The Devil's Cup

by Alys Clare

  Tiphaine nodded. ‘She is so profoundly distressed,’ she said. Then: ‘I wish that son of hers would come back!’

  ‘So do I,’ said Helewise. ‘And, even more than that, I wish he’d return with the news that he’s managed to achieve whatever this mission is that’s brought them here.’

  A thought struck her: simple, obvious, and instantly comforting. ‘Tiphaine, may I ask you to stay with our patient this morning?’

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ Tiphaine replied. ‘I had planned to set out to gather more supplies, but I can do that later.’ Without another word, without so much as an eyebrow raised in query to suggest she was curious about where Helewise might be going, she turned and went back inside the Sanctuary.

  And, straight away, taking the familiar path through the forest, Helewise set off.

  St Edmund’s Chapel stood on an apron of land that projected out of the forest, opposite the gates of Hawkenlye Abbey and under the protecting shade of the great trees. It had been commissioned by Queen Eleanor to commemorate her favourite son. It was said by those who knew, that the image of Saint Edmund in the stained-glass window, mounted on his horse against the brilliant blue of a summer sky, bore a strong resemblance to Richard.

  As Helewise approached the simple stone building, already she sensed a lift in her spirits. She pushed open the heavy wooden door and went inside, falling on her knees before the altar. Then she opened her heart to her God and begged for his help.

  So profound was her concentration that she didn’t hear the door quietly open and close again. When, after a long time, she opened her eyes and returned to the present place and moment, it was with considerable surprise that she saw Abbess Caliste standing behind her.

  Helewise hastened to stand up, making the bow of reverence. ‘My lady abbess, forgive me, I didn’t hear you come in.’

  The abbess moved quickly forward, taking Helewise’s hands and raising her from her bow. ‘There is no need for apology!’ she exclaimed. ‘You have as much right here as anyone, my lady Helewise, and what is God’s chapel for but prayer?’

  Helewise, overcome, merely nodded.

  Abbess Caliste was looking intently into her face. ‘You are pale,’ she said. ‘Shall we go and sit on the grassy slope outside? The sun is on it, and we shall be quite warm.’

  She led the way out into the clean air and settled herself on the ground, and Helewise sat down beside her. Neither spoke for some time. Helewise, her eyes on the abbey down below them on the edge of the vale, was scanning every detail, remembering how it had been to live her life within the strong, high walls.

  Presently Abbess Caliste said, ‘Helewise, I sense you are troubled. Your prayers will have undoubtedly brought comfort, but sometimes when we hear God’s voice, it points us towards a course of action whose purpose we do not understand. Is now, perhaps, one of those times?’

  The concern and the kindness in the soft voice moved Helewise almost to tears. How well she perceives the distress of others, she thought, and how gently and diplomatically she offers her help.

  ‘I am indeed troubled, my lady …’

  ‘Helewise,’ said the abbess firmly. ‘Out here, where there is no one to hear but God and the two of us, let us be Helewise and Caliste.’

  Helewise smiled. ‘Very well. My concern is for Hadil, who, despite Tiphaine’s and my efforts, does not improve. She is weak, her broken arm pains her and does not seem to be healing, and she is still at times delirious with fever. But Tiphaine suggests – and I agree – that she is gravely disturbed in her mind, and I am sure it is this which prevents her recovery.’

  ‘And you wish to help her by encouraging her to share what is worrying her,’ Caliste finished for her.

  ‘Yes, I do! But, you see, both she and her son are so very secretive and, although she has revealed a little of her past, the few things she told me do not add up to a cohesive whole. Neither she nor Faruq would explain their presence here, nor what this vitally important mission is that they must fulfil, although I fear it concerns some object – an inheritance, possibly, for so I have construed from the little she has revealed – that they believe to be evil. I fear that if I now try to use her very weakness to make her talk, it will amount to a betrayal. As if I was utilizing the fact that she is so ill, and so sad, to force out of her words that, in her right mind, she would not utter.’

  ‘A dilemma indeed,’ Caliste murmured. Then, after a pause to think, she said, ‘You and Tiphaine agree, you said, that she needs to talk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what, if I might ask, did God suggest?’

