‘It’s all right, Josse, we understand,’ Yves said.
But Josse, who did not seem to have heard, spun on his heel and headed for the door. ‘I’m going out for a ride,’ he announced. ‘I’m bad company, I have no useful thoughts to add to this discussion, and I am a trial to those who would try to muster some up. Perhaps some fresh air will clear this accursed fog in my head!’
He was out of the door before either Helewise or Yves could say anything to detain him. As the echoes of a violently slammed door died away — it was fortunate, Helewise mused, that the door and its hinges were stout and strong — Yves said quietly, ‘Oh, dear.’
She looked up at him, feeling a genuine affection. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘he’ll soon be back.’
Yves gave her a grin. ‘Aye,’ he agreed. Then, more sombrely, ‘He drives himself hard, my lady. He takes everything on those broad shoulders of his, and carries responsibilities that in truth belong elsewhere.’ She was about to agree with him when, flushing slightly, he said, ‘I implied no criticism of you, Abbess Helewise.’
‘I did not imagine that you did,’ she murmured.
‘But should not that sheriff — what was his name?’
‘Harry Pelham,’ she said tonelessly.
‘Aye, Pelham. Should he not be hunting down this killer?’
‘He should, yes,’ she agreed. ‘But, Yves, if we sat back and waited for him to solve every crime that occurred in this region, we should still be waiting when the Last Trump sounds.’
‘He is not — oh. I see.’ Yves’ face reflected his comprehension. ‘That’s why Josse feels so driven?’
‘I imagine so, yes. He has helped us many times before, you know, Yves. We at Hawkenlye treasure him.’
‘Mmm, so I gather,’ Yves said. Then, as if he were afraid of saying more than he should, he firmly changed the subject and said, ‘If you will excuse me, I will go and see to my horse and, I think, perhaps follow Josse’s example and take him out for some exercise.’
With a low bow, he backed out of the room and closed the door carefully — and quietly — behind him.
Leaving Helewise to wonder just what Josse had told his family back at Acquin about Hawkenlye Abbey and what they made of the goings-on there.
In particular, what they made of the Abbess.
But such speculation was, she firmly told herself presently, both a waste of God’s good time and a temptation to vanity; getting up, she strode out of the room and headed off towards the church for some private prayer. We need your help, Lord, she thought as she hurried along the cloisters; we have a murderer at large, and we must bring him to justice.
Then not only those two dead men, but also the rest of us, may find some peace.
Josse, still angry and tense, was in no mood to appreciate the beauty of the great Wealden Forest in early October. He kicked Horace into a canter then, as the sweet autumn scents aroused the horse’s interest, allowed him to have his head and break into a gallop.
For some time they rode, fast, along the track that wound around the skirts of the forest. Josse knew better than to turn off and enter in under the trees; the Forest Folk might be miles away but, on the other hand, they might not. And, as Josse knew very well, they did not welcome intruders.
Horace’s pace had slowed to a comfortable canter and Josse, barely paying attention, was taken by surprise when the horse suddenly threw up his head and came to a shuddering stop.
Josse, keeping his seat with difficulty, shouted, ‘Hoi, Horace! What’s the matter?’
Horace snorted, shook his head until his mane flew and the metal of the harness jingled, then, as quickly as he had become frightened, calmed again. He stood quite still and, after a moment, jerked his head out of Josse’s control and bent his neck to crop at some dry, dying grass by the track.
Josse slid off his back and secured the reins to the branch of a tree.
Then he began to look around.
There was, at first sight, nothing apparent that could have alarmed as sensible and experienced a horse as Horace. Josse stared along the track ahead, then behind; nothing, as far as the eye could see, which was up to the next bend. He stared out across the quiet land that sloped gently down and away from the forest ridge; one or two figures could be made out in the distance, presumably working in the fields, but they were far too far away to have acted as a disturbance.
Which left only the forest.
Despite his knowledge of it and its people, despite his respect for the place that amounted almost to awe, if not fear, Josse was not going to allow himself to be a coward.
He checked that Horace was securely tied up, checked that his knife was in its scabbard, then straightened his tunic and arranged his cloak across his shoulders.
And, when he could come up with no more delaying tactics, he found a faint track that ran down the ditch and up the other side — made by a boar, perhaps, or by deer — and followed it. He scrambled over the top of the low bank, pushed aside the branches of a silver birch and made his way in beneath the trees.
The forest was very quiet.
It was autumn, aye, he thought, so you would expect to hear little in the way of animal activity.
But, as he had noticed before in the forest, the natural sounds of the world outside seemed not to penetrate in there. There was no breeze stirring the leaves, no distant cheery voice, no sound of human endeavour such as the regular thunk of an axe or the hee-haw of a saw.
Nothing.
He walked on, treading softly, his feet falling quietly on to the forest’s deep carpet. A thousand years of dead leaves down there under my boots, he thought.
But, far from being a comfort, the thought increased his apprehension. So old, this place! It was ever here, always will be here, of the world yet apart, its people and its very spirit a law unto themselves. .
Stop that, he ordered. Are you a little child, to scare yourself silly with superstitious tales? No, you’re a grown man, with a job to do. Quite what that job was, and why whatever purpose he had was to be aided by creeping through the great forest, he did not stop to ask himself.
And, soon, he smelt smoke.
Striding on, refusing to allow fear to better him, he heard the small crackle of a campfire. He could see the smoke now, curling up gracefully into the soft, still forest air.
Caution finally winning out over bravado, he came to a halt behind a giant oak tree. Peering out from his shelter, he stared down into a glade. In its centre, where the smoke and the low flames would not reach overhanging branches, a little fire had been lit, the kindling and the small, neatly trimmed logs carefully retained within a circle of stones. A cairn of cut logs had been built, close enough to the hearth to be convenient but not so close that a stray spark might set light to it. Beside the fire was a bundle; it looked like a traveller’s pack, and had been partly unfastened. Over by the first of the encircling trees a rough shelter had been constructed, made from cut and trimmed branches covered with a thick layer of bracken, dead and rusty looking. Its neat appearance made it look like the work of someone who had made such shelters many times before and knew exactly what he was doing.
There was nobody there.
Edging out from behind his tree, Josse crept on down into the glade. He stared around him as he went. No, he had been right; nobody there. Which was strange, when the flesh of his back crawled and trembled as if unfriendly eyes were boring into it. As if, indeed, it might at any moment receive the assault of an arrow.