by Alys Clare
‘Utterly certain,’ Josse said firmly. ‘The . . . er, the night’s proceedings were under way and someone was being held there awaiting . . . well, waiting to be taken to the upper chamber. King Richard found out what was going on – indeed, what had apparently been going on for some time, for the men who were there that night met often – and he recognized that what they were doing was an outrage that abused your territory and must not be allowed to continue. He broke up the . . . er, the meeting and rescued the person who had been imprisoned.’
The queen did not speak for a moment. Then she said, ‘Sir Josse, look at me.’
Reluctantly he raised his head and stared into her deep, dark eyes. ‘My lady?’
‘We both know what went on in that tower,’ she said very softly, ‘and I applaud your reserve in not going into details. What you are telling me is that my son prevented the grave misuse and death of a young man?’
‘Aye, he did.’ There was no need to mention the first poor lad, tortured and killed before the king got there.
‘And you have spoken to this man? He has told you himself that my son saved his life?’
Josse risked a smile. ‘Aye, my lady. Better than that, I’ve brought him with me so he can tell you himself. May I present him to you?’
Her eyes were looking over his head towards Ninian, standing unbowed at the back of the room. ‘This is the man? Sir Josse, he’s little more than a boy!’
‘He is fourteen, madam.’
‘A boy,’ she repeated under her breath. Josse, watching her, saw her expression and wondered if she was only now appreciating the full horror of what they had done at World’s End. Then, with a curt nod, she said, ‘Bring him forward.’
Josse beckoned to Ninian and watched as he walked gracefully up to the dais and bowed before the queen. As he straightened up, the queen stared down into his face and Josse thought he heard her give a tiny gasp. Then, recovering, she said, ‘What is your name?’
‘Ninian de Courtenay, my lady.’
‘And where do you come from? I feel that I recognize the name but I cannot place it.’
‘It is the name of my mother’s kin, madam.’
The queen was still staring at him, a faint frown deepening the creases on her brow. ‘De Courtenay . . . I believe I once met a Marie de Courtenay, but she would have been too old to be your mother – your grandmother, perhaps.’ She shook her head as if to free it from that thought and, with an obvious effort, smiled at Ninian and said, ‘But we are not here to discuss your grandmother. You have something to tell me, I am told?’
With a shining and very apparent honesty, Ninian told his tale. Josse noticed with interest and approval that the boy too obeyed the same instinct as he had done himself not to risk distressing the queen. Like Josse, he did not speak of the true horror of what had happened that night.
‘And King Richard took you and your master out to his ship?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
Josse went to say something but stopped himself. You did not speak to a queen; you waited until she spoke to you.
She must have sensed he had something to add. ‘Sir Josse?’
‘Madam, it was the man who rowed the king, the boy and his master to the ship who disclosed the secret of the king’s presence on Oléron that night,’ he said. ‘He spoke the truth, my lady.’
The queen smiled. ‘No need to remind me, Sir Josse,’ she said with discernible irony. ‘I promise I shall not have the man arrested and his tongue slit for telling lies.’
Josse hung his head, but the queen said, ‘Sir Josse?’ and he looked up at her. She studied him for a few moments. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You have removed a terrible fear from my mind. Now I shall indeed be able to let my son rest in peace.’ There was a short silence, as if all three of them were paying silent homage to the dead king. Then Eleanor said, ‘So where now, Sir Josse?’
‘I shall return to Hawkenlye Abbey and tell the abbess that—’ Too late he realized what he was saying; to reveal to the queen that he was going to relate the outcome of the matter to the abbess implied that he had told her about it, and Eleanor had sworn him to secrecy.
But she was laughing softly. ‘It’s all right, Sir Josse,’ she said. ‘I think I always understood that, for you, sharing a confidence with Helewise of Hawkenlye was almost the same thing as talking to yourself.’
