Authors: Alys Clare
The man who had admitted Josse and Helewise led them across the open space to the manor house. It, too, looked as if its builder’s intention had been to make it blend in with the natural world; to limit to a minimum the signs of man’s hand at work. The contrast to the brash new extensions which Benedict de Vitré had commanded at Medley could not have been more marked.
But this place, Wealdsend, is old
, Josse thought. Someone – Helewise, probably – had told him that it had been here in its secret, hidden valley for generations before the coming of the Normans.
Their guide ushered them up a short flight of steps and into the main hall – and again Wealdsend’s ancient origins proclaimed themselves. Lord Wimarc, Josse observed, must approve of the style of living chosen by those long-ago people, for he kept to the old ways. The low, dark building was made entirely of wood, and a fire pit ran the length of it. The roof was supported by two rows of heavy pillars, marching either side of the long, narrow hearth; it was steeply pitched, rising to perhaps three men’s height at the apex, where there was a line of smoke holes, and descending so low at the sides, where it met the walls, that an adult would have had to crouch. The light was dim out there, away from the hearth, but Josse thought he could make out bundles of rolled-up bedding. Like a chieftain of old, it appeared that Lord Wimarc’s retainers slept in their master’s hall, perpetually on guard.
Josse’s unease deepened. With what he hoped was an unobtrusive movement, he took a couple of steps round behind Helewise, so that now she was on his left side rather than his right. If he should need to draw a weapon, better to make sure she would not be able to grasp his sword arm and impede his swing …
At the far end of the hall, so close to the fire that his outstretched feet all but overhung it, an old man sat on a huge chair, the wood elaborately carved, its hardness softened by cushions. He was wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, its folds tightly wrapped around him but leaving his hands free. The huge, yellowish stone of a heavy gold ring on the right hand caught the light. On a board beside him there was a spread of pieces of vellum, each covered in blocks of dense script. One piece appeared to have been used to draw a rough map.
Noticing Josse’s eyes on the work, the man stretched out his arm and swept every last scrap to the floor.
The servant who had ushered Josse and Helewise into the hall went up to the man in the chair, bending to speak quietly to him. The old man nodded, and the manservant stepped away, back into the shadows around the room’s perimeter.
Then, staring at Josse with an intent glare, the old man said, ‘I am told you and the lady bring tidings from Hawkenlye Abbey.’ His deep voice was hoarse; perhaps, Josse wondered, from disuse. The pale eyes moved to Helewise. ‘I cannot imagine,’ he went on, his tone disinterested, ‘what sort of news from that place could possibly be of interest or relevance to me, but since you have made the journey here, I am prepared to listen to what you have come to say.’
He spoke, Josse realized crossly, as if he were conferring a huge favour merely by being prepared to listen to them. Beside him, as if she felt his rising anger, he heard Helewise give a quiet cough. ‘Let me,’ she whispered, so softly that the words could surely not have been overheard. He nodded.
He heard her take a breath. Then she said, ‘You are, I presume, Lord Robert Wimarc?’
‘I am.’
‘Then it is to you that we must speak. Sir Josse and I have had the sad task of being involved in the deaths of three young men: Guillaume and Symon de St Clair, who were cousins, and their friend Luc Jordan. All were found in the vicinity of Hawkenlye Abbey, where their bodies have been taken to await burial. We understand that they had set themselves upon a mission, and to this end they were making their way to—’
‘What has this to do with me?’ Lord Wimarc’s voice cut across hers.
‘They asked at the abbey for directions to Wealdsend,’ Helewise replied. ‘They were coming to you, Lord Robert, for they believed you were embarking on some great plan which would resonate down through history, and they wished to be a part of it.’
Lord Wimarc sat, silent and immobile. Then he said, ‘They were mistaken. I make no plan, and have no wish to be immortalized. I live the quiet life of a recluse, and I do not welcome strangers.’
His last words, accompanied by the icy look he shot from his pale eyes, first at Josse, then at Helewise, could not have been more blunt.
And that includes you
, hung unspoken on the air.
Josse’s fury rose anew. ‘Yet not one but three young men believed otherwise, and all now are dead,’ he said coldly. ‘Have you any comment to offer? Any explanation, as to why all three came to be so mistaken?’
