And that Esyllt, in her horror and despair, had grabbed his own weapon and killed him? She was strong enough, heaven knew, with those well-muscled arms of hers, those powerful shoulders …
Head bent over her folded hands, Helewise was praying in earnest now. ‘Dear Lord, if that is what happened, then please, of Thy mercy, give Esyllt the courage to speak out. If she was defending herself, then surely it is no mortal sin to have killed him?’
It was that — the judgement that would fall on Esyllt — that was holding Helewise back. Because, if she were wrong and such a killing was to be viewed as a mortal sin, then Esyllt would hang for murder.
And, once dead, her soul would go to hell.
In the silence of the Abbey church, Helewise covered her face with her hands and tried to decide what to do.
Chapter Twelve
Arriving back at his new home, Josse was unsurprised to hear the sound of hammering. No doubt, he thought wearily, there had been yet another delay. Even now, the foreman was probably wondering how best to inform Josse that the work on New Winnowlands wouldn’t be completed this side of Christmas.
But, other than that — in fact, matters weren’t quite that bad, since the foreman promised everything would be finished in a week, two at the most — Josse’s welcome home was all that a man could wish for. Will came out to take Horace, and, as Josse well knew, the man would care for the horse as diligently as Josse himself would have done. Furthermore, Josse’s swift but penetrating look around the courtyard and outbuildings of his new domain was sufficient to indicate that everything was neat and tidy.
Inside the house, it was the same. Ella had clearly busied herself clearing up after the workmen, and not so much as a small pile of sawdust marred the polished sheen of the flagstones in the hall. She had rubbed beeswax into the fine wood of Josse’s table, chair and benches, and bowls of flowers stood in the deep stone window embrasures.
Greeting him, she said, ‘Will you eat, sir? I have a pot of stew simmering, duck, it is, and Will’s pulled some lovely young onions, white and smooth, they are.’
Josse’s mouth was watering. ‘That sounds wonderful. Yes please, Ella.’
* * *
He was relaxing in the mid-afternoon heat — not asleep, he told himself firmly, merely resting with his eyes closed — when he heard someone ride into the yard. Getting up, he crossed the hall to the open doorway and looked down the steps into the courtyard. Will was in conversation with a mounted messenger.
Josse thought immediately of the Abbess, but, since he didn’t recognise the messenger, it was not likely that the man came from Hawkenlye. He watched as Will came hurrying up the steps towards him.
‘Sir Josse, this man brings word from someone calling himself Tobias Durand,’ Will reported. ‘He says you know his master, and that he — the master — invites you to visit him and his lady.’
‘Does he indeed,’ Josse said softly.
‘Sir?’
‘Thank you, Will, I shall speak to the man myself.’
He went down the steps and across to the mounted man, who, well-schooled in manners, slipped off his horse’s back and made Josse a courteous bow.
‘Tell your master and his good lady that I accept their invitation,’ Josse said.
The man — he was actually little more than a boy — raised his head. ‘When shall I say, sir?’
‘Say-’ Josse thought. ‘Say the end of the week.’
‘The end of the week,’ the boy echoed. Then he said, ‘I’d better tell you the way.’
* * *
Josse set out mid-morning of the following Friday; the ride to the house of Tobias Durand would, the boy had said, take well over the hour.
As he rode, he distracted his main train of thought — why Tobias should suddenly have expressed a desire for Josse’s company — by recalling what the Abbess had told him of the man. Which was, in fact, precious little.
Ah well, he would just have to see for himself.
* * *
The house was a grand one. Not all that big, but expensively built and, as Josse discovered when a tall and dignified manservant ushered him inside, beautifully furnished in the latest style.
No expense had been spared, it was clear.
What was not quite so clear was where Tobias had come by the money to pay for it all …
Tobias came bounding across the hall to greet his guest.
‘Sir Josse, how wonderful to see you!’ he gushed. ‘We’re in the solar, enjoying the sunshine. Won’t you join us? Paul!’ he called to the manservant. ‘Bring wine — draw a jug of that new barrel we broached last night.’
Josse followed Tobias back across the hall and up a spiral stair that led off it. At the top, the stair opened out into a sunny room with, Josse noticed in faint surprise, glass in its modest window.
Glass!
In front of which, stitching at a framed piece of embroidery with every appearance of calm, sat a woman.
Straight away, as the woman turned her head, Tobias said, ‘Dearest, may I present Sir Josse d’Acquin, King’s knight and lord of the manor of New Winnowlands?’ And, to Josse, ‘Sir Josse, my wife, Petronilla.’
It was just as well, Josse reflected swiftly as, moving forward, he bent to kiss the woman’s outstretched hand, that Tobias had introduced her immediately, and so clearly.
Because, otherwise, Josse might have taken the woman for Tobias’s mother rather than his wife.
‘Please, Sir Josse, sit down,’ Petronilla was saying, indicating a leather-seated chair. ‘In the sunshine, by me.’
‘Thank you, lady.’
Tobias busied himself with pouring the wine that the manservant had just brought, and Josse, listening to the light-hearted comments he was exchanging with his wife, took the chance to study Petronilla Durand.
She had a thin face, and had a bony look about her, so that she appeared to be all angles. She must, he thought, trying to be charitable, be at least forty-five. At least. And the greying hair visible at the temples, under the smoothly starched linen of her barbette, made her look older, as did the thin lips surrounded by a network of tiny lines. Lines which, Josse observed, all seemed to run downwards. If she could manage a less severe look, put a little flesh on those bones, he thought, then it might take a few years off her. As it was …
If he had been right in his estimate of Tobias’s age, then Petronilla was about fifteen years his senior. Perhaps not quite old enough to be his mother, but it was a close-run thing.
‘… making an embroidery to celebrate our first three months in this gracious house,’ Tobias was saying. ‘See, Sir Josse, how fine is her work?’ He pointed to the stitched linen in Petronilla’s hands; she appeared to be working on a design of pansies, the purple and the egg-yolk yellow making a dramatic but pleasing contrast.
‘Fine indeed, my lady.’ Josse looked up into the pale face, noticing the maze of small wrinkles around the deep-set eyes. ‘Such stitching! This must have taken you hours.’
‘I like to sew,’ she said. Her voice was pleasantly low-pitched. Her lips made a gesture which, Josse was to realise, was typical of her, a sort of folding-together which made them all but disappear. It was not, he thought with some pity, a mannerism that did anything for her appearance. ‘It is a pastime I have always enjoyed.’
‘I see. I-’
‘Petronilla was lady-in-waiting to Queen Eleanor,’ Tobias butted in. ‘They are old friends, my wife and the Queen.’ Possibly old had been tactless, Josse thought, as had the implication that Petronilla and the Queen were contemporaries. ‘Petronilla was a member of the Queen’s court, both here in England and in France.’
A faint blush had stained Petronilla’s white and slightly greasy-looking cheeks. ‘I hardly think-’ she began.
‘Oh, dearest, don’t be modest!’ Again, her husband interrupted. ‘Sir Josse would love to hear of your days in court circles, him being King Richard’s man! Wouldn’t you, Sir Josse?’