He was not entirely sure what she meant, but there was no time to work it out. She had risen to her feet and, taking this as an indication that the interview was over, Josse began backing away, nudging Ninian to make him do the same.
Eleanor, however, had not quite finished. Reaching beneath her chair, she pulled out a leather bag. It was quite large and clearly very heavy. ‘You have no doubt been put to considerable expense in this mission,’ she said smoothly. ‘Allow me, if you will, to recompense you.’ She handed him the bag.
Josse took it, too taken aback to comment other than a muttered ‘Thank you, my lady.’
Then with one final, long look at Ninian, she dismissed them.
Josse reined in his impatience until he and Ninian were back in the stables, collecting their horses. Then, while Ninian stood guard, he untied the laces that fastened the leather bag. Within there were gold coins: a lot of gold coins. With shaking fingers Josse tried to count them, but he made a mistake. He must have done, for the total seemed to come to a sum that was sufficient to build a fair-sized house.
Part Four
The Great Forest
Sixteen
Helewise had not realized just how disruptive it would be to have even a modest and simple chapel built so close to the abbey. She had imagined that an added advantage of siting the new building outside the walls would mean that the community could go about its daily round in peace; this, however, proved not to be the case. Everyone, from the most senior and dignified nuns down to the youngest, newest lay brother, was suddenly preoccupied with thinking up excuses that took them out beyond the gates and past the workmen hard at work at the top of the slope on the edge of the forest. They did not content themselves with a quick look to check on progress; instead, Helewise noticed, quietly fuming, they would stand there in what looked like a light trance, wide eyes fixed on the apparently fascinating sight of a mason chipping away at a chunk of stone.
She was not immune from the draw of the new chapel, but she forced herself not to waste time during her working hours; instead, she made a daily visit to the site just after vespers, when the workmen would be packing up for the day. Quite often she took Meggie with her, and the little girl seemed to enjoy the special time together as much as she did. Meggie appeared to be happy enough, although frequently she stopped and looked around, as if searching for Josse, or, indeed, Helewise thought with pain, for her mother. Everyone made a pet of the child, Helewise included, for she was easy to love and a cheerful companion, which made the evening visits to the new chapel all the more enjoyable. Helewise would exchange a few words with Martin and one or two of his team and then, once they had all gone, walk slowly around, seeing for herself the day’s progress.
Slowly, almost unaware of it, she fell under the spell of St Edmund’s Chapel. It was not large: perhaps twenty paces from the west wall to the rounded apse behind the place where the altar would stand, and a fraction over half that distance from the north wall to the south. Beneath the nave, a crypt had been hollowed out; it was there for a specific purpose. It was odd but every time Helewise thought about what that purpose was, something seemed to fudge her thoughts and she would find her mind had been turned to something else.
The chapel’s entrance was in the south wall, and the apse extended under the trees at the very edge of the forest. There would be three small windows glazed with plain glass set high up in the apse, so that the morning sun would shine down on the altar. The west end faced the abbey, which was wonderful because Helewise was to have her wish. Martin had told her that the two strong buttresses that would stand at either end of the west wall were there
for support. She had looked blankly at him, not understanding. ‘We’ll strengthen that wall, my lady,’ he explained, ‘because then we can leave a great big space in it.’
‘But—’
‘And we’ll fill it with glass,’ he finished.
Not just any glass; Helewise discovered as Martin showed her the drawings that Queen Eleanor had been very specific. She must have seen for herself what was planned for Chartres and she wanted something equally beautiful for the new chapel built for her son. The west window in Hawkenlye’s St Edmund Chapel would have a huge stained-glass illustration whose central panel depicted the saint on horseback, sword raised to strike down the enemies of the Lord. If St Edmund was tall, auburn-haired and blue-eyed and bore a resemblance to the queen’s favourite son, then it would be a hard-hearted person who failed to sympathize and understand.
