Whiter than the Lily (28 page)

‘We spent many happy hours out in the wild country together,’ Brice was saying, ‘and our urgent need not to be seen caused us to find lonely places where men do not go.’ He raised his eyes to Josse, his own naked with the emotions that were driving him. ‘We became lovers, Josse, for we could not wait for matters to work out so that we could ask the Church for her blessing on our union. We—’

But Josse could not contain himself. Even if the two of them had truly loved each other, Galiena was wife to Ambrose; what of him? Were his feelings not to be considered at all? ‘And just how were you expecting this working out of matters to be accomplished, eh?’ he demanded. ‘Were you waiting for Ambrose to die
so that you could marry the mistress whom you had already impregnated?’

Brice stared at him, his mouth open. He shook his head as if in disbelief, then said, ‘Ambrose? Why should we wish that Ambrose—’

Then light appeared to dawn. He said, and the anger was audible in his voice, ‘You believe I loved Galiena? Josse, you make a foul accusation!’ He was on his feet, looming over Josse, large hands clenched into fists.

Quickly Josse got up too. ‘I make the accusation because I have followed the hints and the suggestions that led me to it!’ he shouted back. ‘From the first, when you took me to Ryemarsh, I observed the tension and the suppressed excitement in you as we rode towards your love! Man, you were like a boy in the throes of calf-love!’ Ignoring Brice’s menacing expression, he ploughed on. ‘And then, when we rode out together from Readingbrooke just yesterday, I said that I had guessed your secret and you did not deny it!’

‘Yes, but I thought you—’

But Josse was too agitated to let him speak. ‘You were not of the party that escorted Galiena from Ryemarsh on her way to Hawkenlye, for you had left Ryemarsh the previous evening to return home. Or so you said. Then, after we reached New Winnowlands and I left the group, you met up with her somewhere on the road! I went to your house, Brice, I went to call for you when I set off for Hawkenlye and you were not there! And then she died, your mistress Galiena, and she was poisoned!’ He paused, breathing hard. ‘Good
God, I have even found myself wondering if it was you who poisoned her!’

Anger seemed to have drained out of Brice. His face dark with sorrow, he said gravely, ‘Why should I have wished her dead?’

‘Because she carried your child. It was meant to be a pleasant diversion, your lovemaking, and yet it resulted in her pregnancy, she who was married to another.’

But even as Josse said the words, he knew that he was wrong. Terribly wrong.

There was silence in the shelter. Slowly Brice sat down again and, after a while, looked up at Josse. ‘I am horrified that you should believe me capable of such dreadful callousness,’ he said, dropping his head and burying his face in his hands. ‘You know of my past, aye, and I suppose you think that a man whose hot temper led to the death of his wife might similarly lose control and bring about the death of his mistress.’ Removing his hands, eyes firmly on Josse’s, he said, ‘But I swear to you that you are wrong this time. I knew Galiena, of course I did, and I honoured her for her kindness and her generosity, aye, and for her beauty.’ He gave a faint smile, there and gone in an instant. ‘I admit that, had she been free and had my heart not already been engaged elsewhere, I might well have courted her. Under those circumstances, what man worth the name would not have done the same?’

‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. ‘She was comely, aye.’

‘Ambrose is my friend,’ Brice said simply. ‘I did not seduce his wife and become her lover, Josse;
I give you my word. And I certainly did not poison her.’

Josse did not know what to say. He had been wrong, he knew that, and he thought he should go back along the misleading, treacherous track that had led him to accuse an innocent man of the fell deed of murder to see if he could discover where he had gone so badly astray.

But Brice took his silence for doubt.

‘You
shall
believe me, Josse d’Acquin,’ he raged, leaping to his feet again. ‘Wait and I will give you proof!’

Before Josse could protest, Brice had run from the shelter. Going to the entrance to watch, Josse saw him vault the makeshift rail around the horse corral and approach the huntsman, who was still engaged in tending to Horace. Brice bent down to say something – his very stance gave away his tension – and the huntsman nodded, wiped his hands and stepped over the rail beside Brice. Side by side they walked slowly back to the shelter.

