Alys Clare - Heart of Ice

Since the night of his arrival, there had been no new cases of the sickness. The nuns hardly dared think it, let alone say it, but each was just starting to hope that the disease might just have run its course.

Inside the ward, Brother Firmin — who had recovered sufficiently to get up for an hour or so each day — went to sit by the unknown man’s bed. Waiting patiently until the man opened his eyes, he said, in the manner of one speaking to the deaf, ‘DO — YOU — KNOW — WHERE — YOU — ARE?’

The man gave a wry smile. ‘Not in heaven,’ he muttered.

Brother Firmin was faintly shocked. ‘Oh, dear, no!’ he said, wondering if he had just heard a blasphemy. Deciding that, if he had, then it was forgivable under the circumstances, he said, ‘You are at Hawkenlye Abbey, in the temporary infirmary that we have set up down in our Vale, where the holy water spring is situated, and our nursing nuns are doing their utmost to help you get better.’

Before he had finished his little speech, the man had closed his eyes and wearily turned away. Firmin put out a tentative hand. ‘Are you in pain, friend?’ he asked. ‘Is there anything that I can do for you?’

The man opened his eyes again. ‘I am dying,’ he said baldly.

‘Oh, you must not say that!’ Firmin told him. ‘There is always hope, and God is merciful.’

The man’s eyes fixed on to Firmin’s in a stare so intense and blank that Firmin shrank back. ‘Is he?’ the man demanded. ‘Is there mercy even for one such as me?’

‘There is mercy for everyone,’ Firmin assured him. Then, made nervous by what he read in the man’s eyes, ‘Would you like me to send for a priest?’

After a long pause, the man nodded. Then, as Brother Firmin made to call out to one of the nuns to fetch Father Gilbert, he caught the old monk’s sleeve. With an attempt at a smile, he said, ‘Better find one with time on his hands, Brother, for I have much to confess.’

The infirmarer had decided that she could no longer put up with Josse’s constant demands to be allowed in to see the Abbess. Almost sure now that the danger of infection was past, she put her head out through the doorway of the Vale ward, saw him in his usual place on the bench and told him he could come in. She did add, ‘But you can only stay with her for a few moments’; however, he had already leapt to his feet and rushed in past her and she was quite sure he could not have heard.

Josse made himself walk slowly down the long ward. For over a week he had been imagining what was going on here and now he could see the aftermath with his own eyes. The floor was still damp from the latest scrubbing — Sister Euphemia’s nursing nuns had to be very thorough about scrubbing — but nevertheless, behind the aroma of lavender there was a lurking sickroom stench. Certain dark stains that refused to yield to the hot water and the brisk brush bore witness to where patients had uncontrollably voided liquids from the orifices of their weak, feverish bodies. Unoccupied cots had been stacked in a corner, stripped bare of their palliasses and of the covers. The remaining handful of patients were grouped around the middle of one side of the ward. One or two managed to give Josse a friendly smile as he passed by. All of them looked pale and frighteningly fragile.

He passed the mystery man, who lay asleep; Josse was aware that Gervase de Gifford was waiting to question him and had undertaken the duty of informing the sheriff when the man was up to it. Trying to summon up righteous indignation — the man had probably killed Nicol and the Hastings merchant! — Josse’s resolve was undermined by pity.

He had a fair idea of what to expect when at last he twitched aside the curtains around the Abbess’s bed and stared down at her.

She was propped up on pillows and clad in a spotless white gown fastened chastely around the neck. Its sleeves extended to the wrist and her hands, emerging out of the smooth linen, lay folded upon the bedcovers. Her head was bare but for a simple white cap, beneath which he could see her reddish hair in short, soft curls. Her face was pale and her skin had a dryish look, as if any extreme expression might crack it clean open. Her eyes looked huge and were circled with dark rings.

On seeing him, she risked everything and gave him a wide smile. ‘Dear Sir Josse,’ she said, and he noticed that her voice was weak and shaky, ‘how good it is to see you.’

He knelt on the floor beside her bed. ‘My lady Abbess, I feared that this moment would never come.’

‘But it has,’ she answered. He felt her hand on his head — such a tiny, feeble touch! — and, raising his face, he looked up at her.

‘She came for me,’ the Abbess whispered. ‘I was on my way and she appeared at my side and asked me if I was sure I was ready to go. I saw — oh, I saw many things.’ She was studying him intently, something that he could not identify burning in the grey eyes. She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘What I saw ahead was so beautiful, Josse, that I could easily have slipped away and I am quite sure that I would have been happy. But I know now that it is not yet my time to go.’ Her smile was back. ‘So I came back.’

He did not know what to say; either he must find the words to say all that was in his heart or else only the briefest response would do. Faced with the yawningly huge task of the former, he settled for the latter. He said gruffly, ‘I’m glad.’

And he heard a sound he had thought never to hear again: she began to laugh.

All too soon the curtain twitched back and Sister Euphemia appeared. ‘It’s very good to hear you laugh, my lady, but that’s enough for now. Sir Josse!’ She gave him a stern look.

He raised the Abbess’s hand to his lips to give it a swift kiss and then, getting up, winked at her and followed the infirmarer out of the recess, letting the curtain fall behind him. Sister Euphemia, having assured herself that he had obeyed her and left the Abbess to rest, gave a nod and then hurried away up the ward to attend to a patient calling for water.

Josse walked slowly after her. He glanced again at the stranger as he passed and noticed that the man was twisting from side to side in the bed, one hand reaching out as if in supplication. Going over to him, Josse said quietly, ‘What ails you?’

The wavering hand appeared to have purpose in it; looking in the direction in which it pointed, Josse saw a jar on the floor. ‘Is this what you want?’ he asked, picking it up and holding it where the man could see it.

‘Yes!’

Josse was unaccustomed to nursing but he had on occasion been nursed by others. Folding back the bedclothes, he raised the man’s gown, pushed the jar down between his thighs and helped him position himself so that the meagre stream of urine went in the right place. The small effort brought the man out in a sweat and Josse felt the fever burning in his skin; removing the jar, he helped him to settle back again and pulled the covers over him. He carried the jar outside, took it over to the privy and emptied it, then rinsed it and took it back to the man’s bedside.

The man’s eyes were open and he was studying Josse.

‘I never thought,’ he said, ‘to have my piss pot emptied by a knight. I thank you, whoever you are.’

‘Josse d’Acquin,’ Josse replied.

‘Acquin.’

‘You have heard of it?’

‘No. Is it in France?’

‘Aye.’

‘Yet here you are in an abbey in England.’

‘My family lands are at Acquin. My own manor is here.’

‘You hold your land from the King?’

‘Aye.’

‘You are a King’s man?’

‘Aye.’ Josse wondered if it was right to go on answering the abrupt questions; might it not be better for the man to rest? But then he seemed agitated, as if he were working up to something important.