Alys Clare - Whiter than the Lily

He began to relax. He laid his sword down beside him and flexed his right hand. His left hand was still on the hilt of his dagger but now he no longer gripped but only touched it, as if to reassure himself it was still there if he needed it. His back against the solid stone, he folded up a corner of blanket and put it behind his head, resting the tension in his neck and shoulders.

It was still totally dark. Never before had he experienced the sensation of literally not being able to see his hand in front of his eyes. He was just experimenting, wriggling the fingers of his right hand to see if he could make out the movement, when it happened.

There was no warning, not one single sound to put him on guard. There was just the one flash of bright light and, right there in front of him, a face staring intently into his, so close that he could look into the silver-grey eyes and feel the cool breath on his cheek.

Then darkness closed in again.

Sweat breaking out on his cold flesh and his heart in his throat, Josse fought for control. His body remembered its training even while his horror-struck mind was in shock and he was on his feet, sword in hand, lunging forward out of the shelter, before he knew it. Then his voice came back and he shouted in a great roar, ‘ Who’s there? Show yourself! ’

Nerve endings tingling as he subconsciously awaited the blow, he twisted from side to side, his sword making great deadly sweeps in a wide arc in front of him. ‘Show yourself!’ he cried again. ‘I am armed and I will attack if you approach again without warning!’

But I cannot see him, he thought. How can I attack what I can’t see?

He waited, listening.

There was nothing.

Presently the rain began to fall again.

Helewise was still pondering on the wisdom of her decision not to send Brother Saul and Brother Augustus chasing after Josse when she woke the next morning. She had been quite sure she was right when she had dismissed the brothers last night; a strong part of her mind told her that they were passing on pagan horror stories and that she should set a good example by giving the frightening old legends no credence.

And, as she had told the brothers, Josse had been offered their company but had declined it. He did not believe he was going into danger. Why, then, should she?

But I do believe it, she thought as she went into the Abbey church for Prime. Although it appears irrational, I fear for him. And, she told herself, fears are none the less real just because we do not perceive the reason for them. Just as this day, dawning so fair and so warm with the sky above clear and blue, holds the promise of rain.

She did not know how she could be so certain it would rain that day, any more than how she was sure that Josse was in danger.

And she did not know what to do.

But, she thought as she entered the great church, I am going to the right place to ask for help.

She went straight back to her room after the office, forgoing her breakfast as an offering to God in return for his guidance. She still did not know what to do.

She had half expected to see Ambrose at Prime; it was not unusual for visitors staying more than a day or two to slip into the habit of worshipping with the community. However, he had not appeared and Helewise concluded that he preferred to remain down in the Vale with the monks. Well, if he found comfort in the company of those good souls and their simple little shrine, then that was fine. As far as Helewise was concerned, the poor man could stay as long as he liked.

Putting her anxiety about Josse firmly to the back of her mind, she reached for the ledger she had been working on yesterday and resolutely set to work. If there were going to be any heavenly guidance, it would arrive in its own good time. Feeling calm for the first time in many hours, she bent her head and picked up her stylus.

Late in the afternoon she was disturbed by Sister Martha, who announced that there was a visitor wishing urgently to speak to the Abbess. Suppressing a sudden excitement, Helewise waited a moment, then said composedly, ‘And who is the visitor, Sister?’

‘He says he’s Brice of Rotherbridge,’ Sister Martha replied, as if she had cause to doubt that the man spoke the truth.

Brice! The man whom Josse suspected of being Galiena’s lover! If Josse were right — and Helewise realised that she believed he was — then Brice was also the man whom she herself had been pitying so deeply because he did not know that his young love was dead.

And I, she thought, shall have to tell him.

She said quietly, ‘Ask him to come in, Sister Martha.’

After a few moments, Brice of Rotherbridge strode into the room and stood in front of her.

She had not met him before, although she had known his late brother. There was a resemblance between them, she thought. She remembered — just in time — that, after the matter concerning his dead wife and her sister, Brice had made a generous donation to Hawkenlye Abbey. As she looked up into his brown eyes, the memory served to provide an opening remark.

‘Some years ago, Sir Brice,’ she said, ‘you gave us a handsome gift. Please be assured that we have used it well.’

‘Of that I have no doubt, my lady Abbess,’ he replied, giving her a graceful bow. Then, a wry expression crossing his face, he added, ‘How very long ago that all seems now!’

‘Four years,’ she murmured. What a lot, she thought, has happened in that time. ‘You wish to see me, Sir Brice?’

‘I do.’ He paused and then said, ‘I am neighbour and, I hope, friend to the lord Ambrose Ryemarsh and his wife. I visited their household with Sir Josse d’Acquin a while ago and I was there when Ambrose and Galiena decided they would visit you here at Hawkenlye, Galiena going on ahead. Although Sir Josse was unable to join them straight away — and I had pressing matters of my own to attend to — the three of them agreed that they would meet here when they could.’ There was a strange light in his eyes, as if, she thought, he were speaking of something weightier than this innocent reunion of friendly neighbours. ‘I have decided that I will join them. I should like, if possible, my lady, to see my friends as soon as possible.’

She made herself hold his glance. Then, speaking quietly and gently, she said, ‘Sir Brice, I deeply regret to have to tell you this, but there has been tragedy here. The lady Galiena did indeed arrive in advance of the lord Ambrose, but, soon after his arrival, Galiena became sick.’

‘She’s sick?’ Something had leapt into his face, some fleeting expression that was there and gone before she could identify it. Now he looked stern. Almost — could it really be? — accusing.

‘She is dead, Sir Brice,’ Helewise said softly. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Dead.’ He repeated the word in a whisper. ‘Dead.’ Then, a hand before his face hiding his eyes, he said, ‘How did she die?’

‘We think she might have been poisoned,’ Helewise said. ‘By accident, of course. Something she picked up in the woods, some-’

But Brice, who apparently knew of Galiena’s skills as well as her father did, protested straight away, ‘No. She walks the fields and woods of her home and there is no plant that she does not know. It is impossible that she would have been so reckless as to taste something that was poisonous.’ Then, removing his hand and fixing Helewise with an angry stare, he added, ‘Unless it were something growing in Hawkenlye’s herb patch.’

Biting down her instinctive reaction to the dismissive — and inaccurate — use of the word patch , she said, ‘It is, of course, a possibility, although my knowledge of Sister Tiphaine, who is our herbalist, tells me that she is far too careful even to think of growing poisonous plants where incautious visitors could pick them. If indeed she grows anything that is poisonous, I am quite sure that it is kept under her strict supervision.’ Already, she noted, the anger was fading from his face. But, to emphasise the point that she was prepared to consider anything, no matter how unlikely, she said, ‘I will ask Sister Tiphaine if she thinks it possible that Galiena could have taken harm from the herb garden.’