him was probably reporting back to the rest of the search party. They would be making plans to approach Acquin, go through every chamber, every barn and every storeroom until they found the man they were hunting for.
Yves had done all he could for Ninian. Now the young man was out of his reach. With a sigh, he turned his mind to how best to lay the smokescreen that would both throw the pursuers off the scent and protect his family.
SEVENTEEN
The day was drawing to a close, but Josse could not bear to wait until morning. He curbed his impatience for long enough to visit Abbess Caliste, explaining briefly what he had just discovered and asking if she would send someone over to the House in the Woods to take the news to Helewise. Then he ran back to where Alfred was tethered, mounted up and rode as hard as he could down the hill to Tonbridge.
Gervase was home, and Josse found him about to sit down to eat with Sabin and his three children. Sabin invited him to join them but, apologizing, he explained that he had come on a matter of urgency and must speak privately to Gervase.
‘What is so important that you must drag me from my food?’ Gervase asked lightly as they retreated to the far end of the hall.
‘I am sorry, Gervase, I-’
‘No need to explain, old friend,’ Gervase interrupted with a smile. ‘I know you would not be here, out of breath and mud-spattered, if it were not vital. What has happened?’ Abruptly, his expression changed, his face growing tense. ‘Is there news of the lad?’
‘No,’ Josse said shortly. Gervase’s relief was evident.
He explained, as succinctly as he could, everything that had led him to conclude that Olivier de Brionne had been responsible for Hugh’s death. Gervase listened, occasionally asking Josse to elucidate some point, and, when Josse stopped speaking, stood deep in thought.
‘Well?’ Josse demanded. ‘What do you think? Am I right?’
Gervase turned to him. ‘It would appear so, yes, although the evidence is far from conclusive. But,’ he added firmly as Josse opened his mouth to speak, ‘I do believe the case against Olivier is stronger than against Ninian, who was only suspected of the murder because Olivier suggested it. As, indeed, he would, if it was in truth he who killed Hugh.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Josse could hardly bear to ask.
Gervase punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Josse, for the past few days I have gone on sending my men out on a manhunt for someone they have no chance of finding, for, as you and I both know, the man in question is by now safely across the Channel.’ He hesitated, frowning. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more than to tell them tomorrow morning that the search parties may stand down, with the explanation that another suspect has turned up. However, there is still the matter of the wounding of the king and Olivier, for which Ninian stands accused.’
‘It was a fight at close quarters!’ Josse protested. ‘Who can say who wounded whom?’
‘I know, Josse, but we still have to convince the king of that,’ Gervase replied. ‘In the meantime, the pretence that we are still looking for Ninian here in England must, I am afraid, continue.’ He grinned at Josse. ‘If you will now accept my wife’s invitation to come and eat, we will offer you a bed for the night, and tomorrow you and I will go and present this tale of yours to the king. If he reacts as I fully expect him to, he will no doubt command us to arrest Olivier de Brionne, inspect his right hand and accuse him of killing his brother.’
Late that night, leaving his wife asleep, Gervase crept out of their bed and fell on his knees beside it, burying his face in his hands. Had he been a more fervent believer, he might have said he was praying. He was used to deception — in his role as sheriff, he often spoke blatant untruths in pursuit of a greater good — and normally his conscience did not bother him.
But, as he was so painfully discovering, apparently it all depended on who was being deceived…
Gervase was looking his usual elegant self as he and Josse set out early the next morning, and Sabin had done her best to spruce up Josse, even to the extent of trimming his ragged hair. Gervase’s groom had prepared their horses, and the coats of both shone in the autumn sunshine. It was not every day, Josse reflected, that a man rode off to seek audience with his king, and it was worth a bit of effort.
They crossed the Thames around noon, via the newly-completed stone bridge that, the previous year, had finally replaced the successive wooden versions which had spanned the river there for a thousand years. Trying not to look like an overawed country bumpkin, Josse stared at the impressive structure. Its many pointed arches slowed the flow of the river, so that white water constantly boiled and splashed against the piers. In the middle of the bridge stood a chapel dedicated to St Thomas Becket. Josse would have liked to stop and look, but he was not there for his own entertainment.
The White Tower loomed higher and higher above them as they steadily approached. As a symbol of the king’s power, Josse reflected, it was hard to beat. Regular coats of whitewash kept it shining bright and impossible to ignore, and its forbidding appearance was like a constant, unspoken threat.
Josse and Gervase were stopped by several sets of guards before finally, having left their horses, they were permitted to climb the external staircase that soared up to the entrance, high above the ground. There were further challenges, and then at last two heavily-armed guards led them up to the king’s apartments on the top floors. They were led through a great hall, the roof of which soared high overhead, then into the chamber where, they were told, they must wait for the king.
He did not keep them long. He came into the chamber alone, dressed in a scarlet tunic with extravagant, fur- lined sleeves and edged with panels of embroidery worked in real gold thread and sparkling with jewels. He wore a heavy gold chain around his neck, and on each of his fingers and one of his thumbs there sparkled a precious stone set in more gold. He looked, as he always did, so clean that he appeared to shine.
He stopped before his visitors and extended his hands. Josse and Gervase approached and made their reverences. Then, as if suddenly impatient, the king waved away their attentions and, fixing Gervase with a hard blue stare, said, ‘You are here, I hope, to tell me that you have made an arrest.’
Josse winced on his friend’s behalf. Had it not been for Gervase’s first loyalty, to Josse and his kin, then his answer would undoubtedly have been yes. However, Gervase was a man of authority in his own right, and it soon became apparent that he was not going to be cowed, even by a king. With admirable brevity, he outlined his reasons for believing that Hugh de Brionne’s killer was not the madman from the clearing by the chapel — whom he now named as Ninian de Courtenay — but Olivier. ‘With your permission, my lord king,’ he concluded, ‘I will see Olivier de Brionne to verify what the Hawkenlye infirmarer has stated concerning the bruises on his right hand and, once I am convinced, I will charge him with being responsible for his brother’s death.’
The king, congenitally unable to stand still for longer than half a minute, had begun slowly pacing to and fro as Gervase spoke. Now, coming to a halt in front of the two men, he turned and fixed his eyes on the sheriff. ‘Admirably deduced and utterly reasonable,’ he declared. He glanced at Josse, stabbing a finger in his direction. ‘Of course, this conviction that Olivier is guilty has nothing at all to do with the fact that, if he is, then your lad will no longer be wanted for murder.’ Josse made to speak, but the king had not finished. ‘Oh, Josse, Josse! I have known for some time exactly who this man is.’
‘My adopted son is no murderer, sire,’ Josse said steadily.
‘So you do keep saying,’ the king murmured. His eyes hardened. ‘Nevertheless, he attacked Olivier and me. I have the scar on my shoulder to prove it, although already it is fading.’
Josse steeled himself to speak. He knew the risks — so much depended on the king’s mood, for he could switch from genial host to furious tyrant in the blink of an eye — but, for Ninian’s sake, he had to speak up. ‘Sire, I would speak concerning that fight in front of the chapel,’ he said, wishing his voice sounded more authoritative.
‘Yes?’ The one cold syllable seemed to hang in the air. Josse sensed Gervase go tense, and he could all but hear the sheriff’s warning: take care!
‘Sire, Ninian was deeply concerned for the little girl, Rosamund Warin, who Olivier had brought to you. He had followed your party from the hunting lodge to Hawkenlye, and when he saw two of the group break away and take the child up towards the woods, he was very afraid for her safety.’ Steady, he told himself. He wanted to put it into
