Shaking away that whimsical thought, Josse realised that Brice was speaking to him and he urged his horse forward. ‘Eh? What did you say?’ he asked.
‘I was informing you of the name of our host,’ Brice repeated. ‘Behold, Josse, the home of Ambrose Ryemarsh.’ He was, Josse noticed, straining forward, eyes narrowed, as if eager for the first glimpse of the house and its occupant. And, as the two of them rode into the courtyard, it seemed that someone had been looking out for them. At the top of the flight of steps that led up to the wide doors, standing open in welcome, was a powerfully-built grey-haired man. Peering down at them, his head straining forward on the sinewy neck like a turtle’s from its shell, he called out, ‘Brice? Is that you? And there are two of you — you bring your friend?’
‘Aye, Ambrose, it’s me,’ Brice called back. ‘And yes, Josse d’Acquin is with me. Wait while we attend to the horses, then we will come up.’
As if waiting for the moment, a young lad came running from the stable block and, with a brief nod of greeting, took charge of Josse’s and Brice’s mounts. Josse heard Brice give a couple of nervous coughs as he pulled at his tunic and arranged its folds and then they climbed the steps and entered the house.
Ambrose Ryemarsh entertained with a lavish hand. Although Josse had eaten well with Brice, the savoury and sweet delicacies daintily laid out on salvers in the cool hall tempted him to start all over again. With no effort at all he ate two venison pasties with cherry sauce, a small, sweet custard tart flavoured with bay leaf and lemon, and a frothy baked apple studded with dried fruit and flavoured with ginger. There was white wine to drink, and somehow whoever had charge of Ambrose’s household had contrived to keep it chilled. Josse had not tasted anything so delicious since he had left France.
The conversation flowed easily but inconsequentially. Josse, still curious as to just what this visit was for, waited patiently.
Then three things happened at once.
There was the sound of light footsteps in the passage outside. Brice’s head spun round and, for the split second that Josse was able to observe him, his face wore a strangely excited, expectant look. Then, noticing Josse’s eyes on him, he replaced it with an expression of bland disinterest. Which he still wore when the hanging over the doorway was pulled back with a soft swish and a woman entered the hall.
Ambrose got up from his tall chair and held out both hands. The woman walked swiftly over to him and put her own hands in his. Then she leaned towards him and tenderly kissed his face, smiling up at him as she did so.
Ambrose, turning towards Josse, said, ‘This is my wife. Galiena, my sweet, I present to you Josse d’Acquin.’
Rising to greet her, swiftly Josse studied her, taking in her appearance. She was tall and slender, the cornflower-blue silk gown fitting her well and showing off the high, round breasts and the narrow waist. Her pale hair was braided into two thick plaits, coiled up on either side of her face. Over her hair she wore a small veil, held in place by a chaplet of flowers. Her eyes were as deep a blue as her gown and her rosy lips were parted in a generous smile.
She was, Josse recognised, a beauty. She was also very young: no more, he guessed, than seventeen or eighteen.
And Ambrose was a man well into, if not actually past, middle age.
Trying to put his tumbling thoughts aside, Josse bowed over the small, cool hand that she held out to him and said, ‘It is a great pleasure, lady, to meet you.’
Galiena laughed softly, squeezing Josse’s hand as if she knew exactly what he was thinking and was acknowledging his reaction. Then, turning so as to include Brice, she said, ‘You have taken refreshment, my lords? My husband has been looking after you?’
‘Aye, indeed he has,’ Josse hurried to say. ‘Wine of a quality I have not tasted these many years. And kept so cool!’
He heard his own words and felt a hot flush of embarrassment flood through him. For one thing, praising Ambrose’s wine so lavishly was hardly tactful to Brice, who earlier had entertained him almost as well. For another, he was gushing like a boy and, until he had encountered Galiena, he would have said he had left boyhood far behind.
She seemed to pick up his discomfiture. Without looking at him — for which he was extremely grateful as he was quite sure his face was scarlet — she glided back to Ambrose, pulled up a stool and sat down at his feet. Then, turning to Brice, she said, ‘Now, Brice, what news of Rotherbridge? Have Mathild and Robert resolved their quarrel? And did you give Ossie the clove paste for his tooth?’
As Brice replied, Josse studied his face. There was no sign now of that flash of tension that had briefly lit up his handsome features; he sat on a bench close to Galiena and, for all that his expression revealed, could have been chatting to an elderly aunt.
I was wrong, Josse told himself firmly. There is nothing there but friendship. I was wrong.
And yet …
But Ambrose was addressing him. ‘More wine, Josse?’ he said. ‘I rejoice that it is to your liking and it does but heat up, standing there on the table.’ He raised a hand in a firm gesture that suggested Ambrose was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. ‘Fetch it over here and we shall both fill our cups!’
Josse did as he was commanded. As he bent to pour wine into Ambrose’s cup, Ambrose said softly in his ear, ‘Come and walk outside with me, sir. I would speak with you on a matter of some delicacy.’
Then, standing up, he said aloud, ‘Sir Josse, let us leave these two to their gossiping!’ He shot a tender glance at his wife as she cried out in mock-protest. ‘Take a turn with me out in the sunshine,’ he continued, ‘and I will show you how Galiena has turned a wilderness into the prettiest garden in England.’
Taking hold of Josse’s sleeve in a surprisingly strong grip, Ambrose bore his guest out of the hall.
‘The garden is hidden away on the far side of the house, where from the higher ground we look down over the valley,’ he said as he ushered Josse along a path bordered with rose bushes. ‘Along here … wait … there! What do you say? Am I not rightly proud of what my wife has accomplished?’
Josse stood and stared. He knew nothing about gardens, his only limited experience being with the Hawkenlye herb garden so carefully tended by Sister Tiphaine. And, back in his own manor, Will and his woman grew vegetables in a muddy plot behind their small cottage. However, neither Will nor the Hawkenlye herbalist had the inclination or the time to grow plants merely for their beauty.
Whereas here, that seemed to have been the main consideration.
His eyes ran over the clipped grass, the rich brown earth of the beds, the spinney of nut and fruit trees. Then he looked again at the flowers and did not think he had ever in his life seen so many different colours, shapes and textures all in one place.
Ambrose, he sensed, was eagerly waiting for his opinion. ‘It is a paradise,’ he said eventually. ‘A true Eden. Your wife has made each flower surpass itself in its loveliness.’
‘Ah, and the garden is not merely decorative!’ Ambrose had taken hold of Josse’s sleeve again and was propelling him down one of the paths that led out across the grass. ‘She grows herbs, you see.’ He paused, sniffing deeply. ‘Look, here is rue, there is rosemary, there garlic, there … oh, I forget its name, something she uses in one of her special concoctions. She does tell me, she always explains what she is growing and for what purpose, but my concentration is apt to lapse and I forget.’ He gave a faint sigh. ‘I do not like to ask her too often to repeat herself since it can only serve to remind her of the reason for my forgetfulness.’ He turned his face towards Josse. ‘She is beautiful, is she not?’