Josse half expected that someone – either his cousin Isabelle or Cyrille – would challenge him the next morning for having taken it upon himself to rush to Olivar’s aid during the night.
‘It may well be true that it wasn’t my place to help him,’ he said to Helewise as they prepared to join the household, ‘but I just couldn’t hold back once I heard those screams.’
‘Of course not,’ she said soothingly. ‘But you must have been concerned about the boy already, Josse, to have been within earshot? I didn’t hear him.’
‘Aye, I was in the Old Hall,’ Josse admitted. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I kept imagining how he must be feeling, all alone on such a bitter, savagely cold night.’ He paused. ‘It was almost as if I was waiting for something to happen,’ he added in a low voice.
‘Did he say what had scared him?’
‘No. Just something about a huge black shape with long, glittery claws. He was almost beyond words to begin with, and then whatever sedative Isabelle prepared for me to give him quickly sent him to sleep. I stayed with him till it was light, and then Isabelle came back and relieved me.’
‘Was there no sign of his mother?’ Helewise asked incredulously.
‘Not when I was there. Her chamber is over on the other side of the family’s quarters, so perhaps she didn’t hear him.’
‘Did Isabelle comment on her absence?’
Josse sighed. ‘Apparently Cyrille believes that the best way to cure a child of night fears is to ignore his terror and force him to overcome it.’
‘A little harsh,’ Helewise said, tight-lipped.
Josse was frowning. ‘The thing is,’ he said slowly, ‘this really isn’t a house where children suffer night fears. Do you know, Helewise, the lad sleeps in the same place I did, when I was a little older than him and the first extension had been completed. I used to wake up sometimes and be frightened, but I always sensed that something in the very fabric of the house was watching over me, and the fear went away.’
‘Perhaps things have changed since then,’ she suggested. ‘The house, after all, has been further extended, and maybe the ancient protective spirit has been disturbed.’
But instantly Josse shook his head. ‘Oh, no, it’s still just the same,’ he said, although he had no idea why he was so certain. He smiled ruefully at her. ‘Come on. If you’re ready, I’d better go and face the retribution.’
But to his surprise, nothing was said about the events of the night. Cyrille was not present; once again, Herbert said she was resting and would join the family later. The others greeted Josse and Helewise with the usual friendly courtesy. Henry remarked that there had been a lot more snow in the night, and that if it continued, and there was no rise in the temperature, the roads would very soon become impassable.
‘I hope, Cousin Josse, that you have no pressing business back at home?’ Editha asked him, concern in her pale face. ‘It would not be at all wise to risk the journey under the present conditions.’
‘No, and anyway I want to stay here to be with Uncle Hugh until – to be with Uncle Hugh,’ he replied. Editha nodded her understanding. ‘My family won’t worry,’ he went on. ‘Conditions are no doubt much the same back at the House in the Woods, and they’ll understand if Helewise and I stay away longer than planned.’
As if his kinsmen had been waiting for the opportunity, now they asked a flurry of questions about Josse’s children, his house, what his life was like over there on the fringes of the Great Forest. He answered as best he could, telling them of Meggie and Geoffroi, his own children, and Ninian, his adopted son; how Meggie was hoping to set up home with her Breton blacksmith Jehan le Ferronier and how she had become a skilled healer; how Ninian was now a father; how Geoffroi’s world centred around the animals, both domesticated and wild, with which he had such skill. Although Josse had made it clear that Helewise was not his children’s mother, his kinswomen were too tactful to ask what had become of her. Josse had a swift, bitter-sweet image of Joanna: I do not forget you, my love, and neither do your children, he said silently to her.
After breakfast, Helewise murmured to him that she would like to visit the chapel, and he showed her the way. He did not go in with her, for he had other things than prayer on his mind. He went on into the solar, hoping that, not having been in the Old Hall, the person he sought must surely be there.
He was: Olivar was kneeling up on the padded stone seat that ran along beneath the solar’s small north-facing window. He had pushed aside the heavy wooden shutter that covered the opening, and was peering out at the snowy landscape far beneath.
