by Alys Clare
Isabelle nodded. ‘Slim, I agree.’ She was looking worriedly at him. In a whisper, she said, ‘What does this mean?’
‘I don’t know.’ He rubbed his hands over his face. ‘Helewise and I tried to work it out, but—’
‘Come along.’ Isabelle rose to her feet. ‘Editha, you stay here – don’t try to get up yet.’ She beckoned to the serving woman, lurking in the doorway. ‘Don’t just stand there, Tildy! Fetch her some water. Josse, you and I will speak to Helewise.’
His mouth opened to protest, but Isabelle was already striding across the hall.
‘This is surely a family matter,’ Helewise said a few moments later, shooting a furious glance at Josse. ‘I am sorry, Isabelle – it was wrong of Josse to discuss it with me first.’
Isabelle brushed the objection aside. Josse, watching Helewise’s expression and perceiving her angry mood, was quite grateful for the reprieve. ‘It doesn’t matter, Helewise. I would like to hear what you think.’
‘Really?’ Helewise sounded uncertain, and, his eyes still on her, Josse realized she had thought of a possible solution but was reluctant to reveal it.
‘Yes. Please.’
Helewise drew a breath. ‘I may be wrong – in fact, I’m sure I must be – but I wondered if Peter Southey could be Aeleis’s son.’
Isabelle sank down on the bed. ‘Her son.’
Josse looked at his cousin. She looked shocked, as well she might; he was feeling more than a little surprised himself.
‘It could be possible, couldn’t it?’ Helewise said into the stunned silence. ‘Josse, you told me that Aeleis was a widow during the Yuletide you spent here twenty years ago, but that she left—’
‘She left this house for good the following year.’ Isabelle’s tone was distant. Then, eyes coming sharply into focus, she said, ‘Could Peter Southey be as young as nineteen?’
‘But it would mean Aeleis must have conceived him very soon after that Yule!’ Josse protested. ‘Yet I recall no mention of any forthcoming marriage. Why, you told me only last night, Isabelle, that she didn’t want to marry again! You said she stormed out after a row with Uncle Hugh and that was the last time you saw her.’
‘Yes, all that is true,’ Isabelle said slowly. ‘But—’ She glanced at Helewise.
‘It is possible, I’m sure, for two people to meet, marry and start a child within quite a short time,’ Helewise said carefully.
Isabelle smiled grimly. ‘And, of course, babies can be conceived outside wedlock.’
‘But you told me there was a rumour that Aeleis had married again?’ Josse found he didn’t want to accept that suggestion. ‘We have no grounds for concluding she bore an illegitimate child.’
‘All right, Josse,’ Isabelle said. She looked at him with affectionate impatience. ‘We all know you thought she could do no wrong.’
Helewise said, ‘We still haven’t decided how old Peter Southey is. His facial injuries make it difficult to ascertain what he usually looks like.’
Isabella nodded impatiently. As soon as Helewise stopped speaking, she said, ‘Yes, yes, quite so. If you’re right, then Peter’s reason for coming here is only too clear.’ She paused, looking first at Helewise and then, lingeringly, at Josse.
Helewise appeared puzzled. ‘Perhaps Aeleis sent him,’ she suggested. ‘It seems logical, to me.’ Watching her closely, Josse could tell she was thinking hard. ‘Maybe,’ she went on, her expression softening, ‘she has instructed him to find out how the family feel about her now, and whether they would welcome her back into the fold.’
But there was another possibility. Turning to Isabelle, trying to keep any hint of accusation out of his voice, Josse asked, ‘Does Aeleis know her father is ill?’
‘It is difficult, if not impossible,’ Isabelle replied stiffly, ‘to send word to someone whose whereabouts they have elected not to disclose.’
Helewise, evidently detecting the tension between the cousins and diplomatically changing the subject, said, ‘Could we not just ask Peter how old he is?’
‘And give what reason?’ Josse countered. ‘It’s hardly common practice, I would have said, to demand that a guest reveals his age.’
