The woman was watching him intently. ‘You feel better?’
‘Aye. I do,’ he agreed.
‘Ah. Then,’ she said as gracefully she rose to her feet, ‘I am ordered to take you before the clan chieftain.’
She helped him to stand and, understanding without being told, waited at his side until his head stopped spinning. His eyesight was a little blurred, he noticed. He blinked hard a few times and it seemed to help. Then he nodded to the woman and she led him through the doorway and into the end chamber of the hall.
Now only one seat was occupied; in the larger of the two wooden chairs sat a tall, fair-haired man. Although Josse had not studied him closely when he had first entered the room — he had had eyes only for the other man, in the lower chair — he was almost certain that this was the same man who had sat on the throne-chair then. His long hair was fair and bound with a narrow circlet of gold above his brow. He was bearded and the tails of a moustache hung down either side of his firm and generous mouth. He was broad in the shoulder, his muscular strength displayed by the sleeveless tunic that he wore. Around both upper arms he wore gold arm-rings.
The light blue eyes fixed on Josse, he said, ‘You have news for me, stranger. Since you have taken pains in the bringing of it, let me hear now what tidings you bring.’
Standing on the opposite side of the hearth, Josse tried not to think about the figure who had previously sat in that other chair — perhaps he had dreamed that, too — and, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders, gave his credentials. ‘I am Josse d’Acquin and I have come from Hawkenlye Abbey. I am constrained to inform you that a kinswoman of yours has recently met her death there.’
Watching the chieftain, Josse had no doubt that Galiena had indeed stemmed from here; everyone he had encountered so far shared her pale skin and colouring and the man in front of whom he now stood could easily have been her true father.
‘My kinswoman?’ the chieftain asked. ‘You are certain?’
‘My lord’ — Josse was not sure if that was the correct form of address, but it would have to serve — ‘I speak of a woman known as Galiena of Ryemarsh. She was adopted as a baby by a family that dwells at Readingbrooke; the lord’s name is Raelf. I went to them to tell them of Galiena’s death and, although they grieved for their daughter, they told me that she was not of their blood but that she had been born in a place known as Deadfall. And this community of yours, I understand, is known by outsiders as Deadfall, although your people tell me that you speak of it by a different name.’
‘Yes, we call our dwelling place Saltwych,’ the chieftain agreed. ‘Of old, men extracted salt from the flood plains of the marsh. But the shingle bank that guards the salt marsh from the sea has grown with time and now the tides come no more to flood the land. The name, however, is a long time dying.’ He gave Josse a smile. Then, as it faded, he said with sudden sharpness, ‘Galiena, you say? And how old was this woman?’
‘Er — seventeen. No, eighteen, I think. I do not know for sure,’ Josse said. This man, he was thinking, was perhaps in his late thirties or early forties and could certainly be her father. Feeling the tension in his neck and shoulders, he tried to relax. It was not, after all, as though he were in danger!
Was it?
The chieftain’s hand was on his belt buckle and, as he sat staring down at Josse, his hand played over the intricately carved design that stood out in relief from the bright metal; the buckle, too, looked like gold or possibly silver gilt. Then he removed his hand and Josse saw what the design represented. It was a naked man with a headdress of eagle heads and in each hand he carried a long spear.
Then the man spoke. ‘You believe, Josse d’Acquin, that we are in the habit of giving away our children?’ Then, as Josse hesitated, he commanded curtly, ‘Speak!’
‘I do not know, my lord.’ Josse had decided that diplomacy was the wisest choice, bearing in mind the many armed men who stood within earshot. ‘I only report what others have told me.’
‘Of course you do,’ the chieftain said, mild irony in his voice. For some time there was silence and then, as Josse was beginning to feel distinctly uneasy, the man on the throne appeared to make up his mind. ‘You are mistaken,’ he stated flatly. ‘This woman who has died at the Abbey is not of our blood.’
‘But-’ Josse began. Then he stopped and, with a bow of the head, waited for the chieftain to continue.
‘You have come far to bring us the news and, although whoever sent you to us has in fact misled you, still your intention was good. And in addition you have suffered hurt here.’ Breaking off to raise a hand and call out some swift commands, he turned back to Josse and said, ‘Please, eat and drink with us before you go on your way. The day is still young and you can be on the road well before nightfall.’
There seemed no point in argument. Josse bowed again and told the chieftain that he would be honoured to accept the proffered hospitality.
A trestle table was set up and a carved wooden chair set at its head for the chieftain. A bench was put along one side and Josse was invited to be seated. As the chieftain took his place he said, ‘It is not right that a man should share my board and not know my name. I am Aelle, son of Aethelfrith of the line of the Iutae, who of old trace their lineage back to Woden. You are welcome, Josse d’Acquin, in my hall.’
While Josse was still absorbing this remarkable statement, food and drink were brought and quickly his host filled a rough earthenware mug with ale and thrust it into his hand. Bread still warm from the oven was placed on trenchers and a steaming black pot of some stew was dumped on the table. A brawny-armed woman stepped forward and ladled out portions for Josse and the chieftain. Obeying Aelle’s injunction to eat, Josse tried the stew and found that, despite the appetising smell, it consisted mainly of cabbage, onions and leeks, with a background of turnips to provide ballast. There was the smell and the faint taste of meat — pork, Josse thought — but he guessed it was only in the stock in which the stew had been cooked.
Eating and drinking as Aelle had commanded, he realised a profound truth about these strange people. They might be descended from kings — from gods, if Aelle were to be believed — and they might wear still the proud treasures of their past; Aelle’s circlet and arm rings, the shoulder brooch of the guard who had apprehended Josse. But their long hall was dirty and in ruins, their bare feet trod in their own filth and they subsisted on vegetables. The very guards who had detained Josse outside had made what he now appreciated to have been joking references to the need for him to brush the mud off his tunic before entering the hall, as if its squalor were a fact that had grown acceptable — even ironically amusing — by long familiarity. In short, they were deep in poverty.
Josse wanted more than anything to leave. He could have understood why a girl babe such as Galiena might have been given away; indeed, it would have been a brave and humane gesture to place her with a barren woman who longed for a child of her own and who could offer more than a life in this run-down, desolate and forgotten corner. But Aelle had denied all knowledge of her, and that appeared to be that.
Without any appearance of haste, Josse finished his food and drained his mug. Then, bowing to his host, he voiced courteous thanks and appreciation for the victuals and announced that he would be on his way.
Aelle walked with him to the door and watched as he reclaimed his weapons. Horace was brought and Josse mounted up. Then he said, ‘Farewell, Josse d’Acquin. I wish you success in your efforts to find the kinfolk of this dead woman and I regret that we were unable to help you.’
Repeating his thanks, Josse kicked Horace to a trot and rode away.
They would be watching him, of that he was certain. He set off towards the track leading up to the good road that ran along the cliff top and he resisted the urge to turn round. An innocent man would not keep checking to see if he were being followed. He found the steep track and set Horace to climb it and it was only when he was in the concealing shelter of the trees and the undergrowth that lined the upper road that he drew rein and, dismounting, found a vantage point from which he could look down on the marsh.