Alys Clare - Whiter than the Lily

With a brief nod, she turned and put her foot on the first of the short flight of steps leading up to Josse’s sleeping chamber. Then, almost as an afterthought, she said, ‘Give my respects to the Abbess, sir.’

Josse, wondering how and when he had come to be so predictable, got up and went to tell Will to fetch Horace from the paddock.

It occurred to him as he set off that Brice of Rotherbridge might like to join the party at Hawkenlye, especially since Brice appeared to be a good friend of the Ryemarshes and to have their interests at heart; had it not after all been he who had introduced Josse to Ambrose and his young wife as one who knew Hawkenlye and its good works? It was only a short detour to Brice’s manor and so Josse turned Horace’s head and set off to find his neighbour.

Brice was not at home. His stable lad, Ossie, said that the master had set out at first light two days ago and that he was not expected home before nightfall of that day at the earliest. ‘Like as not ’e won’t be back afore tomorrow, ’e said,’ Ossie added. In response to Josse’s enquiry about where Brice had gone, Ossie shrugged. ‘’E didn’t say.’

Wondering why Brice’s journey to some undisclosed destination should seem sinister, Josse nodded to the lad, set off down the track and told himself not to be fanciful. But against his will he saw again Brice’s air of tense expectancy when they sat in Ambrose Ryemarsh’s hall. Saw in his mind’s eye the suppressed excitement in Brice’s handsome face. And, although he tried to stop himself, Josse recalled what he had thought then.

Was he right? Dear Lord, he prayed that he was not.

But, either way, it seemed likely that joining Galiena and her husband at Hawkenlye promised to answer a few questions.

He did not hurry on his ride to the Abbey. The day had started warm and, as the sun rose higher in the sky, warm became hot and then very hot. In the early afternoon, he found a patch of deep shade in a place where willows grew along a stream bank and, unsaddling Horace, he tethered the horse by the water and threw himself down on the cool grass. Ella had packed bread, a thick slice of her own cured ham, a honey tartlet, a couple of juicy, sweet apples and a flask of ale and, when he had rested for a while, Josse rediscovered his appetite and ate the food hungrily. The ale slipped down almost without his noticing. Then, meaning only to close his eyes for a short time, he fell deeply asleep.

He was woken by a burning sensation in his face. Sitting up with a start, he realised he had been asleep for so long that the sun had moved round and was now shining down full on his head and shoulders. From the feel of his cheeks under his exploratory hands, it looked as if he had given himself a fine case of sunburn.

He knelt by the stream and repeatedly splashed cold water on his face, which gave temporary relief. Horace watched him with mild curiosity. Turning to the horse, Josse said ruefully, ‘Well, I can’t kneel here with my backside in the air for the remainder of the day. We’d better be on our way to Hawkenlye, old Horace, and pray as we go that the infirmarer has a cure for a flaming, scarlet face.’

* * *

He rode in through the gates of Hawkenlye to tragedy.

The infirmary door was open and, amid the strange hush that seemed to have descended on the Abbey, there came the dreadful sounds of sobbing: deep, harsh, broken, painful sobs that, if he were any judge, were being emitted by a man. Some poor soul has lost a loved one, he thought. Child, wife, mother. Ah well, it was sad but unfortunately not uncommon; even the skills of the nursing nuns could not save everybody. Josse dismounted and led Horace across to the stables, where Sister Martha came out to meet him.

In the clear golden light of the westering sun, he could see that her strong old face was creased with distress.

Reaching out absently to take the horse’s reins, she responded briefly to Josse’s courteous greeting and then, even as he began to frame the question ‘What has happened?’ she shook her head and led Horace off inside the stable block.

A sudden terrible fear took hold of Josse. Feeling as if cold fingers had reached inside his chest and were slowly and relentlessly squeezing his heart, he turned and raced for the infirmary.

Bursting inside, he stood on the threshold, trying to look everywhere at once. Where would they have laid her? Would she still be here, or had they taken her to the Abbey church? Oh, dear God, he wept silently, and I never said goodbye to her! Never told her that I -

But just at that moment the hangings around a curtained-off recess at the far end of the infirmary moved slightly, parting as a tall figure passed between them. And walking towards him, her hands held out to him and her face white, came the Abbess.

For an instant his relief was so powerful that he almost embraced her.

No, he told himself firmly. Not that. Never that.

Instead he took hold of her outstretched hands — they were icy cold, even in the heat — and said quietly, ‘My lady Abbess, good evening. What has happened here?’

‘She’s dead!’ the Abbess said, her voice unsteady. ‘And he — oh, Josse, it breaks my heart to see his pain!’

She was allowing her cool air of authority to slip and he flattered himself that it was perhaps because he, whom he hoped she looked on as an old and trusted friend, had arrived and was in effect offering her a shoulder to lean on. It had, after all, happened before.

But, knowing her as he did, he was aware that she rarely allowed her emotions to break through in front of her nuns. He said very softly, ‘My lady, why not step outside with me into the shade of the cloister where, in privacy, you can tell me who has died and why everyone seems so distressed?’

His words brought her instantly to herself. Grabbing her hands back, she tucked them away in the opposite sleeves of her habit, straightened her back, composed her face and said distantly, ‘Yes. Follow me, please, Sir Josse.’

Suppressing a smile at her suddenly steely tone, meekly he fell in behind her.

She led the way across to the courtyard off which opened her own private room and to a far corner of the encircling cloister where, in the shade, there was a stone bench set into the wall. Indicating that he should sit — he did, but then, seeing she was not going to join him on the bench, immediately stood up again — she said, ‘A young woman has been with us. Sister Euphemia and Sister Tiphaine have been trying to help her; she wishes to conceive and they have made concoctions to help her.’

‘Aye, I-’ I know and I sent her here, he was about to say. But the Abbess seemed neither to hear nor acknowledge that he had spoken.

‘Her elderly husband came to join her. But-’ Her voice broke. She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘But she’s dead. Just now. She came into the infirmary gasping for breath and Sister Euphemia tried to help her, but it was too late and she died.’

Josse did not know how he managed not to put his arms round her. But it would not have been right, or at least he thought not. She was clearly struggling for control and he would not help her in her efforts by offering kindness. She was in shock, he thought, and probably the best thing for her was to maintain her air of cool authoritative competence.

Whatever the cost.

He said tentatively, ‘And it is her husband whom I heard weeping?’

‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I was with him when Galiena stumbled in through the door. He’s in the infirmary and Sister Euphemia has him under her care.’

‘He is sick?’ But he had seemed perfectly all right that day Josse had visited him at home. Well, other than being old and almost blind, but neither condition, surely, was one for which the infirmarer could come up with a cure.