A Dark Night Hidden (2 page)

But whatever his unimaginative mind might have come up with as a suitable gift for a woman he had just raped was never to be expressed. For, belatedly, he had noticed his prisoner’s unnatural stillness.

Rising up – he was kneeling between her wide-spread legs – he gazed down at her. There was blood on her thighs, and he wondered if he had just deflowered a virgin. Shame if so, he’d have made more of the moment if he’d known. Silly cow ought to have said.

Then he saw the other blood. Flowing from the back of her head, where she had hit the floor.

He thrust one hand into her long, dark hair, pooling around her head. He felt something warm and wet and, withdrawing his hand, he saw that it was covered in her blood.

He stared down at her small white breasts. Soft, they were, and nicely rounded. He put his hand on one, pinching the nipple hard; that’d wake her up if she was shamming.

She made not the slightest move.

He stared at her face. Her eyes were wide open, fixed; he could not bear to look into them. Leaning down over her, he listened for a hint of breath, watched for any rise and fall of her chest.

Nothing.

Standing up, pulling up his breeches and straightening his tunic, he said, in a low and somehow triumphant tone, ‘She’s dead, then. Aye, dead.’

He reached up for the torch and took it from the bracket. Then, leaving the cell door open – she certainly wasn’t going anywhere now – he strolled off along the passage.

Dead. Ah well, it’d save the hangman a job.

‘King Richard a
prisoner
? Nonsense – this cannot be so. Someone must be having a wicked jest!’

Josse d’Acquin, house guest of his late mother’s brother, Hugh of Lewes, heard his own heated words and belatedly remembered his manners. ‘I apologise, Uncle,’ he muttered. ‘But, nonetheless, I am certain there can be no truth in this terrible story. Why, the King heads a great army!’ Or at least he did three years ago, Josse added silently to himself, when he rode off with such proud pomp at the head of the vast crusading force. Since then, King Richard had suffered mixed fortunes. Moreover, of late the sparse news filtering back from Outremer with returning crusaders had been depressing.

And, for all that there were many tales that boasted of the King’s bravery, prowess and deeds of outstanding daring, there were also the hushed voices that spoke of sickness. Of a recurrent fever. Of a wound. Of plotting between Richard’s own brother, John, and the King of France, Richard’s sworn enemy. There were even – God forbid! – whispers that said King Richard was dead.

Trying not to dwell on that frightful thought, Josse blustered on. ‘How could it be that those whose sworn duty it is to guard the King would have allowed him to be taken?’

Hugh had waved the apology away. ‘Oh, Josse, I understand your emotion and I too, on hearing the fell news, had the same reaction: there must be some foul trickery here.’ His shocked eyes met Josse’s. ‘But not so. The reports flying around at court are, I deeply regret to say, absolutely true.’ He glanced over his shoulder as if to ensure that they were not overheard, then, putting his mouth close to his nephew’s ear, whispered, ‘Editha has it from Howell, who, as I believe we have told you, is kin to one of the secretaries of Walter of Coutances.’ The whisper dropped to a still softer pitch as Hugh added, ‘And it was Walter himself who broke the news to Queen Eleanor!’

‘Aye,’ Josse said distractedly. ‘Aye, you have indeed spoken of Howell’s important and influential cousin.’ He refrained from adding that it was strange how Howell – married to Hugh’s middle daughter Editha – managed to have distinguished relations whilst remaining unutterably dull and unremarkable himself. ‘But how does Walter of Coutances come by the news? Is there not still room for hope that the report, wherever it comes from, may yet prove false?’

‘I do not know, Josse.’ Hugh gave a heavy sigh. ‘I pray you are right, yet in my heart . . .’ He did not continue with the remark. Then suddenly he burst out: ‘I fear for England if Prince John rules us!’

Josse, too, had his misgivings concerning the Prince. He had encountered the man a matter of months previously, and knew better than many with what single-mindedness, even then, John’s hungry ambition had been fixed on the throne of England.

Yet, indeed, with Richard gone, who else
was
there?

But Hugh was speaking again. Josse arrested his despairing thoughts and listened.

‘Editha and Howell will be here again by and by,’ Hugh said. ‘Then we shall have fresh tidings, for they have been visiting Howell’s family. I pray God the news is good.’

