murmured. Then she sighed deeply, and repeated, ‘Aye.’
Josse waited. Would a gentle prompt be in order? ‘I have come from Winnowlands,’ he began, ‘and I—’
‘That poor old man!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘First Dillian, then Gunnora! If this double tragedy doesn’t tip him over into his grave, I’d like to know what would. How is he, sir?’
‘Not well. He—’
‘No, he wouldn’t be. Nor will any be among them what has the misfortune to depend on him, neither. The master isn’t here,’ she said, abruptly changing to the practical. ‘He’s gone to Canterbury, sir.’
No explanation followed – indeed, Josse thought, why should it? – so he repeated, with a delicate note of enquiry, ‘Canterbury?’
‘Aye. To bare his soul before the good Brothers, do an honest penance, take his punishment and say Mass for her, God rest her soul.’
‘Amen,’ Josse said. What, he wondered, mind seething, had Brice to do penance for? But it wouldn’t do to ask – wasn’t it likely that he’d get more confidences from this old soul if he pretended he was already in the know? ‘He’ll rest more easy in himself after that, I dare say.’
She gave him a swift look, as if assessing how much of the background he really knew and how much he was guessing. After a fairly uncomfortable pause – the deep-set brown eyes were disturbingly penetrating – she appeared to accept him at face value. ‘Well, I dare say,’ she agreed grudgingly. ‘No knowing how these things affect a man, that’s what I say.’ Another long, considering look, under which Josse did his best to make his expression bland and faintly earnest. The picture, he hoped, of a distressed family friend come to pay his respects.
It must have convinced her. Turning back towards the house, she yelled, ‘Ossie? Get yourself out here, lad!’ Too soon for him to have been anywhere but eavesdropping behind the door, a boy of about fourteen appeared, gangly, slightly spotty, hanks of greasy hair hanging limp over the low forehead, the epitome of young adolescence. ‘Take the gentleman’s horse,’ the woman ordered, ‘see to it’ – it! she obviously didn’t concern herself overmuch with such equine matters such as gender – ‘and then get you back to the stove. Don’t you dare let it stick, or it’ll be you as cleans my pan!’
‘No, Mathild.’ The boy flashed a quick grin at Josse – he had, Josse observed, a broken and discoloured front tooth, which must surely soon start giving the boy agonies, if it wasn’t doing so already – and Josse dismounted and gave the boy the reins.
Then, with a jerk of her head as if to say, this way, Mathild led Josse into the cool hall of Rotherbridge Manor.
‘You’ll take some ale, sir?’ she offered, going to where a covered pewter jug stood ready on a long side table. A hospitable house, this.
‘Aye, thank you.’
She filled a mug, and watched as he drank. ‘Thirsty day,’ she remarked. ‘You’ve come far?’
She was probing, he decided. ‘I put up last night at Newenden.’
‘Hm. Found a place to lay your head that didn’t make your skin crawl, did you?’ Then, before he had a chance to answer, ‘You knew her well, my lady Dillian?’
‘I didn’t know her at all,’ he replied honestly. ‘It was Gunnora I knew.’ That was not so honest. In fact, it wasn’t honest at all.
‘Gunnora.’ Mathild nodded slowly. ‘Went in a convent, she did.’
‘Aye, Hawkenlye Abbey. I know the Abbess.’ That, anyway, was truthful. ‘My mission here is primarily to discuss with Sir Alard the disposal of the poor girl’s body.’
‘Aye, and he’ll have told you, do what you please,’ Mathild said with devastating accuracy.
‘More or less,’ Josse agreed. Then, taking a step in the dark, ‘A shame, that they never made it up before she died.’
‘Aye, aye.’ He’d got it right. ‘No one should die with bad blood between them and their kin, sir, should they?’
‘No,’ he
Josse waited. Would a gentle prompt be in order? ‘I have come from Winnowlands,’ he began, ‘and I—’
‘That poor old man!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘First Dillian, then Gunnora! If this double tragedy doesn’t tip him over into his grave, I’d like to know what would. How is he, sir?’
‘Not well. He—’
‘No, he wouldn’t be. Nor will any be among them what has the misfortune to depend on him, neither. The master isn’t here,’ she said, abruptly changing to the practical. ‘He’s gone to Canterbury, sir.’
No explanation followed – indeed, Josse thought, why should it? – so he repeated, with a delicate note of enquiry, ‘Canterbury?’
‘Aye. To bare his soul before the good Brothers, do an honest penance, take his punishment and say Mass for her, God rest her soul.’
‘Amen,’ Josse said. What, he wondered, mind seething, had Brice to do penance for? But it wouldn’t do to ask – wasn’t it likely that he’d get more confidences from this old soul if he pretended he was already in the know? ‘He’ll rest more easy in himself after that, I dare say.’
She gave him a swift look, as if assessing how much of the background he really knew and how much he was guessing. After a fairly uncomfortable pause – the deep-set brown eyes were disturbingly penetrating – she appeared to accept him at face value. ‘Well, I dare say,’ she agreed grudgingly. ‘No knowing how these things affect a man, that’s what I say.’ Another long, considering look, under which Josse did his best to make his expression bland and faintly earnest. The picture, he hoped, of a distressed family friend come to pay his respects.
It must have convinced her. Turning back towards the house, she yelled, ‘Ossie? Get yourself out here, lad!’ Too soon for him to have been anywhere but eavesdropping behind the door, a boy of about fourteen appeared, gangly, slightly spotty, hanks of greasy hair hanging limp over the low forehead, the epitome of young adolescence. ‘Take the gentleman’s horse,’ the woman ordered, ‘see to it’ – it! she obviously didn’t concern herself overmuch with such equine matters such as gender – ‘and then get you back to the stove. Don’t you dare let it stick, or it’ll be you as cleans my pan!’
‘No, Mathild.’ The boy flashed a quick grin at Josse – he had, Josse observed, a broken and discoloured front tooth, which must surely soon start giving the boy agonies, if it wasn’t doing so already – and Josse dismounted and gave the boy the reins.
Then, with a jerk of her head as if to say, this way, Mathild led Josse into the cool hall of Rotherbridge Manor.
‘You’ll take some ale, sir?’ she offered, going to where a covered pewter jug stood ready on a long side table. A hospitable house, this.
‘Aye, thank you.’
She filled a mug, and watched as he drank. ‘Thirsty day,’ she remarked. ‘You’ve come far?’
She was probing, he decided. ‘I put up last night at Newenden.’
‘Hm. Found a place to lay your head that didn’t make your skin crawl, did you?’ Then, before he had a chance to answer, ‘You knew her well, my lady Dillian?’
‘I didn’t know her at all,’ he replied honestly. ‘It was Gunnora I knew.’ That was not so honest. In fact, it wasn’t honest at all.
‘Gunnora.’ Mathild nodded slowly. ‘Went in a convent, she did.’
‘Aye, Hawkenlye Abbey. I know the Abbess.’ That, anyway, was truthful. ‘My mission here is primarily to discuss with Sir Alard the disposal of the poor girl’s body.’
‘Aye, and he’ll have told you, do what you please,’ Mathild said with devastating accuracy.
‘More or less,’ Josse agreed. Then, taking a step in the dark, ‘A shame, that they never made it up before she died.’
‘Aye, aye.’ He’d got it right. ‘No one should die with bad blood between them and their kin, sir, should they?’
‘No,’ he
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