The Tavern in the Morning (25 page)

He slumped forward, sword falling from his hand, his head drooping between his shoulders.

And waited for the end.

After a small eternity, he felt the edge of de Courtenay’s sword kiss against his neck. Closing his eyes, he offered a swift prayer: forgive me, oh, Lord, my many sins, and …

Nothing happened. No whistle of a fast-descending blade, no sudden appalling agony as the blade bit.

He opened his eyes and tried to look up at de Courtenay.

He had drawn his dagger, and, with his sword shifted to his right hand, was trailing the dagger’s point across the bare skin of Josse’s neck and cheeks with his left.

‘A more handy weapon,’ he murmured, ‘for what I have in mind. Not easy, is it, Josse, to slit off a man’s ears and nose with a sword?’

Josse tried to elbow him away but the removal of one of his supporting arms made him fall to the floor.

‘Oh, dear,’ de Courtenay said with mock sympathy, ‘the lion has turned into a kitten! Here, puss! Feel the tickle of my blade!’ Josse winced as the dagger nicked a piece of flesh on his neck.

Then, as if he had abruptly tired of playing, de Courtenay bent low over Josse. He put down his sword and pressed his right hand to Josse’s throat, constricting the windpipe, making Josse’s already blurred sight fail altogether as the blackness encroached. The dagger pressing against Josse’s cheek, de Courtenay hissed, ‘Before I slit your throat, you will tell me where I may find her boy. Don’t try to tell me you don’t know, because I am fully aware that you do.’ The dagger punctured the skin. ‘And, each time you answer my question, where is he? with the answer, I don’t know, I shall slice off one of your features.’

Josse, lying on his right side, tried to find his dagger with his left hand. There! No, no, no. There! No … yes.

His hand closed over the slim hilt.

‘Now,’ de Courtenay said, ‘where is Joanna’s child?’

‘I…’Josse closed his eyes and moaned, faking a rush of faintness; he didn’t have to try hard to make the act convincing. ‘De Courtenay wait, I—’

The dagger bit again. ‘Where is the boy?’ came the inexorable voice.

‘You must let me think!’ Josse cried, ‘I’m so dizzy I can’t get my wits to work!’

De Courtenay’s hand on his throat tightened, and Josse lost consciousness for a few seconds. Opening his eyes again, he found de Courtenay’s face directly above his, and the eyes were burning with a dreadful mixture of furious intent and sadistic pleasure.

‘There!’ he said. ‘Now, breathe deep, Josse, while I permit it, then tell me what I want to know.’

Josse filled his lungs and, as he did so, drew his dagger from its sheath.

‘That’s better!’ de Courtenay said conversationally. He began to tighten his grip on Josse’s throat again. ‘Now, this time, sir knight, you
will
tell me. Before I choke off your air, you will reveal what you have done with the boy. Or else, when you next regain your wits, you will find that you lack an ear.’

De Courtenay’s dagger pressed against the back of Josse’s left ear. At the same time, de Courtenay’s other hand was slowly stopping him from breathing …

The world seemed to swoop and whirl around Josse’s slumped body. The blackness before his eyes was shot through with brilliant, painful bursts of light. Opening his mouth, gasping for air, he said, ‘The boy is – I’ve put him in the care of—’

With the last of his strength, he thrust upwards with his left hand. The dagger held firm, and he felt his fingers entangle with de Courtenay’s tunic. Then there was a sudden weight on him, crushing him, sending shock-waves of white-hot pain through his wounded right arm, and he lost consciousness.

But not for long. The pain sliced through his faint, and, with a desperate heave, he thrust de Courtenay’s body off him and breathed in deeply. Lying flat on his back, he drew several vast breaths. His throat burned like hellfire, and he could feel trickles of blood from various points on his face and neck.

But I’m alive, he thought wonderingly. I’m alive.

After a few moments, he managed to prop himself up. Edging carefully towards de Courtenay, he looked at the body.

The man was dead. No doubt about that.

He lay on his side, one arm flung behind him. His sword was half-underneath him, his dagger lay where it had fallen from his dead hand.

There was a large pool of blood beneath his chest. As Josse watched, one or two sluggish drips formed on the torn tunic and fell with a soft plop into the spreading puddle beneath him.

Sticking out from between de Courtenay’s ribs was the handle of a dagger.

