Alys Clare - Whiter than the Lily

She folded the sheet across the dead girl’s shoulders, exposing only her face, neck and a little of her chest. And Josse stared down at Galiena Ryemarsh.

His heart turned over with pity at what the poison had done to her. She was still beautiful — the perfect oval of her face and the pleasing symmetry of her bone structure were unchanged. And the abundant, pale blonde hair that he remembered so well had been dressed slightly differently — perhaps by one of the nuns who had helped lay her out? — and now the two thick braids were entwined across the top of the girl’s head like a coronet.

Almost unaware of what he did, Josse stretched out a hand and gently touched them. The infirmarer said softly, ‘Her hair was disarrayed. Sister Caliste combed it out and plaited it for her, then arranged it as you see.’

Josse turned to Sister Caliste. ‘You did well, Sister,’ he said softly. ‘I am sure she would have approved.’

But even the most perfect hairstyle in the world could not have distracted the attention for long from the dead girl’s mouth. The rosy lips were deathly pale now but, even worse, they were grossly swollen. Around them the white skin bore the residue of a pinkish rash. The lower part of Galiena’s face was almost unrecognisable.

With a deep sigh Josse said, ‘I have seen enough, Sister.’ More than enough, he thought bitterly, for now I shall remember Galiena in death and not as she was in life. He turned away from the cot.

The Abbess murmured something to the infirmarer, who leaned down and carefully replaced the mercifully concealing sheet over the dead girl’s ruined face.

Then the infirmarer said, ‘My lady, Sir Josse, there is one more thing.’

The Abbess and Josse turned to face her. ‘Yes?’ the Abbess asked.

Looking straight at her superior, Sister Euphemia said quietly, ‘The lass was pregnant. Three or four months gone.’

In the first unbelieving moment, Josse looked at the Abbess. Her face expressionless, she said, ‘But Galiena came here because she could not conceive. She cannot have known that already she bore Ambrose’s child.’ His own emotions dangerously near to the surface, he watched as the Abbess’s face slowly crumpled in distress. ‘Oh,’ she cried softly, ‘oh, and now the poor girl is dead!’

The infirmarer was staring down at Galiena. ‘Aye,’ she breathed, ‘aye. It is a bad day.’ She glanced at the Abbess. ‘But as to her not knowing, it may well be that she remained ignorant of her condition. With a first pregnancy, many women do not realise until they are some months along and-’

She was interrupted by the sound of hurrying feet outside and by a sudden gasp from Sister Caliste. Still standing just in front of the little room’s door, she had been pushed forward by somebody roughly opening it.

All four of them turned to see who had come in.

It was Aebba. Her icy eyes fixed to the sheeted figure on the cot, she said, her low voice almost a growl, ‘Is it true? She’s dead, then?’

It was the Abbess who spoke. ‘I am afraid that she is.’

Josse was watching Aebba. His first impression of her at that meeting at Ryemarsh was that she was a cold and distant woman, uninvolved with those around her. But now her pale face worked as the extremity of her emotion flooded briefly through her.

Puzzled, Josse thought, aye, but different people show their grief in different ways, and I should not judge her when the poor woman’s probably in shock. I am wrong. I must be!

Because in that first unguarded reaction to the dreadful confirmation of the rumour of Galiena’s death, the sentiment that Josse thought he had read in her face was not distress but fury.

Helewise, who had almost regained control over herself after the infirmarer’s poignant revelation, watched Josse staring at Aebba. He looked, she thought, as if something were surprising him. Had he, like her, formed an impression of Galiena’s maidservant as an unemotional, even cold woman? If so, no doubt he was taken aback by her dramatic reaction to her young mistress’s death.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Sister Euphemia said kindly, ‘Would you like to see her one last time?’

Wordlessly Aebba nodded.

The infirmarer drew back the sheet again and Aebba stared silently down on Galiena. She stood perfectly still for some time, her face once more an unmoving mask. Then, still without a word, she turned and walked quickly out of the room.

Helewise felt that it was high time she began to act more like the Abbess of Hawkenlye and less like a grieving mourner. After all, she told herself firmly, she had hardly known Galiena and, although the girl’s death was undoubtedly a tragedy for her poor husband, it was not one that affected Helewise personally. She said in what she hoped was her usual tone, ‘Sister Euphemia, would you now please prepare the body for burial? Sister Caliste can assist you. In the morning I will send word to Father Gilbert that he will be needed.’ Then she nodded briefly to the two nuns and made her way out into the infirmary. Reaching the outer door, she was aware that Josse had followed her.

Once they were in the relative seclusion of the cloister, he spoke. His face still looking worried, he said, ‘My lady, this is a strange business, is it not? Can we truly believe that Galiena did not know herself to be pregnant?’

She turned to him. ‘What else can we believe?’ she asked simply.

He frowned, winced, then said, ‘I suppose you are right. Certainly, when I met her at her husband’s manor she seemed genuinely thrilled at the thought that Hawkenlye might be the answer to her prayers. I would bet a king’s ransom’ — he broke off with a wry grin — ‘I mean, I would bet much money that she had no idea then that what she so desperately wanted had already happened.’

‘Well then, why do you look so doubtful?’ She recalled, looking at him now, that she had meant to organise some remedy for his sunburned face; everything else that had happened had driven it out of her head.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. There is something here that I don’t understand.’

‘What?’ she demanded.

He grinned again. ‘My lady, do not be so fierce with a man in pain!’

She touched his sleeve briefly. ‘I am sorry, Sir Josse. Sister Euphemia is busy, as we both know, but come along with me to Sister Tiphaine, who, I am quite sure, will have some soothing balm for your face.’

The herbalist’s little room smelled of lavender and rosemary. As Helewise and Josse entered, she was making something with rose water and the heady fragrance was gradually permeating the air, blending with the background scent so that unconsciously Helewise found herself breathing in deeply, as if to absorb more of the sweet perfume into her body.

‘My lady Abbess,’ Sister Tiphaine greeted her, bowing somewhat stiffly. ‘Sir Josse.’ She gave him a wide smile, then immediately reached up a practised hand to a large jar halfway along a shelf behind her. ‘I can guess why you have come to see me,’ she said as she opened the jar. ‘Dab this on your face. It will ease the discomfort and help the skin to mend itself.’

Helewise watched as Josse sniffed at the jar and then gingerly patted a small amount of the contents on his left cheek. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Lavender, mostly,’ the herbalist replied. ‘Plus a few of my special magic ingredients.’

Helewise was not certain but she thought she saw Sister Tiphaine give Josse a quick wink.

‘You have heard the news, Sister?’ she enquired.

Sister Tiphaine turned to her, all signs of merriment now gone from her face. ‘I have, my lady. And I grieve for the young woman, for all that I cannot say I warmed to her.’