  Helewise smiled at the way Caliste expressed herself; as if God was a benign and wise old uncle sitting in a chair in the corner. ‘I think – although I fear I may be telling myself what I heard because it’s what I want to hear – that he said the most important thing was to help my patient. But that is, I find, a little ambiguous.’

  ‘I see,’ said Caliste. ‘And what else troubles you, dear Helewise?’

  I thought I had kept that fear hidden! Helewise thought. Moved by Caliste’s loving perception, she said very quietly, ‘I am afraid that Hadil will die before Faruq returns. And—’ she held back a sob – ‘I don’t know how I shall face him if she does.’

  Caliste didn’t speak at first. She reached out and, taking Helewise’s hand in both of hers, simply sat and held it.

  ‘You and Tiphaine are caring for her with skill and devotion; of that I have no doubt,’ she said eventually. ‘If it is God’s will that Hadil dies, there is nothing more to be done.’

  ‘Yes,’ Helewise said slowly. Then she burst out, ‘But she is so uneasy in her mind!’

  ‘Then …’ Caliste hesitated. ‘But it’s not for me to give you advice.’

  ‘Oh, please! Give it!’

  Caliste smiled. ‘Then I think you should put aside your scruples and trust your instincts. Do all you can to encourage Hadil to talk. As much as she will, until she has revealed what troubles her so.’

  Helewise turned her face up to the sun, her eyes closed, absorbing the comfort into her skin. She wasn’t sure which of the various elements – her long communion with God, Caliste’s sensible words, so kindly expressed, the October sunshine and the good air of the forest – had made her suddenly sure of her course. She was just grateful that, at last, she knew what to do.

  She and Caliste embraced, and she watched as the slim, upright figure strode back down the slope to the abbey. Then she set out for the Sanctuary.

  As soon as she went in, she relieved Tiphaine. After a morning spent within four walls, the old herbalist looked more than ready to get outside. They exchanged a few words – Tiphaine reported that there had been no change in their patient, who hadn’t uttered a word and had taken no more than half a cup of spring water – and then she hurried away. Before I change my mind, Helewise thought with a grin.

  She went back inside.

  She prepared a pretty little platter of dainties. Tilly had come out to the Sanctuary while she’d been absent, bringing more supplies, and evidently she’d been baking that morning. Then Helewise heated milk, stirring in a spoonful of honey. She went to sit beside Hadil, on the low bed, and said, with kindly firmness, ‘Now, my dear, you shall sit up a little, and I will arrange the pillows to support you. There! Is that comfortable? First I have good, fresh milk, heated and sweetened with honey’ – she held the cup to Hadil’s lips and, with no more protest than an irritable glance, Hadil took a sip. ‘Good! Now, you must try one of these little cakes. See, they are no more than a mouthful, and so light!’ Before Hadil could argue or even turn away, Helewise popped a cake in her mouth.

  Hadil, chewing, glanced up at Helewise, and gave a nod of appreciation. ‘Very tasty,’ she said. Her face working with emotion, she added, ‘You’ve taken good care of me, you and the other one, for all that she always gives the impression she’d rather be outdoors. Her soul is in the forest, that one,’ she observed.

  ‘How right you are,’ Helewis
e murmured.

  Hadil was watching her, the old eyes steady. ‘I will not eat any more, so it’s no use trying to make me,’ she said quietly. Before Helewise could protest, she went on, ‘I am sick, my lady, and it is a malady which began long ago. Years before Faruq and I set out on my last journey. I am dying, and I know it.’

  ‘You were exhausted and injured when you were brought here,’ Helewise replied. ‘When you are fully rested, and when your arm heals, why not judge then if death does indeed approach?’

  But Hadil shook her head. ‘I have been resting these many days, and I am worse.’

  There wasn’t really any arguing with that. But nevertheless Helewise tried. ‘I believe that in addition to your bodily woes, you are deeply troubled in your mind,’ she said. ‘You began to speak of your past, and to hint at what has brought you so far from home. Would it not help to tell me more?’

