‘It is not for me to criticize or condone, lady,’ he said quickly. ‘I am not here to judge you. None of my children, natural or adopted, was born in wedlock,’ he added with a smile.
‘I would judge that your own children were born in love,’ she replied.
‘Aye, that they were,’ he agreed. Again, he could see Joanna. He smiled at her, and she blew him a kiss.
Lady Beatrice was watching him. ‘I have come to the conclusion that knowing he or she is loved matters more to a child than anything else,’ she said slowly. ‘I love Olivier and always have done, even when-’ She stopped. Then: ‘But he has always sought the love of the parent who withholds it. When he was little and did not understand, he suffered greatly from Felix’s coldness. By the time he was old enough to know the truth, it was too late.’ She sighed. ‘Sir Josse, Olivier seeks constantly for approval. Never having been given any by Felix, he seeks it elsewhere. Now that he has managed to gain advancement and grow close to the king’s private circle, it is his one aim to make himself indispensable and gain the position with the king that he has never enjoyed with Felix.’
Josse tried to imagine one of his own sons suffering in the way Olivier had done. He compared the two of them, seeing straight away that Lady Beatrice was speaking good sense. Geoffroi, who had known since he first became aware that his father loved him and was always there to support and protect him, was typical of a child brought up in a secure, warm household. He was confident, independent, outgoing and transparent. Ninian, on the other hand, had been forced to live the early years of his life with a cold and vicious man who had mistreated both his young wife and her son. Then, after Joanna had run away and taken Ninian with her, the boy had only just got used to life alone with his mother when she, too, had disappeared from his life. He was, Josse had to admit, a young man who believed he must prove his worth in order to be loved.
Olivier de Brionne, his mother seemed to be implying, was, in this crucial way, remarkably similar.
Josse wondered why he should feel quite so frightened by that realization.
FIFTEEN
Ninian blotted the departure from everyone he loved out of his mind. It was just too painful. There was plenty to think about to distract him, and for the first few hours he concentrated on ensuring he kept off the road, making his way along little-known tracks and trails and keeping to the forest fringe wherever he could. He decided not to make for one of the big channel ports. Josse had said the search parties would explore the road to the coast, and it seemed reasonable that they would also hunt for him in places such as Hastings and Pevensey. It did not matter. Ninian knew of other ways of getting a man and a horse across to France.
He had dismissed the idea of going in disguise. If he tried to make himself look like a peasant, they’d spot him instantly because poor men didn’t ride horses like Garnet and they’d arrest him as a horse thief. He wore his good boots and, under his old leather jerkin, good-quality but well-worn tunic and hose. His heavy travelling cloak went over the top, its hood drawn forward to throw a shadow on his face, and there was nothing to distinguish him from any other traveller.
He crossed the South Downs on paths that were little more than animal runs. Descending towards the sea, he kept a lookout for a small jetty that he knew of where the fishermen went out into the deep water for cod and whiting. Spotting it, he was relieved to see that two boats lay in the shallows. He haggled briefly with the skipper of one of them and arranged his passage across to Boulogne.
The boat was going to sail on the evening tide. With the skipper’s help, Ninian got Garnet safely aboard. Then he found a sheltered spot on deck, wrapped himself in his cloak and, exhausted by fear and emotion, went to sleep.
He woke to find that the boat was in mid-Channel. The water was rough, but not enough to trouble him. He leaned his elbows up on the deck rail and stared out. Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, and land was visible ahead. His belly gripped tight with apprehension. Soon he would have to disembark and head off into the unknown. Would he be able to find Acquin? Josse had given him directions, but Ninian had scarcely taken them in. Perhaps he would be able to ask… But then another anxiety rose up. Josse had been utterly confident that his brothers would take Ninian in, but what if he was wrong? On his own admission, it was years since Josse had seen them. Supposing they closed their doors against him and refused to have anything to do with him? Supposing they had gone away? Supposing they were all dead?
Very firmly, he told himself not to be so stupid. One of Josse’s oft-repeated sayings was: don’t hunt troubles out; wait and deal with them if and when they come looking for you. It was sound advice. Ninian was going to take it.
The skipper brought his craft to shore at a small port to the south of Boulogne. He helped Ninian ashore, wished him well and set off back to sea even before Ninian was out of sight. Ninian had never felt more alone in his life.
He pressed on all day, although his progress was slow. Unnerved by other travellers, frequently he slid off Garnet’s back and led the horse off the road to hide until they had passed. When darkness fell, he had no idea how far there was still to go. He found a sheltered spot in an apple orchard, bedding down in the corner furthest from the road and making a small fire to keep him warm and to heat water for a comforting drink. On the boat he had shared the fishermen’s supplies, so he had not yet touched the food Josse had given him. The bread was dry as bone now, but he was so hungry that he ate every last crumb. He was glad he had good teeth.
He woke at first light. There were people passing on the road, and the sound of their voices had disturbed him. He lay perfectly still, his heart hammering. Had they seen him? Had they come from the coast? Against all logic, he found himself almost certain they had been sent by the king and, with unbelievable speed and efficiency, had found him after less than a day…
The tramping footsteps went straight past, and the cheery voices faded in the thin air. Rebuking himself for his folly, Ninian got up, rolled up his blanket, saddled Garnet and rode on.
He found Acquin late that afternoon. He had taken several wrong turns, and the people he had asked for directions hadn’t heard of it. He had envisaged a large village or even a small town, well known and much frequented, but the truth was different. There was little to the place but a church and the fortified manor itself. His first glimpse was of the tops of two high watchtowers and, as he rode closer, he made out the long, low roofs of the buildings within the strong outer walls. He passed a church and a few meagre dwellings sheltering beneath the high walls. Then, following the walls, he turned up to the left and soon found himself in front of imposing gates, firmly closed.
There was a small opening in one of the wooden gates, presumably to allow those within to see who had come calling. He peered through it. Storerooms, workrooms and stables lined the courtyard on two sides, and on the third was what must be the family’s accommodation. The short day was already darkening, and lamps had been lit. Smoke rose up from the slate roof.
Ninian was cold and lonely. He reached out and rang the heavy rope that worked the clapper of a big bell, and its deep note rang out.
A young man with light-blond hair emerged from the stables, wiping his hands on a sacking apron. He stared out suspiciously at Ninian. ‘Who are you?’
Ninian had forgotten they would speak French. It was Josse’s native tongue. Ninian had been forced to learn and speak it when he had lived with the terrible man his mother had married. He thought briefly, bringing to mind the right words, and replied in the same tongue: ‘My name is Ninian de Courtenay. I have come from the house of Sir Josse d’Acquin, in England. If you please, I would like to speak to Sir Yves d’Acquin.’