by Alys Clare
Back to work, she ordered herself. I have been sleeping since the midday meal, and it’s high time I did something constructive.
She swung her feet to the floor and sat up. Instantly her head began to spin and she thought she was going to be sick. Black spots floated before her eyes, quickly growing and massing together till they were one big black hole.
Sinking back on to the bed, she reflected that perhaps Euphemia was right after all …
* * *
She dozed for some time, drifting in and out of a restless, guilt-ridden sleep. So much to see to! So much she ought to be attending to! Her anxiety permeated her dreams; she saw Brother Saul, the most capable of the lay brothers and her secret favourite, kneeling by her bed, whispering, ‘I know you’re sick, Abbess, but others are more sick, and need you to mend their hoods because the rain is getting in,’ whereupon he took a plump wood pigeon from his sleeve and stroked its throat until it began to sing like a blackbird. Then Brother Saul turned into fussy old Brother Firmin, who stood over her with a huge Bible in his gnarled hands, holding it above her face and bumping it none too gently against her forehead …
… which, as she awoke with a start, changed into the regular pulsation of pain searing just above her eyebrows.
All right, Helewise thought wearily as she sat up again – more slowly this time. All right. Back to work.
She moved over to the high-backed wooden chair that stood behind the broad table at the end of her room. Both items were well-made and costly, relics from her former life as the wife of a knight. Dear old Ivo had given her the table, which, in those earlier times, used to be stacked with items representing the many aspects of Helewise’s duties: mending for the two boys – her sons had always been harsh on their garments; bundles of herbs or bunches of flowers, to be turned into some useful cream or potion for the benefit of some member of the household, human or animal; and, always, the accounts. Ivo, who himself hadn’t been able to write much more than his own name, had treasured his literate wife, her head for figures and her fine hand.
Helewise brought herself back from her reverie – really, what was wrong with her today? She just couldn’t keep her mind on her work! – and sat down, pulling towards her the great leather-bound ledger into which were inscribed details of everything and everybody coming into Hawkenlye Abbey, and everything and everybody going out again.
She was totting up for the fourth time the amounts given away by Brother Firmin to itinerants calling at the Holy Shrine down in the Vale – she had arrived at a slightly different amount on each of the first three attempts – when there was a very soft knock on her door.
Resisting the temptation to fling her quill across the room, instead Helewise laid it carefully down, folded her hands in her lap and said calmly, ‘Come in.’
The door opened a fraction and the earnest face of Sister Ursel appeared in the gap. ‘You’re not asleep, then, Abbess?’ she whispered.
‘As you see, Sister Ursel, I am not.’ Helewise forced her features into an expression approximating welcome. ‘So there’s no need to whisper.’
‘Ah. No, no indeed.’
‘And do come in and close the door, Sister.’ Helewise’s smile was feeling increasingly like a rictus.
‘Oh. Ah. Yes.’ Sister Ursel did as she was told, closing the heavy door behind her with exaggerated care. Stepping forward, leaning towards Helewise, she said, ‘Now, how are you feeling, Abbess? Sister Euphemia said I wasn’t to tire you out by chatting, and not to come in at all if you were resting, only you’re not, so I can tell her it was all right to go in. Come in, I mean.’ She frowned. ‘Or is it go in? I—’
‘Sister Ursel?’ Helewise prompted gently. ‘You wanted to see me?’ Oh, dear, she thought, as well as a wandering mind, I’m presently cursed with a very short temper. Here’s poor old Ursel, doing her best to be kind and considerate, and here I sit wanting desperately to fling this wretched ledger at her … She made a mental note to make humble and contrite penance for being so uncharitable to a fellow sister, then gave Ursel an encouraging smile.
Which, unfortunately, cannot have looked to Ursel as Helewise had wanted it to, since the porteress gave a muffled gasp and took a step back. ‘Abbess! Have you taken a turn for the worse? Should I fetch Sister Euphemia?’
‘No,’ Helewise said rather too firmly. ‘I am quite all right, Sister Ursel. Now, will you please tell me what you want of me before I— Well, just tell me.’
Sister Ursel gave an injured sniff. ‘That Sir Josse’s outside,’ she said shortly. ‘Wants to know if he can come in to see you.’