Not wanting to take the lad by surprise and perhaps risk an accident – it was unlikely he’d fall, but not impossible – Josse deliberately made his footfalls heavy and loud. Olivar spun round, jumped down as if he’d been poked with a stick and said hurriedly, ‘I didn’t get my shoes on the cushions! I was very careful not to.’
‘Then you did well,’ Josse said, forcing a grin even while his heart went out to the boy’s obvious anxiety. Was the lad habitually punished even for something as minor as that? ‘I bet I couldn’t kneel up there without dirtying at least a bit of cushion.’
The boy risked a small smile. Then, perhaps recognizing something in Josse’s voice, suddenly the smile vanished and his mouth dropped open in astonishment. ‘You – you’re the big strong man!’ he whispered. ‘The man who comes in the night to protect me!’
Josse nodded. ‘Well, I came last night,’ he agreed. ‘I knew something had scared you, and I thought I ought to make sure you were all right.’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Olivar said, ‘but you’ve been to rescue me before.’ He spoke with utter certainty. ‘You always know when I really need you, like that time when she was so cross about – er, well, you just seem to come at the right time to save me or make me feel better.’ He risked a quick look up at Josse. ‘Andtosavemefromthemonster,’ he added in a tiny whisper, running the words together in his fear and his haste as if he hardly dared utter them.
Josse wanted to pick him up and hug him, but he didn’t think the gesture would have helped the boy in his very obvious effort to be brave. To take his mind off his pity – it was so strong it hurt – he wondered just what it was that the lad had stopped himself from saying. She, surely, must mean Olivar’s mother. What had she been cross about, and what did her son fear she would do, to make him so desperate for protection and comfort?
But there was something even more disturbing, and Josse felt he must mention it. ‘I couldn’t have rescued you before, much as I’d have liked to,’ he said gently, ‘because I’ve only been here for a few days, and last night was the first time you needed me.’
But Olivar shook his head, laughing. ‘But you did come before,’ he insisted happily. ‘We can pretend you didn’t if you like, and keep it a secret just between us.’ He hesitated, and, for a moment, fear came back into his wide blue eyes. ‘Just as long as you keep coming,’ he added in a whisper.
Touched, and not a little worried, Josse said, in as reassuring tone as he could manage, ‘I will. You have my word.’
Helewise stood just inside the heavy wooden door of the chapel, looking around in wonder. It was small but perfectly proportioned, and it was clear that the best craftsmen had been employed in its construction. Graceful pillars lined the north and south walls, rising to fan out at their summits into a tracery of lines like the spread fingers of an open hand. The rood screen, of pale oak, was beautifully carved with images of trees, flowers and leaves, and the altar, again of oak, bore a crisp white cloth edged with a deep border of lace and on which stood a simple but heavy silver cross. Along the southern wall, open to the outside world, were two small stained-glass windows. There was another little aperture over on the northern wall, where the chapel backed on to the solar, and Helewise guessed it was for the use of family members who did not wish to join the congregation but chose to hear mass privately. In a church used by the community at large rather than a family’s private chapel, she mused, it would have been called the leper squint …
Leper.
A soft chime of – memory? Warning? – sounded in her head. She wondered why.
Helewise walked on silent feet up the aisle towards the altar. She had believed herself to be alone. Now, spotting the short, veiled figure kneeling in the shadow of a pillar over to the left of the altar, she realized she was mistaken.
She stopped, not wanting to disturb the woman’s private devotions. She began to edge backwards, towards the door, but she must have made some small sound because the veiled woman suddenly started, spinning round to stare at her.
It was Cyrille.
Embarrassed, Helewise said, ‘I am sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
Cyrille, appearing flustered, muttered something, and Helewise noticed she was fiddling with some small object she had been holding: something suspended on a long piece of thread. Although Helewise quickly averted her eyes – it would be embarrassing, she thought, if Cyrille caught her looking – nevertheless, Cyrille’s hands disappeared beneath the folds of her veil, fumbling there for a few moments as if she was putting the object away in some secret pocket.