I got him! Josse thought wonderingly. By some sort of miracle, I found – was given – the accuracy and the strength to stab him to the heart.

For the cut had to have pierced the heart; no other part of the body suffering a wound could, in Josse’s experience, produce so much blood so quickly.

He looked at the straight black handle of the blade.

Something was wrong with it …

He shook his head, trying to fight the befuddlement of his wits, trying to
think
 …

Aye. That was it.

Josse’s dagger had a narrow hilt, and it was not black.

And, besides, he still held his own dagger in his left hand.

Turning, raising his head with an effort as though he were lifting a tree, he saw her.

She stood a few paces back, as if horror kept her at bay.

He said, his voice so hoarse that the words were barely audible, ‘Your knife.’

And she said, ‘Yes.’

There was silence. Then he said, ‘I once said to you that I wouldn’t back your small blade against de Courtenay.’ He looked down at the body, then back at Joanna. ‘How wrong I was.’

Her face deathly pale, she whispered, ‘I thought you were going to tell him where Ninian was.’

Josse managed a smile. ‘No. I wasn’t going to do that. I was trying to get him off his guard while I prepared to slide my own blade into him.’

She came towards him out of the shadows, kneeling down, taking his face in her hands, gentle fingers touching the marks on his face. ‘He was about to mutilate you,’ she whispered. ‘Would not any man weaken, under such torture? And you were already so wounded.’ Her voice broke on a sob.

He raised his hand and clasped her wrist. ‘You command loyalty in your friends, Joanna,’ he said. ‘Which is no surprise. Mag Hobson didn’t talk. And neither would I have done.’

She slumped against him, and he could feel her trembling. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘So, so sorry.’

‘That you killed him? he asked gently. ‘Lady, there is no need, he was a man whose way of life must constantly have put him at risk. And—’

She had raised her head and was looking at him. ‘No, Josse. All things considered, I don’t believe I
am
sorry I killed him,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry about
you.
’ She was trying to pull his sleeve away from the cut in his right arm, hands gentle but insistent, causing waves of agony to shoot right through him.

‘Joanna, I—’ he began.

Then he passed out.

Chapter Eighteen

He awoke to find himself lying quite comfortably on the floor in front of the fire. Joanna was sitting in his chair, looking quite composed, hands folded in her lap.

He turned his head a little, enough to look at the place where de Courtenay had fallen.

The body was no longer there.

Relaxing – had he dreamt the whole thing, after all? – he closed his eyes and did a quick tally of his wounds.

The great slice into his right arm felt hot, but numb. Whatever Joanna had done had dulled the pain and he thanked God for her skills. If you’ve got to earn yourself a deep wound, he thought vaguely, then what better time than when you have an apprentice wise woman under your roof?

The main pain came from his neck, where, it seemed, one of de Courtenay’s dagger pricks had gone in more deeply. The wound was throbbing in time to his heartbeat. Throb … throb … throb …

From somewhere nearby, a voice said softly, ‘Don’t fight to stay awake, Josse. All is well. Sleep now, and you will heal the quicker.’

It made sense.

Relaxing, giving in to the drowsiness, he let himself drift off.

*   *   *

When next he awoke, it was almost totally dark. The hall was lit by a solitary candle, and someone – Joanna – had covered him warmly with a fur rug.

He was, he realised, terribly thirsty.

Opening parched lips – he experienced a dry, cracking sensation as he did so – he whispered, ‘I need to drink.’

Instantly she was there, swooping down beside him, one hand behind his head to support him while, with the other hand, she held a cup to his lips.

‘There – gently now! Not too much!’

The cool, refreshing water slid into his mouth. He swallowed, and she let him take another sip. Then she took the cup away.

‘More!’ he protested.

She was wiping his mouth with a cold, damp cloth, and he licked his lips to take in the moisture. ‘No more for now,’ she said. ‘Soon, another couple of sips.’

He relaxed against the cushions under his head. ‘Thank you.’

‘How do you feel?’

‘Sleepy.’ Then: ‘It’s dark. Is it night?’

‘Yes. Are you in pain?’

He did his inventory again. ‘My neck hurts.’

‘Where?’

He raised a hand that felt as heavy as a boulder and indicated.

‘I see.’

He sensed her move away. Quite soon she came back, and he felt something cool press against the throbbing wound in his neck. It stung at first, but then that stopped. And so did the pain.