She muttered something that sounded like, wouldn’t bother if I was him, but Helewise, her spirits lightened immeasurably at the prospect of seeing her old friend, scarcely heard. ‘I’d love to see him!’ she said happily. ‘Send him straight in, please, Sister!’
Josse, stomping into the room a few moments later, wore a cheerful, expectant grin. Which, on seeing Helewise, rapidly changed to an alarmed frown. ‘God’s boots, what have you done to yourself?’ he enquired, hurrying towards her, ignoring her outstretched hands and instead taking a firm grasp on her elbow and ushering her back to her chair. ‘Sit down, sit down! Before you fall down,’ he added with a grunt.
‘I am quite all right,’ Helewise said, for the second time in a very few minutes.
Josse was staring down at her, still frowning. ‘You’re not,’ he stated. ‘I dare say your sisters allow you to tell them that you are, but I’m not going to join them in flattering your vanity.’ He came to lean on her table, bending down and putting his face close to hers. ‘You’ve had the fever, I would say, and you’ve got yourself up and gone back to work long before you should.’
‘But I—’ Helewise began.
With a wave of his hand, Josse shut her up. ‘But nothing!’ He curled the hand into a first and thumped it down on the table. Helewise’s abandoned quill bounced up and fell on the floor. ‘You may think you’re indispensable, Abbess, but you’re not. Nobody is. What’s this you were doing?’ Before she could stop him, he had turned the large ledger round and was studying it. ‘You’re doing the accounts!’ He stared at her, his expression as amazed as if he’d found her painting pictures of naked men.
‘Somebody has to,’ she said primly. ‘And it’s my job.’
He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘When you’re well, yes. But surely you can delegate?’
‘Not many of the others can read and write,’ she said, registering in passing that she seemed to be taking his proposal seriously, ‘and of those who can, I don’t know who would have a sufficiently fair hand.’
He was nodding infuriatingly, as if she had proved a point he was trying to make. ‘Just as I said! Indispensable, aren’t you? The only nun among – how many is it? Nigh on a hundred? – who can write neatly enough for the account book. It’s not an illuminated manuscript!’ he cried. ‘Not holy writ! Would it really matter if, just for a week or so, the records were kept in a less than perfect hand?’
‘Yes!’ she protested, automatically. Then – her headache was getting worse by the minute – she said in a whisper, ‘No. Of course not. As long as we do our very best, there can be no grounds for complaint.’
She dropped her hot face into her cold hands, momentarily luxuriating in the comfort afforded by the contrast.
She sensed him coming to stand beside her. A moment later, there was a tentative touch on her arm. ‘Abbess?’ His tone was kindly now. ‘Would it be against all protocol for you to talk to me while lying in your little bed there?’
She looked up. His strong-featured, humorous face was creased into anxious lines, as if he really was afraid his suggestion would have mortally offended her. Wanting to laugh, valiantly she suppressed it, said meekly, ‘Not in the least, Sir Josse,’ and allowed him to lead her the few steps to her truckle bed. He propped the pillow behind her head, covered her with the blankets and then stood back.
It was, she had to admit, a huge relief to be lying do
wn.
He watched her for some moments without speaking. In case he was waiting for her signal to speak – what had he come to see her about? she wondered – she said, ‘Sir Josse? You are, naturally, a welcome visitor, but was there something particular you wanted to discuss?’
He had, she observed, backed away until he was standing against the door. Assuming this was how he imagined a man should behave when in the same room as a nun lying on her bed, again she wanted to laugh.
‘I don’t think I should be bothering you with my worries,’ he said. ‘Not when you’re meant to be convalescing.’
‘Well, you’re here now,’ she replied. ‘Why not tell me anyway?’
‘Very well.’ He gave her an intent look. ‘But only on condition that you kick me out when you’ve had enough.’
‘I promise.’ Smiling, she closed her eyes. ‘Now, proceed.’