Then she turned bird-bright, pale eyes in a flushed face to Helewise and said, ‘You do not disturb me, Lady Helewise, for I sense you are a godly woman, and thus welcomed by Our Lord into this His house.’
It was on the tip of Helewise’s tongue to remark that the Lord, in the wisdom of his love and his infinite capacity for forgiveness, would surely welcome the ungodly just as much, if not more, if and when they came. But something in Cyrille’s rock-steady, penetrating stare deterred her. She had the feeling that, once an opening for discussing the matter had been given, the two of them would still be talking at bedtime.
I am a coward, Helewise reprimanded herself, but I do not wish to be shut away in here all day with such a woman.
She answered Cyrille with no more than a courteous inclination of the head.
Apparently taking this as an invitation to closer intimacy, Cyrille came right up to her, the protuberant blue eyes searching her face intently. ‘I expect you have come to pray by yourself,’ she said with an understanding nod. ‘That’s what I’m doing, too. I find I need to spend much of the day in solitude, and this is one of my preferred places.’ She nodded again, swiftly, repeatedly, as if to verify her own words. Then, her mouth right up to Helewise’s ear, she whispered, ‘You would not credit what a very strange and unsettling house this is, my lady.’ Again, the nodding. ‘I try every day to impose my will upon it, for, in truth, there is so much to be addressed that at times I scarcely know where to begin.’ She sighed. ‘They do not listen, the people who dwell here. They are stubborn, and too firmly set in their ways, and the voice of sense and reason falls upon deaf ears.’
I do not have to listen to this, Helewise thought. Although she tried hard not to jump to conclusions, she sensed strongly that Cyrille was trying to make her an ally; two women who were not of the family’s blood uniting against them.
She wasn’t going to be a party to it.
‘I am a guest in this house,’ she said firmly, ‘invited here simply for the purpose of meeting Josse’s kin, and not to judge them.’ In case Cyrille had missed the point, she added, ‘The private affairs of these kindly people, who have welcomed me so hospitably, are nothing to do with me.’
Cyrille had withdrawn slightly, but that appeared to be her only reaction to Helewise’s snub. ‘You are a godly woman,’ she repeated softly. ‘I see it in you, my lady. You are close to God, and once were even closer.’
Could she possibly know? Helewise wondered. Had she somehow learned that her position in life had once been very different? What if …
Enough, Helewise told herself. ‘Throughout my life, I have always tried to be a godly woman,’ she said quietly.
Cyrille had resumed her nodding. It was, Helewise thought, quite infuriating; as if Cyrille was implying that she knew exactly what you were thinking, and what words would come out of your mouth even before you spoke them.
‘Herbert’s mother resents me,’ Cyrille said suddenly. Even as Helewise tried to adjust her thoughts to the abrupt change of subject, Cyrille went on, ‘She is, of course, Hugh’s eldest daughter, and she sees this as imparting the right to the position of senior woman in the household, whereas of course I, as wife to Hugh’s heir and grandson, should in fact have that honour.’ She shook out a fold of her beautiful gown, as if displaying its quality and costliness for Helewise’s admiration. ‘Isabelle is a widow, and, in a household where tradition and correct behaviour are given their due, she would by now have moved out into some dower house, leaving Southfire Hall to her son and his wife.’
‘Surely, while Hugh yet lives, to discuss any such arrangement, let alone propose its implementation, is premature,’ Helewise said. She tried to keep her emotions out of her voice, but without success. Even to her own ears, her tone had sounded crushing; almost rude.
Cyrille, however, either didn’t notice or chose to ignore the implied reproof. ‘And as for that Emma,’ she said, ‘well, words fail me.’ Unfortunately, however, they didn’t. Leaning close to Helewise once more, Cyrille said in a spiteful whisper, ‘She says she wants to be a nun, but she’s going to find the vows far too much of a challenge, that one, especially the vow of chastity.’ She gave Helewise a knowing look. ‘She was caught with a young man, you know, and he had his arms around her and was kissing her, and his hands were on her hips and buttocks, and on her breasts that she had thrust upwards by tightening her bodice so severely that she could hardly breathe, and—’
‘Did you observe this yourself, Cyrille?’ Helewise interrupted. What was the matter with the woman? Was it just that she enjoyed passing on salacious gossip, or was there something more?
