by Alys Clare
Close beside him, Will whispered, ‘We’ve sent for the priest, an’ all.’
‘Father Anselm? Great glory, Will, do you expect your master to die?’
‘Ssshhh!’ Will hissed, although Josse seemed to be too far lost in his own world of pain to hear. ‘No, Sir Brice, indeed I do not, leastways, not if there’s anything me and Ella can do to prevent it. No, truth is, I do hear tell that the priest has some knowledge of healing, well, more’n me and Ella have.’
Brice was frowning. ‘Likely the good Father will hurry your master’s passage into the next world rather than heal him,’ he muttered. ‘He’s a blood letter, Will. Believes a good bleeding is the cure for everything from an overheated imagination to a dose of the pox.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I only thought—’ Will began.
Again, Brice dropped a reassuring touch on Will’s shoulder. ‘You did what you thought best, Will, and no man can be asked to do more. No, I know what we must do for our Sir Josse here.’ He smiled briefly as the solution came to him. ‘Will, have you a cart long enough to let a tall man lie down comfortably? And a steady horse to pull it?’
‘Aye, Sir Brice, that we have.’
‘Then, please, go and prepare it. Put in pillows and blankets, whatever you think, and water for drinking and for bathing the patient’s burning skin.’
Puzzlement on his face, Will said, ‘How far are we going, sir? To what place?’
And, as Brice told him, a smile began to light up Will’s face too.
Josse, coming fleetingly out of his delirium, was surprised to see three men standing round his bed. Will he would have expected to see – Will and Ella had been unstinting in their care of him – but what was Brice doing?
And, even more unexpected, why was he receiving a call from Father Anselm?
‘. . . must insist that I be allowed to treat him as I see fit,’ the priest was saying in his precise way, thrusting a bowl of what looked horribly like leeches in Brice’s face.
‘Like you treated old Sir Alard’s servant a few years back? Bled him till he was white as the driven snow?’ Brice yelled.
‘It was necessary,’ Father Anselm protested, ‘as indeed it is now!’
‘Alard’s man wouldn’t agree with you,’ Brice shouted back, ‘even if he could, from beyond the grave!’ As Josse watched, he gave a nod to Will and, approaching Josse’s left as Will went round to his right, added to the priest, ‘However, if you really do want to be of assistance, you can help us carry him downstairs to that cart out in the courtyard, and. . . .’
But just then, as Will and Brice began to lift him, Josse’s attention was distracted. Because, gentle as his manservant and his friend undoubtedly were, the least movement was excruciating for Josse.
And being lifted, manoeuvred out of bed, across the room, down the stairs and out to the waiting cart involved rather a lot more than the least movement.
As they edged their way round the bend in the stairs, Josse passed out.
He came round to find himself looking up into a clear, spring sky, with the sun warm on his face and a skylark singing its heart out somewhere nearby.
He was in a cart and, beside him, Will was dozing, eyes closed, arms folded across his broad chest. Between Will’s knees stood a pail of water; aware all at once of how desperately thirsty he was, Josse tried to call out.
By the time Will woke up and heard, Josse’s desperation had grown so much that, humiliatingly, he felt like weeping; Will, tutting at his own carelessness and referring to himself by names not heard in polite society, gave him cup after cup of cool water, sponging his face and neck for good measure.
When Josse had been settled back down again, thirst slaked, it occurred to him to wonder where they were headed.
‘Will?’
Instantly Will stiffened to attention. ‘Master?’
‘Will, where are we going?’
A beaming smile lit Will’s face. ‘Why, Master, we’re going to the nuns. It were Sir Brice suggested it, and for the life of me I can’t think why me and Ella didn’t come up with it ourselves.’
‘The nuns,’ Josse repeated, thinking happily of shady cloisters, capable, attentive hands, clean, crisp linen and herby-smelling medicaments. ‘The nuns of Hawkenlye Abbey.’
‘Aye,’ Will said, nodding for emphasis. ‘That infirmarer sister, what’s her name—?’
‘Sister Euphemia,’ Josse supplied.
‘Aye, her,’ Will agreed. ‘We’re off to see her, sir.’ And, with a firm confidence which Josse entirely shared, Will added, ‘She’ll put you right in no time.’
