The Song of the Nightingale (14 page)

‘You used to prepare it for him?'

‘I did.' Tiphaine looked down at her hands. ‘They were good people, Melania's parents. Lived there on the edge of the trees, minding their own business, not harming a soul. Unlike others, they accepted the forest people's right to live their own lives and often did them small kindnesses in the years since times became really tough.' She sighed. ‘Most of the forest folk have gone,' she said softly. ‘They've left the area in search of wilder, more remote places where they'll find some peace.'

Meggie barely heard. She was thinking about a sick old man, begging for the medicine that would help his labouring heart and ease the agonizing pain. Those who refused to give it to him were as guilty of killing him as if they'd slit his throat.

‘Stands to reason Melania doesn't want a rapist's child growing inside her,' Tiphaine said bluntly. ‘And that's the fact of it, whatever anyone might say about it not being the fault of the unborn child and it having a right to live.'

Slowly, Meggie nodded. All her healer's instincts were to save life, and she had encountered far more pregnant women desperate to save a fragile pregnancy than demanding to have an unwanted one terminated. But what must it have been like for this poor girl, this Melania, to have discovered, as the weeks went by, the outcome of that night of careless brutality? And did Meggie – did anyone – have the right to impose on her the further punishment of bearing, suckling and raising the child of the man who had raped her?

After what felt like a long time, she turned and looked at Tiphaine. ‘You asked for my help in making the abortifacient,' she said. ‘Why can't you do it yourself??'

‘I'm lacking some of the ingredients,' Tiphaine answered gruffly. ‘I still use the stores in my old shed down at the abbey – Abbess Caliste knows I do, and she doesn't object, since most of them are my work anyway – but what I need for Melania isn't kept in a place like Hawkenlye Abbey.'

No, Meggie reflected, it wouldn't be.

Abruptly, she made up her mind. ‘I've got what you need. I'll go out to the hut and prepare the potion. You can pick it up there this evening.'

There was a silence. Then Tiphaine said, ‘Thank you.'

Meggie studied her. She had imagined that this – Melania's dreadful dilemma – had been what was preoccupying Tiphaine; it was surely enough to make any friend of the poor young woman preoccupied. Yet, as Tiphaine got up and turned to go, she appeared, if anything, even more careworn than before. It was as if, Meggie realized with a flash of understanding, Tiphaine was bearing the weight of a deep and abiding anxiety and knew she could not put it down . . .

There was no point in hurrying after her and pressing her to share her burden. Meggie knew, from long experience, that Tiphaine was her own woman. She only ever shared things when she was good and ready and if there was no other way. Meggie would just have to wait and see.

She stood looking down into the clearing. Helewise and her granddaughter had emerged from the cell and were walking across to the chapel, where the first of the day's pilgrims had gathered in a small, huddled group. It seemed a good time to slip away. Without further thought, Meggie headed off into the forest in the direction of her mother's hut.

Her visitor had been back. This time his attempt to copy her knot in the rope that fastened the door was better; he must have studied hers carefully, and he had almost got it right.

She opened the door and went in. The temperature inside the little room was higher than that outside. She crouched down by the hearth – neatly swept, with kindling and small logs laid ready beside it – and put her hand on the ground. It was warm.

She climbed up the ladder to inspect the sleeping platform. Her own bedding was rolled up and stored at one end, and did not appear to have been disturbed. However, it appeared that a long shape had recently lain there, leaving an impression on the straw-filled mattress. Something caught her eye: at the end where the head would have been – where her own head had rested the night before last – there was a small, shining object.

She reached out and picked it up.

It was a knife, fashioned in the form of a miniature sword. The blade was about the length of her hand, and it was very sharp. The hilt was in the shape of a graceful curve, its ends pointing downwards. Set in the top of the hilt was a tiny, deep-red stone that she guessed was a garnet. The warrior's stone; it was a talisman against injury and death, and was believed to bring victory.

