by Alys Clare
It was a powerful place, this shrine, he decided, returning back up the stone steps. Easy to see how it had moved men to reverence, easy to believe that the Holy Mother had wished this new and important centre of healing to come into being. Moved by it himself, he stopped at the top of the steps, turned once more to face the Virgin, and, dropping to his knees, began to pray.
* * *
Helewise found herself suffering from an uncharacteristic inability to concentrate during the late afternoon devotions. It was not, in fact, that she couldn’t force her brain to focus, but that it wouldn’t focus on her prayers. With a determined effort of will, ruthlessly she put the many disturbing matters clamouring for her attention to the back of her mind and made herself listen to the singing of the choir nuns.
Leaving the church afterwards, she felt uplifted; as if it were a divine reward for her efforts, she sensed that suddenly her mind was sharper. As she crossed towards the archway into the cloisters, Brother Michael appeared from the stables and informed her that Josse d’Acquin had returned, and had gone down to the vale to visit the shrine.
Thanking him, she walked slowly to a shady spot on the western side of the cloister, and, sinking down to perch on the stone bench that ran along inside the wall, swiftly she began to order her thoughts.
Josse would have information to impart to her, that was certain. Word from Gunnora’s father, if nothing else. But there would be more; Josse d’Acquin was not, she had already decided, the sort of man to be satisfied with what people elected to tell him, not when there was even the remotest possibility of winkling out more for himself.
And I, she thought, what have I to tell him?
Free now to return to the matters that had been demanding her attention in church, she put them in order of importance.
And uppermost in her mind was the postulant, Elvera. Who, in the days since Gunnora’s death, had changed. At first almost imperceptible, the speed of the change had suddenly accelerated, until, in the space of the last twenty-four hours, the young girl seemed like a different person.
I could have understood it, Helewise thought, had the alteration happened as soon as we learned of Gunnora’s death. After all, they obviously liked one another, and what would have been more understandable than that Elvera would have been struck both by grief and by the horror of her friend’s slaughter? Although Elvera did not appear to be the sort of girl who needed someone to lean on – Helewise would have said rather the opposite – one couldn’t always tell, and possibly the strangeness of Elvera’s new life within the Abbey’s walls had made her act out of character, affecting her with an unusual feeling of being at sea, in need of the stabilising influence of a sister who was more settled, more secure in the religious life.
Except that, were that the case, then Elvera would surely have latched on to one of the sisters who exhibited such an air of security. A girl of her intelligence – and, it was clear, Elvera did possess considerable intelligence – would not have chosen Gunnora.
Pulling her thoughts back from that intriguing diversion, Helewise returned to the question of Elvera’s changed behaviour.
No. For a week – over a week – following the murder, she had been much the same. Horrified, as they all were, but, had Helewise had to make an assessment, she would have said that, then, it was more a matter of Elvera’s reaction being less than one would have expected, not more. The laughter had been suppressed, but Helewise had had the strong impression that this was for form’s sake; nobody had so much as smiled in the dreadful days after Gunnora’s death.
It wasn’t like that now. Now, Elvera was pale and distracted, and the smooth young brow wore a frown. It was almost, Helewise reflected, as if the reality of what had happened had only now got through to her.
Was that it? Was it simply a case of delayed shock? Helewise had seen such phenomena, following both physical injury and bereavement.
Slowly Helewise shook her head. That wasn’t the answer, she was quite sure, tempting though it was to accept it and pursue the matter no further. No. Something had happened to upset Elvera, something that had occurred since Gunnora’s death.
Twenty-four hours since Elvera had been stricken. Twenty-four hours since Josse d’Acquin had blown into their lives and, as suddenly, gone off again. And it was common knowledge within the Abbey what he had come for and where he had gone.
The coincidence was too strong to be dismissed; the conclusion was, quite obviously, that something about Josse or, more likely, about his mission to Gunnora’s family, had unsettled Elvera.
