Whiter than the Lily (2 page)

Nobody was about. Nobody was watching.

Turning to her goal, she ran across the grass and, working carefully but as quickly as she could, collected the missing ingredient.

Back inside the hut, she chanted softly under her bream as her hands cut, chopped and tore. Sometimes she reached for another tool – the mortar and pestle for crushing, the flask of freshly collected spring water to dilute – and, always, her practised hands knew exactly where to go without her having to remove her eyes from her potion to look and direct them.

In time, she had finished. Finished, at least, all that
she could do today. One final element had still to be added but she could not do that until the Moon had moved from Scorpio into Sagittarius – the last ingredient must be gathered with the Moon in a Fire sign, for then it would give the necessary heat – and there was a good fall of dew.

In two nights’ time, she thought calmly. I shall rise naked from my bed and slip out in the dark hours before dawn.

It was something that she did quite frequently. She did not think that her husband knew, for she timed her absences to coincide with his deepest sleep. She shared much of her life and her thoughts with him but some things she needed to do alone.

She covered her potion with a moist cloth, then put a stone lid on the pot and tied it into place. Then she put it right at the back of the top shelf.

She looked around the little hut as she wiped and dried her hands. Everything was clean and tidy, just as she liked it. Satisfied, she fastened the door and, with a light step, set off for the house.

Josse d’Acquin, riding out in a new tunic to visit his neighbour Brice of Rotherbridge, reflected that it was good to be alive on a hot summer’s morning with the prospect of a good dinner ahead of him.

The invitation had come as quite a surprise. Josse and Brice had been on politely friendly terms since their first acquaintance four years ago, but the relationship could not have been called close. Then, a few days back when Josse and his man Will had got themselves thoroughly hot, sweaty and filthy supervising the unblocking of a ditch, Brice’s manservant had arrived with the summons.

Josse was ashamed of having been caught in such a state. He had intended only to stand above the ditch and supervise his small and singularly dull-witted working party, only somehow he had found himself down in the mud and the sludge showing them what he wanted them to do. Will, clambering reluctantly down beside his master, had sucked at his teeth in disapproval. ‘Aye, man, I know what you think and I’ll thank you not to make that disgusting noise at me!’ Josse had hissed at him.

But Will knew from long experience that his master’s bark was a great deal worse than his all but nonexistent bite. He continued his tutting and sucking, adding a not quite inaudible commentary along the lines of ‘T’ain’t right for ’im to dig along o’ the likes of them, t’ain’t good for discipline,’ sentiments which, although Josse might have agreed with them, were hardly helping matters.

Josse’s embarrassment at having Brice’s long-nosed manservant stare down at him in disdain had prompted him to purchase the new tunic, as if to show that he
could
look smart – and scrupulously clean – if he wanted to. The tunic was of dark forest-green velvet, came to just below his knees and flared out in generous folds at the hem. He had been assured that it was cut in the latest fashion. It had certainly cost enough, especially when he had allowed the merchant to persuade him into buying matching gloves and a hat shaped rather like a turban. Josse was not at all sure about the hat.

The landscape was changing now as he left the High Weald behind and approached the marshland. Brice’s manor was partly on the high ridge-top land – the manor house was on an elevation overlooking a wide creek – but most of his acres were down on the levels. It was widely believed that he had earned a small fortune in wool.

Drawing rein, Josse paused for a moment to look out at the view below him. He was further upstream along the same creek that flowed past Brice’s manor house and now, with the tide going out, the small
water course was a mere trickle, its sides slick with wet mud which erupted occasionally into bubbles that exploded with a soft pop and a brief but noisome whiff of marsh gas.

On the far side of the creek was a low bank, beyond which the ground fell away into a wide marshy valley. Flat and fairly featureless – unless one counted the softly-coloured patchwork of little fields, the few small, stunted trees and the sheep – it ended in a rise of the land some two or three miles away. On that higher ground, Josse worked out, trying to get his bearings, would be the villages of Northeham and, further east on the low cliffs above Rye Bay, Peasmarsh and Iden.

