‘I see.’ He drank some more of the ale. It was a good brew, and cool from standing in the hall. He let the conversation run through his mind. He had learned a great deal, but was there more he could elicit from this willing informant?
Possibly there was.
‘So, with both Gunnora and Dillian dead, Sir Alard has no heir,’ he ventured. ‘Will he leave his estate to Brice, do you think?’
She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, not he. Blood’s thicker than water, and, anyhow, he must have heard the rumours. People talk, you know, sir, and it was common knowledge hereabouts that Brice was too ready with his fists when it came to his wife. Sir Alard loved her, in his way. No, I reckon it’ll all go to Elanor and that worthless new husband of hers.’
‘Ah.’ Elanor? Josse held back the enquiry; surely Mathild wouldn’t disappoint now?
She didn’t. ‘Surrounded by women, Sir Alard,’ she said, with a rueful smile. ‘Two daughters, two sisters, only one of them’s dead. And the surviving one bred girls, like her brother. Only the one, in her case, and, to make a bad matter worse, the girl’s just gone and married a man like Milon d’Arcy. And her silly mother let her! I ask you!’
Milon. Milon? Yes! Josse saw again the young man with his kiss-curl and his skin-tight hose. So he was married to Alard’s niece! That made it quite clear what he’d gone to see Alard about. No wonder Will had shown him the door.
Josse thought he might complete his visits to Gunnora’s family by paying a call on the cousin and her husband. Although he couldn’t immediately see any likely benefit, other than that it would widen his knowledge of Gunnora’s circumstances. He was just wondering how to find out where this Elanor and Milon could be found when Mathild spoke.
‘He’s fond of Elanor, Sir Alard is,’ she said. ‘Well, it’s hard not to be, she’s a lively little thing. Bright, full of fun.’
‘More like Dillian than Gunnora.’ It seemed a safe comment.
‘Aye, though she hasn’t the kindness of Dillian. There’s a ruthless streak lies underneath the laughter and the lightheartedness, of that I’m sure. She’s always had an eye on the main chance, that one — made sure she was around when Sir Alard was dishing out largesse. Why, he’d quite got into the way of treating her like one of his daughters when it came to presents. When he had those crosses made for his own girls, he didn’t hesitate to order one for Elanor as well. And now she stands to inherit the lot.’ Mathild shook her head, as if such sudden and unexpected good fortune were quite incomprehensible. ‘Well, good luck to her, I say. No doubt that foolish young flower she’s married to will run through it all in double-quick time.’ She gave a sudden loud laugh.
‘Perhaps she needs some advice,’ Josse said, seeing his opening. ‘I have experienced a similar situation within my own family,’ he improvised, ‘and possibly I might be of some help?’
Mathild gave him a very long look. Then she said neutrally, ‘Possibly you could, sir. Only Elanor’s from home. Been away a month or more. Staying with kin of her husband’s, they do say, down Hastings way.’
‘Oh.’
He sensed her suspicion. Was she regretting having been so forthcoming? Did she think he was plotting, by some devious means, to get a share of Alard of Winnowland’s fortune? He couldn’t be sure. But it seemed an opportune moment to remind her gently of why he had come, and where he had come from.
He stood up, placing his empty mug down on the side table. ‘I must be going,’ he said. ‘I am sorry to have missed Sir Brice. Thank you for the ale, Mathild — it has refreshed me for my long ride back to Hawkenlye Abbey. The Abbess will be anxious for the tidings I take her.’
It did the trick. Mathild’s expression cleared, and she jumped up from the bench she had been perched on to see him to the door.
The boy, Ossie, had secured Josse’s horse in the corner of the yard. Noticing the mounting block, Josse had a sudden vision of Dillian, throwing herself on to her husband’s horse and racing off to her death.
Riding away from the house, feeling Mathild’s eyes on his back, it was a considerable relief to leave Rotherbridge Manor behind.
Chapter Eight
Josse got back to Hawkenlye Abbey in the late afternoon. He hadn’t hurried; for one thing, it was too hot, and, for another, he had a great deal to think about.
There was no one around when he rode up to the gates, which were closed. But then, hearing the sounds of a horse’s hooves, a lay brother appeared from within the stable, and hurried across to undo the stout chain. He had apparently recognised Josse — which was useful if unexpected, since Josse didn’t recognise him — and he took Josse’s horse as Josse dismounted, volunteering the information that the sisters were at their devotions.
Josse’s heart sank. He was tired, hungry, and thirsty, and, for the last five miles at least, had been looking forward to sitting with the Abbess in her cool and peaceful little room, expounding at length on the subject of the family background of the late Gunnora of Winnowlands, while Abbess Helewise, after plying him with a mug of some cold and delicious wine and a chunk of bread, listened with rapt attention.
Well, it always had seemed somewhat unlikely an image. But a man could dream.
With time on his hands, Josse decided that this might be his chance to go down into the vale and have a look at the holy spring.
* * *
He followed the path which he and Abbess Helewise had taken the day before. The sun was still hot enough to suppress animal and insect activity in the long grass on either side of the track, although, when he paused to listen, he could hear a soft, distant humming, as if a thousand bees were busy somewhere out of sight in the shade.
This time, he stayed on the main path, and, after only a few minutes, was standing outside the small and fairly basic dwelling where the monks lived. The wattle-and-daub house, low and quite small, was in deep shade beneath its thatched roof. A nearby trio of chestnut trees spread their branches over it, increasing the gloom. As in the Abbey above, there was nobody about; presumably the monks were at prayer with the sisters.
Curiosity getting the better of him, Josse peered in through the open door. The floor of the room was beaten earth, and on it stood a roughly made table with benches along both sides. A hanging divided off the sleeping quarters, but, for the daytime, it had been tied back. The quarters themselves were further divided, presumably so that the professed monks slept slightly apart from the lay brothers. Both monks and lay brothers, Josse observed, slept on thin straw pallets, and the neatly folded covers looked as if they would provide scant warmth and absolutely no softness. Even now, in the middle of a hot summer, the room felt damp and smelt slightly of mould. Underlying the mould was another, even more unpleasant smell. Either the monks had not situated their necessarium far enough from their sleeping quarters, or the warmth of the day was heightening the stench of the dung mixed in with the mud of the walls.
It must, Josse thought, backing out of the room, be even worse in winter. Particularly for any monk who had the misfortune to suffer from that crippling curse of damp-engendered pain in the joints. And, down in this grassy, shaded vale with the water source so close, the air would never feel dry.
He headed on towards the shrine, and the simply made, lean-to shelter that adjoined it. Within the shelter he could make out benches, a small hearth, at present swept out and empty, and a wooden shelf bearing roughly fashioned earthenware cups and jugs. There were more of the straw pallets, but these ones were rolled up and tied neatly, pushed out of the way underneath one of the benches. Pilgrims to Hawkenlye, Josse observed, were cared for adequately, but with not the smallest touch of luxury. Well, those who came as supplicants, with sincere and devout hearts, doubtless expected no more. Would not the healing powers of the sacred water be gift enough?