She listened as he told her what had happened in the inn at Tonbridge. Of the dead man, Peter Ely, of Josse’s own discovery of the pie poisoned with wolfs bane, of Tilly and the swapped plates. Despite the gruesome details, she found she enjoyed listening to him; he told a tale well, in an orderly manner and with sufficient details for her to imagine the scenes he was describing. Reflecting on how pleasant it was to have a visitor bringing tidings of the great world beyond the walls of Hawkenlye, it was a few moments before she realised he had stopped speaking.
She opened her eyes, to find him bending over her. ‘Sorry,’ he said, instantly backing away. ‘I thought you might have nodded off.’
‘In the midst of such a narrative?’ She smiled up at him. ‘Heaven forbid!’ He grinned back, apparently relieved by her response. ‘So, what now?’ she wondered aloud. ‘If I were in your position, I should return to Peter Ely’s family and question them as to whether or not the dead man had any dealings with a man of the handsome stranger’s description. At first sight, that is the obvious solution, that the two were somehow in league and the stranger wanted to silence his accomplice.’
Josse said, ‘Exactly what I did do, Abbess! But to no avail, I’m afraid.’
‘Why? What happened?’
He gave a brief snort of laughter. ‘I got them all out of that hovel of theirs, standing in a line blinking in the sunshine, and I said, did Peter know anybody from noble circles? Well, that was silly, to start with, since none of them had a clue what I meant, so I narrowed it down a bit and said, did he know a handsome man with shiny dark hair, well-dressed in expensive clothes? I managed to get a detailed description from little Tilly, who, I conclude, has more than a crush on the man, so I was able to add that he wore tan leather boots, a dark-red tunic and a heavy cloak bordered with braid.’
‘And what did they say?’
This time Josse laughed aloud. ‘Nothing. They stood before me staring at me with their mouths open and their eyes popping, like a row of sheep hearing angels sing. I tell you, Abbess, I was in some doubt that they’d taken in a word I said.’
‘Did they say anything?’
‘After what seemed an age, the woman – Peter Ely’s wife – announced, “’E din’ mix with gentry.” Then the three of them turned round and shuffled back inside. I did call out to let me know if any strangers came calling, and that I could be reached at the inn. But I doubt if they took any notice.’ He sighed.
‘Hm.’ She was thinking. ‘I don’t believe I can offer you any suggestions, Sir Josse. Although one thing does strike me.’
‘What?’ he said eagerly.
‘Oh, don’t set any store by it,’ she replied, ‘it’s only a very small point.’
‘Let me have it anyway,’ he encouraged. ‘I’m at my wits’ end!’
‘I doubt that very much,’ she said, ‘Very well. What occurred to me was that this stranger did nothing to disguise himself. Quite the opposite, it appears, since he wore good clothes, which he must have known would stand out in the tap room of the inn, and, by your account, he flirted quite openly with the little maid.’
‘We don’t know he did that,’ Josse said. ‘We only have Tilly’s side of the story. And, Abbess, she’s not a girl I would flirt with.’
‘Nevertheless, he spent the evening in the tap room, with the evening’s company, appearing as himself. Yes?’
‘Ye-es,’ Josse said cautiously.
‘So I conclude that he wasn’t there for any nefarious purpose. His visit to Tonbridge was innocent, and therefore he didn’t care who saw him.’
‘Because, if he had come on secret business, the last place he’d have gone would be the inn! Yes, Abbess, you’re quite right!’
‘Might he have been a guest of the Clare family?’ she suggested. ‘His sort of people, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I would.’ Josse frowned again. ‘But if he were, then why eat his supper at the inn?’
‘Did he put up there for the night?’
Josse shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Mistress Anne says that the dead man was her only guest that night.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Although guest is hardly the word, under the circumstances.’
‘Does anybody know where the stranger went, on leaving the inn?’
‘No.’
‘Might he have returned to Tonbridge Castle?’
Josse folded his arms across his broad chest, tapping the fingers of one hand against the opposite upper arm. ‘Yes, I suppose so. But it doesn’t sound very likely, does it? A nobleman – if we may surmise that from descriptions of his dress and his manner – comes to visit friends, leaves them to take his supper at the local inn, which, for all that it’s a decent one, is still an inn, then, having tucked away his meal, goes back to beg a bed from his hosts.’ He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t accord with anything I’ve ever heard.’