Rousing himself from his contemplation of the serene scene before him – it really was a lovely day and the wide marshlands looked their best in the strong sunshine – Josse clucked to Horace and turned for Brice of Rotherbridge’s manor house.

The courtyard was shaded by a brake of willow and alder trees growing alongside and, peering ahead into the cool gloom, Josse called out to announce his arrival. After a moment there was the sound of hurrying feet and Brice’s young servant came out of the stables.

‘Morning, Sir Josse,’ the lad said, grinning up at Josse.

‘Good morning – er—’ What was the lad’s name? Josse tried to remember. The boy had grown in four years almost to manhood but the lank hair, low forehead and broken front tooth were unmistakable. Still,
the smile of welcome seemed genuine and, as he responded, suddenly Josse recalled the lad’s name. ‘Ossie!’ he exclaimed triumphantly.

‘Aye, that’s right, sir,’ Ossie said, the grin widening. ‘I’ll take your horse, will I, sir? There’s cool water in the stable and I’ll give him a bit of a rub down, seeing as how he’s got himself into a sweat.’

‘Aye, I’d be grateful,’ Josse said, dismounting. ‘Warm day, eh, Ossie?’

‘That it is, sir,’ Ossie said with a dramatic sigh, as if warm weather were one of the plagues of Egypt. ‘Dare say we’ll be paying for it afore long.’ He stared glumly at Josse, then said, ‘Go on inside, sir. You know the way? Master’ll be waiting for you.’

Josse crossed the yard and went up the steps into the hall. As Ossie had said, Brice was waiting for him and, as Josse approached, he quickly rose from his seat on a bench beside the wide hearth and hurried to greet him.

Studying him, Josse reflected that four years had, if anything, made the man look younger rather than older. Of course, four years back he had recently lost his wife and he had been, Josse reminded himself, carrying a heavy burden of guilt over her death. It had been a difficult time for both men and the residue of awkwardness, Josse had sometimes reflected, probably accounted for why the two of them had kept their distance from one another. Still, Josse was here now, a welcomed guest in Brice’s house, and perhaps this unexpected invitation was Brice’s way of saying that he too regretted the lack of closeness between them and wanted to put matters right.

Josse studied Brice as his host held out a mug of cool ale. The dark brown hair showed not a trace of grey, the tanned face was smooth and unlined and there was a hint of laughter in the brown eyes. Brice held himself well and his broad-shouldered frame was clad in fine linen and a richly bordered burgundy tunic that looked even more costly than Josse’s.

He looked, Josse concluded, raising his cup in response to Brice’s courteous toast to ‘old friends well met once more’, like a man in his prime. And, moreover – just what
was
it about him? Something in his expression … aye, there was definitely some suppressed excitement in those eyes. He looked like a man treasuring some thrilling secret thought.

The conversation flowed for a while over mundane topics – the weather, the health of Brice’s sheep, the steadily rising price of wool. And presently, as conversations always did just then, it turned to the King.

‘He is in good heart, they say,’ Brice remarked. ‘Although, given the circumstances, it is hard to see how that can be.’ His handsome face took on an expression of extreme indignation. ‘A Christian king, God’s own anointed one, to be a prisoner! Ah, Josse, the humiliation!’

‘I think we can be assured that now he is a prisoner in name only,’ Josse replied. ‘Since that traitorous rogue Leopold of Austria handed him over to the Emperor back in March, it’s said that his situation has steadily improved. The latest reports suggest that he is treated more as an honoured guest than a prisoner. Why, he holds court and conducts
his business almost as if he were in his own stronghold!’

Brice waved a hand impatiently. ‘Aye, so they say, but he’s not
free
, man, is he?’

Josse had to acknowledge that this was true. ‘His health has improved,’ he offered. ‘He’s enjoying his food and drink again and he has even been hunting on more than one occasion, and that will build up his strength for sure.’

As if he had not heard, Brice said, ‘And what of us here in England? Eh? Kingless, rudderless, with that clever brother of his scheming to sit on our Richard’s throne!’