‘He’s not exactly a guest,’ Isabelle said, ‘since he’s only here because ours was the nearest dwelling to where he had his fall, and anyway—’
There was a sudden small noise in the passage. Isabelle stopped in mid-sentence, and Josse hurried across to the door, opening it and peering out. In one direction, the passage came to a dead end where it met the north wall of the solar block. There were a couple of shallow recesses in the stonework, but, going swiftly to check, he quickly saw that neither held a lurking eavesdropper. He ran back past the doorway, going first down the corridor leading past more guest accommodation and ending at the chapel. Nobody was in sight, and surely whoever had been outside – if, indeed, anyone really had been – wouldn’t have had time to let him or herself into one of the other rooms and soundlessly close the door. He raced back and took the passage that led to the solar. There was nobody there.
Slowly he went back to Helewise and Isabelle. ‘No sign of anybody,’ he said. ‘Maybe we were mistaken.’
Isabelle frowned. ‘I’d like to believe that, but I’m quite sure I heard a footfall,’ she replied. Her frown deepened. ‘We should not have been discussing such a sensitive matter without first checking that we couldn’t be overheard. It was foolish.’ With a curt nod to each of them, she hurried away.
Helewise looked at Josse. ‘Sensitive? Does she mean because, if Peter really is Aeleis’s son, it implies she rushed too quickly into remarriage and pregnancy?’
‘No, my love.’ He sighed, and, reaching for her hand, sat down on the bed. ‘It means that in this family where daughters predominate, the unexpected arrival of a legitimate male child of Aeleis’s would force everyone to rethink their expectations.’ He recognized he was being blunt but did not regret it. ‘Young Herbert has married a widow with a little boy in order to adopt the lad, so as to be sure of a male heir in the next generation. But if Peter Southey is Aeleis’s legitimate son, then all that will change.’
Helewise stared at him, her eyes wide with wonder. ‘Won’t they welcome him?’ she whispered, but already she was shaking her head, as if answering her own question. ‘If he really is Aeleis’s son, then his presence here must surely mean she wants a reconciliation, and has perhaps sent Peter as an emissary to see how they would all feel about her coming home, and …’
Her hopeful voice and optimistic words trailed off. Watching her, pitying her, Josse guessed she had just realized exactly what he had: Peter had Aeleis’s chess piece, he was grieving, and had admitted he was alone in the world. If indeed Aeleis was his mother, then only one conclusion could be drawn.
The dreadful thought that had occurred to Josse the previous night must be true. Aeleis was dead.
Disentangling his fingers from Helewise’s, he dropped his face in his hands.
EIGHT
Helewise had nothing to do. It was early afternoon, of a day that already seemed to have dragged on for an eternity. Nobody was inclined to venture outside, although the sun was trying to shine and, in Helewise’s opinion, it would do most of the household good to get into the fresh air and out of the claustrophobic tension that affected them all.
The family had dispersed after the meal, leaving Helewise alone in the Old Hall. Josse had gone to sit with Uncle Hugh. He had been preoccupied all morning, and, when Helewise had remarked that it was a kindly gesture to go and spend time with the sick old man, had muttered something about it not being kind at all since he intended to ask some unwelcome questions. He had looked so distressed. She had tried to cheer him up, tried to convince him that they could not even be sure that Peter Southey was Aeleis’s son, and so it was surely premature to conclude that, because the young man was grieving and alone, it meant Aeleis was dead.
Josse didn’t seem to be amenable to reason. Didn’t even, if she was honest, appea
r to have been listening to her.
Helewise tapped her foot. She couldn’t get used to being unoccupied: as long as she could remember, right back to earliest childhood, every minute of the day had had its allotted task or duty. Since leaving Hawkenlye Abbey, the relentless pace of life had continued, for, apart from the busy community at the House in the Woods, there was also her beloved sanctuary to tend. People’s need never seemed to decrease.
She did not, she reflected ruefully, make a very good guest. Here she was, for the first time in memory with time on her hands and nothing demanding her attention, so why couldn’t she simply go on sitting here in this comfortable seat, a cushion at her back and her toes warmed by the fire, and enjoy it? I am not accustomed to leisure, she thought, and it is probably too late to acquire the habit.