Lord Wimarc shrugged indifferently. ‘None.’
‘But you can’t simply—’
Suddenly Lord Wimarc stood up, the heavy cloak swirling around him. He was tall, his long body curving over in the hunched posture of a great bird of prey. ‘
Can’t
, Sir Josse?’ The husky voice was strong now, the tone aggressive. ‘Do not presume, in my own hall, to tell me what I can and can’t do.’
Josse stepped forward, anger driving him on. ‘You have spies out there,’ he cried, waving an arm behind him in the direction of the valley and the land beyond. ‘I know this, for I followed a hooded rider from Medley Hall to your own gates, where, for all that the place appeared deserted, I saw him admitted. What was he up to, Lord Robert? What information was he bringing to you? Did it form another vital element in your secret plot?’
Lord Wimarc appeared to shudder – perhaps with the effort, Josse speculated, of suppressing the desire to jump down and strike him. But when the old man finally spoke, his voice was as chilly and detached as before. ‘I cannot be expected to recall the details of every man who rides through my gates,’ he said dismissively. ‘If you believe, Sir Josse, that I have the time and the inclination to concern myself with such trivialities, then you are mistaken.’
‘This was no triviality!’ Josse shouted. ‘This – this hooded rider who came here brought you, did he not, news of the outside world? News from—’ He had been on the point of saying,
news from Lord Benedict de Vitré’s manor of Medley
, but even as he spoke, he thought he finally understood the true import of that hurrying, secretive figure. ‘He’d found out about your would-be visitors, hadn’t he?’ His eyes were on Lord Wimarc’s impassive face, searching desperately for some sign; some tiny indication that the furious words were hitting home. There was nothing. ‘Your spy had somehow discovered that three naive and foolish young men were looking for you, coming to disturb your precious seclusion,’ he plunged on, ‘and yet, although you must have suspected they could be in danger – youth and foolish naivety are poor companions out in the wilds – you did nothing to help them. Did you order your gates barred to them, too, when they came here to offer you their swords? Did you watch from the shadows as they rode dejectedly away?’ He took another step towards the old lord. ‘Do you even care that they now lie dead?’
His furious words echoed up into the rafters. He raised his arms in a gesture of frustration, but in that atmosphere of high tension, Lord Wimarc misread it. Spinning round, eyes searching the shadows at the edges of the hall, he shouted out one single word: ‘
Manticore!
’
And, from the corner where he had been standing, silently and motionlessly observing, a slim, spare figure moved out into the light. Although he was not wearing his heavy, deep-hooded cloak, there was no mistaking his identity: it was the man who had stood with the Fitzwalter faction at Hawkenlye Abbey while Caleb of Battle had been tricked into speaking treason; the man who, later, had ridden at speed past Josse and Helewise on the road leading from Medley. In the poor and inconstant light of the dimly lit hall, it now struck Josse that the sparsely fleshed, pale face, with its prominent brows and sharp cheekbones, resembled a skull …
The man sprang forward, as light on his feet as a cat, and even as he advanced, he had slid his sword out of its scabbard. Moving to stand before his lord, face to face with Josse, he said with quiet intensity, ‘Get back.’
It was not the moment to argue; his eyes fixed on the sword point only inches from his face, Josse did as he was commanded. Resuming his place beside Helewise, he felt her grope for his hand and clutch it tightly.
‘I had no intention of harming your lord,’ he said, staring right into the swordsman’s eyes. ‘You have my word.’
‘Your word,’ the man echoed neutrally. ‘I see.’
He was still standing in front of Lord Wimarc, who now, with a quiet groan, returned to his chair and sat down. The slim man took up his position at his side, still holding his sword with its point towards Josse. From his belt, Josse noticed with concern, hung a long knife in a leather scabbard. Next to the belt buckle was stuck a short, stabbing blade.
Seeing him clearly now, Josse took in the details of his face. The man’s skin was sallow, almost olive in colour, and his close-cropped hair was so dark that it appeared black. His lean face was close-shaven, the lips of his wide mouth narrow and pale. His high cheekbones stood out like blades, casting shadows on the lower part of his face, so deep that they looked like wounds. His eyes seemed to change colour, now appearing mid-brown, now shadowed to profoundest black. They were, Josse noticed with a shudder of unease, quite dead.
