Alys Clare - Whiter than the Lily

‘Didn’t you?’ Josse sounded amazed. ‘But she was a delightful young woman, kind and gentle as well as beautiful!’

Helewise exchanged a glance with the herbalist, who cocked an ironic eyebrow. ‘Perhaps, Sir Josse,’ she said, ‘Galiena was someone who was perceived differently by men and by women, so that your experience of her was necessarily other than Sister Tiphaine’s and mine.’ It was, she thought, a mild enough comment, in view of the fact that she definitely leaned more towards agreeing with Sister Tiphaine than with Josse. Although it distressed her to think ill of one so recently and so agonisingly dead, her honesty made her accept that she, too, had not warmed to Galiena.

Josse clearly was still not happy. ‘But you must agree that she was a good wife and clearly devoted to Ambrose, even though he was so much older than she was!’ he protested.

‘I had not the advantage of observing them together,’ Helewise said. ‘Ambrose Ryemarsh arrived only late this morning and at that time Galiena was-’ Oh, dear! This was going to be awkward, given that Josse was already seeing mysteries and puzzles where there were none! ‘At that time we did not actually know where Galiena was.’

‘She had gone missing.’ Josse was nodding infuriatingly, as if to say, there! I told you there was something odd about all this!

‘Not missing exactly,’ Helewise protested. ‘She had set her heart on returning home this morning, only one of the remedies that Sister Tiphaine was preparing for her was not ready.’ The herbalist nodded in confirmation. ‘Galiena went for a walk in the forest,’ Helewise finished.

‘The girl was angry,’ Sister Tiphaine said. ‘She wanted to leave, just as you said, my lady, and she was right put out when I told her she couldn’t, not unless she was prepared to risk spoiling the second remedy. She only agreed to wait — and it was a grudging agreement, let me tell you — when I said that some of the mixture’s potency would be lost if it were to be disturbed too soon.’

‘So she went off for a walk to fill in the time,’ Helewise concluded. ‘Quite natural, would you not say, Sir Josse?’

‘Aye, I might,’ he agreed. ‘Except that, from what you say, Galiena was planning to hurry back home even as her husband was travelling over here to join her! How do we explain that?’

Helewise frowned. ‘You are quite right, Sir Josse,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I have wondered all along why Galiena did not warn us that Ambrose would be joining her. What possible reason can she have had for her reticence?’

‘He’s an old man, feeble, all but blind, prone to wandering in his mind,’ the herbalist said. ‘Or so I hear. Maybe the young lady wished to return home before he set out so as to save him the stress of the journey.’

‘That seems likely, and-’ Helewise began.

But Josse interrupted. ‘I am sorry, my lady, but I do not understand this talk of Ambrose as a doddering dotard!’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s old, aye, and doesn’t see too well, I grant you that, but there’s nothing wrong with his mind and I would say that he is stronger than many men considerably younger than himself. To say that Galiena wished to spare him the journey here cannot be right! Why, when I last saw him, he was eagerly anticipating it and it was only that he had matters at home to attend to that prevented him riding out with Galiena.’

‘Oh,’ Helewise said lamely. Then, recovering: ‘Sir Josse, it may be that some new ailment has arisen in Ambrose since you last met, for it is certain that now he lies in the infirmary, weak in body and also, I fear, in mind.’

‘He has just lost his wife!’ Josse protested hotly.

‘Yes, I know, and I am more sorry for it than I can say, but he was failing before that.’ Trying to find a way to convince him, she said, ‘I was with him in the infirmary even as Galiena collapsed. He was vague, disorientated and, I thought, not really able to discern dreaming from wakefulness. Galiena had visited him earlier,’ she added, almost as an afterthought. ‘Or so he claimed. It was apparently while the nuns were at Vespers, leaving the lay sisters in charge. He said that she had been massaging his hands.’

‘He’ll be sleeping now,’ Sister Tiphaine said calmly. ‘I sent over some of my strongest sedative. He’ll have some respite from his grief till he wakes.’

Thinking, not without dread, of what she would say to Ambrose in the morning, Helewise said firmly, ‘And we all should sleep soon, too, as soon as Compline is over. Sir Josse, will you join us for the last office of the day? Under the circumstances, I think it would do you good.’

With a nod of acceptance, he followed her out of the herbalist’s room and she heard the steady tread of Sister Tiphaine’s feet falling in behind him.

Helewise surprised herself by sleeping soundly and, as far as she remembered, dreamlessly. But as she left the Abbey church after Prime, she knew that she could no longer postpone a visit to Ambrose. He might still be sleeping — the coward in her prayed that he was — but all the same she ought to go and check.

Sister Euphemia, greeting her at the door of the infirmary, knew without being told why she had come. ‘He sleeps still,’ she reported. ‘That was a strong draught that Sister Tiphaine selected for him.’

‘Send me word immediately he wakes,’ Helewise said. ‘I wish to be here to answer his questions.’

The infirmarer looked at her shrewdly. ‘You think, my lady, that he will seek to lay blame on us?’

‘His wife is dead,’ Helewise replied neutrally. ‘She came to us for help and she died. I do not believe that blame can fairly be laid on us, but he is grieving and grief makes for irrational accusations.’ Her thoughts already running to one such accusation, Helewise gave the infirmarer a brief nod and turned to leave.

Then she returned to the church and knelt before the altar lost in one of the most fervent prayers she had offered up in a long time. If what she feared indeed came to pass, she had greater need of God’s guarding presence at her side than she had ever had.

She was back in her room when Sister Caliste came to find her. With a deep bow, she said, ‘My lady, the lord Ambrose is awake and is asking for you.’

‘Thank you, Sister.’ Helewise got to her feet. ‘Please go and tell him that I am on my way.’

She waited until the young nun had gone, spent a few moments in prayer and then followed her.

Ambrose was out of bed and fully clothed. He wore a long tunic of chestnut brown over what looked like clean linen; he seemed to have had the presence of mind to prepare very carefully for his meeting with her and had, apparently, even had a shave.

He walked towards her up the central aisle of the infirmary and, after a courteous but brief greeting, said, ‘My lady Abbess, I would talk privately with you. Let us step outside away from the ears of others’ — he glanced over his shoulder at the many occupied cots, some of whose occupants were watching the scene with open-mouthed curiosity — ‘and find a quiet corner where we shall not be interrupted.’

She found herself being steered out of the infirmary and into the sunshine. Regaining control — this indeed was a different man from the enfeebled day-dreamer of yesterday! — she said firmly, ‘Follow me. There is a bench we can use in the shade of the wall over there.’

She led him to the corner where the end of the stable block overhung the herb garden. There was nobody about; Sister Martha could be heard working in the stables and there was no sign of the herbalist. She indicated that Ambrose should sit and then settled herself beside him.

She was tempted to break the lengthening silence with words of condolence but something made her refrain. Strangely — and surely mistakenly — she was receiving the impression that this was turning into a battle of wills. Well, if that were so, she could keep her peace longer than he could.