He woke at first light. There were people passing on the road, and the sound of their voices had disturbed him. He lay perfectly still, his heart hammering. Had they seen him? Had they come from the coast? Against all logic, he found himself almost certain they had been sent by the king and, with unbelievable speed and efficiency, had found him after less than a day…
The tramping footsteps went straight past, and the cheery voices faded in the thin air. Rebuking himself for his folly, Ninian got up, rolled up his blanket, saddled Garnet and rode on.
He found Acquin late that afternoon. He had taken several wrong turns, and the people he had asked for directions hadn’t heard of it. He had envisaged a large village or even a small town, well known and much frequented, but the truth was different. There was little to the place but a church and the fortified manor itself. His first glimpse was of the tops of two high watchtowers and, as he rode closer, he made out the long, low roofs of the buildings within the strong outer walls. He passed a church and a few meagre dwellings sheltering beneath the high walls. Then, following the walls, he turned up to the left and soon found himself in front of imposing gates, firmly closed.
There was a small opening in one of the wooden gates, presumably to allow those within to see who had come calling. He peered through it. Storerooms, workrooms and stables lined the courtyard on two sides, and on the third was what must be the family’s accommodation. The short day was already darkening, and lamps had been lit. Smoke rose up from the slate roof.
Ninian was cold and lonely. He reached out and rang the heavy rope that worked the clapper of a big bell, and its deep note rang out.
A young man with light-blond hair emerged from the stables, wiping his hands on a sacking apron. He stared out suspiciously at Ninian. ‘Who are you?’
Ninian had forgotten they would speak French. It was Josse’s native tongue. Ninian had been forced to learn and speak it when he had lived with the terrible man his mother had married. He thought briefly, bringing to mind the right words, and replied in the same tongue: ‘My name is Ninian de Courtenay. I have come from the house of Sir Josse d’Acquin, in England. If you please, I would like to speak to Sir Yves d’Acquin.’
The lad looked at him in surprise. Then he nodded and hurried away. Quite soon afterwards he returned, accompanied by another man. He was shorter and less heavily built than Josse, but he had the same dark eyes and thick brown hair. He had a round, pleasant face and laughter lines around his eyes and mouth. He looked at Ninian and said, barely suppressing the excitement, ‘I am Yves. Is it true? Have you come from Josse?’
‘I have,’ Ninian agreed. ‘He sends his greetings to his brothers and their families — ’ quickly, he reeled off all the names of the brothers, the wives and the children — ‘and he asks that you take me in, for I am his adopted son.’
Yves was already shooting back the bolts and opening one of the gates. ‘Come in!’ he cried. ‘I felt sure that you were who you said you were, even before you proved it by your recital of every last one of my immediate kin. Stephan, take his horse — ’ Ninian slid down and handed the lad Garnet’s reins — ‘and tend him well, for he looks as if he has ridden all day.’
‘I got lost,’ Ninian admitted as Garnet was led away and Yves ushered him inside. ‘I left in a hurry, and I didn’t listen properly to Josse’s instructions.’
Yves stopped, turning to look at him. ‘You left in a hurry,’ he repeated worriedly. ‘There is trouble?’
‘Josse is perfectly well, as is everyone else,’ Ninian said quickly, cross with himself for causing this affectionate, friendly man anxiety. ‘Something happened. They — er, some quite important people think I killed someone and injured two others. I was in a fight with the two men, but any injury I inflicted was in defence of myself and others. I swear to you that I have killed nobody.’
Yves was looking at him intently. ‘It’s not every man who can claim that, in these troubled times,’ he observed. He went on staring at Ninian, who found himself steadily becoming uneasy under the scrutiny. Eventually, Yves spoke again. ‘My brothers say I am too quick to trust my own instincts, but all the same I intend to do precisely that,’ he said. ‘I like you, Ninian de Courtenay. I know a little of who you are and how you come to be Josse’s son, and I would judge that you are a man who tells the truth, at least to those he cares about. Finally — ’ he started to move on as he spoke, leading Ninian along a passage towards an arched doorway — ‘I do not believe that my brother would have sent you to me unless your credentials were impeccable.’ He waved a hand, inviting Ninian to go on into the room beyond the arch. ‘Come and meet my family.’
