse his grief?’
The dark eyes met his. ‘You would ask me, I believe, if my husband is able to comprehend what has happened. If his fast-failing wits have grasped the fact that his son is dead. My answer is that I do not believe so.’ She dropped her head.
Then you face this tragedy alone, Josse thought. You poor woman.
‘My lady, may we speak to Sir Felix?’ Gervase was asking.
‘You may,’ came the quiet reply. ‘He is in the chamber through there.’ She pointed to where an arched doorway gave on to a passage.
‘Come with me, Josse,’ Gervase hissed. Josse bowed again to the still figure in the chair and followed him through the arch.
Felix de Brionne lay in a high bed under heavy covers. He had aged greatly in the years since Josse had seen him. His face was a yellowish-grey colour, the cheeks so sunken that the large nose stood out like the prow of a ship.
Josse stepped up to the bed, bent over the old man and said softly, ‘Felix? It’s Josse.’ The eyes fluttered open and Felix looked up at him. Josse smiled, and Felix’s dry lips stretched in an answering smile.
‘Josse,’ he breathed. ‘I remember you.’
Gervase, close beside Josse, leaned down and said, ‘Your son is dead, Sir Felix, and we are very sorry. I am sheriff of Tonbridge, and I will do my best to discover how he died.’
The old man’s brows drew together in a frown. ‘My son,’ he said. He stared at Josse, reaching out to grasp his hand. ‘Hugh is my son. The other one, no.’ Straining forward, he beckoned Josse nearer and said in a cracked whisper, ‘I forgave her, long ago. I love her, you see, and she’s young, much younger than me.’ He lay back on the bank of pillows, panting slightly from the brief exertion. He closed his eyes. Josse exchanged a glance with Gervase and was about to suggest they tiptoe away and leave the old man to sleep when he spoke again.
Quite clearly, he said, ‘There is something wrong with the other one.’ Then his breathing deepened and presently he emitted a soft snore.
Josse led Gervase out of the chamber and back to the hall.
‘Well?’ Lady Beatrice asked as they came to stand before her.
Josse, embarrassed, was about to make some innocuous comment and nudge Gervase into taking their leave. Gervase, however, was not ready to depart.
‘My lady, I am sorry if this is painful and appears to you insensitive,’ he said, ‘but, as I said, it is my duty to discover all that I can about your son’s death. In pursuit of that, there are questions that I must ask.’
Josse watched her reaction. She gave a faint sigh — perhaps of resignation, as if she knew what was coming — and nodded. ‘Ask your questions,’ she said quietly.
‘Can you suggest any reason why Hugh would have been in the area in which we found him?’ Gervase asked. ‘It was out to the west of Hawkenlye Abbey, on a rise above the river.’
‘No.’
‘Does he have friends who live nearby? Kinsmen, perhaps?’
She looked at him levelly. ‘Our family is small. My husband has one elderly cousin, but she is unmarried and childless. I am an orphan and have no brothers or sisters. I have three children: Hugh, a daughter who lives with her husband close to Canterbury, and another son.’
There was a long pause. Then Gervase said, ‘And where does the other son live? Could Hugh have sought him out or gone to visit him?’
Her gaze did not falter. ‘He lives here with Felix and me. He is not here at present. He is a grown man and keeps his own friends. It is not for his mother to question his comings and goings. As to whether Hugh was seeking him out, I doubt it. The brothers are not close.’
She closed her lips very firmly, as if determined to say no more. But Gervase was not satisfied. ‘Will you elaborate, my lady?’
She gave a small sound of exasperation. ‘Brothers are natural rivals, my lord sheriff. From childhood, sibling boys will always wish to be the first in the affection of their mother and their father.’ She gave a brief shrug. ‘My sons are no exception.’
Josse watched as, slowly and inexorably, her stiff face dissolved and the tears formed in her eyes. ‘My sons…’ she whispered. Then, squeezing her eyes shut, she said, ‘Now I have but the one.’
Josse went to her, sensing from a pace away her struggle to hold on to herself. ‘My lady, we will leave you,’ he said. He glanced around for the servant, but the man was already hurrying over to his mistress. ‘Look after her,’ Josse said.
The servant’s expression implied very clearly that he did not need Josse to tell him.
Josse had expected Gervase to head straight back to Tonbridge, or possibly the abbey, for his duty was surely to resume the search for Rosamund and, now, the hunt for who was responsible for Hugh de Brionne’s death. With a painful effort, Josse turned his mind away from that. To his surprise, however, Gervase suggested they go to the House in the Woods. ‘We are quite near,’ he said, ‘and perhaps I may impose on you for some food and drink.’
‘Aye, of course,’ Josse replied. It made sense, he supposed, although something in Gervase’s manner was disturbing him. Did the sheriff share Josse’s awful suspicions about Ninian? Was his strange, abstracted air because he knew he would have to arrest Josse’s adopted son and charge him with murder?
With a shiver of dread, Josse put his spurs to Alfred’s sides and hurried after Gervase.
They rode hard, covering the miles swiftly and without speaking. At the House in the Woods, Josse asked Will to tend the sweating, blowing horses, and he led Gervase inside the hall, where a very welcome fire burned in the hearth. He was about to call out to Tilly to bring food and drink when Gervase, with a hand on his shoulder, spoke.
‘Josse, while I am here let me do as I said I would and check on your valuables,’ he said.
‘I don’t care about my valuables!’ Josse burst out. ‘Dear God, this is no time for that, Gervase!’
Gervase’s face hardened. ‘I am doing all I can to find the girl, Josse,’ he said coldly, ‘but please remember that I have other obligations, one of which is to prevent theft. It may be a minor matter to you, but it is not to me.’