Her unknown visitor appeared to have left her a present, perhaps in thanks for her unwitting hospitality. Thoughtfully, she reached inside the purse she carried at her waist and took out a small coin, putting it exactly where the knife had lain.

Tradition demanded that the gift of a knife must be paid for, otherwise it would cut the friendship.

Although Meggie did not know why, she had the strong sense that whoever had been sharing her hut with her was going to be a friend.

It was with some effort that she dragged herself out of the strange paths of her thoughts and back into the present. She set kindling in the hearth, lighting it with her flint, and, as the flames took hold, built up the fire with the smallest pieces of wood. Soon she had a good blaze going. She went outside to fill her pot with water from the stream and suspended it over the fire. While the water came to the boil, she searched her shelves for the ingredients she wanted.

Then she settled down cross-legged on the floor and, with some reluctance, set about making the potion that Tiphaine had asked for.

Josse had told himself that his purpose in going to the abbey was to find out if there had been developments in the hunt for the three dead men's killer. Assuming him to be the same man who had dealt out retribution to Benedict de Vitré's man Matthew, then he must still be in the vicinity, and maybe someone at Hawkenlye had seen him. If it was indeed Sister Estella's Brown Man who was responsible, perhaps he had come seeking absolution for the flogging he had meted out . . .

However, even as he rode in through the gates, Josse was staring up towards the forest, straining his eyes to see if he could make out any of the three women living in the cell. Were they all right? Had they enough to eat, and were they keeping warm enough at night? Promising himself that he would go and ask them later, he turned his mind to the coming interview with the abbess.

He tapped on the door and went into her room to find Gervase already there. Not pausing for a greeting, Gervase said, ‘He's struck again.'

Josse glanced briefly at Abbess Caliste, whose face was pale and drawn. Turning back to Gervase, he said, ‘What's happened?'

Gervase passed a hand over his face; before he had uttered another word, Josse knew that what he had to say was going to be bad. ‘It's a nasty story, Josse,' Gervase began. ‘There's been a family group living down on the wetlands along the river to the east of Tonbridge. There's an old, tumbledown hovel there.'

‘I know of it,' Josse replied. He'd had reason to go there, years ago, and it had been in a poor state even then. He was amazed it was still standing.

‘I knew the people were there,' Gervase went on, ‘and they've been given a bit of help, only nobody's got much to spare. There's sickness in their family.'

‘Could they not have been taken to the canons at Tonbridge?' Josse had good memories of Canon Mark.

‘No they couldn't,' Gervase said shortly. ‘Two of them have a sweating fever, one's already died of it and the remaining three are complaining of headaches and cramps. If they're allowed any nearer to the town, this sickness will run through the whole population.'

‘With little to eat, and at the end of a long, hard winter, people succumb all too easily to disease,' Abbess Caliste said. Josse looked at her. ‘We should have said the same had Hawkenlye been the nearest point of succour, Sir Josse,' she added gently. ‘We would have taken food and medicaments out to them, but we cannot risk the lives of the many for the sake of the few.'

Josse grunted an acknowledgement. ‘Go on,' he said to Gervase.

Gervase sighed. ‘Some of the townspeople have been rabble-rousing, one man in particular. I'm ashamed to say he's been employed on occasion by one of my deputies when we've needed men for search parties and guard duties, since he happens to be strong, well built and lacking the imagination to feel fear. He's also a fine shot with a crossbow.'

‘I can see that he'd have his uses,' Josse remarked.

‘Quite. Anyway, this man – he's called Rufus because of his red hair – decided to take matters into his own hands. He was in the tavern last night, making threats against the family living in the valley. He got a gang together – because he's worked for us, people tend to think he speaks with authority – and, late in the night, he led them out of the town, across the wetlands and along to the hovel. They surrounded it, and Rufus yelled out that the family had to get out and leave the area. “We don't want you filthy rats spreading your foul sickness among decent folks,” is apparently what he said. Then he ordered his gang to pile dead wood around the hovel and set light to it. The five people inside tried to flee, running off in all directions, the stronger ones helping and supporting the sick, and Rufus took up his crossbow and ordered them to stop. Then, making sure to keep his distance, he made them line up and marched them away down the river. He and his men escorted them as far as the crossing out to the east of Tonbridge, then they forced them to go over to the north bank. Rufus told them that if they showed their faces again, they'd regret it.'