Why should either be a cause for distress? And in Elvera, of all people! The youngest of the sisterhood, the most recently arrived, the only person who could have been called, even in the loosest of terms, a friend of Gunnora. Helewise shrugged off an unaccountable sense of foreboding; I am being needlessly dramatic, she told herself, allowing my imagination to run away with the thought of a mystery, an intrigue, when, in all probability, what Elvera is suffering from is no more than reaction to what was, after all, a truly horrific event. And, naturally, a certain apprehension, since a girl as bright as she is must have worked out that, sooner or later, she would be summoned to speak to the man who has come to investigate Gunnora’s death.
Yes, Josse said he wanted to talk to the girl, Helewise remembered. Said, when I remarked that she probably wouldn’t last much longer in the Abbey, ‘Don’t let her go till I’ve spoken to her.’ There wasn’t the occasion before he left for Winnowlands, but there’s plenty of time now.
Getting to her feet, Helewise left the cloister and went across to the Abbey’s rear gate. Going on along the track until she could see down into the valley, she noticed a familiar figure just beginning on the walk back up to the Abbey.
Smiling to herself, she retraced her footsteps. On the way back to her room, she beckoned to one of the novices.
‘Sister Anne?’
Sister Anne bobbed a rather graceless curtsey. ‘Yes, Abbess?’
‘Would you please find the postulant Elvera for me – I believe she may be with Sister Beata in the herb garden. When you find her, ask her to come to see me.’
‘Who?’
Sister Anne, Helewise reminded herself resignedly, was not the brightest of women. ‘Elvera, Sister Anne.’ Chastising herself for her momentary irritation, she made herself smile and added, ‘If you would be so kind.’
Sister Anne managed to look both interested and faintly shocked. A summons from the Abbess was – or could be – a serious matter. And for a postulant to be sent for! What could she have done? Helewise could imagine the lurid possibilities racing through Sister Anne’s mind.
There was enough gossip and speculation rampant in the Abbey already; with a quelling look, Helewise said, ‘It is not a matter to interest anyone save Elvera and me, Sister Anne. Now, off you go.’
‘No, Abbess,’ Sister Anne only seemed slightly contrite. ‘Sorry, Abbess.’
Helewise watched her hurry away, white veil flapping, large feet slipping about in the solid wooden clogs: Sister Anne’s particular way of serving God in the Hawkenlye community was in the vegetable patch. Ah, well, Helewise thought, producing a large, tasty cabbage was just as important and, no doubt, as pleasing to the Lord, as spending most of the day in fruitless speculation over the motives of some innocent postulant.
Dismissing both Sister Anne’s cabbages and her own rueful thoughts from her mind, she turned and made for her room. Josse, she was sure, would look for her there; it would be interesting to observe Elvera’s reaction when they came face to face.
Chapter Nine
Helewise, sitting behind her oak table, had only been waiting for a few moments when Josse arrived. She inclined her head in response to his greeting, then, even before she could invite him to sit down, he announced that he’d seen Gunnora’s father and had been given permission for Gunnora to be buried at Hawkenlye.
‘Thank God,’ Helewise murmured fervently. Her mind already turning to the details of the
service and where Gunnora might be laid to rest, she was distracted by an awareness that Josse had more to tell her.
‘I am sorry,’ she said, giving him a swift smile. ‘What other news do you bring?’
He told her.
‘Her sister dead, too, and by such ill chance!’ she exclaimed. She couldn’t recall if she had been aware that Gunnora had had a sister. The business of her admission to the convent had been conducted by her father and her aunt. The father, she remembered, had, although weak with exhaustion after the long ride, still managed to summon the energy to give both his sister and his daughter severe and almost brutal reprimands during the course of the brief visit. She said, ‘How is Sir Alard?’
‘Dying,’ Josse said starkly. ‘He is wasting away with the lung rot. He cannot, I fear, have long.’
‘And, with both daughters dead, there is no one to whom he may leave his wealth.’ She should not, she admonished herself, have gone straight to the practical matters; she should have said a few words about the poor sick man, whose sufferings were now so greatly increased by bereavement. Should have made a moment for a brief, compassionate prayer.
