The Tavern in the Morning (13 page)

‘Stop!’
she shouted. Then, her shoulders beginning to heave as her sobs took hold, she said shakily, ‘Please, please, stop!’

And the gloved hands now entirely covered her face as Joanna gave herself to her grief.

It was more than he could stand. He stepped forward and took her in his arms, cradling her face against his chest, stroking the back of her head. The rough shawl fell back, and he felt her smooth hair, slipping easily beneath the leather of his gloved palm. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, ‘so sorry, Joanna. But you have to know the truth, you must be aware of the lengths he will go to in order to find you.’

She went on sobbing. He closed his arms around her, bending to kiss the top of her head. His gestures were instinctive, intended to comfort her, as he might comfort a child or a frightened animal. To let her know she wasn’t entirely alone, that someone …

Whatever he intended, it was not what she understood. Leaning back in his arms, face turned up to his, suddenly she put her hands behind his head and, pulling him down towards her, kissed him hard full on the mouth.

With her strong, lithe body pressed against him, he began instantly to respond. His mouth opening, he eased her lips further apart with his tongue, caressing hers, feeling the violent sexual excitement flood through him. He could feel her breasts pushed up against his chest, feel her muscular legs firm against his thighs. Feel his erection, hard and full.

Breaking away, she stepped back a pace. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.’

Lost for words, he said the first thing that entered his head. ‘Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say?’

Amazingly, she chuckled. ‘Not when it was so plainly I who started it.’ Then, remembering, she said, ‘Oh, sweet Lord. What am I to do?’

‘Let me help!’ he said quickly. ‘Let me come with you!’ She shot him a quick glance. ‘Oh, Joanna, not for
that
!’ He grinned. ‘Remember, I offered my aid before you flung yourself into my arms.’

‘You did,’ she agreed.

‘Well, then! Can you not trust me?’

She went on staring at him, as if her very life depended on her decision.

Which, Josse thought, perhaps it did.

‘I—’ she began. Then, more firmly, ‘Let me think about it.’

‘What is there to think about?’

‘You don’t know!’
she shouted, angry suddenly. ‘It’s not as simple as you seem to think, sir knight! There are many things to weigh up and only I can do so.’

‘Can’t I help?’

‘No, you can’t.’ Anger gone, she gave him a sudden sweet smile. ‘Yes, I dare say you could in fact be
very
helpful and I can’t say I’m not tempted. But I need some time on my own. To think it all through, without you going and confusing me by kissing me again.’ Now the smile was wide and free, and he could see just how beautiful a woman she was.

‘
Me
kissing
you
?’ he murmured.

‘I’m going now,’ she announced, tightening the cord around her waist. ‘You mustn’t follow me. If you do, you’ll never see me again.’

It sounded overdramatic, but he had a good idea she spoke the truth. Just how
would
he set about finding that ancient manor deep in the forest, unless she gave him a clue? ‘Very well. You have my word.’

She nodded. ‘Thank you. Stay here by Mag’s house for a slow count of a hundred, then you may go.’

Mag’s house. Belatedly he remembered why he had come. ‘Joanna!’

She had turned away, but now spun round to face him again. ‘Yes?’

‘Who dug up the wolf’s bane and smuggled it into the pie? It
was
Mag, wasn’t it?’

But, her face shadowed suddenly, she didn’t answer except to remark, ‘You
have
been busy.’ Then, running out of the clearing, she shouted, ‘Start counting!’

He counted to a hundred extremely slowly. She might be counting, too – in fact, undoubtedly she would be – and he didn’t want her to think he was cheating. It mattered terribly that she trust him.

When the hundred had long been reached, he untied Horace and, leading him along in the deepening gloom of approaching night, headed back towards the Abbey.

Chapter Nine

Josse spent an uneasy night. His visit to the Abbess the previous evening had been brief; he had wanted to reassure her that he was safely back, but it had been too late for long discussions.

And, somehow – he was not quite sure why – he had been reluctant to talk to Abbess Helewise while his blood still sang from the after-effects of kissing Joanna de Courtenay.

