Alys Clare - Girl In A Red Tunic

It is as if the bad fairy has turned up at the feast.

The wife of the elderly couple has caught Helewise’s arm and is turning her away from the awful fascination of the dark woman’s stare; she has seen too and she mutters something that sounds like, ‘Take no notice, my dear, she is nothing to you.’ She gives Martin a nudge — quite a sharp one — and he nods his understanding. He strides off, the old woman’s husband following him, elbowing his way through the crowd until he stands beside the black-clad woman. He leans down to say something to her — he leans really close so that he speaks right into her ear — and then he takes hold of her and hustles her away, the old man following, until she has been escorted out of the hall.

‘Who is she?’ Helewise asks nervously.

The elderly woman sniffs. ‘That? That’s Sirida. She should not even be here …’ And she stares worriedly after her old husband, as if suddenly anxious for him.

Helewise tries to laugh. ‘She’s quite slight; she won’t hurt them!’ she says jokingly.

But the woman replies, ‘She might. Oh, she might.’ She shakes her head, still looking anxious. Then she leans closer to Helewise and whispers, ‘They say she is a witch.’

Then the old husband comes back — Martin has disappeared — brushing his hands together as if he has just ejected an unruly hound from the house and, before Helewise can ask any more questions about the dark woman, Ivo comes to find her.

Very relieved to see him, she snuggles up to him, feeling his strong body close to hers as he draws her against him. For the first time she realises that he is, in all ways, a man she will always be able to lean on. She raises her face and starts to tell him about the black-clad woman but he misinterprets her intention and, thinking she is demanding a kiss, obliges with such robust enthusiasm that the people standing around clap their hands, laugh and call out encouraging remarks that verge from the cheerfully ribald to the almost obscene; this is, after all, a wedding. Ivo’s passion instantly infects his bride and Helewise’s brief fear is drowned out by the flood of sensation flowing through her. Then Ivo grabs hold of her hand and, amid the cheers of their friends and relations, spins her away into a dance.

They dance, feast, drink, laugh, dance again, late into the night. Everyone there is having a good time. Everyone there, now, is happy.

Helewise’s wedding day ends in joy. In the flurry and the hundred different impressions and memorable images of newly married life, the one unpleasant moment from her wonderful day is forgotten.

Almost.

Helewise lay in her austere nun’s bed in the dormitory of Hawkenlye Abbey. Her memories had come back with the force of a rain-flooded river bursting its banks and she had recalled things she thought she had long forgotten. In the chilly darkness she found her face hot with shame as she remembered Leofgar’s conception and her total lack of contrition, not only at having lain with Ivo before they were wed but also at the way she had lied to her dear father over the reason why she must bring forward her wedding day. She pictured his face, frowning at first but persuaded by her enthusiasm and her determination and not wanting to question her further in case he put a damper on her joy.

And Elena, Helewise thought, what would I have done without her? The old nurse had been given permission by Emma de Swansford to accompany Helewise into her new life and from the moment she and her young mistress had set foot in the Old Manor, she had been quite invaluable. It had been Elena who had provided the potions and remedies that helped Helewise through two pregnancies that came a little too close together; Elena who had twice turned midwife, capable and loving, easing Helewise’s pains by her quiet confidence and by her very presence. And, after each baby boy was born, it had been Elena who had given Helewise the sensible advice that allowed her confidence as a mother to grow until she no longer needed her old nurse’s support.

But it was not Elena whom Helewise now needed to think about. It was Benedict Warin.

Could it be possible? she wondered. Could one of Benedict’s many infidelities — if indeed that accusation were also true — have led to some young girl conceiving his child? Helewise frowned as she considered the possibility. Ivo had been a virile man who, she reminded herself, had set a child growing in her as easily as look at her; why should his father not have been the same? Yes, it was true that Blanche Warin had given Benedict but the one child but then they all said she had been in delicate health and that she had become barren after Ivo was born.

It was possible, then, that Benedict could have fathered an illegitimate child. The more she considered it, the more she had to conclude that it was not only possible but probable.

As at last she closed her eyes and tried to compose herself for sleep, Helewise wondered how on earth she was to go about trying to find out whether this probable event had ever really happened.

Down in the Vale, Josse had an early morning visit from Gervase de Gifford’s man, Matt. He brought the sheriff’s greetings and the request that Josse come with him down to Tonbridge as soon as he could manage it because de Gifford urgently wished to speak to him.

Josse knew better than to ask what it was about; Matt was a taciturn sort of a man and in any case it did not seem wise to discuss the sheriff’s business in an open-sided shelter with all manner of strangers wandering around outside. In fact there were only four pilgrims in the Vale at present and one of those was a baby, but the monks themselves were not above accidentally overhearing muttered discussions and then speculating wildly afterwards on what they thought they had heard and what it was likely to mean.

He told Matt to wait for him while he sought out the Abbess to inform her where he was going and Matt gave a wordless nod of acknowledgement. Then he raced up the path to the Abbey and, pausing to ask Sister Martha if she would kindly get his horse ready, set about trying to find the Abbess. She was not in her room but one of the novices pointed him in the direction of the retirement home which the Abbey ran for aged nuns and monks and that was where he found her.

Sister Emanuel, who was in charge of the retirement home, greeted him calmly and pointed into one of the two long and narrow rooms where the elderly folk lived out the last of their days, nuns to the right, monks to the left. The Abbess was kneeling in prayer by the narrow cot of a very old nun who, Sister Emanuel whispered, had died in the night. Josse waited. After a short time the Abbess rose to her feet and, bending to bestow a last kiss on the wizened forehead of the tiny nun lying so still on the cot, turned and came towards him.

‘Good morning, Sir Josse,’ she said. He thought there was a suggestion of tears in her eyes. ‘Mother Mabilia was our oldest resident; she said she was almost eighty years old.’

‘I am sorry for her passing,’ he said formally.

The Abbess managed a smile. ‘Do not be,’ she murmured, ‘for dear Mabilia was more than ready to leave us and go to meet her Lord. I have just been giving thanks that her death was easy and painless. She slipped away in her sleep.’

‘May the good God above grant us all such an end,’ Josse said in the same low voice.

‘Amen.’ There was a brief silence and then, taking his arm and steering him out of the retirement home, the Abbess said, ‘What can I do for you?’

Swiftly he told her about de Gifford’s messenger. She watched him, the anxiety flooding her face, then said, ‘What does this mean, Sir Josse?’