Before Brice spoke; Josse realised what, had it not been for his having leapt so confidently to a totally wrong conclusion, he might have realised before.

Brice, the anger gone from his handsome face to be replaced by a very different, softer emotion, took the huntsman’s hand. And as the young man threw back the wide-brimmed concealing hat, Josse looked into a woman’s face.

A woman whom he recognised.

Brice, still smiling, held out her slim hand to Josse
and he took it in his. Then Brice said to her, ‘My dearest love, I believe that you have already met Sir Josse d’Acquin. Josse, here is my lady.’

And Josse, burning with embarrassment, looked down into the sea-green and faintly amused eyes of Isabella de Burghay.

She stood in the entrance to the shelter, still regarding him with that cool expression. After a moment – a highly awkward one for Josse – she said, ‘Brice tells me that you have interpreted the situation slightly erroneously.’

Bowing briefly, he said, ‘So it would seem, my lady, and I am sorry to have caused you distress.’

‘It is not I who am distressed,’ she corrected him gently. Glancing across at Brice by her side – Josse noticed that they were hand in hand – she went on, ‘Brice has never quite managed to convince himself that he was not responsible for the death of his wife, Dillian, despite what he says.’ She turned to give Brice a loving smile. ‘It is not kind, Sir Josse, to have disturbed old hurts by accusing him of poisoning Galiena Ryemarsh, whom he cared for deeply
as a friend
.’ She emphasised the last three words. Then, her expression grave, she said, ‘As did I, for she was always kind to me and offered her strength for me to lean on when I was in sore need.’ The shadow of some past sorrow crossed her face. ‘And she was our messenger,’ she added softly. ‘She knew of our love and she understood why we cannot yet declare it
openly. She offered to relay our communications to each other and that, Sir Josse, is why Brice seemed excited and eager when he took you to Ryemarsh: he was expecting Galiena to pass on to him the place and time of our next meeting.’

Now both of them were looking at Josse and he felt himself to be standing before his accusers and judges. ‘I am sorry,’ he said humbly.

‘And that day when you went to visit Brice when you were bound for Hawkenlye Abbey,’ Isabella went on relentlessly, ‘Brice was away from home, yes, but he was not chasing after Galiena. With our beloved messenger’s absence, we had nobody to relay word from one to the other and so, knowing my habit of hunting in the early mornings, he had gone to look for me, although without success.’

Once more, feeling even worse, Josse mumbled his apologies.

Brice began to speak but, with a gentle touch of her hand to his cheek, Isabella stopped him. ‘Perhaps you are wishing to know the answer to the obvious question, Sir Josse? Why it is that we have need of secrecy and private, unobserved assignations?’

‘Well, aye, I am,’ he said haltingly, ‘although in truth, my lady, there is no call for you to explain yourselves to me.’

‘No, there isn’t,’ she agreed. She paused, then smiled and said, ‘But I see no reason why we should not satisfy your curiosity. What do you think, my love?’ She turned to Brice.

‘I would like Josse to know,’ Brice said firmly. ‘If
only to convince him that I have not acted in the dishonourable way that he accuses me of doing.’

‘I have already apologised!’ Josse cried, stung.

But Isabella’s calm voice murmuring words in Brice’s ear was clearly more persuasive than Josse’s outburst, for, with a curt nod, Brice said, ‘Very well. I accept your apology, Josse.’

Isabella looked from one to the other and, with a faint sigh of exasperation, muttered something under her breath. Then, facing Josse, she said, ‘When I was seventeen, I was married to a fine man named Nicholas de Burghay. It was an arranged marriage and I had little say in the matter, but fate was kind and gave me a husband whom I could honour, care for and, over the months and years, come deeply to love. In time our union was blessed with children; first a son, Roger, who is now nine years old, and then, two years later, a daughter, Marthe.’ She paused, then drew a shaky breath. Brice disengaged his hand from hers and put his arm around her, pulling her close to him. She flashed him a brief smile and then said, ‘Nicholas and I loved to hunt together. Nicholas was permitted to hunt with the falcon and he passed on his skills to me, teaching me to raise the eyas from the nest and train her to fly from my wrist. It was ever our habit to ride out early in the morning, when the field and the woodland were quiet, and fly our hawks together. We believed that few were aware of our regular outings but—’

Again she paused. Then, apparently altering what she had been about to say, she went on quietly, ‘One
morning there was an accident. Nicholas was badly hurt and, although he lived on for three days, in great pain, he died.’ Tears formed in her eyes, making the green colour suddenly as vivid as emeralds, and, quickly blinking them away, she whispered, ‘Marthe was but a month old. She does not remember her father at all.’

