‘So he lost them both?’ he prompted eventually.
‘Hm?’ Will seemed to have forgotten Josse was there. ‘Aye. One after the other, not a sennight between them.’ Another deep sigh. ‘No more daughters. No female heir, securely married to a good man.’ He raised his head and met Josse’s eyes. ‘And the master’s every breath threatening to be his last. What’s to become of us all, sir? That’s what I’d like to know!’
‘Aye,’ Josse said absently. His brain was working hard, and, despite the depressing circumstances, there was an elation in him, at having surmised correctly.
He did a swift resume of Sir Alard’s dilemma. Both daughters dead, one immediately after the other. No more children, and this Dillian, apparently, had herself borne no child. And a son-in-law who, according to Will, was held by popular opinion to have been at best a poor husband, at worst responsible for his young wife’s death. The sort of man, surely, to whom a father-in-law would scarcely leave his undoubted wealth.
No wonder the peasants of the manor seemed so dismal and dejected. There was, in Josse’s experience, nothing more guaranteed to lower the spirits than uncertainty about the future.
And, with the succession of Winnowlands undecided and threatening to remain so, how much more uncertain could the future of everyone on this particular estate be?
Chapter Seven
Will, preoccupied with his own worries, barely raised his head at Josse’s casual request as to where he might find the Lord Brice. He gave brief instructions — which proved to be easy to follow and totally accurate — and, as if as an afterthought, mentioned that Josse was unlikely to find the master at home since, so it was rumoured, Brice of Rotherbridge had gone to Canterbury. ‘You’ll likely find his brother, though.’ This with a sniff which could have been interpreted as disparaging. ‘The young Lord Olivar’s usually around.’ Will shot Josse a knowing look. ‘Keeping an eye on things, like.’
Suspecting he wasn’t going to learn any more — indeed, Will had turned and was heading back to whatever task he was working on down in the undercroft — Josse set off to search out either, or both, of the brothers Rotherbridge.
* * *
The Rotherbridge manor adjoined the Winnowlands estate on the east and on the south. Brice had his share of ridge-top pasture and arable land, but the majority of his acres were on the marshlands; he must own enough sheep, Josse mused, to make him a man of considerable means. English wool was obtaining a fine reputation in the markets of France and the Low Countries; there were fortunes to be made, and, from the look of the newly extended manor house, Brice of Rotherbridge was busy making his.
No wonder, Josse thought as he rode up the track to the house, Alard wanted an alliance with this man. Not only are they neighbours — and Alard may well have cast an occasional covetous eye on Brice’s acres of sheep pasture — but Brice is the sort of husband a father would welcome for his daughter. As regards his money and his position, anyway. Would it have weighed with Alard, that other aspects of Brice might make him less desirable? Would he have known about them, even, other than as servants’ gossip?
Yes. He’d have known. Gunnora would have told him. Wouldn’t she? Surely, during one of those protracted arguments between furious, determined father and stubborn daughter, she would have said something on the lines of, I’m not marrying him, he’s a brute.
Or perhaps she hadn’t. For Dillian had needed no persuasion to marry the man.
There was a tale there, Josse reflected as he rode into the shady yard of Rotherbridge manor house. And, hopefully, he’d find someone to tell it to him.
‘Hello?’ he called, still sitting his horse. ‘My Lord Brice? My Lord Olivar?’
There was no reply for some moments, although he thought he heard sounds of movement within. ‘Hello?’ he called again.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’ shouted a female voice, suddenly loud in the still warmth. ‘Can’t be doing two things at once, and that fool of a boy’ll ruin it if I don’t tell him exactly what to do, you’d think he’d have more wits, but there you are, some are born stupid and stupid they remain. Now, sir, what can I do for you?’
She had emerged from the house talking, and the outpourings had continued as she made her way over to Josse. She was getting on in years, stout, and walked with a limp that threw her with a jerk over to her right at each step. She wore a plain brown gown, and over it a clean white apron, on which she was wiping work-worn hands.
Hoping fervently that her flow of words indicated a character disposed to hob-nobbing with strangers, Josse said, ‘I have come in search of Brice of Rotherbridge.’ Improvising, he added, ‘To pay my condolences on the death of his wife.’
The leathery face, which had been screwed up into a deep grimace of interested enquiry as she stared up at him, instantly slumped, into lines of sorrow. ‘Aye, aye,’ the woman murmured. Then she sighed deeply, and repeated, ‘Aye.’
Josse waited. Would a gentle prompt be in order? ‘I have come from Winnowlands,’ he began, ‘and I-’
‘That poor old man!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘First Dillian, then Gunnora! If this double tragedy doesn’t tip him over into his grave, I’d like to know what would. How is he, sir?’
‘Not well. He-’
‘No, he wouldn’t be. Nor will any be among them what has the misfortune to depend on him, neither. The master isn’t here,’ she said, abruptly changing to the practical. ‘He’s gone to Canterbury, sir.’
No explanation followed — indeed, Josse thought, why should it? — so he repeated, with a delicate note of enquiry, ‘Canterbury?’
‘Aye. To bare his soul before the good Brothers, do an honest penance, take his punishment and say Mass for her, God rest her soul.’
‘Amen,’ Josse said. What, he wondered, mind seething, had Brice to do penance for? But it wouldn’t do to ask — wasn’t it likely that he’d get more confidences from this old soul if he pretended he was already in the know? ‘He’ll rest more easy in himself after that, I dare say.’
She gave him a swift look, as if assessing how much of the background he really knew and how much he was guessing. After a fairly uncomfortable pause — the deep-set brown eyes were disturbingly penetrating — she appeared to accept him at face value. ‘Well, I dare say,’ she agreed grudgingly. ‘No knowing how these things affect a man, that’s what I say.’ Another long, considering look, under which Josse did his best to make his expression bland and faintly earnest. The picture, he hoped, of a distressed family friend come to pay his respects.
It must have convinced her. Turning back towards the house, she yelled, ‘Ossie? Get yourself out here, lad!’ Too soon for him to have been anywhere but eavesdropping behind the door, a boy of about fourteen appeared, gangly, slightly spotty, hanks of greasy hair hanging limp over the low forehead, the epitome of young adolescence. ‘Take the gentleman’s horse,’ the woman ordered, ‘see to it’ — it! she obviously didn’t concern herself overmuch with such equine matters such as gender — ‘and then get you back to the stove. Don’t you dare let it stick, or it’ll be you as cleans my pan!’
‘No, Mathild.’ The boy flashed a quick grin at Josse — he had, Josse observed, a broken and discoloured front tooth, which must surely soon start giving the boy agonies, if it wasn’t doing so already — and Josse dismounted and gave the boy the reins.
Then, with a jerk of her head as if to say, this way, Mathild led Josse into the cool hall of Rotherbridge Manor.
‘You’ll take some ale, sir?’ she offered, going to where a covered pewter jug stood ready on a long side table. A hospitable house, this.
‘Aye, thank you.’
She filled a mug, and watched as he drank. ‘Thirsty day,’ she remarked. ‘You’ve come far?’