Free The Rose of the World by Alys Clare Page A

Soon Josse was able to make out the stand of oaks. He could see five or six horses, their reins held by a lad scarcely older than Geoffroi, and a group of men stood huddled together. Several of them were banging their arms across their bodies to keep warm.
    Josse nudged his heels into Alfred’s sides and the horse took off, passing Tomas and taking the long, gentle rise up to the oak trees at a gallop. He pulled the horse up and, as soon as Alfred was approximately at a standstill, slipped off his back and threw the reins to one of the men.
    He had spotted Gervase, crouched over something that lay on the ground, covered by a cloak. He ran up to him, and Gervase, turning to face him, slowly stood up.
    â€˜Who is he?’ Josse demanded. ‘Has he—’ Has he anything to do with Rosamund? he almost said. But that was foolish. However would Gervase be able to tell?
    â€˜I do not know his name,’ Gervase said. His eyes on Josse’s were full of compassion. ‘It is possible that you may.’ He bent down and folded back the cloak.
    Josse stared at the dead face. The body lay on its back, arms outstretched, the right leg bent beneath the left, which was extended. It was that of a young man in his early twenties, with long, light-brown hair and a clean-shaven face. His clothes were of good quality, the tunic bound with a rich brocade trim in shades of yellow and gold. There was a large pool of caked blood beneath his left nostril, extending down over his mouth and chin and dribbling on to the tunic, and he had a black eye. A bruise darkened the left side of his jaw.
    â€˜He’s been in a fight,’ Josse said, kneeling down beside Gervase.
    â€˜He has, and he gave as good as he got.’ Gervase uncovered the hands, placed side by side on the corpse’s belly. The knuckles of the right hand were grazed, reddened and swollen. It looked as if one of the punches that the dead man had landed had broken a small bone in his own hand. The left hand was bruised over the first and middle finger knuckles.
    â€˜Not quite as good,’ Josse observed.
    â€˜What’s that?’ Gervase demanded. He sounded tense.
    â€˜You said he gave as good as he got,’ Josse said. ‘He didn’t, for he is dead and his opponent, whoever he was, has fled.’ He straightened up, feeling another twinge in his back.
    â€˜Do you think the blows to his face were enough to kill him?’ Gervase asked.
    Josse stared down at the body, trying to bring to mind all that he had ever learned about violent death. ‘I would not have said so,’ he stated eventually. ‘I would guess that he suffered those fists in his face while he was still on his feet and fighting back, for his nose has bled a great deal and the bruising has come out on his face and his hands. Men don’t bleed much once they are dead,’ he added. Sister Euphemia had told him why, once, but he wasn’t sure he remembered the details.
    He turned to face Gervase. ‘I’m wondering why you waited here with him until I came to join you,’ he said. ‘It must be quite some time since you found him, and the day is chilly.’
    Gervase raised an eyebrow. ‘You are always so insistent that you must be allowed to see a body where it fell, Josse,’ he replied, ‘and I for one do not dare to risk your scorn and your wrath by going against you.’
    â€˜My scorn and my—’ Josse began, and then he realized that Gervase’s tone had been ironic. ‘Aye, well, that’s as maybe,’ he muttered, embarrassed.
    He heard Gervase give a soft laugh.
    â€˜I will have a look around,’ Josse announced firmly, choosing to ignore it. He bent down to the body again. ‘There’s little to learn from the spot where he fell –’ gently he lifted one outstretched arm – ‘and I’d say he went over backwards, perhaps as a result of one of those heavy blows.’