Chapter Two
Helewise, Abbess of Hawkenlye, knelt in the Abbey church, concentrating fiercely on her prayers.
She was praying humbly for the charity to feel love for each and every one of her sisters, even – especially – the least lovable. She was also beseeching God for at least a few days of fine weather, which would stop Sister Tiphaine’s constant lament about her non-thriving herb plants. Beneath those two specific requests was an ongoing plea for either an extra pair of hands for herself – which would actually be a rare miracle – or, more realistically, for God’s help in making her better at delegation.
It was April, and, so far, the year – 1192 – had been a hectic one for the Abbess of Hawkenlye. In February, there had been that disturbing business with the runaway, Joanna de Courtenay; the excitement of those weeks was still quite a talking point among the nuns at recreation. Then there was the worry over the King, still absent on crusade in the Holy Land. It was all very devout and laudable, Helewise reflected, for a king to do his duty before God with such wholehearted enthusiasm.
But what of King Richard’s duty to his realm?
Her mind wandering away from her prayers, Helewise thought of the last time that King Richard’s mother, Queen Eleanor, had paid a visit to Hawkenlye. As ever, the lady had been in a hurry, and – also as ever – Helewise and her nuns had tried to make the two brief days, all that Queen Eleanor had been able to spare, as restful and as tranquil as possible.
‘Abbess, you and your nuns spoil me,’ Eleanor had told Helewise on the first evening when, after a splendid supper brought up to a specially-prepared cell of the guest accommodation, Helewise had tapped on the door and brought in a warmed stone wrapped in cloth for the Queen’s cold feet, and a jug of hot, spiced wine to help her sleep.
‘It is our great pleasure to be able to do so,’ Helewise had assured her.
The wine had made both women relax. As she often did, Eleanor had confided some of her anxieties to Helewise. And, almost as much a joy to Helewise, the Queen had invited Helewise to share some of her own troubles.
The Queen had perceived – to Helewise’s mixed relief and regret – that the Abbess was gravely overworked. She had also perceived that it was not in Helewise’s nature to ask for help, and she had not exactly offered any.
What she had said was that Helewise must herself effect some changes in the administrative arrangements for the Abbey.
‘It is merely a matter of accustoming oneself to a new way of looking at the matter,’ she had said firmly. ‘You, Helewise, see yourself as the hub of the wheel. Everything that happens in the Abbey is your responsibility and relates to you. Yes?’
‘I – well, yes. But that is what my appointment as Abbess means, surely?’
‘Naturally. However, imagine, if you will, not a spoked wheel but a triangle, sitting on its base with its point at the top. Are you imagining it?’ Helewise nodded. ‘Now, draw several lines across the triangle, noting how the lines are narrow at the top and broader towards the base. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Now, you are the topmost point. The top line, which is the narrowest, is for your immediate subordinates; there are only a few of them, four or five, perhaps. The next line is for their subordinates – more of them, do you see? – and the line below for theirs, and so on and so forth.’
‘I see.’
‘Now, accor
ding to this model,’ the Queen had continued as if Helewise hadn’t spoken, ‘the only matters that will permeate all the way up to you are those which nobody subordinate to you has been able to deal with.’ She had shot Helewise a swift assessing glance. ‘Of course, the success or failure of the concept depends on your refraining from leaping in to offer your help and advice before it is asked for and where it is not necessary. . . .’
Now, still on her knees before the altar, Helewise suppressed a smile. The Queen, God bless and save her, apparently saw into Helewise’s heart with clear eyes. The difficulties that the Abbess was having with this business of delegation were proof of that, without a doubt.
Helewise returned her full attention to God and completed her prayers. Soon the rest of the community would enter the church; it must be almost time for Tierce. After which, Helewise promised herself, she would summon two – or even three – of those subordinates of hers and thrash out the problem of Sister Alba.
Some time later, Helewise sat at the large oak table in her room and stared across it at Sister Euphemia, Sister Basilia and Sister Edith. The three nuns were talking among themselves. In fact, Helewise decided, talking was not right; they were arguing.
