Alys Clare - Heart of Ice

‘Sister,’ Helewise said boldly, ‘I am going to describe a sequence of events to you that may or may not actually have happened. Two years ago, in the February of that year, Sir Josse met a young woman who was fleeing from — well, never mind what she was fleeing from. The relevant fact is that she — her name was Joanna de Courtenay — hid in the Great Forest close by Hawkenlye, where she and Sir Josse met and. .’ Oh, but this was difficult! Agonising, Helewise thought, supposing I am wrong and have been wrong all along? If so, I shall be making accusations that damage the good names of two innocent people!

But there was something in Sister Tiphaine’s wary expression that suggested Helewise was not wrong at all. .

Heartened, she continued. ‘Let us imagine for a moment that Sir Josse and Joanna de Courtenay became lovers and that she conceived a child. That child would have been born some time in the autumn of that year, and so now he or she would be about sixteen months old.’

She paused to see if Sister Tiphaine would comment. The herbalist remained silent.

‘Sister, if indeed a child has been born to Joanna de Courtenay, and if Sir Josse is that child’s father, and if the child is a girl, then do you not see what it will mean?’

‘I do, my lady,’ the herbalist said quietly. ‘ If those events really happened, then the descendant spoken of in the prophecy could be alive now.’

Helewise could not help but notice the heavy emphasis on if .

‘Sister Tiphaine,’ she said, after a pause, ‘it is said of you that you keep a foot in the pagan past and I admit that I have always considered there to be something — er — slightly strange about you.’ A brief flash of humour crossed the herbalist’s impassive face, there and gone before Helewise could properly register it. ‘However, you are a dutiful and obedient nun, a skilled herbalist, wise in the lore of healing and, in general, an asset to our community.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’

‘For this reason I have permitted a certain leeway over your comings and goings that I would not tolerate in another sister.’ Now Helewise fixed the herbalist with a glare. ‘In particular, I speak of your links with the forest people. Oh, it’s no use denying that they exist, Sister, for I am convinced that they do.’

‘I was not going to deny them, my lady,’ the herbalist said tranquilly. ‘I learned much of what I know from the forest people and I have never found any malice or evil among them.’

‘They are pagans, Sister, and you are a professed nun and vowed servant of Our Lord Jesus Christ and his holy father,’ Helewise reminded her.

‘Aye, and right glad I am to serve him,’ Sister Tiphaine said. ‘But-’

She bit back what she had been about to say, instead bowing her head and, with an air of humility, waited for whatever her Abbess might say next.

But Helewise did not speak. Into her head, where she had heard it before, a calm voice said, All gods are one god and behind them is the truth .

Who are you? Helewise cried mutely. Won’t you tell me?

But, as before, there was no answer.

After a moment, she addressed Sister Tiphaine again. ‘I am not asking you to speak now,’ she said, pleased to find that her voice held its usual authoritative tone, ‘I am simply asking you to consider what I have said and to think how best to act so as to benefit the greatest number of people.’

Sister Tiphaine nodded slowly. ‘A gem of power wielded in the destined hand would be useful just now, my lady, even if the hand were but that of a small child,’ she said. ‘There’s no denying it.’

‘Exactly!’ Helewise said eagerly. ‘You and Sister Euphemia have tried, Sir Josse has tried, but none of you have met with success. People are dying, people who could perhaps be saved.’

Again the herbalist nodded. ‘Aye, my lady. I am aware of that.’ She paused, deep eyes looking away down the Vale and back towards the small collection of buildings. After some time she returned her gaze to Helewise. ‘Have I your leave to go into the forest, my lady Abbess?’ she asked.

Why ask me this time? You do not usually bother, Helewise thought, but she bit back the remark. ‘You have,’ she replied.

Sister Tiphaine gave her a low reverence. ‘Thank you. I will return as soon as I can.’

With that she was off, pacing away along the track, her very movements suggesting that, had she not been a nun clad in the habit of obedience and decorum, she might well have broken into a run.

Helewise watched her go. With you, Tiphaine, she said silently, goes our hope.

Then she sighed and, slowly and reluctantly, followed in the herbalist’s footsteps back to the infirmary in the Vale.

Josse rode hard for a few miles and then, drawing rein at the top of a low hill to the north-west of the Abbey, sat for some time looking out at the view. Before him the valley of the Weald stretched from west to east; behind him to the south rose the vast, mysterious forest. After a while, becoming slightly uneasy at having the dark woods at his back, he turned Horace and stared out over the trees.

He was thinking, so hard that his head ached, about what had caused a secret killer to cross to England, and what could be so sensitive about his mission that the two men who might have witnessed him boarding or leaving the ship that brought him across the Channel had had to be silenced.

It had to be connected to King Richard’s release and his imminent return to England! But just how, Josse was at a loss to see.

He realised that he was growing cold; it would do neither him nor Horace any good for the sweat of exertion to chill them so, with an explosive oath that did a little to express his frustration, he turned the big horse and set out back to Hawkenlye.

He reached the Abbey in the mid-afternoon and Sister Martha greeted him at the gate. ‘You’ve had a hard ride, Sir Josse,’ she observed, looking at Horace with a critical eye, ‘and the old boy’s all lathered.’ She patted Horace’s neck and he whinnied in recognition. ‘Leave him to me and I’ll give him a good rub-down.’ Glancing up and meeting Josse’s eyes, she added quietly, ‘I’ll be glad of something to do. Evil times, Sir Josse; evil times.’

Josse slid off Horace’s back and handed the reins to Sister Martha. ‘Aye, that they are,’ he agreed heavily. ‘Thank you, Sister.’

He was on the point of setting out back down to the Vale when he heard a voice calling his name. Turning, he saw the porteress, Sister Ursel, hurrying towards him. It was only then that he realised she had not been at her usual post, in the little lodge by the gate, when he rode in.

He walked back to meet her; she was coming from the direction of the Abbess’s room at the far end of the cloister. ‘I thought you might have been with the Abbess Helewise,’ Sister Ursel panted, ‘but you weren’t and she’s not in her room either. She’s probably down in the Vale’ — Sister Ursel nodded as if in confirmation of her own deduction — ‘although I pray to the dear God above that she keeps herself out of harm’s way. There’s poor old Brother Firmin sick, and now poor Sister Beata’s got the fever, they say, and Sister Euphemia’s got her hands full even with the two extra who have gone down to help.’

‘Aye, it’s a bad time all right,’ Josse agreed. Before Sister Ursel could continue her recitation of woes, he put in gently, ‘You were looking for me, Sister. How may I help?’

She smiled at him. ‘Ah, there’s the kind soul that you are, Sir Josse. I always say so. It’s never a surprise to me that so many folks come here after you, wanting some of your precious time!’