‘The Queen is on her guard,’ Josse said. ‘She knows John as well as anybody and she will do what is necessary to protect Richard’s interests.’ Both men knew, without Josse having to stipulate, that he spoke of King Richard’s mother and not his wife. ‘Back at Easter, she increased the guard on the coast and those Flemish mercenaries that John had hired received a tougher welcome than they’d bargained for. And she’s made the King’s men renew their oaths of fealty.’

‘What use will that be if he does not return? If– God forbid! – we have to have his brother in his place?’

‘We can do no better than hearken to the King’s own words. You recall? When they told him of John’s scheming, he said that his brother wasn’t the man to conquer a country if anyone offered him the slightest resistance. King Richard does not fear his brother, Brice, so we should not either.’

‘But we are here and he is far away,’ Brice said
lugubriously. Then, fixing Josse with angry dark eyes, he added softly, ‘And now we’re going to have to find one hundred thousand silver marks to get him back.’

‘Aye, I know,’ Josse said heavily. ‘They say it’s twice England’s annual revenue.’

‘Will it be raised?’

‘Aye,’ Josse said, with more confidence than he felt. ‘Queen Eleanor will see to it that it is.’

‘We’ve already been bled white to pay for the Crusade.’ Brice, as if aware that his words might be regarded by some as next door to treason, spoke in a voice little above a whisper. ‘Now it’s a quarter of our annual income from every one of us!’

‘Not everyone,’ Josse protested. ‘The poor are only obliged to give what they can.’

Brice said something that Josse did not quite hear, which, given his allegiance to King Richard, he felt was probably just as well.

There was silence in the hall for some time. After discussing matters of such gravity, Josse thought, it was somehow not right to try to turn the talk to a more personal level. All the same, he was still very intrigued to know why he had been invited and even more so to find out just what it was that was making Brice pace restlessly as if his lean body contained too much nervous energy for him to be still. Before he could think of a way to satisfy his curiosity, a stout woman with a neat white cap over her grey hair and a crisp apron covering her brown gown bustled in and told them that dinner was ready.

Brice, acknowledging the brusque announcement
with a smile, said lazily, ‘You remember Mathild, Josse?’

‘Indeed I do,’ he replied. If the woman’s food is as good as her ale, he thought cheerfully, then I’m in for a treat.

The meal was excellent. Mathild, who had a light hand with a pastry crust, served a hot pork pasty that was flavoured with some spice that Josse thought he recognised but could not place. Whatever it was, he hadn’t tasted it since he had attended the court of the Poitevins and it was a rare pleasure to encounter it again. He and Brice took their time, eating their fill of the savoury dishes. In addition to the pork pasty there was a tartlet of chopped meat in a cheese, egg and milk sauce; white fish in wine sauce flavoured with onions and spices; and a sort of solid pottage that Josse thought consisted mainly of peas. Then Mathild brought in sops-in-wine – generous pieces of her own sweet cake in a mixture of wine, milk and almonds – and her spice, sauce once more tantalised Josse’s taste buds with all but forgotten delights. He detected ginger … and cinnamon … and perhaps a touch of clove? … and then, with a smile and some earnest words of praise to Mathild, he passed up his platter for more.

‘Aye,’ Brice said, finally pushing himself back from the table and easing a thumb inside his belt, ‘she may lack a certain finesse in her manners, my old Mathild, but she’s the best cook I’ve ever come across. More wine?’

Accepting another refill, Josse was thinking just what a pleasant way this was to spend a lazy sunny day when, draining his own cup, Brice sat up straight and said, ‘When you’re done, Josse, there’s someone I want you to meet. You may know of him. His manor is not far from here – an hour’s ride, certainly no more, even if we go very gently – and the day will be growing cooler soon.’

‘Someone you wish me to meet?’ Josse echoed stupidly, trying to focus his drowsy thoughts. ‘But—’

‘I should have explained,’ Brice said with a swift apologetic smile. ‘Only – well, I thought to surprise you.’