‘Nor I, I have to agree.’ Helewise struggled to sit up.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Josse demanded instantly.
‘Nowhere!’ she protested. ‘I merely need a change of position.’
‘Hmm.’ He eyed her suspiciously, as if half expecting her to filch the ledger off the table and return to her accounts. Then: ‘We are right, aren’t we, Abbess, in assuming the handsome stranger must have been the intended victim?’
‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m sure we are.’ It was pleasant, she thought, to be we again. A satisfying challenge, once more to unite her wits with his over this new conundrum. ‘And I do think that there is only one logical next step, Sir Josse. To find out the identity of the stranger, and what he was doing in Tonbridge that someone else didn’t want him to do.’
‘Aye,’ Josse said heavily. ‘I agree. For all that I don’t relish the task, I agree.’
‘Can there have been so many handsome strangers in town recently?’ she asked. ‘You do, after all, have a good description.’
He grinned at her. ‘Abbess, do you ever visit Tonbridge?’ She shook her head. ‘Well, I fear you have a somewhat inaccurate picture of the place.’
‘It used to be a quiet little town,’ she mused, ‘the castle guarding the river crossing, and—’
‘Aye. The river crossing,’ he interrupted. ‘And what crosses the river?’
‘The road, of course.’
‘Aye. The road from London to the coast. Abbess, traffic has increased, I imagine, since last you were there. To our present disadvantage, since that traffic includes, in with the merchants, the pilgrims and the local travellers, any number of richly-dressed strangers, handsome or otherwise.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t sound so woebegone!’ He seemed to rally, unfolding his arms and straightening up. ‘It’s a starting point, at least. Better than nothing. And I shall set off immediately and begin making enquiries.’
‘Such fervour,’ she murmured.
He was looking at her, his expression softening. ‘May I report progress to you in a day or two?’
‘I should be most upset if you didn’t.’
‘And you’ll promise to rest? Get someone else to see to those accounts?’
; ‘I will.’ Someone, she thought tiredly, who could add up a column of figures better than she could at the moment.
He opened the door. ‘Do you wish me to send anyone in to see to you? Fetch you a drink, or something to eat?’
The thought of food made her feel slightly sick. ‘No, nothing, thank you.’
‘Then I’ll tell Sister Euphemia you’re resting,’ he said, easing his way out. ‘Sleep well!’
‘Farewell, Sir Josse, and good luck.’
She listened to his heavy footsteps marching away along the cloister. Then, giving in to her fatigue, she turned on her side and was very soon asleep.
Chapter Four
As he rode away from the Abbey, Josse wondered if his last action before leaving would be deemed by Helewise to be uncalled-for interference. If, when she learned of it, she would be angry with him.
He hoped not. But if she were, it was a price he’d have to pay.
He’d been to see Sister Euphemia, and told her he’d been horrified at the Abbess’s appearance.
‘You’ve no need to tell me!’ Euphemia had protested angrily. ‘I’ve got eyes in my head! And you should have seen her last week! Dear merciful Lord, I feared for her life one night, her fever rose that high!’
‘What ails her?’
Euphemia shrugged. ‘There’s any number of fevers about, folks say. It’s a harsh winter we’re having. This particular sickness was brought by pilgrims to the shrine. There was four of them, two old people, two young ’uns. The old folk died – there wasn’t anything we could do for them, and the holy water doesn’t always work its miracle if a body’s too far gone.’
‘Did many of your nuns and monks fall sick?’
Euphemia gave a ‘huh!’ of indignation. ‘Most of our nuns and monks kept their distance, I’m ashamed to say. The Abbess herself took a turn at nursing, with me and Sister Caliste, and Brother Saul relieved us all when we went to our devotions. I reckon we escape most infections, Caliste and Saul and me, because the good Lord above gives us His protection, us being in permanent contact with the sick. But the Abbess, now, she’s different. She was worn out even when she came to help us, Sir Josse, and it does seem to be the way of it, that fevers more readily strike at those whose energies are running low.’ Euphemia shook her head sadly. ‘She takes on too much, I’m always telling her. Fat lot of good it does, though, I might as well save my breath to cool my porridge.’