Helewise was amazed at how quickly the building was going up. June turned into July and the team made the most of the long sunny days. Construction always came to an end in October, she well knew, when any incomplete structures would be carefully padded with bracken or straw to prevent damage by winter frosts. Such a measure, she slowly came to realize, would not be necessary here, for unless some unforeseen setback occurred, the chapel roof ought to be on long before the autumn set in.
She talked at length with Martin concerning the chapel’s interior. They were in agreement that the walls should simply be whitewashed; anything else would detract from the glorious colours of the west window. Martin persuaded her to have a rood screen. The master carpenter produced a sketch of a plain structure made of local oak and consisting of a series of arches, two narrow ones on either side and a wider one in the middle, giving access to the choir. The altar was to be a large block of sandstone, quarried locally and dragged up to Hawkenlye on a massive cart drawn by a whole team of oxen. Martin’s masons were already working on it, shaping and smoothing it to form a rectangular cube.
Helewise readily immersed herself in every detail. Apart from anything else, it helped to take her mind off her abiding, gnawing anxiety about Josse.
She went into the abbey church very early one morning, following an almost sleepless night. Alone in the dim dawn light, she prostrated herself in front of the altar and begged the Lord to protect Josse and his young companion. They had been away for over three weeks and she was finding it very difficult to keep her fears at bay. They have gone after one man, she reminded herself again and again; the threat that they faced was no more than that. De Loup was from Aquitaine, and Josse might have had to follow him all the way there. Such a journey was not done quickly and, even having found de Loup, Josse would have to talk to him at length in order to persuade him to give up the black figure. It was foolish, she concluded, to imagine Josse and Ninian could possibly be safely back already. There really was no need to worry.
Yet.
And now, disconcertingly, Meggie had taken to keeping watch for her father by the abbey gates. It was as if she too felt that his return was sufficiently long overdue for it to be worrying. It might have been easier had the child expressed her fears in tears and demands for reassurance, or even in bad behaviour. Any of those would have been understandable; after all, both her mother and now her father had disappeared out of her life. Instead she kept up her vigil and barely said a word. It was heartbreaking.
Helewise dropped her face on to her folded hands and, for a few precious moments, let the Lord carry all her desperate anxiety. When presently she rose and slowly left the church, she thought that the burden did not feel quite so heavy.
Early in July, Hawkenlye Abbey received a visit from the kin of Sir Piers of Essendon. Helewise had sent word to them of his death and they had promised to come for his body once arrangements had been made. Since his death, Piers had lain in his sealed coffin down in the crypt of the abbey church; Helewise was well aware that several of the nuns who had nursed him often slipped away down there to sit with his gentle spirit.
She had not known the composition of his household, although Josse had said he believed him to be a widower. So it proved, for the deputation who came for his body consisted of a daughter, Adela, her husband and four attendants. Helewise received the couple in her room, taking the chance to tell the woman quietly of her late father’s last hours.
She had braced herself for some hard questions, for Adela had already been informed that her father had been murdered. It would only be natural for her to demand why Hawkenlye had not offered him better protection. When no such questions materialized, Helewise finally said, ‘We believe we know whose hand it was that ended your father’s life. Our local sheriff has been alerted. In addition, Sir Josse d’Acquin, a friend both of your father and of this community, has gone after the man and will do his best to see that he is brought to justice.’
Adela seemed strangely unmoved, merely giving a shrug as if the matter was of no concern. Perhaps she was in shock, Helewise thought, instantly sympathetic. ‘Would you and your husband like to stay at the abbey for a day or two?’ she asked kindly. ‘You could talk to the nuns who cared for your father and, if anything occurs to you that you’d like to ask, you could—’
But Adela was already standing up, commanding her husband with a jerk of her head to do the same. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We’ll take him and bury him. Then we intend to get on with our lives.’ She drew herself up and there was a glint of avarice in her steely eyes. ‘Essendon is ours now.’