Cyrille shot her an angry glance. ‘No, I did not, but I am perfectly certain it happened. These things are made known to me, my lady!’
The obvious question was to ask, How? But, rapidly coming to the conclusion that conversing alone with Cyrille was something to avoid, Helewise refrained. Instead, she allowed the short silence to extend a little and then said, ‘I am looking forward to getting to know your little boy today. I do hope he has recovered from his night fright.’
Cyrille didn’t answer. Once again, she was toying with the folds of her gown. For a moment, Helewise wondered if she had heard. But then, with a faint sigh, she said, ‘Olivar. Oh, yes, Olivar.’ Then, raising her head, she looked Helewise straight in the eye and said, ‘He must learn not to make such a fuss.’ Her eyes seemed to slide out of focus, and Helewise had the impression that her thoughts had suddenly turned elsewhere. She muttered something – perhaps, ‘It does not really matter, now’ – and then, with the barest of nods in Helewise’s direction, she turned and walked away, the flap-flap of her soft slippers on the stone floor fading away.
Helewise sank down on to the low steps before the altar, her skirts billowing around her. Aloud she said, ‘Well!’
Then – for the encounter with Cyrille had deeply unnerved her – she turned round to face the simple cross, knelt, folded her hands and closed her eyes. Something bad had intruded here, she thought. Despite dear Josse’s bracing words about the house, some evil element seemed to have evaded its benign, protective spirit and slithered inside, and, whatever it was, it had begun to affect poor Cyrille. Either that, or …
No. There was no or, she told herself firmly.
‘I do not know why, dear Lord,’ Helewise whispered, ‘but I am uneasy. No, it is worse than that –’ she forced herself to be honest – ‘I am afraid.’
Bowing her head over her clasped hands, she tried to find the words to ask for help with an undefined problem she hadn’t even begun to understand.
The long hours of the day slowly passed. The snow went on falling. Late in the afternoon, a messenger fought his way up from the town, bringing word – by some complicated, involved route – from Jenna’s husband, Gilbert. As had been expected, he would not be home before the snow melted; he had dispatched his message while the roads and tracks were just passable, but he had not then been able to leave the coast himself because his business there was not yet complete. Anticipating being stranded, he had had the foresight to warn his family that his return would be delayed indefinitely.
Jenna took the news badly. Watching her from her seat by the fire, Helewise had the sudden thought that Jenna, too, felt the presence of something sinister within the beleaguered walls of Southfire House.
Isabelle came into the Old Hall, spotted her daughter and went over to her. ‘Peter Southey needs tending,’ she said brusquely. ‘Everyone else, including me, has their hands full, so will you see to him, please?’
Helewise, sitting nearby, overheard. ‘Jenna has only just sat down,’ she said. ‘I will go.’ Mother and daughter both turned to her. Isabelle’s expression was harassed, Jenna’s grateful. ‘I should be glad of something to do,’ Helewise added, getting to her feet. Josse had been with his uncle for much of the afternoon, and she had found that time dragged, although it wouldn’t have been polite to say so.
‘Very well,’ Isabelle agreed. ‘Thank you, Helewise.’
‘How is he?’ Helewise asked as she and Isabelle walked out of the hall.
Isabelle frowned. ‘His injuries appear to be mending, and he says he is not in much pain, yet, when I asked if he didn’t find the days very long, alone in his room, and suggested he might like to come and join the household, he said it was out of the question.’ Slowly she shook her head, smiling ruefully. ‘It did cross my mind that perhaps he wishes to remain isolated until the swelling and bruising of his face improves. He is, I am sure, normally rather a handsome young man, and such men are often vain.’
‘I will see if I can persuade him,’ Helewise said. ‘I agree that he would surely be happier amid other people, and that might hasten his convalescence.’