The subject of the discussion was the new nun, Sister Alba. She was in the unusual position of being a professed nun who had left her previous convent and now sought admission at Hawkenlye. In her care were her two younger sisters, Meriel and Berthe. Meriel was sixteen, Berthe fourteen; Alba was considerably older.
To begin with, Helewise had been impressed with the strong sense of responsibility for her family that Sister Alba seemed to be demonstrating. She had, it appeared, torn herself out of a religious community somewhere in East Anglia – a community in which, according to Alba, she had been extremely content and fulfilled – because her little sisters needed her. The parents of the three sisters had recently died, within a week of each other of some violent sickness, and the two younger girls were both overwhelmed with grief and terrified that the sickness would claim them as well.
The parents had not owned the smallholding which they worked, and, according to Alba, her two sisters had been abruptly rendered homeless. She had therefore taken the difficult decision to leave the convent where she had been so happily settled, take Meriel and Berthe under her wing and remove them well away from the scene of their suffering.
She had brought them to Hawkenlye because she had heard tell of the miraculous Shrine of Our Lady down in Hawkenlye Vale, where the holy water was freely given to the sick in mind and body, and which was fast becoming a major pilgrimage site. She had said to Helewise on seeking admittance – and Helewise had detected a certain degree of calculated flattery – that ‘they say you have great compassion for the distressed, the sick and the needy, Abbess. And that you never turn away those who come with pure heart and honest intention’.
Helewise had taken them in.
Alba, as a professed nun, had been accepted as a full member of the community, with the provision that she must join the novices rather than the fully vowed for the first six months, to give her a chance to adapt to Hawkenlye’s ways. Meriel and Berthe, both of whom, Alba said, were intent on taking the veil as postulants just as soon as they could, were, for the time being and while their distress abated, to be found work as lay members of the community.
That, then, was Sister Alba’s background.
Surely, Helewise thought, going over it yet again, there was nothing suspicious about it? Alba had acted with responsibility and sense, hadn’t she? Wouldn’t anyone have done much the same, in her position?
Yes, it was all very praiseworthy, all very plausible.
And yet. . . .
Sister Euphemia had raised her voice to pour scorn on some comment of Sister Edith’s, intruding on Helewise’s quiet thoughts; the Abbess made herself cease her worrying and listen to the conversation going on before her. But, far from reassuring her, it only served to exacerbate her anxiety.
Oh, dear, she thought after a few moments. Such strong feelings! And who am I to berate them for their emotion, when I have to admit that I feel exactly the same?
She let the three women proceed with their debate, listening attentively and keeping her peace, prepared to act on any sensible suggestion which any of them might make. Queen Eleanor, she reflected briefly, would have been proud of her. After one or two uncertain glances in her direction – was it that unusual, Helewise wondered, for them to experience their Abbess sitting quietly and just listening? – the three women appeared to accept her silence and throw themselves into their discussion.
‘I had Sister Alba working for me in the infirmary for three weeks,’ Sister Euphemia said. ‘I gave her tuition – as much as I ever give a newcomer – and I made allowances for a very natural squeamishness. They all have that when first they come to me, and I can cope with fainting and vomiting when a girl is new to the blood and that.’ Sister Edith gave a visible shudder. ‘What I can’t cope with,’ Sister Euphemia went on, ignoring it, ‘is a lack of kindness. A lack of compassion.’
‘And Sister Alba, you find, lacks those qualities?’ Sister Basilia asked.
‘Aye, Sister, she does,’ Sister Euphemia said firmly. ‘Like I said, it’s only to be expected that a girl will blanch a bit, first time she has to dress a suppurating sore, or bandage the bloody stump of an amputation, or hold the bowl while I lance an abscess. And even I had to go outside and be sick, back in my early nursing days, when my superior got me to clear up the bed and backside of an old man with the flux, well, it was a particularly bad attack, there was masses of blood in the—’
‘Yes, quite, no need for you to elaborate,’ Sister Edith put in swiftly.
‘Humph,’ Sister Euphemia grunted, glaring at Sister Edith. Then, as if recalling the point she had been making, she went on: ‘See, the thing is not to let the patient notice you’re upset by the condition of their poor suffering body. That’s what I teach all my nurses, that they must learn to cope with their own reaction, that they must never, ever let it show. And that’s where this new Sister Alba won’t obey.’
