by Alys Clare
But if she gave those reassurances – which were not hers to give – then what if some further calamity occurred? What if King Richard again called upon his people?
It was almost unthinkable, but then the unthinkable did sometimes happen.
When at last she had seen the marshmen on their way, the afternoon was over and it was time for Vespers. As soon as the office was over, she went straight across to the infirmary.
A harassed young nun in a bloodstained apron bowed to her and, in answer to her query, led her along to the small curtained recess where Ambrose lay. Dismissing the nun – Helewise could see she was desperate to get back to whichever patient’s blood had flowed out so freely all over her stiff linen apron – Helewise drew back the curtain slightly and went into the dimly lit recess.
There was a delicious, sweet smell on the air – sniffing, Helewise tried to identify it. Then she looked down at the bed. Ambrose lay with his eyes half-closed, an expression of peace on his face.
For one dreadful heartbeat, Helewise thought he was dead.
But he must have sensed her presence; opening his eyes, he peered up at her and said, ‘Galiena?’
She moved quickly forward and took the hand that he held out. It was bony, knotted and misshapen, but the skin felt smooth, almost as if it had been oiled. ‘No, my lord, it is Helewise, Abbess of Hawkenlye,’ she said softly.
He was squeezing her hand, nodding slightly. ‘Aye, I can tell it’s not Galiena. I greet you, my lady, and I thank you for your care.’
‘Galiena is—’ she began, thinking that the best way of telling him that his wife was missing was to come right out with it.
But he said, ‘She was here, my lady. Did you see her, my lovely lassie?’
Helewise held back the question that rose to her lips. ‘I – er, no.’
Ambrose sighed with pleasure. ‘I may not see as well as I did, especially in this dim light, and it was almost as if I saw her in a dream. But I do not need the keen sight of youth to recognise my wife’s gentle touch. And I know the smell of the special ointment with which she rubs my sore hands.’ Freeing his hand from Helewise’s grasp, he held it up side by side with his other hand, as if for her inspection. ‘Such pain I had in my joints, my lady, and my Galiena took note and made me a wonderful remedy. She’s so clever, such a wise herbalist, and still so young. She knows when I am in pain without my needing to tell her and there she is, by my side, rubbing the precious stuff into my old bones until all the pain is gone! My lady, I have been cared for adequately well by her woman Aebba during Galiena’s absence, but it wasn’t the same.’ He sighed. ‘Oh, no. Not the same at all. But the touch of my lovely lassie, ah, that is something to cherish!’
‘She has been to tend you? Here?’ Helewise asked in surprise.
‘Aye, my lady, just now. Why, the ointment is still on my skin! Does it not smell delicious? Good enough to eat!’ With a small chuckle, he licked the back of one hand.
‘It does indeed,’ she agreed.
‘I always know my lassie by the sweet smell she carries about her,’ Ambrose said, a loving expression on his face. ‘She was here, my lady, oh, yes!’
Had he been dreaming? Helewise thought it quite likely. But then it did look as if someone had recently been massaging his hands.
The curtain parted and the infirmarer stepped into the recess. ‘My lord Ambrose, how do you feel?’ she said, but it seemed that the old man had slipped into a doze.
‘He says Galiena was here,’ Helewise whispered. ‘That she came to massage his hands with her special remedy.’
‘Did she?’ Sister Euphemia looked doubtful. ‘Can’t say as I saw her, but then we’re rushed off our feet today. And it could have been while most of us were over in the church just now for Vespers.’
‘His hands certainly feel as if they have received some sort of treatment,’ Helewise said. The infirmarer took up one of the old man’s hands and ran a finger over its back, nodding her agreement as she did so. ‘But it need not necessarily have been Galiena who administered it,’ Helewise concluded.
‘My lady, I couldn’t say.’ The infirmarer looked flustered. ‘He’s not well, that’s for sure.’
‘What is the matter with him?’
‘He’s an old man and his mind’s wandering,’ Sister Euphemia said baldly. ‘In addition he’s short of breath, virtually blind and very sleepy.’ She shook her head. ‘If that young wife of his is serious about conceiving his child, then all I can say is she’d be well advised to hurry up about it.’
