Authors: Alys Clare
It was not long before Josse too was setting out from the Abbey along the track towards the turning down to Tonbridge. He was intensely curious as to why de Gifford wanted to see him. So great had been his involvement in the monumental struggle going on at Hawkenlye that he had had to remind himself of what had happened last time he and the sheriff had been together. For a moment, he was struck by the triviality of those earlier preoccupations; set against the huge shadow of the foreign pestilence, they seemed to be of little significance.
But a young man died, he reminded himself; Nicol Romley was struck down right there in our Vale. And the merchant in Hastings – Martin Kelsey – he was dead, too. No; those matters were far from trivial, and Josse knew he owed de Gifford all the help he could give him.
Gervase was waiting for him at the place where the track bent down across the face of the hill towards Tonbridge. He held up a hand as Josse approached; like Matt, he wanted to keep distance between himself and Josse.
‘I will come no nearer, don’t worry,’ Josse called out.
‘How stand things at the Abbey?’ de Gifford asked.
Josse shook his head. ‘More than twenty sick; many dead or near it.’
‘I see.’ De Gifford bowed his head for a moment. Then, raising his eyes, he said, ‘I have news for you.’
‘Concerning Nicol Romley?’
‘Yes. Somebody has been asking about him.’
‘Who?’
‘I do not know her true identity, although I can guess it. She is lodged with Goody Anne, where she gave her name as Matilda Hedley. However, not only does Anne report that the young lady speaks with an accent; Anne also heard her addressing the old man who is with her in what Anne described as some peculiar foreign tongue. She – Goody Anne – is now in an agony of indecision because, although she’s very pleased to have the business, she suspects that her two guests have come over from France and she’s terrified they may have brought the pestilence.’
Josse found that he was not all that affected by two people who might at some future date succumb to the sickness when he had recent first-hand experience of the poor souls who already had. He shrugged. ‘It is possible.’ Then, returning to the main concern: ‘You think that the foreign tongue suggests this woman is Sabin de Retz?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ de Gifford confirmed. ‘She asked to speak to the sheriff and I went to see her. She did not give any name to me, true or false; she merely asked if it was true that Nicol Romley had been murdered. I said it was and she asked for the details, which I gave her.’
‘How did she react?’
‘She already knew he was dead, Josse, so there was no sudden outpouring of grief. However, I glean from her demeanour that she was fond of the lad. Very fond, I should say.’ He sniffed.
Josse was thinking. ‘Gervase, she did not know of Nicol’s death until she reached England. Her mission here was, I suggest, to find him and warn him that he was in danger, only she was too late. His killer had already arrived, found the poor lad and murdered him. Also,’ he added excitedly, struck by another fact, ‘she gave her real name to Sister Ursel at Hawkenlye yet she is now travelling under an alias, which suggests to me that something has happened – such as discovering that Nicol has been murdered – to make her sufficiently afraid to disguise her identity.’
‘Yes, you are right,’ de Gifford said. ‘There would be no point in a mission to warn someone if one knew they were already beyond help. But, knowing he is dead, why should she come here, unless perhaps she has such feelings for him that she would see his killer brought to justice?’ He frowned, as if the thought displeased him. Then he said abruptly, ‘Who told her Nicol was dead?’
‘Not Adam Morton, for when he sent Sabin on to Hawkenlye, he thought Nicol was still alive, although sick. Not Sister Ursel, for I have asked the sister and she confirmed that she did not think it appropriate to speak of such a thing while standing at the Abbey gate.’ Josse frowned, thinking hard. Then he said, ‘My guess is that she was at Robertsbridge, although she had persuaded the monk who received Gus and me there not to tell anyone. Perhaps she overheard me tell Stephen – the monk – that Nicol had been murdered. Perhaps Stephen told her.’
‘So she comes up here to the very vicinity of the lad’s death, when it is clear that she fears for her own safety? A brave woman, Josse, thus to put herself at risk.’
‘What was the alternative?’ Josse countered. ‘To remain in hiding at Robertsbridge for the rest of her days?’
De Gifford lifted an eloquent shoulder. ‘Better than being dead.’
‘Only just,’ Josse muttered. Then something occurred to him. ‘You said she’s travelling with an old man?’
‘Yes. He’s blind and quite feeble, and she appears to care for him very tenderly.’
‘And yet she has brought him into danger with her, if we are right in our assumption that there
is
danger for her here from this mystery murderer?’
‘Oh, there’s danger, be in no doubt, Josse.’ De Gifford gazed at Josse, his expression grave. ‘She has given me to understand that there is some dread secret at the heart of all this and somebody – perhaps more than one person – is fighting very hard to suppress it. Sabin knows what it is, although she has not admitted that. Nicol Romley and Martin Kelsey were killed to keep the secret, and now we can be certain that the murderer is after Sabin and probably the old blind man too.’
‘She will not open her heart to you?’
De Gifford’s expression softened. ‘She’s terrified, Josse. She’s an intelligent and intuitive woman and I would imagine that she usually judges friend from foe with little effort. But now she’s scared of her very shadow and no longer trusts anyone.’
Even the handsome sheriff of Tonbridge, who is already not a little affected by her, Josse thought. ‘What should we do?’ he asked.
De Gifford smiled. ‘I rather hoped that you and I could speak to her together. I could fetch her from the inn, we could ride a safe distance from the town and from overly interested ears and eyes, and we could meet you out in the open.’
‘How would that help?
De Gifford’s smile deepened. ‘You have a reputation for honesty, Josse. When Sabin asked Goody Anne how to find me, Anne told her quite bluntly that if she was in any sort of trouble then she should seek out Josse d’Acquin, who was probably to be found up at the Abbey.’