‘Amen to that,’ Josse agreed.

‘Until then,’ Hugh said, on another sigh, ‘let us try to turn our thoughts to happier matters.’ His face brightening, he managed a light laugh. ‘A game of chess, perhaps? I believe you like to play?’

‘Er – it is many years since I enjoyed a game, and I fear that what skills I once possessed may have deserted me. But I will take up the challenge, Uncle, if you issue it.’

Now Hugh’s laughter was stronger. ‘That I do, nephew, albeit on another’s behalf. For if the guest whom we expect this afternoon can indeed spare the time to grace us with a visit, he will certainly not wish to pass up the chance of pitting his wits against a new opponent.’

His heart sinking – chess had never really been his game – Josse said, trying to put a note of polite enquiry into his voice, ‘And who may this guest be, Uncle?’

‘Why, Father Edgar!’ Hugh exclaimed, as if Josse ought to have guessed. ‘You remember, our priest!’

‘Oh.’

Hugh wrapped an affectionate arm around Josse’s shoulders, thumping the fist of his other hand against his nephew’s broad chest for good measure. ‘Ah, now, Father Edgar’s a good fellow, Josse, with a wide-ranging mind and possessed of lively intelligence. You have not yet had occasion to assess the measure of the man.’ Noting Josse’s expression – which despite his best efforts must have remained sceptical – Hugh laughed again and said, ‘Just wait! Just you wait!’

Josse had been the guest of his uncle and aunt throughout the Christmas season and the month of January. Aware that he had neglected them for far too long, he had not been entirely sure what sort of a welcome he would receive. His father’s kin were from northern France, where Josse’s four brothers lived with their wives and their children on the family lands of the d’Acquins. Josse’s father Geoffroi, however, had married an Englishwoman, Ida, daughter of Herbert of Lewes with whom he had fought in the Second Crusade. As a boy, Josse had been despatched by his mother to visit his English relatives and he had kept warm, though faint, memories of Uncle Hugh, Aunt Ysabel and his three cousins, Isabella, the eldest (who was the same age as Josse), Editha and Aeleis. Until this Christmas, however, he had not seen any of them for more than twenty years.

Any misgivings that Josse might have entertained over how the family at Lewes would receive a kinsman who had stayed so long away dissipated as soon as he set foot across the threshold. Admittedly, it had been but three days before Christmas Day, and the household was already clearly feeling the jubilatory influence of the Lord of Misrule. However, whatever the reason, they had welcomed him in as if he were the one person whose presence was required to make the festivities perfect.

They had been quite a party. Most senior were Hugh, now a stout, balding man of more than fifty years, and his wife Ysabel, quiet and calm where her husband was loud and demonstrative, but clearly the mistress of the household. Although grown plump and breathless, the remnant of her former beauty was still there for those with eyes to see it. Then there were Isabella, Editha and Aeleis, the elder daughters accompanied by their husbands, Arthur and the dull-witted Howell, and by Isabella’s and Editha’s daughters. Isabella also had a son, called Herbert after his grandfather and always referred to in the family as Young Herbert. He, however, was not of the company since, having reached the age of twelve, he was squire in the household of another knight. Aeleis, the youngest of the sisters, had been widowed two years previously and was childless. She might secretly mourn the latter state – Josse did not know – but she gave no sign that she missed her late husband. He had been some twelve years older than Aeleis and, according to Editha, might as well have been his lively wife’s senior by twenty or even thirty years. ‘Better for both of them to have him snug in his grave,’ Editha had murmured privately to Josse, ‘that way he doesn’t wear himself to a shadow fretting and fussing at her and she can breathe again.’

There had been nothing, Josse felt, which he could say by way of an answer to that remarkable statement, especially on such short reacquaintance. He had contented himself with going ‘Hmm’ earnestly and attempting to look wise. He guessed that Editha was not fooled for an instant because she had gone off giggling to report to her widowed sister and their combined laughter had rung up to the beams of the wide hall.

In addition to the immediate family, there had been cousins, relatives of the sons-in-law, friends of the children and all manner of sundry other folk who, it seemed, presented themselves in Hugh’s hall and took advantage of his generosity for no better reason than that they happened to be passing. Nobody appeared to mind; there was plenty of food and drink and the entire family, Josse concluded, loved nothing better than to sit comfortably before a roaring fire and gossip away the short days and the long, dark, December nights.