Back at the House in the Woods, Josse and Helewise sat on by the fire after the rest of the household had gone to bed. Before she retired, Tilly had returned and quietly left a jug of spiced wine beside the hearth. Josse had just stuck a hot poker into it, and the fragrant steam was scenting the hall.
‘I wish Meggie was here,’ Josse said, breaking the companionable silence.
Helewise thought she knew why. She had observed how, when young Geoffroi had gone to sit beside his father after supper, Josse had at first clutched the boy convulsively to him, swiftly releasing him when he realized the grip was too tight. Having just been forced to wave goodbye to one of the people he most loved, Josse obviously wanted to keep the others close.
‘She will be home soon, I expect.’ She tried to make her tone calm and reassuring. ‘We all mourn Ninian in our own way,’ she added softly.
‘Don’t use that word!’ he snapped.
She rose and went to sit beside him. Taking his hand, she bent to kiss it. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I only meant we mourn his presence here with us. No more.’
With a tentative hand, he reached out and lightly touched her cheek. ‘I know,’ he said gruffly. ‘I didn’t mean to shout at you.’
She got up and poured wine for them both. She handed one of the pewter goblets to him and, raising her own, said, ‘To Ninian, wherever he is. May God keep him safe until he can return to us.’
‘Amen,’ Josse muttered, instantly taking a gulp of the wine.
Helewise went back to her seat on the opposite side of the hearth. Earlier, she and Josse had shared what sparse information their day’s enquiries had discovered. Something that he had told her concerning his visit to Lady Beatrice was puzzling her. She thought about it — years as a nun had taught her to think before she spoke, so as not to waste time on idle chatter — and then said, ‘Josse, I have been worrying about this scheme of Hugh’s to use our Rosamund as a gift with which to gain the king’s favour.’
‘Aye, it’s shameful,’ he agreed. ‘I-’
She interrupted him. ‘It is, of course, but that wasn’t what I meant. You paint a picture of Olivier as the outcast, the son whom his mother’s husband tolerated but did not love. Surely, if one of the brothers had such a burning desire to gain the favour of an older man, it would not be Hugh, who already had a father’s love, but Olivier. Yet Olivier claims the whole idea was Hugh’s.’
‘Aye, and Hugh is dead and cannot tell us otherwise,’ Josse replied.
‘I was so sure, when I spoke to Rosamund, that I had guessed what happened,’ she said bitterly. ‘Yet I was wrong, for this horseman whom Rosamund heard but did not see rode away again.’
‘Aye, and in any case, had it been Hugh, and had he died there at that time, then what happened to his horse? Olivier would have had to take it away with him, and Rosamund would have told us had that been the case. She loves horses, doesn’t she?’
‘Indeed she does,’ Helewise replied. ‘Besides, she said that she rode with Olivier on Star. She’d certainly have described in great detail any horse she’d been loaned to ride by herself, especially the sort of mount ridden by a wealthy man.’
Neither of them spoke for some time. Then Josse sighed heavily and said, ‘We still have no proof that it wasn’t Ninian who fought Hugh.’ He drained his goblet and set it down beside the empty jug. He straightened up and looked at her, his expression so sad that she almost leapt up to take him in her arms.
Something in his eyes held her back. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said shortly. ‘Sleep well, my lady.’
She listened as his heavy tread faded to nothing. My lady, she thought. Perhaps it was unconscious, brought about by the stress of the moment, but he had called her by the formal name that had been her right when she was abbess of Hawkenlye.
Slowly, she got up and went through to her own quarters. She made her preparations for the night, then went into her small sleeping chamber, quickly removing headdress and outer tunic and lying down. The bed was soft — far softer than the hard plank bed she had slept on for so long in the Hawkenlye dormitory — and the blankets were thick, soft wool. She even had a fur bedcover for when the weather was very cold. It was so luxurious, and Josse
