Riding through the abbey gates some time later, Josse wished, not for the first time, that Helewise was not quite so stubborn. He understood her reason for avoiding Hawkenlye, but surely this was an emergency and she should have made an exception to her own rule.
Still irritated, Josse left Alfred in the stables with the young nun who had taken over from old Sister Martha and hurried to the abbess’s room. If Gervase was at the abbey or expected soon, she would know. He knocked and went in.
Gervase stood just inside the door. ‘I was about to come and seek you out, Josse,’ he said. A slight frown creased his forehead.
‘Good morning, Gervase.’ Josse turned to bow to the abbess. ‘My lady abbess.’
‘As always, you arrive when we need you,’ she murmured. She inclined her head towards Gervase. ‘The sheriff has a task for you, if you will accept it,’ she said, her voice grave.
‘You want me to inform the dead man’s parents of his death,’ Josse said quietly. ‘Aye, I guessed as much. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Leofgar believes you know the family,’ Gervase said.
‘I know Felix, or I did,’ Josse replied. ‘He may not remember me, for they say his mind wanders.’
‘Shall you and I ride there together?’ Gervase said. ‘It is not far, I believe. We can be back here later today.’
‘Aye, I’d be glad of your company,’ Josse said. ‘It’s a grim task.’
As he and Gervase left the room, he sensed the abbess’s sad eyes on them. Listening carefully, he could just make out the soft words of her prayer.
They made good time to the manor of the de Brionnes. The day was cold and bright, and the ground was hard. Even the descent into the low lands around the river did not slow them, as it usually did, for the weather had been dry recently and the rise in the water level that regularly came every winter had yet to happen.
They followed the track as it rose from the valley towards the North Downs, and presently Josse indicated the turning that led off it towards their destination. It was years since he had visited Felix de Brionne — back in the early days of King Richard’s reign, he recalled — but he found the way without mistake.
They knew as soon as they rode into the well-kept yard that the sad news they brought had already reached the household. It was evident in the total absence of cheerful, everyday sounds and in the red-rimmed eyes of the lad who came out to take their horses. As they walked towards the impressive, iron-studded oak door, it opened and a grim-faced servant looked out at them.
‘The family is grateful for your condolences,’ he began, with the air of a man who had said the same thing many times already that day, ‘but Sir Felix and Lady Beatrice are not receiving visitors today.’
The door was already closing when Gervase put his foot in the gap. ‘I am Gervase de Gifford, sheriff of Tonbridge,’ he said. ‘This is Sir Josse d’Acquin, an old friend of your master.’ He leaned closer and said very softly, ‘We are the ones who attended the dead man’s body and took it to Hawkenlye Abbey.’
The servant shot them a swift, inquisitive look. Then he nodded and, opening the door widely, ushered them inside.
A woman sat by herself in an elaborately-carved oak chair beside the wide hearth. She was dressed in a tight-bodiced, wide-skirted gown of dark velvet, and a veil covered her head and much of her face, held in place by a gold circlet. Hearing their footfalls, she raised her head and turned to look at them.
‘I said no visitors, Stephen,’ she said in a low voice made husky by grief.
‘Beg pardon, my lady, but this is the sheriff and this is Sir Josse d’Acquin, a friend of the master,’ the servant muttered. He added something in a whisper that sounded like they found the body.
It was not strictly true, but it was no time to quibble.
Lady Beatrice stared at them. She pushed back the veil, and Josse saw that she was perhaps in her late thirties. He also observed that, haggard with sorrow as she now was, she was still very beautiful. Her smooth brown hair was drawn back from a centre parting, and her large eyes were almost black. Her skin was good, her nose straight and delicate, and her mouth wide and shaped for laughter.
She was far from laughing now.
Greatly affected, Josse approached her and, bowing, took her cold hand in his. ‘You have my deepest sympathy, lady,’ he said. ‘You and I have not met before, although, as your man here says, I know your husband from our service together under King Richard.’
She nodded. Josse was about to go on, but Gervase interrupted. Stepping forward to stand beside Josse, he said, ‘I apologize for my abrupt manner, my lady, but it is my duty to discover how your son died. May I ask how you know of the tragedy? Sir Josse and I came here to tell you, but it seems to me that you have already been informed.’
She studied him. ‘Leofgar Warin came and broke the news last night.’
‘Leofgar,’ Gervase breathed. Turning to Josse, he murmured, ‘He did say he knew the family. I would have asked him to come and tell them, only I understood he was in haste to return home.’
It had been a kindness, Josse reflected, for Leofgar to put aside his own pressing needs in order to perform such a sad task. He wondered how Felix had taken the news.
He considered how best to ask her. He said, ‘Lady Beatrice, is your husband not with you? Has he, perhaps, retired to bed to nurse his grief?’
The dark eyes met his. ‘You would ask me, I believe, if my husband is able to comprehend what has happened. If his fast-failing wits have grasped the fact that his son is dead. My answer is that I do not believe so.’ She dropped her head.
Then you face this tragedy alone, Josse thought. You poor woman.
‘My lady, may we speak to Sir Felix?’ Gervase was asking.
‘You may,’ came the quiet reply. ‘He is in the chamber through there.’ She pointed to where an arched doorway gave on to a passage.
‘Come with me, Josse,’ Gervase hissed. Josse bowed again to the still figure in the chair and followed him through the arch.
Felix de Brionne lay in a high bed under heavy covers. He had aged greatly in the years since Josse had seen him. His face was a yellowish-grey colour, the cheeks so sunken that the large nose stood out like the prow of a ship.
Josse stepped up to the bed, bent over the old man and said softly, ‘Felix? It’s Josse.’ The eyes fluttered open and Felix looked up at him. Josse smiled, and Felix’s dry lips stretched in an answering smile.
‘Josse,’ he breathed. ‘I remember you.’
Gervase, close beside Josse, leaned down and said, ‘Your son is dead, Sir Felix, and we are very sorry. I am sheriff of Tonbridge, and I will do my best to discover how he died.’
The old man’s brows drew together in a frown. ‘My son,’ he said. He stared at Josse, reaching out to grasp his hand. ‘Hugh is my son. The other one, no.’ Straining forward, he beckoned Josse nearer and said in a cracked whisper, ‘I forgave her, long ago. I love her, you see, and she’s young, much younger than me.’ He lay back on the bank of pillows, panting slightly from the brief exertion. He closed his eyes. Josse exchanged a glance with Gervase and was about to suggest they tiptoe away and leave the old man to sleep when he spoke again.
Quite clearly, he said, ‘There is something wrong with the other one.’ Then his breathing deepened and presently he emitted a soft snore.
Josse led Gervase out of the chamber and back to the hall.
‘Well?’ Lady Beatrice asked as they came to stand before her.
Josse, embarrassed, was about to make some innocuous comment and nudge Gervase into taking their leave. Gervase, however, was not ready to depart.
‘My lady, I am sorry if this is painful and appears to you insensitive,’ he said, ‘but, as I said, it is my duty to discover all that I can about your son’s death. In pursuit of that, there are questions that I must ask.’
Josse watched her reaction. She gave a faint sigh — perhaps of resignation, as if she knew what was coming — and nodded. ‘Ask your questions,’ she said quietly.