But then January ushered in a new year and, after the twelve days, the Christmas celebrations at last came to an end with the Feast of Epiphany. Merrymakers sobered up, guests began to think about leaving, adult sons and daughters departed from their parents’ homes and made for their own. Only Josse, still enjoying his uncle’s company and in no hurry to depart, stayed on as the weeks of January slipped by and February blew in. Then, so far only for the ears of those with access to inner court circles, came the frightful news about the King.

The kinsman of Editha’s husband Howell heard it. He was in fact one of the first among the common folk to do so, working as he did in the employ of the great Walter of Coutances. A King’s man to his very bones, Walter led the Council of Regency appointed to act on Richard’s behalf while he was away on Crusade. Desperately worried throughout the autumn of 1192 by the lack of tidings concerning the King, Walter had sent his spies across to the Continent to see what news could be gleaned. One of his men had infiltrated the court of King Philip of France, and it was he who sent his master Walter a copy of the very letter announcing to Philip the capture of his enemy, King Richard.

That the King was captive was all that was known, as yet, to anyone outside the closest of court circles. And in all conscience, Josse thought now as he tried to sharpen his wits for a game of chess with an unknown prelate, it was enough . . .

He was losing to Father Edgar when there came the sound of a horseman in the courtyard outside. The hour was late – Josse had been working on the principle that the right moves might miraculously occur to him if he took his time, and consequently he and the priest seemed to have been playing for hours – and Hugh hurried to the door in some surprise. But then, as a servant wrested it open and Hugh could see who had arrived, he called out loudly, ‘Howell! We had all but given you up! Come in and warm yourself, and quickly – my lads will see to your horse. Editha is not with you, I see?’

Howell, trying to shrug off his heavy travelling cloak, rub some life back into his cold hands and embrace his father-in-law all at once, readily allowed himself to be led across to the fire. Josse and Father Edgar moved to make room for him, and the Father pushed his mug of warmed ale into Howell’s hands.

‘Ah, that’s good.’ Howell nodded his thanks. ‘Dear God, it’s cold enough to freeze a man’s b— er, to freeze his legs to the saddle.’

‘Quite so,’ murmured the priest.

‘Surprised you came so late,’ Hugh said. ‘As I said, we weren’t really expecting to see you tonight – thought you’d leave the journey till the morrow.’

‘Editha insisted,’ Howell said with the faint air of resignation of a man used to doing what his wife said. ‘She sends her love and says it’s too cold for her to ride abroad and anyway Philomena’s gone down with a bad chill and Editha’s nursing her.’ Having done his duty and delivered his wife’s message, Howell gave himself up to the ale.

Only when he had drained the pewter mug did Hugh say, ‘Howell, why did Editha insist that you came tonight? Is there – oh, my heart misgives me, but I must ask! Is there news of the King?’

Howell sank down on to the bench where Josse had been sitting, stretching his short, sturdy legs towards the fire. ‘There’s news, aye. And Editha said she had promised you would hear, soon as there was anything to tell. We’ve had the honour of entertaining my cousin William’ – the fatigue miraculously left him as he swelled with the pride of being related to a man thrust into importance, even if it was only a temporary state – ‘and he’s revealed to us all that he is allowed to tell. It’s secret, see.’

‘Of course,’ Hugh said, even as Josse said ‘Naturally’ and Father Edgar breathed ‘But yes!’

Satisfied with these reassurances – he would, Josse thought briefly, have been satisfied with even less, so eager was he to regale them with his news – Howell took a deep breath, leaned confidingly forward and said, ‘It’s the Austrians, they’ve got him. Duke Leopold’s men took him when he was sick and hiding out in a little village a few miles from Vienna –
was
it Vienna?’ – he frowned – ‘and now he’s held captive in some great castle on that big river.’

‘Which big river?’ Hugh demanded.

‘Er – I don’t know.’

‘The Rhine?’ Josse suggested. His knowledge of the geography of Europe was no less hazy than the next man’s, but he had an idea that both the Rhine and Austria were somewhere in the middle.