‘You think …’ Helewise hesitated. Then, in a barely audible whisper, ‘You think he may be dying?’
‘He doesn’t look any too perky, my lady. But it’s always possible that—’
Whatever possibility the infirmarer had in mind was to remain unexpressed. For, interrupting her even as she spoke, there came a terrifying sound from the main body of the infirmary behind them.
It was not a moment for protocol. A nurse before she was a nun, Sister Euphemia responded to the dreadful choking noise by pushing past her superior and setting off at a dash between the curtains and into the infirmary.
Helewise, a pace behind, saw a horrible sight.
Galiena had come bursting into the infirmary and had sunk to her knees on the floor. Her heavy veil was awry – her hair, Helewise noticed distractedly, was beautiful: palest blonde and twined into two thick plaits – and she had torn at the neck of her silk gown, exposing the white flesh of her chest and her rounded upper breasts.
There was a look of extreme terror on her pale face. Her lips were swollen and, as Helewise stared in fascinated horror, a red rash seemed to spread across the girl’s throat.
Galiena, it was quite obvious, could not breathe. The rasping, choking noises as she tried to take air into her lungs were quieter now, even as the girl’s panic increased. She leaned forward briefly and some liquid came out of her mouth and dribbled on to the floor.
Eyes wide, she stared up at Sister Euphemia, Helewise and the circle of nursing nuns who now stood around her. Sister Euphemia held out her hands to the girl and said something – it might have been an encouragement to sit up straight, so as to let the breath flow more readily into her poor body – but Galiena did not appear to hear.
Then her whole frame convulsed once, twice. She slipped over sideways against Sister Euphemia, who was kneeling down and trying to support her, and then she was still.
After a few moments of absolute silence – the infirmary’s patients were too shocked to move, let alone speak – Sister Euphemia said very quietly, ‘I’m afraid she’s dead.’
6
At New Winnowlands, Josse was engaged in the same sort of task that had been absorbing the Abbess of Hawkenlye. A quarter of his annual income. He had heard the phrase bandied about, had said it himself, but, until this moment when he was actually facing what it meant in the harsh light of day, he had not quite appreciated just what it was going to entail.
Josse was not a wealthy man and his modest estate of New Winnowlands, although well managed and reasonably profitable, was not going to make him one. But he was and always had been a true King’s man and, if asked, would have said he’d willingly give all that he had to release Richard from his dishonourable, humiliating captivity and bring him safely home again. However, now that he was having to turn words into action and come up with the money, he was discovering that his feelings were not quite as wholehearted as he had believed them to be. A niggling little thought kept saying, well, the King’s got himself into this mess so why should his loyal people have to pay so heavily to get him out of it? Is it really right that we shoulder the burden in this way?
He sat for some time, a deep frown on his rugged face, allowing rein to this traitorous thought. Then, with a sigh, he picked up his quill and laboriously began to write out figures; writing was not a skill that came readily to him, any more than reading was, which made the task even more unwelcome. But his innermost sentiments would have to remain sec
ret. After all, it was not a question of giving only if you felt you would like to. However you looked at the matter, Josse concluded, paying up was horribly inevitable. There was no point in moaning so he had better get on with it.
When at last he had finished, he felt that he deserved a reward and the first thing that sprang to mind was a visit to Hawkenlye. He had a ready-made excuse – not that he truly felt he needed one – in that he had recommended the nuns’ care and skill to Ambrose and Galiena Ryemarsh. And, indeed, he had proposed that they renew their pleasant new acquaintance over at Hawkenlye, hadn’t he? The young woman would be there now, he thought, and probably the old husband would have ridden over to join her. Deciding that he would like to see the business through to whatever conclusion it might reach, Josse summoned Ella and asked her to prepare a small pack for him as he was planning a few days’ absence from home.
With a brief nod, she turned and put her foot on the first of the short flight of steps leading up to Josse’s sleeping chamber. Then, almost as an afterthought, she said, ‘Give my respects to the Abbess, sir.’