But Josse didn’t seem to have noticed. ‘I was going to ask you,’ he was saying, ‘was there any question of Sir Alard bequeathing money to the Abbey? There was a dowry, I presume, but I wondered if possibly he intended to ensure favour in Heaven by a gift?’
‘He provided Gunnora’s dowry, yes, although one had the sense he did so grudgingly.’ She recalled the scene, enacted right here in her room. Sir Alard had looked seriously ill a year ago, so much so that Helewise had thought him unwise to have undertaken the journey. Not that he was the sort of man to whom you could say such a thing, even had she been given the chance; Sir Alard had made his laborious way into the room, supported by Gunnora’s aunt and by a heavy stick, flung a small bag of coin on the table, wished Helewise and her nuns well of Gunnora, and stumped out again. ‘But there has never been any mention of a bequest.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I would consider it highly unlikely. Especially since his daughter’s death has removed her from our community.’
‘Not the man for a magnanimous gesture?’ Josse suggested.
She hesitated, not wanting to speak ill of a dying man. But Josse was after the truth. And, besides, she did not think he would think the less of her for her plain speaking. ‘That was my impression.’
‘Hm.’ Josse was frowning. Aware that, sooner or later, he would tell her what he was thinking, she waited. Presently he said, ‘It looks as if the estate and the money will go to a niece. She’s got a new husband, a fashionable young fellow who seems all too eager to get his hands on his uncle-by-marriage’s fortune.’
‘You met them?’
‘No. The niece, I was told, is staying with her husband’s family somewhere near Hastings. I saw him, though. The husband.’ He laughed briefly. ‘Can’t say I was impressed.’
‘A little uncaring, wouldn’t you consider,’ Helewise said thoughtfully, ‘for a niece who stands to inherit her uncle’s estates not to be present when he is dying?’
‘I do indeed,’ Josse replied, with some heat. ‘The least she could do, I’d have thought, is to show some respect, even if she couldn’t manage genuine tears of regret.’
Helewise was about to go on to ask Josse what overall impression he had formed of Gunnora’s family and circumstances, when she recalled the present, more pressing, matter. ‘I don’t wish to interrupt, but I have summoned Elvera here to meet you.’
Momentarily he looked blank, then said, ‘Aye! The young postulant, friend of Gunnora’s.’
‘You expressed a wish to speak to her.’
‘Aye, I did.’ He flashed her a grin. ‘Thank you, Abbess.’
‘I must tell you, before she arrives, that she has been behaving oddly.’
‘Oddly?’
‘Distracted, pale, eyes heavy as if she does not sleep well.’
‘Aye, I remarked myself on her reddened eyes.’ Did you, indeed, Helewise thought. I must never, for an instant, forget how observant you are, Josse d’Acquin. ‘Grief for her friend, do you think?’ he was asking.
‘Perhaps. I have told myself that is most likely.’
‘But you have not convinced yourself.’ Again, the smile. ‘Why not, Abbess?’
‘Because her distress only started when you arrived, Sir Josse.’
He met her eyes, and she saw that he was thinking along the same lines. ‘So, not the murder that grieves her, but its investigation,’ he said softly.
‘Indeed.’
Before either of them could comment, there came the sound of approaching footsteps, quickly followed by a tap on the door.
‘Come in,’ Helewise said.
Sister Anne put her head round the door. ‘Here’s Elvera,’ she said, standing aside and ushering in her charge. ‘Go on, girl, she won’t eat you!’
Josse, Helewise noticed, had pushed his chair back so that he was hidden by the opened door. It would appear, to Sister Anne and, more crucially, to Elvera, that Helewise was alone.
Elvera took a step into the room, and Sister Anne followed.
‘Thank you, Sister Anne,’ Helewise said.
‘Oh! But…’
While she was thinking up an excuse for staying, Helewise added, ‘I’m sure you have duties requiring your attention.’
Sister Anne gave Elvera a last glance, then turned and left, closing the door behind her with exaggerated care.
Elvera stood facing Helewise, who studied the white face and the tense body for a few moments. Yes, there was definitely something amiss with the girl. Could it be that she was ill? In pain? Then wouldn’t she have said so?
