His vagrant attention suddenly entered an area of his mind that he had forgotten about. It was another memory of that visit to Saxonbury and it was also, Josse realised triumphantly, the little niggling thought that he had been trying without success to locate.
Until now.
He had remembered the voices. That voice speaking in a foreign language, the one that he had presumed belonged to the Lord’s Turkish wife, suffering pain, addressing her women. He had known there was something not quite right in his memory, and now he knew what it was.
There had been a man’s voice speaking that foreign language too.
Aye, Josse thought, kicking Horace and upping his pace, it might be that one of the Lord’s sons speaks his mother’s tongue. But it might just as well not be.
As he was contemplating the implications of his revelation, another one hit him with equal, if not greater, force. They had all been assuming that Father Micah had been referring to two different missions.
What if they had been one and the same?
He glanced up at the sky. It looked as if the snow clouds would bring darkness prematurely but, even so, surely he had time to get up to Saxonbury and back to Hawkenlye by nightfall. It was not very far. He kicked Horace again as they reached the top of the long climb, and the big horse broke into a canter. The ground was hard and the track now ran straight and level; if they hurried, they ought to be all right.
Whoever was on guard up at Saxonbury must have remembered the Lord’s order that Josse was to be admitted if he came calling; even as Horace, flanks heaving and sweating profusely, came trotting up to the gate, it was drawn back. A voice said, ‘Good day to you, Sir Josse d’Acquin. The Lord awaits you.’
The guard must also have been keeping a close watch on the path up to the hilltop, Josse thought. He was impressed by the diligence with which the Lord arranged for his lands to be watched over and protected.
The Lord was indeed waiting for him, standing in the middle of his courtyard with a heavy fur cloak around his shoulders.
‘You have been riding hard,’ he observed. ‘I am intrigued as to what pressing matter has brought you back here on a day of such bad weather. But, before we go inside and you tell me, I will call one of my men to attend to your horse.’ He put up a large hand and gave Horace’s damp neck a stroke and a pat; Horace nickered a soft response.
‘I would be grateful,’ Josse said, slipping off Horace’s back.
A youth had come running from what appeared to be a stable and he took Horace from Josse with a smile.
‘Your horse will be in good hands,’ the Lord murmured; looking at him, Josse noticed that he was smiling as if at some private joke. ‘Come in!’ He slapped Josse on the back. ‘Come into my hall and warm yourself. I will order some ale and-’
‘No!’ Josse protested. Then, remembering his manners, added, ‘Thank you, but on my last visit I found your ale too good, so that I did not know when to stop.’
‘Ah,’ said the Lord, a definite twinkle in his eyes.
The hall was empty. Again, though, Josse had the strong impression that he was being watched.
Now, though, he was almost sure that he knew why and by whom.
The Lord waved him to a seat by the fire, taking another one himself. He fixed bright blue eyes on Josse and said, ‘Well?’
As he had been riding up to Saxonbury, Josse had made up his mind that only the direct approach stood any chance at all of success with the Lord. Even then, that chance was not very good.
Still, he thought, now that I’m here I’ll do my best.
Meeting the Lord’s eyes he said, ‘When I was last here I heard voices speaking in a foreign tongue. I assumed that it was your wife talking to her womenfolk. I also heard a woman’s cry of pain and, again, assumed it was your wife, whom you had described to me as frail. I ask you now, my Lord, does she suffer pain?’
The Lord regarded him steadily. ‘No more than any other old woman. Or any other old man, come to that.’ He shifted in his seat, pressing a hand to the small of his back. ‘The cold weather brings out the pains in the joints, you know. Me, I suffer a niggle in my backbone when an easterly blows that feels like an imp with a pitchfork. And my wife was born and bred in warmer climes, so that our northern chill affects her worst than most. She keeps inside the house in winter.’
‘Ah. Aye, I see.’ Was that a confirmation or not? Deciding to plough on, Josse said, ‘It is quite possible, I know, that my first assumption was correct and that it was your wife whom I overheard. But I heard a man’s voice reply to her in that same foreign tongue. Do any of your sons or your manservants speak your wife’s language, my Lord?’
‘One of my sons has a word or two. But my wife rarely speaks her native tongue nowadays. Sometimes I think that she has all but forgotten it.’ Now the laughter in the Lord’s eyes was very evident and the smile that he tried to control was steadily getting the better of him.
‘Then, if you will allow it,’ Josse said, with more confidence than he felt, ‘I shall suggest another explanation for those mystifying voices that I heard, an explanation that would also, were it true, account for why it is that I feel hidden eyes closely watching my every move while I am in your hall.’
‘Please, proceed. I should be most entertained to hear you.’ The Lord waved a hand in an expansive gesture.
Josse took a deep breath and said, ‘I know that there is a group of heretics in the area. They originally numbered seven, but one was imprisoned and is dead and one has not been heard of for some time. Of the remaining five, one, a woman, is being treated by the nuns at Hawkenlye for severe wounds to her back and her forehead. She has been branded and flogged, as had the woman who died in prison. Now, unless they have perished, the four men of the group must have found themselves a refuge. Somewhere quite close to Hawkenlye, so that they can be kept informed of Aurelia’s progress and come for her when she is ready to travel.’ He paused, stared briefly up at the Lord’s impassive face and made himself go on. ‘Somewhere where the master of the house is not afraid of the law that states that he who shelters heretics shall have his house burned to the ground. It comes to me, my Lord, that on both counts Saxonbury fits the picture that I have drawn.’
There was a long silence, during which Josse became uncomfortably hot under the Lord’s intense scrutiny. He was beginning to regret his openness, and wish that he had taken the precaution of telling someone where he was going, when at last the Lord spoke.
‘You have been honest with me, Sir Josse,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Wait here.’
Josse heard the Lord’s heavy footsteps cross the hall and recede somewhere in the distance. He stared into the fire, watching the dancing flames, trying not to think the worst. I have my sword, he thought, and maybe I’ll stand a chance if there are but the Lord and one or two of his kin at home. .
Then the Lord came back. He was no longer alone. Beside him walked a man dressed in a long black garment tied with a rope belt. He had a wound on his forehead and he held himself stiffly, as if some other hurt pained him when he moved. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties, possibly a little older. He had a broad, chubby face, brown eyes and greying brown hair. He looked, Josse thought, very wary.
Standing up, Josse said, ‘I am Josse d’Acquin. If you are whom I believe you to be, please understand that I mean you no harm and that I will help you if it is in my power.’
The man came right up to him, staring into Josse’s eyes as if he were trying to see into his heart to judge whether he spoke the truth. After a moment, he said, in a heavily accented voice, ‘I am Arnulf. I am inclined to believe you and to put my trust in you for, as the Lord has explained, you have come here with your suspicions and not to some fierce priest.’
‘Father Micah is dead,’ Josse said quietly.