He thought back to that single word, spoken by Lord Wimarc in the instant that he thought he was about to be attacked.
Manticore
. It was vaguely familiar … A legendary
beast, Josse thought, dragging up the memory from the depths of his mind, which combined the most ferocious aspects of all the killer creatures, and was crueller than any of them.
Was the word a command? Or was it, God help them, this dead-eyed man’s name?
The man nodded, as if he had been aware of Josse’s thoughts and waited only for him to finish. ‘You came to ask if Lord Wimarc knew these three young men who have unfortunately died,’ he said, ‘and, now that you have been given his answer, there is no more reason for you to remain. I will—’
‘I know you,’ Josse interrupted. ‘You were at Medley Hall, and I followed you here. You were also at the abbey when Nicholas Fitzwalter spoke, and I believe that you abducted an old woman who was being cared for in the infirmary. You probably brought her here, although you will of course deny it.’ He raised his hand, gestured wildly in his frustration. ‘What are you up to?’ he shouted. ‘What’s going on, and why were those three young men killed? I
know
you are involved, so don’t try to—’
The man shot towards him, sword swinging above his head in preparation for the down stroke – the killing stroke – and in that instant of greatest peril, the stillness of his face and the violence in his movements formed such an extreme contrast that it was in itself an affront.
Hastily Josse shook off Helewise’s hand, and he was drawing his own weapon to defend himself – to defend them both – when Lord Wimarc barked an order: ‘Manticore,
no
.’
The old man’s voice spoke out with clear authority, and the swordsman stopped dead.
So Manticore
is
his name
, Josse thought, feeling the tremor in his tight muscles as his whole body responded to the threat. It served only to increase the horror of the man.
Lord Wimarc was beckoning, and his swordsman lowered his weapon and went to his side. Lord Wimarc muttered a few words, too soft for Josse to make out. Then Manticore looked around the hall, paused for a moment as if considering, and made a brief gesture. There were sounds of movement all around the hall, and into the light from the fire pit stepped perhaps ten or twelve men. All wore the plain, unmarked, sombre-coloured livery of the house.
All were armed.
Josse pushed his sword back into its scabbard – he knew he must not give any man the excuse to attack – and put his left arm around Helewise’s waist, drawing her close. His heart aching, he thought,
I let her have her way and come with me, when my instincts told me not to. And now my impulsiveness – my weakness; my desire for her company – means we are both in grave danger
.
He did not even dare admit the thought that the danger might well prove fatal.
There was a long pause. Then Lord Wimarc said, as if initiating a courteous mealtime conversation, ‘Do you know what has happened this day?’
Josse met the old man’s steady gaze. Watching him closely, fear putting every sense on the alert, he noticed that, while a quick glance suggested that Lord Wimarc sat there totally composed, as still and majestic as a standing stone, yet there was tension running below the calm surface. A tic jumped in his eyelid. The long fingers of his left hand played constantly with the huge citrine ring on the middle finger of his right.
‘No,’ Josse replied shortly. ‘I don’t know. Something of import, I imagine, to judge by your tone.’
Lord Robert’s eyes seemed to bore into him. Now there was jubilation in his expression, tinged with another, more dangerous emotion, which Josse feared was the sort of fanaticism that is almost madness. Not looking away, forcing Josse to go on staring right at him, Lord Robert said, ‘The king is dead. He has been killed. The land is free of him, and a great evil has left the world.’
Josse heard Helewise’s gasp of horrified dismay. He tightened his grip on her hand. In that moment of deepest peril, he feared very much that a wrong word from either of them would invite the same fate as the king had just suffered.
Then he stopped thinking of Helewise and himself, and the import of what he had just been told sank in.
King John was
dead
? Oh no, no – it was impossible. Lord Wimarc was lying. He had been misinformed; misled. He was misleading
them
– Josse and Helewise – for some deep purpose of his own. He was deranged.
It could not be true!
John was dead.
King John; son of the great Henry II and his magnificent wife; brother of Richard, who had been the hero of his age. In a series of images that flashed across his mind like summer lightning, Josse saw the life of the man who he had known, on and off, since John was a furiously angry little boy, hurling platters and lying on the ground stuffing rushes in his mouth because he could not get his own way.