  Hadil watched her gravely. ‘Perhaps. But we are sworn to secrecy. Each one who, in his or her turn, learns the full story keeps it safe within their head, only passing it on when they are dying.’

  ‘So … You are the present keeper, and Faruq will inherit it from you?’

  Hadil nodded. ‘Yes. He knows something of the tale, for I had to explain to him why we must travel so far. Besides,’ she sighed heavily, ‘he has observed others of his kin set off on similar missions, and he is not unintelligent. He is more capable than most of extracting the whole story from a scant few hints and clues.’

  Helewise thought how best to encourage her. To point out that she’d just announced she was dying, and might well be dead before Faruq returned, the secret dying with her, seemed unnecessary and very cruel. Besides, surely Hadil could see that for herself. Instead, she said, ‘You told me your home was Jerusalem. Was it there that your grandmother came across this – this evil thing that came into your family?’

  Hadil shot her an angry look, as if reprimanding a child for not paying attention. ‘My grandmother didn’t come across it!’ she snapped. ‘She was his child, and he found it. Then, when the men of my great-grandmother’s family attacked and killed him, they searched his garments and found the treasure he had hidden inside his tunic. I told you that!’

  ‘And it was he—’ who was he? – ‘who found it?’

  ‘He must have done. He was a rotten-hearted man and he did a truly wicked thing, and my kinsmen and I cannot escape it no matter how we would wish to. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, we have had to bear the legacy of the evil that he unleashed on us. It is our responsibility, you see,’ she said urgently, ‘for her father should have known better, and left it on that devil’s body so that it would have been buried with him.’

  ‘And—’ Helewise chose her words carefully – ‘and over the years since, members of your family have been trying to put right what has been done by this – er, this evil thing?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Hadil, as if it was quite obvious. ‘Because it was my ancestor’s fault. Her father – his name was Harun, which is the same name as Aaron, as you would say it – realized that the treasure was too large to dispose of all at once, for our family was poor and to have been discovered with even that small amount of wealth would have raised suspicions. So, he sold a part of it here, a part of it there, until all was gone.’

  ‘And so, in order to track it all down, you have had many different trails to follow,’ Helewise said, trying to make sense of the tale.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Hadil agreed fervently. ‘So many, and all to a successful conclusion except this last one! And how far we have come, my son and I. We thought, when we had crossed the Inland Sea and arrived in the great port where we disembarked, that our journey was approaching its end, for, although we had many days still to travel, at last we were in the land that we sought – or so we believed.’ Her expression darkened. ‘When we reached our destination, and discovered it was no longer there but had been taken here, to England, I thought at first that I could not go on.’ She sighed. ‘But I did. Now, though, Faruq has to continue alone, for all that still he does not fully understand.’

  Helewise was praying for guidance. Should I say what is in my mind, dear Lord? She waited. She thought an answer came.

  She summoned her courage and said, very gently, ‘Hadil, if you die before Faruq returns, who will tell him the remainder of the story?’

  Slowly Hadil nodded. ‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘Yes.’ She glanced up at Helewise, who saw with surprise that there was quiet humour in Hadil’s eyes. ‘If you are telling me that I should reveal the truth to you so that you may pass it on to my son, then you are quite right.’ She sighed again. ‘He is a fine man, and I feel in my bones that he will succeed. He deserves to know why he has had to do what he is doing, does he not?’

  ‘I think so, yes,’ Helewise said.

  But Hadil turned away, settling herself more comfortably. ‘Soon,’ she said, suppressing an enormous yawn, ‘I shall tell you.’

  FOURTEEN

  The King, his army and his peripatetic court had arrived at Swineshead Abbey. Josse, tired, aching, hungry, thirsty and cold, had been anticipating the comforts of the evening and the night with increasing eagerness as they slogged through the last three or four miles. Unfortunately for Josse, and for all the others in the King’s train, Swineshead Abbey was a Cistercian foundation and the guiding principle of the Cistercians was austerity.