There was only one way to find out.
Still holding Elvera’s eyes, Helewise said, ‘Here is someone who wishes to meet you, Elvera. I present Josse d’Acquin, who comes from our new king’s presence with his grace’s express orders to investigate the murder of Gunnora.’
Elvera’s first reaction was to shut her eyes tight and shake her head, as if, perhaps, she hoped that by denying Josse’s presence she could make it not so. As Helewise watched, slowly her eyes opened again and she turned to face him.
She does not lack courage, Helewise thought. Then she said, ‘Elvera, as Gunnora’s friend, you may be able to help Sir Josse by telling him anything that occurs to you about how she was during the last days of her life. If, for example, she seemed worried about anything. If she confided in you any secret anxieties.’
‘Any secret hopes,’ Josse put in. He was, Helewise observed, looking kindly at the girl. ‘Don’t be alarmed, Elvera. I realise you must be very upset to lose a good friend in this way, but—’
‘She wasn’t my friend!’ Elvera burst out. She was clutching at the cloth of her black robe, where it hung loosely over the rounded breasts. The drab black headdress, which would have made almost any other girl or woman look plain, was not enough to remove the lively appeal of Elvera’s face, even in her present state. ‘I hardly knew her! I’d only been here a week when she died! We weren’t close at all!’
‘No, all right, Elvera.’ It wasn’t all right, but Helewise didn’t think they’d get anything useful out of the girl if she were not swiftly brought back from the brink of panic. ‘Just as a fellow member of the community, then, can you help in any way?’
‘Why are you asking me?’ the girl flashed back. ‘They’re already gossiping about me, all those old nuns, saying isn’t it strange, Gunnora and me being so close, anyone’d think we already knew each other before! Goodness, their eyes were out on stalks when Sister Anne came galumphing over her cabbage patch to fetch me just now!’ She paused for breath, then added, her voice unsteady and beads of sweat on her white face, ‘None of them gets sent for to be asked horrible questions by the king’s investigator!’
Then Helewise knew exactly what was ailing Elvera. She was terrified.
But, terrified or not, a postulant did not speak to her Abbess in that way.
‘Elvera, you forget yourself,’ Helewise said coldly. ‘It is not for you to question my actions. You have undertaken to be obedient.’
‘I—’ Some inner battle was going on inside Elvera. It was apparent that she longed to hurl back some pert denial, but something stopped her. Lowering her eyes, she straightened her expression and said demurely, ‘Yes, Abbess.’
Her whole demeanour was so clearly false that it was almost amusing.
Getting up from his seat, Josse moved round to stand beside Helewise, facing Elvera across the table. ‘Friend or not,’ he said mildly, ‘it was noticed by several people that you and Gunnora got on quite well. That you laughed together. That sometimes she sought you out, and—’
‘She didn’t!’
‘Elvera, we know she did,’ Helewise put in gently. ‘You sought each other out. That is a fact. It’s quite senseless to go on denying things which more than one other person noticed and remarked on.’
‘Well, it wasn’t my fault if she came to look for me,’ Elvera said triumphantly. ‘Was it?’
‘No,’ Josse acknowledged. ‘I suppose not.’
‘She hadn’t made any friends all the time she’d been here,’ Elvera went on, with the air of one who has seen a way out and is making all speed to set off down it. ‘Lonely, she was. She latched on to me because … because…’ A sudden fierce frown disturbed the young face, then, as quickly, cleared. ‘Because I was new!’ she finished.
‘You were new,’ Helewise echoed.
‘Yes! New and not set against her like everyone else!’
‘You must not malign your sisters in this way,’ Helewise said. ‘Nobody was set against Gunnora. Her self-absorption was her own choice.’ Dear God but I’m judging her, she thought. And, what’s worse, expressing my judgement in front of this disturbed child.
As if understanding why she had suddenly stopped speaking, Josse said, ‘Elvera, look on it this way. Gunnora believed you to be her friend, enjoyed your company, your light-heartedness. Perhaps it would comfort you to think that you might have made her last days happy, and—’