Josse felt embarrassed and tried to disguise it with a curt question: ‘How do you know that?’
‘One of my men was in the tavern and heard the conversation.’ De Gifford waved a hand as if brushing that aside. ‘What do you say, Josse? Will the honest man come to talk to the lost and frightened woman?’
‘Of course I will. Name the place, and I shall be there.’
De Gifford’s house was at the end of a road leading out of Tonbridge, far enough past the dwelling places and the hovels of the town for the sheriff to breathe clean air with the tang of the river and the countryside on it. The place that he suggested for the meeting was half a mile or so beyond his house, on a slight rise above the river where two tracks intersected. Arriving there first, Josse had to admire the choice; there was a stand of winter-bare oak trees with a thick undergrowth of bramble, holly and hazel to screen them from curious eyes, but they would have the advantage of being able to watch the tracks to see if anyone approached. Even if the killer was about and managed to follow Sabin out here, Josse thought, the man would hardly make a move against her when she had both de Gifford and Josse with her.
He waited.
Then, on the track leading out of the town, he saw two figures approaching. One was de Gifford – Josse recognised the horse before the rider – and the other . . . he narrowed his eyes to make out the details – was a woman on a white horse. He remembered Sister Ursel’s description of a fair-haired, blue-eyed woman well dressed in a heavy, hooded cloak with good gloves, who rode ‘a pretty grey mare’.
He dismounted, tethered Horace and walked to the side of the track to greet her.
She was a very striking woman. She was dressed in good-quality but plain garments, which suggested to Josse that she was more concerned with comfort and practicality than fashion. The fair hair was tightly braided and in the main modestly concealed by a cap of stiff white linen. Seeing him as she and de Gifford rode up, she dismounted, handed her mare’s reins to de Gifford and strode towards Josse.
‘I am Sabin de Retz,’ she announced from a few paces off, ‘and you are Sir Josse d’Acquin.’
‘Yes, that is my name.’ He answered her in French; de Gifford, an educated man, would understand the language of the nobility even though he habitually used the common speech.
But it was in the latter language – heavily accented – in which she had first hailed him that she replied: ‘I am not French and it is not my mother tongue.’
‘You should keep your distance, my lady,’ he warned, ‘for I have of late been at Hawkenlye Vale, where—’
‘I know what is happening at Hawkenlye Vale,’ she interrupted, coming closer – he picked up a faint scent from her, one that, after a moment, he identified – ‘for I have seen both the dead and the fresh graves. I am not afraid and I will not insult you, Sir Josse, by standing off from you with a look of terror in my eyes, for it is how I am regarded here and I know how it affects the soul to be treated as a leper.’
‘You are courageous, lady,’ Josse murmured.
She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Am I?’
De Gifford had also dismounted and had tethered his and Sabin’s horses next to Horace. Now he came to stand beside Sabin.
She glanced at him. ‘You too brave the shunned, Sheriff?’ she asked.
De Gifford met her eyes. ‘I would not be shown up as a coward,’ he said simply. ‘There remains only one alternative.’
Josse said, aware of breaking an almost tangible thread of tension between de Gifford and Sabin, ‘I do not believe I present a danger, for I have been at the Vale for some days now and yet I remain well.’
‘Do not tempt the fates!’ de Gifford warned.
Sabin emitted a sound that sounded like
pouff
and was clearly expressive of scorn. ‘The fates have nothing to do with it,’ she said baldly. ‘The spread of sickness follows a set pattern; we have but to discover what that pattern is.’
‘But—’ de Gifford began.
Josse interrupted; they were not here to discuss such incomprehensible scientific mysteries. ‘You followed Nicol Romley from Troyes to England because you had to tell him that his life was in danger,’ he said bluntly to Sabin. ‘You went to see his former master, the Newenden apothecary Adam Morton, who said the lad had ridden over to Hawkenlye Abbey because he was unwell. It was some days before you managed to pursue him on to Hawkenlye, but when you did so you did not find him there either. You needed a place of safety in which to stay while you went on with your search and you settled on Robertsbridge Abbey, where you convinced the monk Stephen to lie if anyone came asking for you. You learned that Nicol has been murdered and then you decided to brave whatever danger pursues you and come up to the place where he was killed to discover what you can of how he died, why he was killed and who killed him.’
‘I know the reason why he was killed,’ Sabin said softly. ‘That, Sir Josse, is the one thing I can be sure of.’ But before Josse could ask what that reason was, she went on, ‘You are right in essence. We met Nicol—’
‘We?’
put in de Gifford.
‘Grandfather and I.’
‘The old man who is with you at the inn?’
She sighed. ‘Of course. His name is Benoît de Retz, the father of my late father. He and I were at the market in Troyes, where we had gone to buy – to buy things that were needed in our work. There we met Nicol and, since he was a lonely young man in a strange town, we befriended him. We shared a meal one night and we drank too much of the excellent wine they serve there. Grandfather wanted to impress Nicol and, his tongue loosened by the wine, he told Nicol something that should never have been told. Somebody was following Grandfather and me – someone who was aware that we possessed this dangerous knowledge – and, observing our friendship with Nicol, must have assumed, quite rightly, that the secret had been passed on to a third party. This someone set fire to our lodging house and it was only through chance that, other than some unpleasant symptoms resulting from breathing in the smoke, Grandfather and I were not harmed. The man who was after us must have believed us to be dead – which was not unreasonable since the lodging house was burned to the ground and they pulled out several bodies – and I guess that he set off after Nicol, the other person who knew the secret, to silence him too. When Grandfather was sufficiently recovered to travel, we too followed Nicol, but our intention was to warn him of the danger he was in.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, to speak honestly, it was also in my mind that Nicol would protect us.’