  The King and his close group were greeted at the gate by the porter, repeatedly bowing double, as if to make up in obeisance for what the accommodation lacked in luxury, and escorted to the abbot. Josse watched, amused, as King John endured a long speech of welcome from the elderly monk, with many comments about the great honour being bestowed and his doubts as to whether the abbey could possibly be worthy. He was not, it was clear, the only person present to have these misgivings. The King was already wearing an expression of mixed dismay and disgust, for the monks’ greyish-white wool habits were none too clean and the place stank of cabbage, muck and sweat.

  When the abbot at last finished, the King’s party were escorted by the guest master and installed in their quarters. There were tiny, windowless stone cells for the King and the most important of his lords, in which it appeared they were to sleep on narrow, shelf-like benches with one thin blanket apiece. Josse and the rest of the King’s company were shown into the communal guest quarters, where they would sleep on the floor. Everyone else – the whole of that vast procession – would make shift as best they could in the yard and outside the walls.

  There were long stone troughs in the yard and cold water for washing, and hardly anyone bothered. The King, Josse reflected, would be furious. He was renowned for being fastidiously clean and probably hadn’t bathed since Lynn.

  Yves, staring round and scratching at a fleabite, said quietly, ‘I don’t hold out much hope of a decent supper, do you, Josse?’

  Geoffroi, coming to join them after seeing to their horses, looked from one brother to the other in dismay. ‘But I’m famished!’

  Josse slapped his shoulder. ‘So are we all, son. We’ll just have to hope for the best.’

  The monks were not called upon to feed more than the King’s inner circle, but nevertheless it was obvious that this was a challenge which they were going to find extremely hard to fulfil. Almost immediately after John’s arrival, an anxious, desperate flurry of activity had commenced, and eventually – far too late for hungry travellers – they were summoned to eat.

  There was no table on a raised dais here, where all men were equal, so the King was placed at the top of one of the long, bare trestles where the monks ate. The meal was served. As Josse took his first doubtful taste, his spirits sank even further, for in the roughly hewn wooden bowl set before him was a sort of beige mush, comprising various vegetables, a great many beans, and one or two leaves of herb plants to provide a minuscule amount of flavour. There were chunks of coarse bread set out in baskets at intervals along the table, and Josse followed the example of everyone else and grabbed a couple before
they all disappeared.

  Geoffroi kept up a constant, soft-voiced muttering as he shovelled up the meagre, tasteless fare. ‘They work, don’t they?’ he said to Josse. ‘Isn’t that the purpose of the White Monks, to work hard and to pray?’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Josse warned. ‘Aye, you’re right. It’s a severe life, and they settle well out of the way of temptation, in lonely spots such as this.’

  ‘Then if their purpose is to work,’ Geoffroi replied with ruthless logic, ‘surely they need to eat properly?’

  Josse, wiping his bowl with the last of his bread, and with the troubling sense of only having taken the very edge off his hunger, couldn’t really argue.

  Yves, who had already finished and was watching the King, nudged Josse. ‘Look,’ he said quietly. ‘The monks know they’ve failed to provide food fit for a king and the poor souls are trying to make amends.’

  A dish of meat – mutton, Josse thought – was being offered to King John; there was a lot of it, and Josse realized with a stab of pity that the monks had probably sacrificed a month’s meat ration. The King picked at it, selected three or four pieces, then waved the platter away. The remainder was fallen upon by the lords seated closest to him, and the platter was empty long before it passed down the table to Josse and his companions.

  The guest master, the cellarer and the abbot were standing in the doorway, heads together in a muttered conversation, the abbot shooting worried glances at the King. Then, as if they had come to a decision, the cellarer hurried away, returning shortly afterwards with a jar of some sort of liquor and a sealed stoneware pot. He bowed to King John, and Josse heard him say, ‘My lord King, may we offer you some peaches and the first of the new cider? The peaches were rather good this summer, and we have laid down some of the finest to see us through the bleak winter months, preserved in a honey solution.’

  Without a word the King indicated his silver cup, and the cellarer filled it. The King took a sip, swilling the cider round his mouth. It seemed that the whole refectory held its breath. Then, with a curt nod, John drained his cup and held it out for a refill.