kindly. ‘Will you let me help you?’
A fleeting smile crossed Olivier’s face. ‘Are you strong?’ he asked. ‘Can you combat devils?’
Devils. What in God’s name was wrong with him? Josse sat down on the end of the bed. ‘I have fought many an enemy,’ he said, ‘although I must confess that they have all been resolutely human.’ He grinned, and there was a faint response from Olivier. ‘What ails you?’ he asked.
Olivier twisted away from him, his face anguished. ‘They will not leave me alone,’ he muttered. ‘They talk to me all the time, giving me orders, telling me I have made bad mistakes.’ He shot Josse a sly look. ‘They warn me, too. They tell me I must be on my guard, for my enemies surround me and all the time they close in on me.’ He shot out a hand and grasped Josse’s wrist, his fingers digging in painfully. ‘Are you my enemy?’ he hissed. ‘The voices are unclear…’ Violently, he shook his head.
Josse wanted very much to pull away. Olivier seemed to have lost his reason, and Josse felt the deep, atavistic fear of insanity flood his mind. Trying to keep his voice calm and friendly, he said, ‘I am not here to harm you, Olivier. I merely wish to ask you if there is anything you can tell me about your — er, your journey with the girl, Rosamund. You have been told of the tragic death of your brother, Hugh, and I am attempting to discover how he died.’ He thought quickly. Was there any harm in being more forthcoming with this poor young man? He did not think so. Leaning closer, he lowered his voice and said, ‘You see, Olivier, someone very close to me is suspected of having fought your brother and caused his death, and I do not believe he is responsible.’
Olivier was watching him, the blue eyes wide. The resemblance to Ninian was quite marked, although this young man was more heavily built. He withdrew his hand, slipping it beneath the covers. He muttered something inaudible. ‘What did you say?’ Josse asked.
More muttering. Then Olivier said, ‘They tell me I must not talk to you. They tell me that you will twist my words and use them against me. That madman did it — they say he killed Hugh, and they are right! I saw how he attacked my lord the king and me — he is as wild as they say! Leave me alone! I will speak no more to you.’ He clamped his lips closed and turned away.
‘Olivier, you do not help yourself by this silence,’ Josse said. ‘I give you my word that I will not do what you suggest. I merely ask you to help me.’
There was no answer. After a moment, Olivier reached down for the bed covers and drew them right up over his head.
Josse stood up and quietly left the recess.
He tried to see the king, but two large men stepped in front of him and barred his way. ‘Tell him that Josse was here,’ he snapped angrily. ‘Tell him I do not believe his so-called madman is guilty of any crime, and that I am setting out to prove it.’ Then he spun round and strode away.
Left alone, Olivier emerged from under the covers and peered out. He had been very afraid when the big man had sat down on his bed. The big man looked kindly and said he wanted to help, and Olivier had wanted so much to believe him. Could he call him back? Everything had gone wrong, and Olivier very much needed to talk to someone. The big man said he had fought many enemies. He would be a good person to have on your side. Olivier took a deep breath, about to call out.
With the speed of diving hawks, the voices joined together and shouted him down with such deafening volume that his head rang. He whimpered in pain. ‘All right!’ he whispered. ‘All right!’
He lay back against the pillows. The voices were still nagging at him, although they were quieter now. They told him he was a fool, and they were right, because he had forgotten something very important. Something he had found out because he was skilful and cunning, adept at creeping around and listening to other people talking, so that he usually knew a great deal more than people thought he did.
They had all thought he was unconscious but he hadn’t been, or at least not for long. They had discussed what had happened up by the chapel. They had called the madman by name or, at least, somebody must have done, for Olivier knew his identity. He had listened some more and, even before the big man had told him, he had discovered that the madman was somehow related to him. Not his son, but there was a bond of love between them, that was for sure. The big man would protect the young man. He had just said as much: someone very close to me is suspected of having fought your brother and caused his death, and I do not believe he is responsible. Oh, it was all very confusing, and Olivier found it hard to think about it. His head hurt.
The voices saw their chance and started on at him again. They don’t like you. They will try to harm you. You have to do something. They told him what that something was.
He wondered if he could do it. Carefully, he inspected his wounds. The long cut on his left forearm and down across his wrist hurt quite a lot if he used the arm, but he was right-handed, and he could rest it. The nuns had bandaged it heavily, so it was well protected. The wound under his right arm ached constantly, and if he coughed or sneezed, a red-hot pain shot through it. He would have to be very careful.
He did not want to obey the voices. He wanted to lie there in the bed with the nice clean sheets, having the young nun with the pretty face bringing him dainty little meals and the older one who looked calm and dependable coming to check on him twice a day. He felt safe in the infirmary and, for the first time in as long as he could remember, people seemed to like him and spoke to him with a smile. But the voices said he couldn’t stay. He thought the voices were probably right; they usually were. And even he could see that his lord would not be staying there much longer.
He was clad in his shift, which the nuns had laundered to get the blood out and then given back to him. He wondered where his outer clothes were, and then he remembered. Of course — the nuns had put them under the bed. Cautiously, he eased over and peered into the dim space. There were his boots, and there was his tunic and cloak.
You have no excuse, the voices said coldly.
He was all alone. He had nobody to turn to. Everything had gone wrong.
He knew he must do as they said.
Josse stood outside the infirmary, undecided as to what he should do next. He wanted above all to talk to Helewise and discuss with her this fresh evidence of Olivier’s strange state of mind. In the past, his footsteps would have set off for the abbess’s little room without his volition. It was not that he had no faith in her successor — far from it. Josse had the utmost admiration for Abbess Caliste, but just now only Helewise would do.
But Helewise was not there. In addition, Gervase, no doubt busy organizing his search parties out looking for Ninian, was also unavailable. Josse was on his own.
His thoughts returned to Olivier. The young man’s father had known his son was not right. There’s something wrong with the other one, old Felix had said. Lady Beatrice, too, had spoken of her sons. They are not close, she said. And, when Gervase had asked if Hugh might have gone to the place where his body had been found because he was looking for Olivier, she said she doubted it.
They are not close. Josse thought it over. Yet, when Hugh de Brionne had hatched his plan to abduct Rosamund, his choice of conspirator had been his brother. Had they deliberately maintained the semblance of distance between them, so as to set a smokescreen around their actions? Or was it simply that their mother did not know them as well as she thought she did?
The last time Josse had been to the de Brionne manor had been the day after the discovery of Hugh’s body. The household had had a little while to get over the first shock; Josse decided it was time he went back.
He drove Alfred hard, riding into Felix de Brionne’s courtyard in the early afternoon. He was ushered into the hall where, as before, Lady Beatrice sat alone.
‘I have come from Hawkenlye Abbey,’ he said when he had greeted her and accepted her offer of refreshments.
She studied him, her face unmoving. ‘And how is my son? Word was sent,’ she added, ‘that he has been wounded. I would very much like to go to him, but my husband lies abed and I cannot leave him.’
‘Of course, my lady,’ Josse said. He pitied her, that she had had to make such a decision. ‘Olivier’s wound is not life-threatening and, indeed, I have just come from speaking to him.’
Now she looked wary. ‘Speaking to him?’
He wondered what thoughts were running through her head. Disturbing ones, from her expression. ‘My lady, he is deeply troubled,’ he said. ‘It may be that his mind has been affected by his injury. Such things do happen.’
‘Troubled? In what way?’ she asked cagily.
‘He hears voices and he talks back to them,’ Josse said bluntly. ‘I am sorry if my words alarm you, lady. I