‘Perhaps she cannot obey!’ Sister Edith protested. ‘Not all of us are blessed with your gifts, Sister Euphemia. I for one do not feel that I could contain my revulsion over – well, over some of the poor unfortunates whom you tend.’ Another shudder shook her slim frame, and she put a pale, long-fingered hand delicately to her mouth, as if to hold back her words. Or worse.
Sister Euphemia was scowling at her. ‘You’d have to get over your delicate little ways, Sister, if you were ever ordered to do nursing work,’ she said shortly.
Sister Edith looked aghast. ‘Oh, but I—’
‘That’s hardly likely,’ Sister Basilia interrupted, ‘since Sister Edith is such a good teacher.’ Sister Edith flashed her a grateful look. ‘And now, Sister,’ – she addressed Sister Edith – ‘what of your experiences with Sister Alba?’
Sister Edith closed her eyes and pursed up her mouth, as if to aid concentration. Her hands lay folded in her lap; Sister Edith hardly ever adopted the custom of all the other nuns, of tucking her hands away in the opposite sleeves of her habit when they were not engaged in a manual task. They were very pretty hands, the skin pale and smooth, the shape elegant, with long fingers ending in perfect, shell-like nails. Now Sister Edith raised them and, very slowly and carefully, pressed them together and held them under the point of her small and delicate chin.
Sister Euphemia gave a faint snort.
After quite a few moments, Sister Edith – who had apparently decided to judge Sister Euphemia’s snort as unladylike and therefore to be treated as if it had never happened – opened her eyes, lowered her hands and said, ‘Sister Alba came to join me a week ago, and so my remarks must be treated as but a preliminary assessment. However, I must confess that she has not settled at all well with us.’ Her dark brows descended in a brief frown, but the dour expression was not allowed to linger for long on her smooth, unlined face. ‘She appears
impatient with the girls, especially the youngest ones. Equally, she exhibits a lack of sympathy for the aims of our little school. She seems to have no understanding of the particular sufferings and needs of the orphans and foundlings in our care. And I did hear her say that – Oh, but I mustn’t!’
‘Sister, we are here with the purpose of discussing the difficulties which Sister Alba seems to be having in adapting to our community,’ Sister Euphemia reminded her. ‘This isn’t a bathhouse gossip session; we need to hear anything that may be relevant.’
With a martyred expression, as if to say, very well, but it’s not my choice to repeat this, Sister Edith said, ‘I heard Sister Alba speak to one of the – you know. One of those girls.’
‘One of the reformatory children?’ Sister Basilia asked. Reformatory children was the expression used for the babies of fallen women, abandoned by their mothers at birth when the women, despite the nuns’ entreaties, went back to the outside world. And their former manner of making a living.
‘Yes,’ Sister Edith agreed. ‘Sister Alba was actually rather hurtful. Admittedly, the child was playing her up rather, but then she’s only five. Anyway, she – Sister Alba – suggested that it was hardly worth her while to teach anything to the daughter of a whore – excuse me, but it was the word she used – when, in all likelihood, the girl would go the same way as her mother.’
‘No!’ Sister Basilia exclaimed. And Sister Euphemia was looking at Sister Edith with a new, more respectful expression, as if her horror at what Sister Alba had said to an innocent child had shown her in a new and better light.
‘In summary,’ Sister Edith concluded, when it seemed that nobody was going to comment further, ‘I have to say that I do not believe Sister Alba has any vocation for teaching.’
Sister Basilia looked worried. ‘No aptitude for nursing, nor for teaching,’ she said. ‘And I shall only endorse what you both have said when I relate my own experiences. Sister Alba, I’m afraid to say, does not like hard work. Or, at least, not the sort of hard work we perform in the refectory and the kitchens. She volunteered to work as cellarer – she said she knew all about provisioning, and would be very careful over selecting and locking away the wine – and when I said we already had a very capable cellarer in Sister Goodeth, and, in any case, it was not an office usually filled by a newcomer, she looked most upset.’