When he finally got to sleep, it was to dream that the Abbess held Joanna’s knife in her strong hand and was using it to cut great branches of holly which she insisted were wolf’s bane. ‘It’s for my wedding garland,’ she kept saying …

It was quite a relief to wake up.

*   *   *

She sent for him in the morning. Now, with the residual unease from his dream to add to his disturbing memories of Joanna, he was even less comfortable in the Abbess’s presence.

‘What ails you, Sir Josse?’ she asked, noticing his fidgeting within moments of his entering her room.

‘I – er, nothing, Abbess.’ He managed a smile. ‘I’m just impatient to be doing something, I suppose.’

She nodded sagely. ‘I quite understand,’ she said. ‘Having offered Joanna de Courtenay your help, and feeling that she is so close to accepting it, you must itch to be with her again.’

Oh, how I do, Josse agreed silently. And not only in the way that you, dear lady, imagine. ‘Well, I do feel strongly that she is in danger all the while she is alone,’ he said.

The Abbess nodded again. ‘Off you go, then,’ she said, with an encouraging smile.

‘Where am I going?’

‘To find her, of course!’

But I undertook to give her time to think it over! Only then would she…’ He trailed off. Only then would she come to find him? But she had no idea where he was!

Half out of the door, he heard the Abbess say, ‘Good hunttng, Sir Josse.’

*   *   *

He retraced his footsteps to the place where the track up from Tonbridge entered the forest. Then, riding very slowly, he tried to recall how far into the woods he had been when Denys de Courtenay attacked him.

It was difficult to judge. Everything looked different in the daylight. And, besides, the last time he went that way he had been concentrating on trailing his quarry without being seen – something at which he had failed abysmally – and had taken scant notice of his surroundings.

But he must find the spot. Because he had reasoned that the child Ninian could only have moved a semi-conscious, well-built adult a very short way, which meant Ninian’s camp must be close to where Josse was assailed by de Courtenay.

And Ninian’s camp –
if
he ever managed to find it – was the one slim contact he had with Joanna. Ninian might be allowed to play there again, she herself might think to look for Josse there …

Riding on, realising with dismay how hopeless his search was, Josse’s spirits slowly sank.

What else could he do, though? Go back to Mag Hobson’s house? Would
that
be where Joanna would go looking for him?

Cursing himself for not having made a more reliable plan, Josse dismounted and, leading Horace, pushed on into the woods.

Presently he found himself walking along the top of a slight rise. Something about the place seemed familiar … Stopping, he stood still, listening, sensing the air.

And heard, from somewhere close at hand, the sound of running water.

Yes!

The boy had clearly had a source of fresh water near at hand; he had brought Josse onion broth which he had made himself. And later, Joanna had requested hot water with which to prepare Josse’s poultice.

Josse had been listening to the sound of the small bubbling stream, now he came to think of it, all the time he had lain in Ninian’s camp.

He looked down into the little vale that ran along below the track. Nothing to be seen there.

Pressing on, he rounded a bend and found that the track entered a sort of passage, formed by overhanging branches. It had been difficult to negotiate it in the darkness, he remembered, and …

… And it had been just after emerging from it, he recalled in a flash of memory, that he had dismounted to feel for hoof prints!

Moving forward eagerly now, he repeated what he had done before. I bent down about
here,
he thought, and again
here.
And over
there,
unless I’m much mistaken, is where I fell. With my cheek in that very puddle, now frozen over.

So far, so good.

He stood in the place where he had lain, staring all around him. There was a gentle slope in front of him, leading down into the valley where the stream ran. The track ran on fairly straight ahead, and, behind him, the ground rose quite steeply.

The only direction in which a seven-year-old boy could possibly have dragged a large adult was down into the valley.

Tethering Horace beside the track, Josse made his way cautiously down the slope.

He had to search for some time before he found Ninian’s camp, and then it was only some pieces of charred wood that gave the location away. Assuming them to be the remains of the boy’s last small fire, Josse began to search the immediate area, working outwards in concentric rings.

And, finally, he found what he was looking for.

Whoever had taught the lad about woodcraft had done a good job, Josse reflected; Ninian had located his secret hiding-place half under a ledge of sandstone, and concealed the opening behind a thorn bush. Josse recalled the thorn bush, once he had seen it again, from his awkward trips outside to relieve himself. But, had you not known there
was
a camp thereabouts, and consequently persevered with the search, you would never have found it.

