They had all thought he was unconscious but he hadn’t been, or at least not for long. They had discussed what had happened up by the chapel. They had called the madman by name or, at least, somebody must have done, for Olivier knew his identity. He had listened some more and, even before the big man had told him, he had discovered that the madman was somehow related to him. Not his son, but there was a bond of love between them, that was for sure. The big man would protect the young man. He had just said as much: someone very close to me is suspected of having fought your brother and caused his death, and I do not believe he is responsible. Oh, it was all very confusing, and Olivier found it hard to think about it. His head hurt.
The voices saw their chance and started on at him again. They don’t like you. They will try to harm you. You have to do something. They told him what that something was.
He wondered if he could do it. Carefully, he inspected his wounds. The long cut on his left forearm and down across his wrist hurt quite a lot if he used the arm, but he was right-handed, and he could rest it. The nuns had bandaged it heavily, so it was well protected. The wound under his right arm ached constantly, and if he coughed or sneezed, a red-hot pain shot through it. He would have to be very careful.
He did not want to obey the voices. He wanted to lie there in the bed with the nice clean sheets, having the young nun with the pretty face bringing him dainty little meals and the older one who looked calm and dependable coming to check on him twice a day. He felt safe in the infirmary and, for the first time in as long as he could remember, people seemed to like him and spoke to him with a smile. But the voices said he couldn’t stay. He thought the voices were probably right; they usually were. And even he could see that his lord would not be staying there much longer.
He was clad in his shift, which the nuns had laundered to get the blood out and then given back to him. He wondered where his outer clothes were, and then he remembered. Of course — the nuns had put them under the bed. Cautiously, he eased over and peered into the dim space. There were his boots, and there was his tunic and cloak.
You have no excuse, the voices said coldly.
He was all alone. He had nobody to turn to. Everything had gone wrong.
He knew he must do as they said.
Josse stood outside the infirmary, undecided as to what he should do next. He wanted above all to talk to Helewise and discuss with her this fresh evidence of Olivier’s strange state of mind. In the past, his footsteps would have set off for the abbess’s little room without his volition. It was not that he had no faith in her successor — far from it. Josse had the utmost admiration for Abbess Caliste, but just now only Helewise would do.
But Helewise was not there. In addition, Gervase, no doubt busy organizing his search parties out looking for Ninian, was also unavailable. Josse was on his own.
His thoughts returned to Olivier. The young man’s father had known his son was not right. There’s something wrong with the other one, old Felix had said. Lady Beatrice, too, had spoken of her sons. They are not close, she said. And, when Gervase had asked if Hugh might have gone to the place where his body had been found because he was looking for Olivier, she said she doubted it.
They are not close. Josse thought it over. Yet, when Hugh de Brionne had hatched his plan to abduct Rosamund, his choice of conspirator had been his brother. Had they deliberately maintained the semblance of distance between them, so as to set a smokescreen around their actions? Or was it simply that their mother did not know them as well as she thought she did?
The last time Josse had been to the de Brionne manor had been the day after the discovery of Hugh’s body. The household had had a little while to get over the first shock; Josse decided it was time he went back.
He drove Alfred hard, riding into Felix de Brionne’s courtyard in the early afternoon. He was ushered into the hall where, as before, Lady Beatrice sat alone.
‘I have come from Hawkenlye Abbey,’ he said when he had greeted her and accepted her offer of refreshments.
She studied him, her face unmoving. ‘And how is my son? Word was sent,’ she added, ‘that he has been wounded. I would very much like to go to him, but my husband lies abed and I cannot leave him.’
‘Of course, my lady,’ Josse said. He pitied her, that she had had to make such a decision. ‘Olivier’s wound is not life-threatening and, indeed, I have just come from speaking to him.’
Now she looked wary. ‘Speaking to him?’
He wondered what thoughts were running through her head. Disturbing ones, from her expression. ‘My lady, he is deeply troubled,’ he said. ‘It may be that his mind has been affected by his injury. Such things do happen.’
‘Troubled? In what way?’ she asked cagily.
‘He hears voices and he talks back to them,’ Josse said bluntly. ‘I am sorry if my words alarm you, lady. I know no other way of expressing what I have seen.’
She had bowed her head. ‘Olivier is not like others,’ she murmured. ‘He — life has been hard for him. I told you before of the rivalry between him and Hugh. What I did not say is that my husband never made a secret of his preference for Hugh.’
Josse waited. He understood — or believed he did — Felix’s reason. Leofgar had reluctantly mentioned the rumours concerning Olivier’s parentage. Felix himself had referred to having forgiven his young wife. The world was cruel in many ways, he reflected, but it was particularly bitter that a man should be disliked for who had or had not fathered him. It was scarcely his own fault…
He wondered if Lady Beatrice would confide in him. He hoped she would. He thought he had already guessed her secret, but he did not know for certain if he was right. Perhaps, if he opened his heart to her, she might reciprocate. ‘My lady, I too have troubles,’ he said. ‘A young man whom I love as much as the son of my blood is accused of something that I know he did not do, and I am trying to find out the truth of the matter. I have-’
‘This young man is your wife’s but not yours?’ she interrupted.
Josse realized that he had inadvertently provided the perfect prompt. ‘He was born to the mother of my other two children, but at a time before I knew her,’ he said. Joanna flowed easily into his mind, momentarily taking all his attention. She was smiling, her dark eyes full of laughter and love. He caught his breath. Then, forcing himself to continue, he said, ‘She was taken to a court Christmas by a cousin and she was seduced by one of the lords there.’ There was no need to name Ninian’s father. ‘They married her off to an old man she hated, and in time her son was born. He and I met when he was a child and a deep affection sprang up between us. Later, after his mother died, I adopted him.’
She studied him for some time. Then she said abruptly, ‘Your son is more fortunate than Olivier.’ He thought she would say no more, but she took a deep breath and, the words tumbling out as if she had longed to release them, she said, ‘The first child that I bore my husband was a daughter. He was displeased and chose to punish me by — never mind. I was unhappy and, when temptation came, I readily surrendered.’ Her dark eyes were misty. ‘For a time I was ecstatically happy, for my lover was a wealthy and important man and, until he tired of me, there was nothing that he would not give me. When I told him I was carrying his child, he gave a wry laugh, totted up in his head the new total of his bastards and told me that he did not bed pregnant women.’ She paused. ‘I never saw him again,’ she said quietly.
Josse ached for her. ‘Your husband forgave you.’ It was a statement, not a question, for Felix had implied as much when Josse went to see him.
‘He did. He was also good enough to allow me to raise my son as his. Olivier was provided with a home, and he was brought up in much the same way as my other children. Quite soon I conceived again, this time in my own marital bed, and I gave birth to Hugh.’ Her eyes returned to Josse. ‘I do not expect you to understand or condone my actions, Sir Josse.’