Isabelle gave a dismissive snort. ‘Even if he were fully well, he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. It’s still snowing, and very soon we shall be totally cut off.’
A faint tremor of alarm ran through Helewise, although she could not have said why. Wealthy, substantial houses such as Southfire could tolerate many days, if not weeks, of isolation, for the household would have filled the storerooms and cellars back in the autumn, when nature had produced her bounty and there were meats, vegetables, fruits and cereals in plenty for those to buy who had the means. No doubt the buttery was full of fine wine, mead and ale, and, failing all else, there would undoubtedly be a well somewhere at hand for a family of this size living in a place that had been occupied for generations.
Helewise’s moment of apprehension had nothing to do with fears of running out of food and drink …
Peter Southey looked considerably better. His face was still swollen and discoloured, but the hot flush of fever had left his skin, and his expression was alert. Having seen to his needs – food, drink, a cold compress on his nose and a fresh chemise – Helewise pulled a stool up beside the bed and sat down.
‘Why not come and join us in the hall this evening?’ she said without preamble. ‘The company is jolly enough, and, after the wine has been passed around, there are often songs and sometimes a story or two.’
Peter eyed her solemnly for a few moments. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I know you mean it kindly, but I will stay here.’
‘You will soon have regained your good looks,’ Helewise said, with a smile to take any sting out of her words. ‘Besides, everyone knows how you got yourself in such a state, and are far more likely to sympathize than to jeer.’
‘That is not why—’ Peter began. Then, lowering his eyes, he muttered, ‘I would rather not.’
‘Why?’ Helewise persisted. ‘It would do you good, I believe.’
‘You have all been more than kind enough to me already,’ Peter replied, still staring down at his hands, twisting together in his lap. ‘Far more than I deserve,’ he whispered.
Or that was what Helewise thought she heard; surely not? ‘The household have only done what it is to be hoped all good Christian people would do,’ she said gently. ‘We are taught, are we not, to help our fellow man?’
‘Yes, we are, but not when that man has come to—’ Again, he stopped; this time, as abruptly as if he had bitten his own tongue. Then, with a change of subject that clearly cost him quite an effort, he looked up at Helewise and said, ‘Tell me about the family, my lady. You can be my entertainment, if it would not tire you.’
‘Very well.’ There was much here, Helewise reflected, to puzzle her, but she did not think Peter was going to offer any explanations just because she asked for them. She gathered her thoughts, then began to describe the various members of the Southfire family and how they related to each other, giving brief description of each one, finishing with Cyrille’s young son.
‘And I can’t tell you much about him,’ she concluded, ‘because I’ve barely spoken to him.’
Peter was watching her. ‘I heard a child screaming in the night,’ he said softly. ‘Was it him?’
Helewise wondered fleetingly why Peter should assume it had been Olivar rather than one of the little girls. ‘It was.’
‘He sounded terrified.’
‘He’d had a bad dream.’
Peter was still watching her, eyes narrowed. ‘Indeed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it not,’ Peter murmured, ‘that he saw a dark shape, which seemed to flow into his room, reaching out with sharp, silvery claws?’
Helewise looked at him in amazement. ‘How did you – has someone been talking to you about it?’
Slowly Peter shook his head. ‘Nobody has mentioned anything.’
She didn’t know what to do. Should she tell him that he’d just described virtually word for word what Josse reported little Olivar said he saw? Oh, but what if Peter’s fever was rising again, and, by confirming the accuracy of his guess, she contrived to make him worse?
For it had to have been a guess. There was no other explanation.
‘I—’ she began.
But he put out a hand, taking hold of hers. His flesh felt quite cool; there was no fever in his blood. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I meant neither to upset nor embarrass you.’
She shook her head. She had no idea how to respond.
‘The lad is this Cyrille’s son, you told me?’ Peter said after a pause.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Helewise, glad of the invitation to talk about something else, hurried on. ‘She was the widow of Young Herbert’s childhood friend, William Crowburgh. She bore him a son, Olivar, six years ago. Now the boy is being adopted as Herbert’s ward and his heir.’
