Meggie had withdrawn into herself. She could not overcome her anxieties, yet was unable to bring herself to the point where she could accuse Jehan Leferronier outright. Besides, what would be the accusation? How could she explain to him that, while she understood why he had killed the three brigands – he had seen plenty of evidence of their brutality, after all – she could not see why he had felt driven to deal out retributive justice to the Tonbridge deputy and the man who served Lord Benedict.
Did it really matter, she wondered, if he’d hung around the Hawkenlye area with the sole aim of finding others to punish? All the victims deserved punishment, after all.
Nevertheless, she could not quieten the small voice in her head which said that justice was for the men of law to impose. Even when, in King John’s England, the men of law so often failed.
She had managed to avoid further conversation with Jehan on board the boat by saying she was exhausted and needed to sleep. The exhaustion was real enough, but sleep hadn’t come for a very long time. This morning they had made port early, and, after stopping at a stall on the quay to buy food and a very welcome hot drink, they had set off inland.
The cargo boat had docked at a small port near Dieppe. Their road now lay almost due south, and Chartres, according to Jehan, was about a hundred miles away. After Rouen, they would be following the route beside first the Seine and then the Eure. It sounded as if the journey would be a fairly easy one, on well-maintained roads over flat lands, and with plenty of other travellers about.
Meggie was reassured by thinking that she would not be alone with Jehan. She kept reminding herself that, no matter what her misgivings, the important thing to remember was that Jehan was taking her to where she hoped – believed – she would find Ninian. She could not get to Chartres without Jehan because, for one thing, she didn’t know the way, and, for another, she didn’t have a horse.
They travelled for much of the first day in silence, exchanging remarks only out of necessity, in order to decide when to stop to eat, or when one of them felt like getting down from Auban’s comfortable back and stretching their legs. By the end of the second day, however, Meggie felt she couldn’t keep quiet any longer. In the privacy of her thoughts, she had made up her mind that Jehan was anything and everything from a knight dressed in pure, gleaming white sent from heaven to right the wrongs of the world, to a heartless killer who sought out men to punish purely because it gave him a perverted pleasure.
The truth, she decided as the two of them set about making their camp for the night beside the loops and curls of the Seine, was probably somewhere in-between.
They were camped on an apron of land that projected into the water, surrounded on three sides by the river. The deep, constant sound of moving water was an ever-present background noise as Jehan cut and trimmed branches to make a shelter, and Meggie found hearthstones and got a small fire going. They had a luxurious supper to look forward to: a couple of small, fresh carp just out of the river, some root vegetables purchased at a market stall in Rouen, onions, garlic and herbs for flavour and, to accompany it, a bottle of white wine.
Meggie was so hungry that she gave her entire concentration to the meal, and only afterwards, when their platters were scraped clean and they were leaning back drinking the last of the wine, did she finally nerve herself to ask the questions that had been burning in her.
‘Jehan,’ she began.
He raised his head and looked at her. A wry smile twisted his mouth. He had removed the cloth that he habitually wrapped around his head, and his long, black hair hung to his chest. His hair was damp: before they ate, he had surprised her by disappearing to go and wash in the river. All over, from his head to his toes. In the firelight, he looked very exotic, with his dark skin and the gold earring glittering in his ear. He also looked very handsome.
But she wasn’t going to let that distract her.
‘You said you’re not the man I believe you to be,’ she plunged in, before she could change her mind. ‘I think you should explain just what you meant.’
He made a very foreign-looking grimace: a sort of twisting down of the corners of his mouth, accompanied by a slight lift of the shoulders. ‘It is – I am not sure where to begin, Meggie.’
‘Just tell me the truth!’
‘The truth,’ he echoed softly. ‘Ah, but therein lies my dilemma, for if I reveal to you my true purpose in following those three evil men to Hawkenlye, I fear that you will think the less of me.’
For a moment, her mind was full of the wonderful revelation that what she thought about him mattered to him. She forced herself to concentrate on what was really important. ‘You went to kill them, and you put a mark on one of them to indicate that their deaths were done in revenge for their crimes.’ He started to speak, but she went on talking. It was now or never. ‘Then you found two other wicked men, both of whom had done violence against the innocent, and you punished them too. You—’
But he would not let her continue. ‘Meggie, this is what you said before. You did not mention my other two supposed victims, but you did accuse me of killing the trio of brigands.’
‘It’s not exactly an accusation,’ she protested. ‘They deserved to die, and I do not think you committed any crime in executing them.’
Now the rueful smile was very evident. ‘That, indeed, is the nub of it,’ he said. ‘I wished to continue to bathe in your approbation, for I have sensed all along that you would admire a man who would take the law into his own hands and coolly murder three such wicked men. But, Meggie, it is high time I confessed: I did not kill them.’