As the euphoria of success quickly faded, he thought, so, what now? There was nobody here – had he really thought Ninian and Joanna would be sitting there beside a cheery campfire, huddled together in the boy’s smelly old sheepskin, just waiting for Josse to happen by? – and the camp gave no sign that anybody had been there recently.

I’ll wait, Josse thought. If she wants to find me, surely she’ll come here looking. Won’t she? I’ll give her until the light begins to fail. If she doesn’t come today, I’ll come back tomorrow. Or perhaps I’ll go to Mag Hobson’s house tomorrow.

Hating having to be in the position of awaiting someone else’s actions while he himself was powerless to act, he settled down to his vigil.

*   *   *

She didn’t come.

But, late in the day, Ninian did. Taking Josse completely by surprise, the boy suddenly burst out of the undergrowth that covered the sandstone ledge, jumping nimbly down and racing up to grasp hold of Josse’s hand.

‘You came back!’ he cried joyfully. ‘I’m so glad to see you! Shall we make a fire? Do you want to stay in my camp again?’

‘No, Ninian, but thank you for the offer.’ Josse bent down, taking both the boy’s hands in his. Trying to think of a way to ask what he desperately needed to ask without alarming the child, he said, with an attempt at a casual tone, ’Er – did your mother say it was all right to come to play out here today? I mean, it’s very cold and—’

‘Oh, she doesn’t know I’m out,’ the boy replied with innocent pride. ‘I waited till
she
’d gone out, you see, then I sneaked out after her.’ A frown creased his smooth, high forehead. ‘She says I’ve got to stay inside the house but I
hate
it, there’s nothing to do and when she’s gone out, there isn’t even her to talk to. Anyway,’ he glanced round him with a proprietorial air, ‘I had to come to check on my camp.’

Josse said carefully, ‘Do you know where your mother is, Ninian?’

‘Yes, she’s gone to Mag’s house. She said she has to fetch something. In fact,’ he was frowning again, ‘she said some
one,
but I’m sure she meant some
thing
because we don’t know anybody here except Mag, and Mag died.’

‘I know,’ Josse said gently.

The boy’s bright blue eyes were fixed on him. ‘I think she was very
old
and that’s why she died,’ he confided.

‘Yes, Ninian, she was quite old,’ Josse agreed.

‘Much older than my mother,’ Ninian said. ‘
And
you,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘Only old people die. Don’t they?’

‘Usually people are more likely to die when they get old, certainly,’ Josse said. Poor child, he thought, what a life he’s had recently. No wonder he seeks reassurance.

‘My father died,’ the boy was saying. ‘
He
was much older than you. About as old as Mag, I’d say. He fell off his horse,’ he added.

Josse didn’t think the child sounded particularly upset at describing his father’s demise. ‘That must have been awful,’ he said.

‘No, it wasn’t awful at all.’ Ninian was poking around in the entrance to his camp, tidying a stray branch of the thorn bush. ‘He didn’t like me and my mother much and when he was dead it meant he didn’t beat us anymore. Mother said I didn’t need to pretend to be sad if I wasn’t really, so I’m not.’

‘No reason why you should,’ Josse said.

‘The priest said my father was in heaven,’ Ninian said in a whisper, as if afraid some representative of the church might be listening, ‘but Mother and I think he’s probably in hell. My mother says she hopes so, anyway.’

‘And what about you?’ Josse asked gently.

‘Well, I don’t really
want
him to be in hell,’ the child replied carefully, ‘although I think he’s undoubtedly in purgatory. I hope he’ll get to heaven in the end. In a few hundred years, perhaps, if he’s good and if lots of masses and that get said.’ He had finished with his branch, securing it to his satisfaction. ‘There! Shall we go inside?’

‘Ninian,’ Josse said, thinking hard how best to phrase what he wanted to say, ‘I think your mother might have gone to Mag’s house to find me.’

‘Really? Isn’t she silly? You’re here!’

‘Aye, but she didn’t know that.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you think it would be all right for you to take me to the house?’