‘And you said, I believe, that all the other children in the family are female.’
‘Yes, that’s right – there’s Herbert, of course, Isabelle’s son, but no male child has been born since.’
Peter did not reply. The room was growing dark and, wondering if he had fallen asleep, Helewise quietly got up and lit a couple of lamps.
Peter wasn’t asleep. He had drawn out the little leather bag he wore around his neck, and he was turning it over between his fingers, running his thumb around the outline of whatever was within. His expression had turned inwards, and Helewise realized his thoughts were far away from the small, cosy room.
She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. ‘You are missing your home and your loved ones, I dare say,’ she said kindly. ‘Since you were heading away from home, on your way to Lewes, nobody will be anxious about you yet, but, if you like, as soon as the snow begins to clear, word can be sent to reassure them.’ He did not respond. ‘Why,’ she added brightly, trying to cheer him, ‘news that you are safe might well reach them before they have even begun to be concerned!’
He turned to her, his eyes full of sadness in his battered face. ‘You have a kind heart, my lady,’ he said, his voice not quite steady, ‘and I thank you for your concern. You need not trouble yourself to send any message, however. I am quite alone in the world.’
With that, he turned on to his side, away from her, and, still clutching the little leather bag, closed his eyes.
‘He looked so very sad,’ Helewise said to Josse as they prepared for bed. ‘He said he was quite alone in the world, and, to judge by his grief-stricken expression, I’d guess he has lost someone he loved very much.’
Josse went to sit beside her, taking her hand. ‘I am sorry for him, but I confess that, just at the moment, I am more concerned with the fact that, from what you’ve just told me, he seems to have seen the same apparition that so terrified poor little Olivar.’
Helewise rested her head on his shoulder. ‘What’s going on, Josse?’ He could hear the edge of fear in her voice. ‘You keep telling me this is a good place, and that the house has a strong protective spirit, yet two people beneath its roof have now seen something quite dreadful.’
Josse held her close. ‘Aye, there’s no denying that a – a darkness has crept in,’ he agreed. ‘But the house will fight back. I know it will.’
She looked up at him, and he read the scepticism in her eyes. ‘It’s a house, Josse,’ she said gently. ‘Just stone, wood and mortar.’
There was no arguing with that, and he didn’t try.
Presently he got up. ‘I’ll go and speak to Peter Southey,’ he announced. ‘I would like to hear more of this dark shape that flows from room to room.’
She must have heard some different tone in his voice, for she gave him a quick look. ‘You suspect someone may be playing a trick?’
‘I hope very much that they’re not,’ he replied shortly, ‘since it’s a particularly heartless trick to reduce a small boy to abject terror. But the alternative—’ He had been going to say the alternative, that some evil had entered the beloved ancient home of his maternal kin, was even worse. But he found he couldn’t utter the words.
Helewise seemed to understand. ‘Be careful,’ she said.
Peter lay on his back, his head sunk in the pillows. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily through his open mouth. Josse called out very softly, ‘Peter? Are you awake?’
There was no reply.
Josse was about to tiptoe away – even his rudimentary knowledge of nursing told him you didn’t wake up a convalescent without good reason – when a log collapsed in the small hearth, sending up a tongue of bright flame which briefly illuminated the room. Turning back to make sure Peter slept on undisturbed, Josse noticed the man’s hands.
They were clutched over his chest – over his heart – and they held a small object, which was all but concealed within the clasped fingers. The little leather bag lay empty, tucked just inside the open chemise.
Josse leaned forward.
Memories were firing off inside his head, for, although he had no idea why, the object was familiar. Without pausing to think how, why or where, he knew he had seen it before.
It was carved out of ivory, or perhaps some sort of bone, and it was in the form of a seated woman, crowned and dressed in flowing robes. She supported her right elbow with her left hand, and the fingers of her right hand were pressed to her cheek.
Pity her, poor woman! She’s got toothache for all eternity! said the laughing, irrepressible voice in Josse’s memory.
It was the queen out of a chess set.