In that first moment, she did not know whether to be relieved or sorry. What she did know as she sat there in the firelight, staring intently into his black eyes, was that she believed him.
‘I have disappointed you, I think,’ he said quietly.
‘No – I don’t know,’ she confessed.
‘I imagine,’ he went on, watching her steadily, ‘that you are sorry I did not kill the three against whom I had a genuine grievance, yet glad that I am not the man to hunt down the guilty just for the sake of doing violence to them. Oui?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
‘Eh bien, I am glad that you answered honestly. It is right that we should be honest with each other, right from the start.’ His words, implying a future between them, sent a thrill through her. ‘I must admit to you, Meggie, that, in more than one way, I have allowed you to think I am someone I am not. For your father is a knight and also, evidently, a fine man, and I believe that, loving him as you obviously do – oh, yes, I have seen your face when you have not known I was watching, and I see how it grieves you to think of him worrying about you, missing you. Loving him as you do, you would wish that I, too, should be a man of high birth and property.’ He paused. ‘You have ancestors who went on crusade, perhaps?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My father’s father, Geoffroi d’Acquin, went on crusade with King Louis of France. Acquin is my father’s birthplace,’ she added, ‘although it is his younger brothers who look after it now, since my father settled in England.’
Jehan was nodding. ‘Oui, I surmised that your father’s name was of French origin. Well, Meggie, my grandfather went also on the Second Crusade, and his father before him went to Outremer on the First Crusade. But my forefathers were not knights.’ He paused. ‘They were blacksmiths.’
‘You made my little sword!’ she exclaimed, drawing it from its pouch at her belt, turning it so that the tiny garnet caught the light from the fire. ‘It is doubly precious,’ she whispered.
He started to speak, but some strong emotion made his voice break.
After what seemed a long pause, she said, ‘Tell me all about yourself, Jehan Leferronier.’
And, once he had collected himself, he did.
‘My family have always been blacksmiths, iron workers, and they lived in Brittany, in a place called Paimpont,’ he began. ‘Our legends go right back into the time of myths, and it is said that one of my forefathers made the magic cauldron for the great sorcerer who once lived in the heart of the Breton forest.’
Meggie stifled a gasp. She knew about that forest; when she was a small child, she had even been there . . .
‘My father’s grandfather was called Trudo le Ferronier,’ Jehan was saying, ‘and his seigneur was Raoul de Gaël, lord of a large area of the Brocéliande forest, a man who had gone on campaign to England in 1066 with William the Conqueror. Raoul answered the call when the First Crusade was preached, and he took with him to Outremer his faithful blacksmith, for a man who is going to fight has need of someone skilled in metalwork. Raoul had every reason to be grateful to Trudo le Ferronier, for Trudo had refined his skill as a swordsmith, and it was said that his weapons were as good as the great swords made in Spain.’
‘Toledo steel,’ Meggie muttered.
‘How did you know that?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘Probably from my father.’
‘In Outremer, Trudo worked alongside a smith from that very city, Toledo, and he learned much of the Spaniard’s technique. The process was a closely-guarded secret, but somehow my forefather learned it. It is a question of forging together hard and soft steel,’ Jehan went on eagerly, the light of the true craftsman shining in his eyes, ‘at a very high temperature, with very precise timing; for if the steel is kept in the heat for too long it will melt, and if for not long enough, the metal will not even reach melting temperature.’ He grinned. ‘Most swordsmiths recite a particular psalm or prayer, to the same steady rhythm, in order to get the timing exact.’
‘But Trudo returned from Outremer?’ she prompted. She sensed that Jehan could talk about sword-making all night.
‘He did, for Raoul de Gaël died, in 1109, and, with his lord’s death, Trudo had no longer a purpose so far away from his home. He came back to his wife and his three children, and five more children were born to them, the last of whom was named Péran, and he was my grandfather.’
‘The man who married a woman of Ethiopia,’ she put in.
He smiled, clearly gratified that she had remembered. ‘Oui, c’est vrai. Péran went on the Second Crusade, as I said, following his father’s example, and whilst there he met a tall, elegant and very beautiful woman of the south whose name was Taya. He wooed her and wed her, and, in time, brought her home to Paimpont, and always he loved and cherished her, for she had given up her hopes of ever returning to her own birthplace and gone willingly with him to his.’ He paused, his gaze on something out beyond the fire. ‘They had but the one child, my father, Chrétien Leferronier, and he wed my mother, Onenne de Gué, and they, too, had one son.’
‘Who is a blacksmith like his ancestors, and who left his forest home to work in the cathedral at Chartres, making beautiful things, where he was distracted by a call to arms from his fellow Bretons because they had seen a chance to get even with King John for murdering their beloved Prince Arthur,’ she said in a rush.
‘Shhhhh!’ he hissed. ‘Not so loud!’ Then, grinning, he said, ‘There you have my life, Meggie. You know what I am and what I am not, and I have told you the truth.’