Then, overcome, she turned to Brice and for a while he hugged her to him. Looking at Josse over her blonde head, he said quietly, ‘It is an unhealed hurt, Josse. And she—’

But at that Isabella raised her head, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and said, ‘Let us speak of happier times. Sir Josse, you have met Audra de Readingbrooke and Raelf, her husband.’

‘Aye.’

‘Audra is Nicholas’s younger sister. She and Raelf met in our house, soon after Raelf lost his wife. He and Audra had been wed for some ten years when Nicholas died and they already had three little girls of their own who are my nieces by marriage, since they are the daughters of my husband’s sister. Also, of course, there was Galiena, whom Raelf and his first wife had adopted as a baby, Matilda being barren.’

‘Aye, so the lady Audra told me.’

‘Did she indeed?’ Isabella raised a narrow, dark eyebrow. ‘She must have taken to you, Sir Josse, for normally she is reticent over divulging private family matters to strangers.’

He sensed a rebuff and felt unreasonably guilty.
‘I did not force the words out of her, my lady,’ he said stiffly.

Isabella smiled. She was, Josse could not help noticing, a very lovely woman. ‘I am sure that you did not,’ she said smoothly. Then, picking up her tale: ‘They took me in, me and my two little children, and we found comfort in that kind, open-hearted and affectionate family. Galiena and I became particular friends. She was thirteen years my junior but the gap always seemed less than that, for she was a mature girl. She was but fifteen when she made up her mind that she wanted to marry Ambrose and, although there was some consternation because of the age difference, Galiena insisted that he was the only man she would have and that was that.’ She smiled again, this time a soft, reminiscent expression as though her mind was on some happy occasion in the misty past. ‘She had been used to kindness from the family who had adopted her and she recognised its importance in a marriage. She always said that she could look all her life and never find a kinder husband than Ambrose. They were wed in the early spring of 1191 and, as I believe you know, Sir Josse, she then spent the next two years trying to conceive a child.’

Something was tapping insistently at Josse’s mind and he knew he should stop and isolate what it was; it was something important, something he should not ignore. But Isabella was still speaking and he was entranced by her storytelling. She had the gift of keeping the attention of her audience, that was for sure.

‘It was in Ambrose’s hall that I first met Brice,’ she was saying. ‘I had gone to stay with Galiena and Ambrose at Ryemarsh and Brice, being Ambrose’s friend and neighbour, had been invited to join us. We fell in love very swiftly.’ Again, the brief look at Brice, who still had his arm around her slim waist. She contrived to look very feminine, Josse thought, even dressed as she was in man’s clothing.

‘But I do not understand why you could not declare your love,’ he said, trying to turn his attention from Isabella and her femininity. ‘Will you now tell me at last?’

Isabella dropped her head and did not speak. Instead Brice said quietly, ‘It is on account of young Roger, Isabella’s son.’ He hesitated, as if speaking of this ongoing hurt pained him. ‘Roger does not like me.’ It was flat, bald, and clearly hurt Isabella as much as it did Brice, for she seemed to wince and looked at the ground. But Brice went on, ‘It is, as you will appreciate, a delicate matter because Roger’s poor father died when the boy was only two years old and in his imagination he has made up a detailed and, I am sure, accurate picture of the father he lost. Naturally he does not welcome the idea of another taking Nicholas’s place, usurping his position as Isabella’s husband and father of her children.’

Josse wanted to ask why not, or, at least, why Isabella could not persuade her son to adopt a more reasonable stance. He opened his mouth to speak but Isabella shot him a look and, almost imperceptibly, shook her head.