She wondered how Josse was getting on. She guessed he was going to try to force Uncle Hugh to talk about Aeleis. It was perfectly clear to her, now, that Josse as a boy had had strong feelings for his youngest cousin; knowing Josse as she did, she suspected he had probably loved her. He loves so many, she thought with a smile. He has such a big heart, and is ever ready to be hoodwinked into believing people are better than they really are.
She pulled herself up short. It was not right to criticize Josse, even in the privacy of her own thoughts.
She got up, pacing round the hall and listening at the various doorways to see if she could detect activity. Where was everyone? Stopping by the entrance to the passage leading to the family’s quarters, in the original extension, she heard voices. Without stopping to think, she strode off to see who it was, what they were doing and whether she could join in.
Following the sound of the voices, she hurried down the passage as it twisted this way and that and came upon a partly open door. In the small, cosy room beyond, warmed by a little fire and illuminated by several candles and lamps, a circle of women sat sewing, heads bent over their work, talking quietly as they stitched. As Helewise paused in the doorway, Editha and Philomena both gave her a smile and Jenna half-rose from her seat. The three little girls looked up eagerly.
‘I am sorry if I intrude,’ Helewise began, ‘but I wondered if—’
I wondered if I might help, and join in whatever you’re doing, she had been about to say.
She didn’t get the chance. Cyrille, who had placed herself in the centre of the group and appeared to be organizing the work, stood up and moved over to the doorway, positioning herself right in front of Helewise as if barring her entry.
‘Oh, no, my lady,’ she said, craning her head on its stocky neck towards Helewise. ‘I am working on my needlepoint, but the other ladies are busy with the household mending, and do not expect our guests to involve themselves with such work!’
She managed to make guests sound almost like an insult. As plainly as if she’d actually spoken the words, her meaning shouted out: You’re an outsider and not welcome in this intimate little circle.
‘I’m sorry,’ Helewise said again, flustered and very embarrassed. ‘I will leave you to get on.’
Not knowing where she was going, only wanting to get away, she hurried off along the passage. She thought she heard voices, swift movements – as if someone had leapt up, and was perhaps protesting, castigating Cyrille for her behaviour – but she did not wait to find out.
She meant well, and was trying to be kind and considerate, she told herself. The fact that I am burning with humiliation and furiously angry is entirely my own fault, and indicative of the fact that I am far too proud, and enjoy my normal position of authority and supposed indispensability a great deal too much.
She strode on, barely aware of her surroundings, all her attention absorbed in the battle not to dislike Cyrille de Picus so much that she yearned to run back and punch her.
After what seemed quite a long time, she came out of her fit of temper. Looking around in some surprise, she found that she had paced right through the house and had emerged in the kitchen quarters at the rear. To her right a storeroom, or larder, opened up, and she could see great hams and joints of smoked meat hanging from stout beams, and barrels of various staples neatly ranged along the walls. To her left was a still room, and from somewhere ahead the sounds of splashing water and chattering voices suggested the servants were still busy clearing up after the meal.
Not wanting to interrupt them, or have one of them ask her solicitously if they could do anything for her, she crept on.
She came to a big, heavy door, standing ajar. Peering out, she saw a covered way leading to the bakehouse, with the dairy some way beyond it. Once again, she could hear voices; the servants were all hard at work. She was about to turn round and creep back the way she had come when a movement caught her eye.
The kitchen quarters were bordered by a high fence made of wooden palings, and in the fence there was a narrow opening filled with a stout gate, which was slowly being pushed open. Intrigued, Helewise watched.
Presently a swaddled figure appeared. Slowly, moving at a shuffle, it came up the well-trodden path to the doorway in which Helewise stood. The path was slushy with melted snow, and the underlying earth had been churned up by the passage of many feet into a slippery squelch of mud.
Afraid that the stumbling figure would fall, she went out to meet it.
‘Are you in need?’ she asked, stopping a few paces short.
The figure stopped, raising a hooded head. In the hood’s dark recesses, Helewise made out a gaunt face with long, shaggy, unkempt grey hair and bright eyes under thick, bristling eyebrows. A scarf covered the nose and mouth, a filthy beard emerging from its lower edge. The hand holding it in place was missing the ring and little fingers. The garments were scarcely more than rags, held together with clumsily sewn string stitches. The deformed feet, half-buried in the mud, were bare.