‘I know,’ she said calmly. It was time, she thought, to tell him something about her own strange heritage and mysterious gifts. Tomorrow, she promised herself.
He was frowning. ‘There is one more thing,’ he said. His hand was on the sword that lay in its scabbard on the ground beside him. As she watched, he drew it out.
Despite its sinister purpose, it was an object of great beauty. It was, she realized as she studied it closely, the model for her own miniature weapon. Its hilt terminated in a garnet set in heavy silver, and the crosspieces bore intricate, swirling designs, the very shapes of which seemed to exude mysterious meaning. The long, savage blade was decorated with more curling patterns, and its keen edge shone almost blue in the firelight.
‘Did your great-grandfather make it?’ she whispered, awestruck by the sheer power of the object before her.
Jehan shook his head. ‘No. Skilled as Trudo was, this is an example from an older age, when men put something of their souls into the objects they made.’ He ran his hand up and down the flat of the blade, the movement a caress. ‘This weapon was presented to Raoul de Gaël on the field of battle, given to him by an elderly knight of ancient and pure lineage, for Raoul had saved his life. The knight was old and had no son to leave his treasure to, and he wanted a fitting gift for his saviour. Raoul, however, did not live long to enjoy his reward, and when he was dying, he summoned the one man who he knew would appreciate its beauty and its power.’
‘Trudo le Ferronier,’ Meggie murmured.
‘Oui. Trudo passed it down to his son Péran; Péran gave it to my father Chrétien; my father handed it down to me. And when that thief stole it from beneath my sleeping body in the rooming house, I had no choice but to follow him until I got it back.’
Meggie was thinking hard, trying to remember what Josse had told her about the three dead bodies at Hawkenlye. ‘But the sword was buried with the victims!’ she said. ‘It must have been, because my father saw it on the body of the biggest man, once he and the others had been unearthed and brought to the abbey. They all realized he’d stolen it,’ she added. ‘My father said it was far too grand an object for a man like that.’
‘It is as I thought,’ Jehan said with a grim frown. ‘When I came to Hawkenlye, I searched everywhere for the three men, but they had vanished. I guessed perhaps someone else had done what I’d planned to do, and put paid to them and their wickedness for ever.’
‘So you did intend to kill them!’
‘Oui, Meggie, I did. But intention is easy.’
‘You couldn’t kill them if they were already dead,’ she pointed out.
‘No, indeed not.’ He looked as if he were trying not to smile. ‘So, I searched and searched, and then I heard that three dead men had been uncovered in their shallow grave and taken to the abbey on the edge of the forest. I watched and I waited, and I took my chance. Shortly before they were taken out and buried, I climbed over the abbey wall, got the better of a lock and made my careful and furtive way to where they lay on their trestles, and took back what was mine.’
‘And nobody noticed the stolen sword was gone,’ she said softly.
He had put his sword back in its sheath. It was probably her imagination, but Meggie thought the light wasn’t quite so bright any more.
Josse and Helewise had made good time, reaching the coast without incident and quickly arranging their passage over the narrow seas in a large trading ship. The ship sailed in the late afternoon, and the captain said they’d reach the far shore round about dawn. He was right; Josse and Helewise were mounting up on the quayside as the first light of the sun brightened the eastern sky.
The boat had docked at Boulogne, and it was a leisurely day’s ride from there to Acquin. Josse’s heart rose at the thought of returning to his family home again so soon, and, indeed, his kinsmen and women seemed equally delighted to see him, welcoming Helewise with the courteous affection they had bestowed on her back in the autumn. The womenfolk and the servants produced a splendid meal, considering it was at very short notice, and Josse’s brother Yves broached a new barrel of wine.
Josse felt quite guilty when he explained to Yves and his calm-faced wife, Marie, that they were only staying one night and would leave very early in the morning. ‘We must get to Chartres as soon as we can,’ he added, very much wanting his brother to understand. ‘We now have two independent sources who have told us that’s where Ninian’s going, and where Meggie has gone to look for him, and so we really must—’
Marie put out her hands and took his between them. She smiled at him, hushing the rest of his sentence. ‘Of course you must, dear Josse,’ she said. She glanced at Yves, in her eyes the look of a wife who has known, loved and understood her husband for years. ‘If it was one of ours, Yves would probably have to be tied down to stop him setting out right now.’
‘Oh!’ Josse exclaimed. ‘Maybe we should—’
‘No,’ Marie and Helewise said together, exchanging a smile as they did so.
‘One night will make no difference,’ Helewise added, ‘and we had a very early start this morning.’
‘Come back to us when you have found them,’ Yves said. ‘We will prepare a party for you all – the biggest celebration this old house has ever seen!’
