Alys Clare - Heart of Ice

The apothecary gave his careless shrug again. ‘For what good it may do me, yes.’ Then, glaring at de Gifford with matching venom, he said, ‘Would you not have done the same?’

‘I might,’ de Gifford owned evenly. For a moment Josse thought that the seething atmosphere in the room was about to ease — he hoped it would; there were several questions that he wanted to put to the apothecary — but then, in the same reasonable tone, the sheriff went on, ‘I’ll tell you what else I might have done, Master Morton. I might have gone with my young apprentice to ensure that he reached his destination and stayed by his side praying for him while the Hawkenlye nuns fought for his life. If their help came too late, I might have sat in vigil over Nicol and arranged for his burial. When finally I left him, I might have paid for masses to be said for his soul. That’s what I might have done.’

Oh dear, Josse thought. Observing the apothecary’s cold mask of fury, he realised that the slim chance he had had of posing his questions had now irrevocably vanished. De Gifford was on his way out of the room; Josse caught the heavy oak door just as the sheriff was forcefully swinging it shut and, wincing, he followed him out.

On the doorstep, Josse turned.

‘Thank you for your time, Master Morton,’ he said politely, ‘you have been most helpful.’

Then, with a low bow, he gently closed the door.

‘Why did you do that?’ de Gifford demanded as they rode away. ‘Did you have to touch your forelock to the man? He’s a monster, Josse, he worked that young man like an animal and he couldn’t have been less concerned to hear that the poor lad’s dead!’

‘Aye, I know,’ Josse said soothingly. ‘It’s just that. .’ He hesitated, because what he was about to say would sound very like criticism — well, it was criticism — and in de Gifford’s present mood, and given that the two men were about to put up at New Winnowlands together overnight, Josse wasn’t sure that antagonising the sheriff was a very good idea.

‘Oh, go on, Josse, out with it.’ There was a smile in de Gifford’s voice. ‘It’s not you I’m angry with.’

‘Very well. I tried to wish the wretched man a courteous farewell because there may be more to be gained from him.’

‘About Nicol Romley?’

‘Aye. God forbid it, but if there should be more cases of this pestilence, then it will be important to find out all we can of Nicol’s recent movements. Will it not?’

De Gifford was nodding slowly. ‘Yes. Oh, yes, you’re right, Josse, and I thank you for your foresight.’

They rode in contemplative silence for a while. Then de Gifford laughed shortly. ‘I propose, Josse, that if the acquisition of that knowledge ever becomes necessary, you go on your own to see Master Pinchsniff.’

In Hawkenlye Vale, the middle-aged man died late in the afternoon. Sister Euphemia had taken the difficult decision not to move him up to the infirmary: for one thing, he was very weak and movement seemed to hurt him; for another, he was clearly close to death and there was little the infirmary could do for him that the monks in the Vale could not. And if this was indeed the pestilence, then the fewer cases of the sickness introduced into the Abbey infirmary, the better it would be for all.

Sister Euphemia stood in the Vale watching over the surviving infant and the young boy for the rest of that day. She encouraged Brother Firmin in his efforts to make both patients drink and soon they were sufficiently revived to ingest quite large draughts of liquid. The infant opened its eyes and began to cry; a good sign, the infirmarer decided. The young boy regained consciousness and began to moan that his head ached (his brother said this had been the lad’s chief complaint from the start) and Sister Tiphaine brought him a measure of her strongest pain-relieving potion. She slipped a sleeping draught into the mixture and very soon the boy had fallen asleep.

The two nuns studied both patients. Neither had the frightening dark pink spots, nor the inflammation around the eyes. After some time, Sister Euphemia said, ‘I reckon the sickness is on the wane in these two. I will take them to the infirmary, where I’m sure we’ll be able to hasten their recovery. With God’s help,’ she added.

Sister Tiphaine muttered something that might have been Amen . ‘You’d best check with the Abbess,’ she suggested.

Sister Euphemia sighed. ‘Aye. That I will, for I must have her permission.’ She sighed again. ‘But you know as well as I do,’ she whispered to Tiphaine, ‘that obtaining her permission in no way absolves me of the blame and the guilt if I’m wrong and. .’

No. She wouldn’t think of that.

Sister Tiphaine gave her an encouraging nudge. ‘You may be wrong and you may be right,’ she said. ‘The Abbess will realise that. She wouldn’t want folks left out here in the cold any more than you do, especially young ’uns like these two here.’ She nodded at the baby and the boy. ‘For charity’s sake, we must make them as comfortable as we can, and that means moving them to the infirmary.’ She set off along the path back towards the Abbey.

‘Where are you off to?’ Sister Euphemia called after her.

‘I’m off to summon the Abbess,’ the herbalist answered.

Late that night, all four of the surviving visitors were sound asleep. Two were on the mend; the ten-year-old boy and the surviving twin baby who, on closer inspection, turned out to be a girl child. The older boy who had struggled so bravely to drag his ailing relations to Hawkenlye would be rewarded by not sickening with whatever frightening disease had wiped out half his family; his uncle was not so lucky. Even as the older man slept, tucked up beside his nephew in a corner of the pilgrims’ shelter in the Vale, the elements of the deadly pestilence were multiplying, spreading stealthily through his blood like an invading and secretive army.

And, unbeknownst to anyone, it had already sent out its advance troops into the Hawkenlye population.

Helewise was awake early. She rose and dressed quietly and then made her way in the pre-dawn February darkness across to the infirmary. Sister Beata was on duty and she rose to greet her Abbess.

Moving close to speak quietly right into her ear, Helewise said, ‘How are they?’

Sister Beata smiled. ‘They are sleeping, my lady, and in both the infant girl and the lad, the fever is down.’

‘I see.’ Oh, thank God!

‘The baby girl woke up a while ago and drank some more water. I did as Sister Euphemia ordered and heated the water, melting a little honey in it. The lad was restless earlier in the night but now that the fever’s turned, he’s sleeping natural-wise.’

Helewise was still silently praying her thanks. She said quietly, ‘Good tidings, Sister. Where is Sister Euphemia?’

Sister Beata nodded towards a cubicle at the far end of the infirmary. ‘She’s sleeping,’ she whispered. ‘She was exhausted, my lady; dead on her feet.’

‘I am glad, Sister Beata, that you managed to persuade her of the need to rest,’ Helewise said, and Beata blushed with pleasure.

‘Oh, my lady, I don’t know as how I had anything to do with it,’ she said modestly.

‘You have a kind heart, Sister,’ Helewise said. ‘I am quite sure that Sister Euphemia would not have given in to her fatigue had you not gently and lovingly insisted.’

‘Oh!’ Sister Beata blushed.

‘Please tell Sister Euphemia when she wakes that I shall return later,’ Helewise said. Then she left the infirmary and went across to the Abbey church. It was almost the hour for Prime but there was just time for some moments of private prayer before the rest of the community arrived.