There was a gasp — from the Abbess, Josse thought — quickly suppressed, as if, like him, she too could not bear to make any sound or movement that might affect the mood between the mother and son enacting the dreadful drama before them.
‘I can’t find it, Mother.’ Arthur’s voice hardly rose above a whisper.
‘We shall find it, son,’ she crooned, closer to him now, eyes still on his. ‘And there will be no more talk of relenting,’ — she put venom into the word — ‘I promise you, for-’
She stopped.
She stood there in front of Arthur, looking deeply into his eyes, and then her mouth opened and her face contorted in anguish. Shaking her head, muttering, ‘No, oh, no!’ at last she managed to grasp Arthur’s free hand in both of hers.
Half to herself, she muttered, ‘It shall not be! Oh, but I will not allow it to happen that way!’ and then, pulling herself together with a visible effort, she said decisively, ‘Benedict’s letter exists and it will be found. Then my son will stand beside his blood kindred and he shall be-’
But whatever scene she was envisaging was never to be revealed. For just then, seizing the chance while the knife blade wavered and perhaps finally driven over the edge by the thought of accepting this desperate, driven man as his uncle, Leofgar acted.
It was only to be expected, for Leofgar had suffered the most. He had seen his wife and his precious son traumatised by the villain that this man had sent to disturb their happiness. He had been forced to flee his home and seek the help of the Hawkenlye community; had been pursued there too and driven to hide himself away like an outcast.
He had, for the past interminable time, been forced to kneel in the dirt with a dagger at his throat.
He launched himself up off the floor as if his knees were springs and, spinning round as he rose, hurled himself on Arthur. At the same moment Josse leapt up from the bench and grabbed Sirida, who, the instant that Leofgar moved, had shot out her hand towards some object hidden on a shelf set high under the hut’s roof. She could not be allowed to grasp what she sought, Josse thought wildly, for it just might be a tool of magic and they had quite enough to contend with already …
Leofgar and Arthur were struggling, Leofgar’s hand tight around Arthur’s right wrist, trying to twist it and squeeze it so that he dropped his knife. But Arthur had recovered swiftly from the shock of the attack and was resisting; suddenly he brought up his knee and caught Leofgar in the groin. With a groan, Leofgar doubled up and Arthur hit him hard with his left fist, knocking him back and to the side.
Furious grey eyes on his adversary, Leofgar glared up at him with murder in his face. ‘You are no Warin,’ he gasped, contempt like poison in his voice, ‘and there is no letter from my grandfather stating otherwise. You’re a bastard, just as they-’
With a howl of rage Arthur threw himself on Leofgar. But some precious instinct of preservation came to Leofgar’s aid and at the last possible instant he spun himself round, twisting out of the way, and Arthur’s momentum carried him on into the space where Leofgar had just been.
He fell heavily.
There was an instant’s silence. Then he gave a great cry and, rolling on to his side, put both hands to his chest.
The handle of his own knife was sticking out from between his ribs.
Sirida wriggled out of Josse’s arms and fell to her knees over her son, the Abbess crouching beside her. Arthur’s eyes seemed to roll up in his head and he fell quiet; Sirida unfastened his tunic and undershirt to reveal the knife and the wound.
‘It has not penetrated as deep as I feared,’ the Abbess said, ‘look, Sirida; the blade has gone in at an angle.’
Sirida had her hand on the knife handle. ‘I will pull it out,’ she said.
‘No!’ Hastily Josse dropped down beside them. ‘No, leave it where it is, for I have seen men pull out the weapons that have wounded them and thereby release the fatal flow of blood that the blade holds back.’ Meeting the Abbess’s eyes, he said, ‘My lady, we must get him to Hawkenlye. We will put him up on the mare, with your leave, for she has the gentlest gait. You may ride with me on my horse, if you will.’
She was nodding her agreement, already hurrying to get up. ‘Yes. Leofgar, are you fit to ride?’
‘I am.’ Leofgar spoke stiffly.
‘Go and collect your horses,’ the Abbess ordered. ‘Sir Josse, if you and Sirida will bear Arthur out of the hut, I will fetch Honey. But we must be swift and not waste a moment, for Arthur-’
She did not finish her sentence — in truth, there was no need to do so — but, lifting her wide skirts, ran outside and across the open space to the corral. Sirida padded Arthur’s wound as best she could — she used some green mossy stuff from a wooden box on one of the shelves in the hut, fastening it in place with lengths of thin, grubby linen — and they got him outside and on to the mare. Leofgar returned with his horse and Horace and helped the Abbess on to the big horse’s broad back, where Josse got up behind her.
Sirida stood looking up at them.
‘Will you not come with us?’ the Abbess asked her gently. ‘We will care for him to the best of our ability, you have my word. But do you not wish to be with him?’
Sirida’s eyes were on her son as slowly she shook her head. ‘No, Helewise. I do not leave my hut any more. The source of what strength remains to me is here.’ She bowed her head. ‘Were I to leave, I would not get very far.’ She lifted her chin and gave a brave smile. ‘I have not left this place for twenty years.’
Leofgar had hold of the mare’s reins but he was finding her hard to control; she sensed the burden on her back and must have been disturbed by the fact that Arthur, barely able to sit in the saddle, was clearly not in control. ‘We must go, Mother!’ Leofgar said urgently. ‘The mare smells the blood and she is uneasy. It will be better if I can get her moving.’
‘Yes, of course,’ the Abbess said. ‘Sir Josse?’ She half-turned to him. ‘Let us be on our way.’ Josse clicked his tongue to Horace and the horse set off down the track. As they left the glade, Leofgar riding ahead, the Abbess turned from her seat in front of Josse and looked back. She called, ‘Goodbye, Sirida.’
The response came softly on the breeze that had come up with the dawn. ‘Farewell, Helewise.’ And, like a whisper that might or might not have been spoken, ‘You will find that letter …’
In silence they set off along the track that would lead them to Hawkenlye.
They took Arthur straight to the infirmary. Sister Euphemia examined the knife wound and complimented whoever had had the wits to leave the blade in place. Josse would have modestly kept quiet but the Abbess was having none of it: ‘That was Sir Josse,’ she said.
The infirmarer gave him a glance. ‘Old soldier,’ she remarked. ‘Maybe you should give me some lessons, not that we get many blade wounds here. Thank God,’ she added under her breath, for she had just extracted the knife and even as she spoke was pushing wadded lint into the wound to stop the blood.
‘Do you need us, Sister?’ the Abbess asked her.
‘No, my lady. I can manage here. The wound is long but not too deep and, provided I can stem the flow of blood, he’ll not die of it.’ Without looking up she said, ‘I’ll send word when he recovers his senses.’
‘Yes, please do. Thank you.’ Then the Abbess turned to Josse and said, ‘Sir Josse, let us go outside and find my son. There is something I must do.’
Bowing his agreement, he followed her out of the infirmary. She beckoned to Leofgar, waiting outside, and in silence led them across the cloister and along to her room. She opened the door — someone had kept the brazier stoked and the heat was like a blessing — and went round the table to sit down in her chair.