Josse, wondering how and when he had come to be so predictable, got up and went to tell Will to fetch Horace from the paddock.
It occurred to him as he set off that Brice of Rotherbridge might like to join the party at Hawkenlye, especially since Brice appeared to be a good friend of the Ryemarshes and to have their interests at heart; had it not after all been he who had introduced Josse to Ambrose and his young wife as one who knew Hawkenlye and its good works? It was only a short detour to Brice’s manor and so Josse turned Horace’s head and set off to find his neighbour.
Brice was not at home. His stable lad, Ossie, said that the master had set out at first light two days ago and that he was not expected home before nightfall of that day at the earliest. ‘Like as not ’e won’t be back afore tomorrow, ’e said,’ Ossie added. In response to Josse’s enquiry about where Brice had gone, Ossie shrugged. ‘’E didn’t say.’
Wondering why Brice’s journey to some undisclosed destination should seem sinister, Josse nodded to the lad, set off down the track and told himself not to be fanciful. But against his will he saw again Brice’s air of tense expectancy when they sat in Ambrose Ryemarsh’s hall. Saw in his mind’s eye the suppressed excitement in Brice’s handsome face. And, although he tried to stop himself, Josse recalled what he had thought then.
Was he right? Dear Lord, he prayed that he was not.
But, either way, it seemed likely that joining Galiena and her husband at Hawkenlye promised to answer a few questions.
He did not hurry on his ride to the Abbey. The day had started warm and, as the sun rose higher in the sky, warm became hot and then very hot. In the early afternoon, he found a patch of deep shade in a place where willows grew along a stream bank and, unsaddling Horace, he tethered the horse by the water and threw himself down on the cool grass. Ella had packed bread, a thick slice of her own cured ham, a honey tartlet, a couple of juicy, sweet apples and a flask of ale and, when he had rested for a while, Josse rediscovered his appetite and ate the food hungrily. The ale slipped down almost without his noticing. Then, meaning only to close his eyes for a short time, he fell deeply asleep.
He was woken by a burning sensation in his face. Sitting up with a start, he realised he had been asleep for so long that the sun had moved round and was now shining down full on his head and shoulders. From the feel of his cheeks under his exploratory hands, it looked as if he had given himself a fine case of sunburn.
He knelt by the stream and repeatedly splashed cold water on his face, which gave temporary relief. Horace watched him with mild curiosity. Turning to the horse, Josse said ruefully, ‘Well, I can’t kneel here with my backside in the air for the remainder of the day. We’d better be on our way to Hawkenlye, old Horace, and pray as we go that the infirmarer has a cure for a flaming, scarlet face.’
* * *
He rode in through the gates of Hawkenlye to tragedy.
The infirmary door was open and, amid the strange hush that seemed to have descended on the Abbey, there came the dreadful sounds of sobbing: deep, harsh, broken, painful sobs that, if he were any judge, were being emitted by a man. Some poor soul has lost a loved one, he thought. Child, wife, mother. Ah well, it was sad but unfortunately not uncommon; even the skills of the nursing nuns could not save everybody. Josse dismounted and led Horace across to the stables, where Sister Martha came out to meet him.
In the clear golden light of the westering sun, he could see that her strong old face was creased with distress.
Reaching out absently to take the horse’s reins, she responded briefly to Josse’s courteous greeting and then, even as he began to frame the question ‘What has happened?’ she shook her head and led Horace off inside the stable block.
A sudden terrible fear took hold of Josse. Feeling as if cold fingers had reached inside his chest and were slowly and relentlessly squeezing his heart, he turned and raced for the infirmary.
Bursting inside, he stood on the threshold, trying to look everywhere at once. Where would they have laid her? Would she still be here, or had they taken her to the Abbey church? Oh, dear God, he wept silently, and I never said goodbye to her! Never told her that I –
But just at that moment the hangings around a curtained-off recess at the far end of the infirmary moved slightly, parting as a tall figure passed between them. And walking towards him, her hands held out to him and her face white, came the Abbess.
