Josse smiled at the boy. ‘Thank you, Ossie. You have carried the message well. Aye, I will come.’
Ossie gave him a quick grin. ‘I’ll go and say to Master,’ he said, beginning to turn away.
‘I shall be behind you on the road,’ Josse called after him.
Saul was still hovering, face alight with curiosity.
‘May I have water for a wash and a shave, Brother Saul?’ Josse asked. ‘It appears that I have to go on another journey.’
* * *
He covered the now familiar miles to Rotherbridge in good time. The weather had turned, and was slightly cooler; it was a lovely morning for a ride.
Crossing the river where he had tactfully turned his head away from Brice’s grief, he wondered how the man fared now. Was he becoming accustomed to his wife’s cruel death? Was he beginning to believe that, for a true repentant, there was forgiveness? Josse fervently hoped so; the prospect of being the guest of a man in such straits as Brice had been, that day, was not a happy one.
He reached Rotherbridge Manor, and rode into the yard. This time, it was not Mathild who came out to meet him, but a man. Well-dressed, in plain but good-quality tunic, hose and boots, the man was dark-haired and had a look of Brice about him. But, whereas Brice’s hair had had that distinctive badger-stripe of white, this man’s was smoothly dark brown throughout.
It must be the brother. What was his name? Yes; Josse had it.
‘Good day, my Lord Olivar,’ he called out. ‘I have come at your brother Brice’s invitation — I am Josse d’Acquin, and he sent me word at Hawkenlye Abbey, where I am lodging with the monks in the vale, and-’
The dark man was smiling. ‘I know who you are,’ he interrupted. ‘Please, Sir Josse, step down. Ossie will tend to your horse. Ossie!’ The boy, Josse reflected, was having a busy morning; he appeared out of the stable block, broom in hand, nodded to Josse and took away his horse. The dark man watched, then turned back to Josse. ‘Come and take refreshment.’
He led the way up the steps into the hall, and waved a hand at the chair where Josse had sat before, when he talked to Mathild. Of her, there was no sight; probably, with the master and his brother at home again, she had her hands full down in the kitchen.
‘Have you any idea, my Lord Olivar, why your brother wished to see me?’ Josse asked, more for the sake of conversation than any urgent desire to know. Obviously, having summoned Josse, Brice would no doubt soon arrive, and explain himself to Josse in person.
The dark man was smiling again, as if amused at some private joke. Offering Josse a mug of ale, he said, ‘I think, Sir Josse, that I must correct a misapprehension into which you have somehow fallen.’ He raised his own mug, took a drink, then said, ‘I am not Olivar. I am Brice.’
Josse’s immediate, foolish impulse was to say, No you’re not! You can’t be, I saw Brice, down by the river, in the deepest distress over the death of his young wife!
He held the words back. Clearly, he’d made a mistake. Jumped to a conclusion on purely circumstantial evidence. Wrong!
But, if this were indeed Brice, then who was the grieving man? There was a resemblance, yes — it was perfectly possible they were brothers.
He said, ‘My Lord Brice, I apologise.’ Brice shook his head, still smiling. Josse continued, ‘If it is not impertinent, might I ask if your bother Olivar resembles you?’
‘They do say so, yes, although I do not really see it myself. We are both dark, however. Only he has a streak of white, just here.’ He indicated above his left ear. ‘He’s had it since he was a lad of fifteen. It grew after he’d had a bad fall from his horse when we were out hunting. The physician said it was shock, but I’ve always doubted that. It takes more than a fall to shock my brother, Sir Josse.’
‘Ah. Oh. Yes, I see.’ Josse, aware of making the right responses, was thinking. Not a man to shock readily? Perhaps not, when it was a question of physical fortitude. But the man Josse had seen down by the river had been in shock all right. He’d been grieving so deeply that it had seemed he would never stop.
Olivar of Rotherbridge, then, had a secret heartbreak which, or so it seemed, even his elder brother was unaware of.
‘I asked you to visit me,’ Brice was saying, ‘because I wish to make a donation to Hawkenlye Abbey.’
‘You do?’ With some effort, Josse pulled his thoughts together.
‘I do. I was planning to pay a call on Abbess Helewise, but there are matters here at Rotherbridge requiring my attention, and I have already been away for some time.’
‘Aye.’
‘I was with the holy brothers at Canterbury,’ Brice went on. ‘Doing penance.’
‘Aye, I know.’ Josse felt compelled to admit it; there was no need for this man to punish himself further by giving the details to a stranger.
But Brice, it seemed, wanted to. ‘I did love Dillian,’ he said, leaning forward and fixing earnest brown eyes on Josse. ‘We had our difficulties, as no doubt do all married couples. You are married?’ Josse shook his head. ‘She could be wilful and over-frivolous, and she would not address herself to matters of importance. But I was at fault, too. I dare say I was too old and serious for her, God rest her soul, and I admit that I was not always kind to her.’
He was relating his story, Josse thought, with an ease that suggested acceptance. If that were so, then the heavy-handed monks had done their job well.
‘Her death was an accident, I’m told,’ Josse said.
‘Accident, yes. I know it was. But it was my rash anger which led to it. I have made my confession, and done my penance.’ He gave a grim smile, as if at the memory. ‘I am reliably informed that for me to go on heaping ashes on my head would amount to self-indulgence. And I am only to wear the hair shirt on Sundays.’
This time the smile was open and unrestrained. Josse, wondering if possibly he were being deliberately charmed, found himself liking the man. And, if Brice had won himself God’s forgiveness for his part in his wife’s tragic death, then who was Josse to go on condemning him?
‘You spoke of a gift to the Abbey,’ he said.
‘I did. I was explaining why I asked you to visit me, which was purely because, unable to make the journey to Hawkenlye, I could scarcely ask the Abbess to ride over here. So, Sir Josse, I asked you.’
It was reasonable. ‘I have no objection,’ Josse said.
‘Good. In that case, let us proceed to the business. My late sister-in-law, Gunnora of Winnowlands, would have been left the greater part of her father’s fortune had she and the old man lived a little longer. He disinherited her on her entry into Hawkenlye. Alard wanted her to marry me — it was a sound match, both families would have felt the benefits, and I was not unwilling. But she wouldn’t have me, Sir Josse, shouted out to all who would listen that life as a nun was preferable to being my wife. There was a degree of blackening of my name, or so I gathered. But she had her reasons.’ He spoke lightly, and Josse detected no hint of pain or of resentment. ‘That was her story,’ he murmured, half to himself. ‘By God, she needed a good one. So Alard made Dillian his heir’ — he was addressing Josse again now — ‘but, when Dillian was killed, Alard had to think again. Initially he left the lot to his niece Elanor and her stupid little boy of a husband, but I am told he was about to reconsider. I imagine it is likely that, even with Gunnora dead, he would have made some gift to Hawkenlye. However, death intervened, and his unamended will stands; Elanor will inherit. Good news awaits her, on her return from her visiting.’
They didn’t know, then, at Rotherbridge, of Elanor’s death. Indeed, how could they, when, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, the second Hawkenlye victim was a postulant named Elvera? Briefly Josse wondered just who would inherit Alard’s fortune. Milon, since he was Elanor’s husband? But wasn’t there some ancient law from back in the distant past about a criminal not being allowed to benefit from his crime?