Alys Clare - Whiter than the Lily

Josse, weak with what he prayed was not a premature relief, watched the Abbess walk steadily away from the herbalist’s hut and back towards the Abbey buildings, Sister Euphemia at her side. She had announced that she must get on with the day’s duties and he had overheard her say quietly to Ambrose Ryemarsh that she had already sent word to Father Gilbert, who had promised to come over to Hawkenlye as soon as he could.

Aye, Josse thought. There was the poor girl’s burial to be arranged. He watched the old man who, straight-backed, was speaking to Sister Tiphaine. Was he, Josse wondered, apologising for having accused her of poisoning his wife? It was possible.

Then, as the herbalist, went back inside her little room and shut the door, Ambrose turned to him. ‘Forgive me, Josse, for not having greeted you before now,’ he said, giving Josse a quick bow. ‘My mind, I am afraid, was on other matters.’ He sighed. ‘I truly believed that we had the solution to this terrible misfortune, but it seems I was wrong.’

‘I think so too, sir,’ Josse said gently. ‘Of course, it is possible for anyone to make a mistake, but I am of the firm opinion that Sister Tiphaine’s scrupulous care and impressive reputation suggest that she is the last person to accuse of accidentally poisoning someone who sought her help.’

He wondered even as he spoke at his choice of the word accidentally; who would deliberately poison a patient?

But, even as he wondered, a frightening possibility occurred to him. Sister Tiphaine would not; he was as sure of that as he was of the sun rising each morning. But someone else might have done. A man, for example, whose mistress had conceived an unplanned child whose existence threatened to turn a pleasant dalliance into something altogether more serious …

No. No. The idea followed on a suspicion that had already been developing in his mind but, all the same, surely it was just too far-fetched to be credible.

Shaking his head as if to clear the unpleasant thoughts from his mind, he realised that Ambrose was speaking to him. ‘I don’t hold you to blame, Josse, for recommending the Hawkenlye nuns,’ he said.

‘I am glad of it,’ Josse replied.

Ambrose gave a great sigh and then, eyeing Josse ruefully, said, ‘I should, I suppose, prepare myself to meet this priest who will bury my wife. What say you, Josse? Is he a good man?’

‘Aye.’

‘Hm.’ Ambrose did not look convinced. ‘As I said at our last meeting, I have no great respect for the clergy. It is to be hoped that this Father-?’

‘Father Gilbert,’ Josse supplied.

‘-that this Father Gilbert is the exception who will prove that my misgivings do not universally apply.’

‘He is a good man,’ Josse said. ‘He will have been genuinely sorry when told of your wife’s death and his prayers for her will be heartfelt.’

Ambrose studied him for a moment. Then: ‘Thank you, Josse. Your words comfort me.’

‘I am glad of it.’

Ambrose went on studying Josse, who became increasingly uncomfortable under the scrutiny. It was, he imagined, something like a mouse must feel when the kestrel hovers above, fixing it with fierce, unblinking eye.

Breaking the awkward silence — it was awkward for him, anyway — he said, ‘Sir? Is there something else you would ask of me?’

‘Yes, Josse, indeed there is.’ Ambrose paused, then went on, ‘I desire greatly to send word to my wife’s kinfolk of her death. I would go to their manor myself only I must stay here. I need to be with her while yet I can,’ he added in a murmur.

‘I understand,’ Josse said.

‘Also there is the priest to see, and arrangements to discuss.’ Ambrose’s face darkened into a frown.

‘I will ride to break the news to Galiena’s family, if that is what you wish of me,’ Josse offered.

‘Will you?’ Again, the fiercely intent look. ‘Can I trust you to find the right words, Josse? They are a close and loving family and this will be a bitter blow for them.’

‘I can only do my best, but you have my word that I will try to be gentle and considerate,’ Josse said with dignity.

Instantly Ambrose’s hand was on his arm. ‘I apologise, Josse. I did not mean to imply otherwise. It is merely that in circumstances such as these, when a man longs to perform a delicate task himself, it is hard to entrust it to another.’

Again Josse muttered, ‘I understand.’

‘You will go, then?’ Ambrose appeared to need confirmation.

‘Tell me where to go and I will set out straight away.’

In the event, it was not until after the noon meal that Josse set out. The Abbess, informed of the arrangement, gave him a look in which he read both compassion — presumably for the unpleasant task he had taken on himself — and, he thought, a certain admiration. Or perhaps the latter was merely wishful thinking. Either way, he recalled with pleasure that she had said she would keep him in her thoughts until his return and pray that he find the right words with which to inform Galiena’s family that she was dead.

The fact that he had found her sitting in her chair and busy working had been immensely reassuring. Aye, it was still just possible that whatever she had drunk from the bottle meant for Galiena might yet work some harm in her but, with every hour that passed, surely that possibility grew less. Or so he fervently hoped.

She came to the stables to see him on his way. Studying her closely, he perceived a faint flush in her cheeks. ‘You are quite well, my lady?’ he asked. ‘You ate a good dinner? With — er, with no ill effects?’

‘I am quite well, Sir Josse,’ she agreed, smiling. ‘I ate heartily and feel the better for it. My digestion, I assure you, has never been better. Do not worry,’ she added kindly, ‘I have suffered no hurt. The mystery of what caused Galiena’s death is not to be so easily solved.’

‘Aye, I fear you are right.’ He remembered, against his will, that sudden moment of suspicion. Was it possible she had been poisoned deliberately? But — for surely his instinctive thought was miles from the truth — by whom? And why?

He finished fastening his small pack to Horace’s saddle and, unhitching the reins, clucked to the horse to move on out into the sunshine.

‘First things first, though,’ the Abbess said encouragingly. ‘You must complete your mission and I must make arrangements with Father Gilbert. We should bury the poor young woman as soon as we can, I think, for nothing is to be gained by waiting and also there is-’ Abruptly she broke off but he was almost certain she had been going to say that there was also the hot weather to consider.

‘Aye, my lady,’ he said quietly. ‘I know.’

She walked beside him as he led Horace to the gate. Then, picking up his dagger and sword from Sister Ursel in the porteress’s little room beside the entrance and settling them in their sheaths at his belt, he swung himself up into the saddle and looked down at her.

‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘Return to us soon.’

‘I will, God willing.’

The echo of her soft ‘Amen’ stayed in his ears as he rode away.

Ambrose had given him clear directions for finding his way to the house of Galiena’s kin. It lay to the north-east of the Ryemarsh estate and, approaching from Hawkenlye, Josse’s quickest route was to cut across country north of Newenden, aiming for the little fledgling settlement of Small Hythe. ‘Keep well above the inlet that flows down on its southern side,’ Ambrose had said, ‘for the stretch of water is tidal and can be treacherous, even when the weather has been dry.’ Galiena’s family home, he said, was to the north-east of Small Hythe; if necessary, Josse might ask for further directions there since, according to Ambrose, anyone could tell Josse where to find the house.