‘We will try to send word,’ Helewise said. She shot a look at Josse. ‘It’s not easy,’ she whispered to him, ‘preparing a feast – it’s nice to have a little warning!’
Josse said a silent prayer. All this talk of feasts and celebrations was, he thought, tempting fate.
Later, as Marie showed Helewise to her sleeping quarters, Helewise confided in her the reason for their urgent need to take Ninian home. Marie nodded understandingly. ‘And your granddaughter will deliver her child when?’
‘In July,’ Helewise replied. ‘Of course, they won’t be able to marry, even assuming we find Ninian and he comes home, for the interdict still prevents it. But at least there’s now a chance that he will be there for the birth.’
‘Yes,’ Marie said. The interdict, she was thinking. Yes, the interdict . . .
At long last, Ninian was approaching Chartres. He was tired, Garnet was even more tired, and both of them were dusty, sweat-stained and stinking. Before he entered the city, Ninian made up his mind to get both his horse and himself as clean as he could. It was, he thought as he rode through the open countryside south of the town looking for somewhere suitable, rather like the ritual cleansing of a man about to be knighted, where you stripped, washed, donned clean clothing and spent the night alone in a prayer vigil.
He found what he sought: a spot where a hurrying stream ran in a shallow valley between stands of willows. It was a good distance from the road and, down in the water, he would be out of sight of anyone passing by. He rode down on to the narrow stretch of sandy bank, slipped off Garnet’s back, unfastened his baggage and removed the horse’s saddle and bridle. He would clean those first, he decided, while he was still in his filthy clothes.
Garnet had already taken off for the new spring grass and was on his back, feet in the air, rolling with such abandon that Ninian thought he’d never stop.
Some time later, washed, dressed in the cleanest of his garments and mounted on a well-groomed horse whose tack gleamed as brightly as his rider’s boots, Ninian rode into Chartres. He knew he must find somewhere to lodge – which, although not impossible, would not be easy, as he had very little money – but that was of secondary importance.
He found an inn where decent stabling was on offer, leaving Garnet in the care of a bright-looking young lad. Then he headed out up the street, across the square and into the cathedral.
It was very strange to be back. A decade ago, when he and Josse had been there, the new building had been in skeletal form, its walls and arches just beginning their soaring flight up towards the heavens. Now the structure was complete, and craftsmen were busy working on decorative stone and metalwork, and putting in magnificent stained-glass windows.
For some time Ninian just stood and stared. He had never seen anything as beautiful as the evening sun through the coloured glass of Chartres.
In time, he went where he knew he would: down into the crypt. To his surprise – for he knew very well where the Black Goddess figure intended for this place was now hidden – there was another Madonna statue in the niche that had been specially built. He stood staring up at her. She too was carved from black wood, and she too was clearly divine, but there the resemblance ended. The Black Goddess at Hawkenlye was the Mother depicted before she gave birth, her belly swelling in a great curve. This statue represented the archetypal mother and child, the infant cradled in her arms and looking up adoringly into her loving face.
‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ whispered a voice at his side. Looking down, he saw an ancient, tiny woman, eyes bright in the creased old face.
‘She is,’ he whispered back.
The old woman looked around to check they were alone. Then, leaning closer and enveloping Ninian in garlicky breath, she added, ‘Course, she’s not the one we was meant to have.’
His heart gave a lurch. ‘Really?’ he managed to say.
She shook her head. ‘No.’ Her eyes went misty. ‘That one, she were a small, black, immemorial image.’ She paused, apparently lost in rapture. ‘Or so they say,’ she added, returning to herself. ‘This ’ere one’s a substitute,’ she hissed, laying a bent old finger to the side of her nose. ‘Lovely, all the same.’ Then, as if fearing she had said too much, she gave him a nod and scuttled away.
He stood alone in the crypt, the Madonna and child before him. The sounds of the industrious workmen high above him faded away as his mind turned inwards and, in a moment like an epiphany, he thought he understood.
There was a greater purpose to everything that had happened, right back to the time when his mother had vanished from this very spot. Somehow she linked everything together. His mother, Joanna. There was a sudden, painful ache of longing for her in his heart, and he put his hands to his breast as if to soothe it.
She had brought him here; acting in some unfathomable way, she had put in his mind the chain that linked together the Black Goddess figures, all the way from the Languedoc to Chartres. And – his eyes were suddenly wide open as further comprehension dawned – the bonshommes were wound up in it all.
The bonshommes, yes, of course, with their worship of the female principle. One hand moved from his heart to where he carried the set of images, wrapped in their silk cloth. ‘I will do as you ask,’ he said softly out loud, addressing he knew not who. ‘I will undertake the task entrusted to me and somehow make sure that the bedrock of your beliefs, hidden deep in these images, will never be lost.’
Then he fell on his knees, closed his eyes and gave himself up to the power of the spirit he could feel humming and beating all around him.