‘You,’ he murmured, ‘are a goddess.’

‘No!’ she cried instantly. Then she muttered, ‘Ah, but he’s joking, not blaspheming.’ She said, in her normal tone, ‘It’s just something Mag taught me.’

‘An apprentice wise woman,’ he murmured. ‘Just what I thought.’

‘What’s that?’ She sounded wary.

‘Nothing, my love.’ He shifted his weight slightly, making himself more comfortable. ‘Just a thought I had earlier, when I woke up and realised my arm didn’t hurt.’

‘It is a deep wound,’ she said sombrely. ‘I’ve stitched it together, but we must watch carefully for any signs of infection.’

‘Stitched it together.’ He felt slightly sick again.

‘Yes. Don’t worry, Josse, Mag taught me well.’

‘Aye, I’m sure.’ He fought with the sickness which seemed determined to rise. To take his mind off thoughts of her handiwork, he asked, ‘Where is de Courtenay? He was lying just there, and now he isn’t.’

‘Don’t worry about that, either. He’s taken care of,’ she said soothingly.

‘You didn’t manage that, all on your own!’ He’d noticed she was strong, but not that strong, surely! De Courtenay had been no weakling, no lightweight.

‘No, no,’ she was saying. ‘Josse, I’m not the only one with loyal friends. Your Will, now, would, I warrant, do anything for you.’

‘Will?’

‘Yes. Will. He and I took de Courtenay outside – we wanted to act now, under cover of night – and Will is burying the body in a ditch.’

‘Burying him?’

‘He is dead. You realise that?’

‘Of course! But—’

But what? But we must send for the Sheriff, report the murder, describe the circumstances, hope that, by so doing, we convince them that it was sell-defence?

And supposing they don’t agree? What then?

Then I, Josse thought – for no part of him could even contemplate letting Joanna take the blame – then I would go on trial for murder. And I might very well hang.

But to bury de Courtenay in a New Winnowlands ditch! Not even to bury the corpse himself, but to have Will do it!

Could his conscience ever rest easy again, bearing the stain of all that?

His conscience was, he quickly realised, going to have to do its best. The alternative was unthinkable.

He said, ‘Joanna, would you fetch Will?’

‘Of course.’

She came back quite quickly – presumably Will’s ditch was not far distant – and Will, looming behind her, said, ‘Sir? I hope I’ve done as you’d wish, but I’ve put him right at the bottom of that long trench I was digging down at the end of the orchard, where we was worrying about the tendency for that corner to flood. He’s down deep, sir, won’t nobody find him, leastways, not if they don’t know where to look.’

Will’s earnest face touched Josse deeply. He reached out his hand, and, after a small hesitation. Will put out his too and grasped it.

‘Thank you, Will,’ Josse said. ‘It’s more than I have any right to ask of you, but thank you.’

‘You didn’t ask.’ Will grinned briefly. ‘You wasn’t in no state to ask aught of anybody, sir.’ He glanced at Joanna. ‘And I couldn’t stand by and see the young lady here struggling all by herself with such a task, now, could I?’

‘But, Will, if there should ever be investigations about him, if anybody should ask you directly what you knew…’

Will waited courteously to see if he were going to finish. When he didn’t, Will said, ‘If anybody should ask about a body, I should say, body? What body?’

‘De Courtenay’s body!’ Josse said, beginning to feel fuddled again.

And Will, adopting a convincing expression of bovine dullness, said, ‘Eh? Who? Never heard of him.’

‘I won’t forget this, Will,’ Josse said.

Will was getting up. ‘I know that, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a trench to finish backfilling.’

*   *   *

Alone again with Joanna, Josse said, ‘Is it safe? Do you think he’ll ever be found?’

She shrugged. ‘Who can say? But I doubt it. For one thing, Will has, as he said, buried him deep. For another, what is there to connect Denys de Courtenay with you or New Winnow-lands? I think we can safely discount the peasant who came here to summon you into Denys’s trap – it’s not likely that a wretch like him would speak out against a knight. What would be the point? Anything he said would be instantly dismissed.’

‘He wasn’t the only one,’ Josse murmured. ‘De Courtenay had another two outside with him.’

Joanna shrugged. ‘The same applies to them. Apart from them, who else but you and I know that Denys followed you here?’

‘Brother Saul,’ Josse murmured, ‘and the Abbess Helewise.’