For an instant his relief was so powerful that he almost embraced her.
No, he told himself firmly. Not that. Never that.
Instead he took hold of her outstretched hands – they were icy cold, even in the heat – and said quietly, ‘My lady Abbess, good evening. What has happened here?’
‘She’s dead!’ the Abbess said, her voice unsteady. ‘And he – oh, Josse, it breaks my heart to see his pain!’
She was allowing her cool air of authority to slip and he flattered himself that it was perhaps because he, whom he hoped she looked on as an old and trusted friend, had arrived and was in effect offering her a shoulder to lean on. It had, after all, happened before.
But, knowing her as he did, he was aware that she rarely allowed her emotions to break through in front of her nuns. He said very softly, ‘My lady, why not step outside with me into the shade of the cloister where, in privacy, you can tell me who has died and why everyone seems so distressed?’
His words brought her instantly to herself. Grabbing her hands back, she tucked them away in the opposite sleeves of her habit, straightened her back, composed her face and said distantly, ‘Yes. Follow me, please, Sir Josse.’
Suppressing a smile at her suddenly steely tone, meekly he fell in behind her.
She led the way across to the courtyard off which opened her own private room and to a far corner of the encircling cloister where, in the shade, there was a stone bench set into the wall. Indicating that he should sit – he did, but then, seeing she was not going to join him on the bench, immediately stood up again – she said, ‘A young woman has been with us. Sister Euphemia and Sister Tiphaine have been trying to help her; she wishes to conceive and they have made concoctions to help her.’
‘Aye, I—’ I know and I sent her here, he was about to say. But the Abbess seemed neither to hear nor acknowledge that he had spoken.
‘Her elderly husband came to join her. But—’ Her voice broke. She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘But she’s dead. Just now. She came into the infirmary gasping for breath and Sister Euphemia tried to help her, but it was too late and she died.’
Josse did not know how he managed not to put his arms round her. But it would not have been right, or at least he thought not. She was clearly struggling for control and he would not help her in her efforts by offering kindness. She was in shock, he thought, and probably the best thing for her was to maintain her air of cool authoritative competence.
Whatever the cost.
H
e said tentatively, ‘And it is her husband whom I heard weeping?’
‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I was with him when Galiena stumbled in through the door. He’s in the infirmary and Sister Euphemia has him under her care.’
‘He is sick?’ But he had seemed perfectly all right that day Josse had visited him at home. Well, other than being old and almost blind, but neither condition, surely, was one for which the infirmarer could come up with a cure.
‘Yes,’ the Abbess was saying. ‘He – his mind has been wandering and he is very sleepy. Sister Euphemia said—’ She broke off, distress clear on her face.
‘She said what?’ he prompted gently.
‘Oh – she didn’t think he looked very strong and she said that if Galiena really wanted to have his child she ought not to delay. But it’s too late now.’
He knew she was in danger of drowning in emotion. And, recalling the beautiful, lively and affectionate young woman he met that day at Ryemarsh, he could not blame her. But they would achieve nothing if they gave in and sat there howling out their grief. He took a steadying breath and then said in a businesslike manner, ‘My lady, I should say straight away that I know of Ambrose and Galiena Ryemarsh. My neighbour, Brice of Rotherbridge, took me to their manor to make their acquaintance. Brice knows, of course, of my contacts with Hawkenlye Abbey and felt that I was the person to answer Ambrose’s questions as to whether the sisters here might be able to help Galiena in her wish to bear her husband a child. We spoke together and I urged him to bring his wife here to you. Indeed, I had the pleasure of escorting Galiena and her companions as far as New Winnowlands, from where they came on to Hawkenlye. Ambrose could not set out straight away but was to join Galiena in a few days’ time.’
‘Which, as you see, he did.’ The Abbess frowned. Watching closely, Josse thought that he might have achieved his purpose of turning her mind away from her distress. But then she added, almost under her breath, ‘It was strange, then, as indeed I thought at the time, that Galiena did not forewarn us that her husband would be arriving.’