‘He had no authority for this action?' Josse asked.

‘Of course not,' Gervase said scornfully.

There had to be more. ‘The people came back, didn't they?'

‘No, Josse.' Gervase sighed. ‘The river was high last night after the rain. The crossing was impassable.'

‘So—?'

‘The family were caught between the water and Rufus's crossbow. They tried to get across, and one of them slipped on the stones at the edge of the water and fell in. She was little more than a child. One of the adults tried to grab her, but he fell in too. I'm not sure of the exact sequence of events, but they all drowned. Rufus watched as they were swept away.'

‘Nobody tried to save them?'

‘Apparently not. Rufus commanded his men not to.'

‘But that's—'

‘I
know
what it is, Josse,' Gervase said tightly. ‘One of the gang came to me early this morning, overcome with remorse, or so he says, and I set out with a couple of my deputies straight away to bring Rufus in. He lives at the southern end of the town, in a row that runs along close by the river. Someone beat me to it; we found him lying face down in the water.'

‘And I'm sure you're not going to tell me his death was an accident,' Josse said softly.

‘No. There was nothing accidental about the knife wound to his heart.'

‘Like the other three?'

‘Exactly like. Our man, it seems,' Gervase added, ‘prefers the quick, clean kill. Rufus was put in the river, I presume, to ram home the message that he'd been killed in retribution for those whose lives he failed to save.'

‘
Our man
,' Josse repeated. ‘The motive of vengeance appears to be consistent, and so—'

But Gervase held up a hand. ‘There's more, Josse.' He paused, as if reluctant to say what he must. ‘I know what you feel about this man, and I admit that, in my heart, I have some sympathy with you. But we cannot allow him to continue, for a system under which a man with a grudge – even a genuine one – gets away with taking the law into his own hands is open to the worst possible abuse.'

‘This man is acting to avenge deeds that amount to more than
grudges
!' Josse cried angrily. ‘He—'

‘He must not continue,' Gervase repeated, more forcefully this time. Then, before Josse could protest again, he said, his tone carefully neutral, ‘He was unlucky, this time. Someone spotted him as he fled the scene of Rufus's execution. Unfortunately, this person elected not to come straight to me with the information; they went instead to Lord Benedict de Vitré.'

‘
Him
!' Josse exclaimed. ‘But why? Tonbridge isn't within his jurisdiction, surely?'

‘Don't be naive, Josse. Lord Benedict has the favour of the king because, by fair means or foul, he's extremely successful at extracting money for him. Everywhere and anywhere is within Lord Benedict's jurisdiction, if he wants it to be.'

Understanding dawned. ‘Lord Benedict, I presume, uses some of this money to pay for information,' Josse said. ‘A fact of which most of the hard-up people of Tonbridge are well aware.'

‘I cannot speak for them all,' Gervase murmured, ‘but the woman who saw Rufus's killer slip away into the mist knew exactly where to go. Lord Benedict has already sent out a search party,' he went on, ‘and, in all likelihood, they'll hunt the killer down, succeeding where I have failed because Lord Benedict has far more men at his disposal, and whereas my men go about on their own two feet, armed, in general, only with clubs and stout sticks, he has the means to provide his supporters with good horses and fine weapons. When his search party find their quarry,' he concluded, ‘no doubt they'll extract a little vengeance of their own to pay him back for what he did to their friend Matthew.'

Josse opened his mouth but found he had nothing to say. It was all
wrong
. The man even now being hunted had committed violent crimes – including the ultimate one of murder – but for a very good reason. The prospect of his capture by Lord Benedict's men was utterly repellent, and Josse knew that if it were in his own power to seek out the man and warn him, he would do so.
But how can I
, he thought desperately,
when I do not know who or where he is?