Silently Helewise saw them out to where their horses waited, beside a cart on which the coffin now rested, the servants standing around it and uneasily shuffling their feet. She watched the couple mount up and lead the way out through the gates, the cart trundling along behind. She stood there until all that could be seen of the party was the cloud of dust hanging over the road.
As finally she returned to her room, she was consoled by the thought of Ninian. Piers had cared for Ninian; if the boy had returned that affection, then at least Piers had died knowing that somebody would grieve for him. Although she knew she must not judge, she could not help thinking that his hard-hearted daughter was too busy enjoying her inheritance to waste a moment mourning her father.
It was very sad.
July crept on, each day seeming to pass with painful slowness as Helewise and the Hawkenlye community waited for Josse to return. The chapel continued to rise up on its shady site in front of the trees and word of it had spread far and wide, causing a large increase in the number of visitors to the abbey. The monks and lay brothers in the vale were kept busy looking after them, as were the infirmary nuns. For many people, it was rare indeed to make the journey to Hawkenlye, and those with nagging complaints and chronic illnesses took the chance to speak to a healer while they were there. Meggie was in demand in both the vale and the infirmary, and she divided her time between the two. Sister Euphemia reported that even at the tender age of six and a half, the child had a way with the sick.
Helewise too had more than enough work to keep her occupied. Nevertheless, she found time each evening to collect Meggie and go up to the new chapel. One evening as she and the little girl were setting out, Sister Tiphaine hurried to join them.
‘My lady,’ she said, bowing deeply, ‘I have been commanded to ask if you will go into the forest before you visit the chapel. There is someone there who wishes to speak to you.’
Helewise regarded the herbalist levelly. She was long past telling her that as a vowed nun she obeyed commands solely from her abbess; instead she said, ‘Very well. Is she there now?’
Sister Tiphaine smiled. ‘You know to whom I refer.’
‘I do.’
‘Yes, it’s her, and she’s waiting. Shall I lead the way?’
I know the way, Helewise thought, but she nodded.
The Domina was standing in the middle of the clearing. Sister Tiphaine took Meggie off to show her a red squirrel’s drey and, as soon as they were out of earshot, the Domina said, ‘He is on his way home.’
Helewise’s eyes widened
. ‘Josse?’
‘Yes.’
For a moment she could not even form the words of a prayer; she just repeated silently, over and over again, ‘Thank you. Thank you.’ Then, calming, she wondered how the Domina knew. Perhaps other forest people had seen him and knew he was nearly home. It did not matter; just knowing that he was safe was enough.
‘He brings the black goddess with him,’ the Domina told her.
‘I knew that he would,’ Helewise replied, realizing the truth of this as she spoke. She smiled. ‘I’ve been watching Martin make a niche for her in the crypt beneath the new chapel and it never occurred to me that he was wasting his time.’ She paused, for what she wanted to say made no sense. Then she remembered to whom she was talking. ‘I’ve seen her there,’ she said dreamily. ‘I’ve stood there with my eyes half closed and it’s as if she is already in her special place.’
The Domina too smiled. ‘She has great power,’ she observed. ‘Perhaps she has already affected you.’ She studied Helewise intently. ‘You are changed, Helewise. Your mind encompasses more than it used to.’
Helewise considered this. ‘Yes. I’ve been thinking.’
‘Thinking can be dangerous.’ The Domina’s tone was neutral.
But Helewise knew full well what she meant. ‘I love the Lord no less,’ she said swiftly. ‘He is the pinnacle for me, the one shining example of a perfect life whose teachings I shall always strive to live up to, but there is more . . .’ She trailed off, unable to put into words the deep, disturbing possibilities that had crept through her mind as she contemplated that black goddess with her swelling belly.
‘Do not try to hurry it,’ the Domina advised. ‘It will come or not, in its own time.’
‘I am a vowed nun,’ Helewise muttered, distress filling her mind. ‘An abbess!’
‘But you are also a woman who thinks for herself,’ the Domina said. ‘Soon you will find that your Church begins to frown on such a person, especially if she is female.’