The beggar stared at Helewise. ‘May I please have a cup of water?’ he asked in a low, cultured voice that crackled with disuse.
‘Of course! Come with me.’ She turned and trotted back up the path, her mind already working on how best to help this poor supplicant. A bowl of soup would be best, for if he was starving – and most people who came begging were starving – then solid food would be rejected by the shrunken belly. She looked behind her to make sure the beggar was following her. Perhaps some small pieces of bread, well soaked in the soup, and—
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
The words, spoken in a tone of horror, cut across her busy thoughts. Spinning round, she saw Cyrille standing on the doorstep, bulging pale blue eyes wide with horror, a fold of her veil held up over her nose and mouth.
‘Someone is here who needs our help,’ Helewise said, keeping her voice low so that the beggar would not hear. ‘He is far gone, I fear, and will walk no further without sustenance.’
Cyrille had not moved. She was staring at the beggar, her eyes unblinking, a few beads of sweat on her forehead. She raised her veil a little higher, peering over the top. Then she turned to Helewise. She did not speak.
‘Will you summon one of the kitchen servants?’ Helewise asked politely, struggling to conceal her impatience. Cyrille had already put her in her place once, and she didn’t want to invite a further snub. ‘He has asked only for water, but we should encourage him to take more than that, if he will, and perhaps find him a warm shawl or cloak and some shoes, if that is possible, for—’
To her amazement, suddenly Cyrille leaned forward, grabbed hold of her sleeve and dragged her inside the house, closing the door with a violent bang.
‘He must not come in!’ she hissed. Then, putting her face right up to Helewise’s, she added in a ferocious whisper, ‘He’s a leper!’
‘Yes, I know,’ Helewise said calmly. Hoping Cyrille wouldn’t notice, she drew back, away from the angry eyes and the fast-panting mouth.
‘There are women and children in this house!’ Cyrille said, her voice rising and her arms folding protectively across her shaking body. ‘They must not be put at risk. It is forbidden.
’
By whom? Helewise wondered. Not, surely, by the level-headed, sensible Isabelle, who would undoubtedly know as well as Helewise that the risk of catching the terrible disease from a quick encounter was so small as to be non-existent. Even among the Hawkenlye nuns who heroically chose to be shut away with their patients, it was rare for leprosy to spread, and, in all her years at the abbey, Helewise had only known of two sisters who had succumbed.
When she was quite sure she had control of herself, she said, ‘I understand that you do not wish to admit the man into the house. However, I am prepared to take water and food out to him, and to wait with him while he consumes it. If some warm garment could be found, I’ll give it to him.’
Cyrille had stopped the frantic panting, and now regarded Helewise critically. Whatever terror had held her in its grip seemed to have relented.
Then, unbelievably, she shook her head. A patronizing smile spreading over the pale face, she said, ‘No, my lady. What you ask cannot be done.’ Edging closer again, her expression intent, she was nodding as if in confirmation of her own utterance. ‘I know about such people – they play on our finer sentiments, yet if we give them the assistance for which they crave, it only serves to undermine their efforts at self-improvement.’ Fixing Helewise with a hard stare, she said, ‘He must leave immediately, and I suggest you go out and tell him so.’
Barely able to believe she was actually hearing the words, Helewise said, ‘But, Cyrille, where is he to go? Apart from the fact that he is so weak he can scarcely walk, half his toes are gone, and the snow is deep.’
Cyrille’s face drew into a scowl of distaste, and she sniffed. ‘He must go down to the monks in the priory.’ She went on staring at Helewise, who had been shocked into immobility. ‘Now,’ she added firmly.
Then she spun round and strode away.
Flinging open the door, Helewise hurried out to the beggar, who stood slumped against one of the pillars supporting the roof over the covered way. ‘I am very sorry, but I cannot help you,’ she said. She could feel the hot blood flooding her face. ‘This is not my house, and the woman who came to the door has forbidden the giving of food or drink.’