Alys Clare - Whiter than the Lily

‘Oh, don’t bother,’ he said brusquely. ‘I am sure you are right. I spoke in haste and without due consideration. Forgive me, my lady.’

‘Of course,’ she said instantly. ‘You are, I dare say, not yourself.’

‘Not myself,’ he murmured. Then, rubbing at his jaw, his face puzzled, he said again, ‘She’s dead. That lovely, loving young girl is dead.’ Then, his face crumpling with emotion, he said, ‘I’m sorry, my lady, but I just can’t seem to take it in.’

‘I know,’ she said, wanting to comfort him. ‘It is always so hard to understand the ways of God when the young are taken.’

‘She was good !’ he cried suddenly.

The echoes of the word rebounded in the small room. Good, good, good. And Helewise thought, despite herself, despite her sympathy for Brice, was she good? In the eyes of the church she was an adulteress; if not with this handsome fellow standing before me, then with somebody. For if the child she carried were in truth the fruit of Ambrose’s seed, then why had Galiena planned and acted out that elaborate deception?

But it was for God to judge her. And, whatever he had done, Brice needed comfort, that was for sure; he looked shocked and pale and she was worried for him. Standing up, she said, ‘Sir Brice, sit down in my chair here. I will call for a restorative for you.’

Dumbly he did as she said. She went outside into the cloister, summoned a nun with a brief beckoning gesture and, in a low voice, told her to fetch spiced wine from Sister Basilia in the refectory; Sister Goodeth had sent up a cask of a good French wine and the best, Helewise reflected, was only suitable for this man who had once been a benefactor of the Abbey.

While they waited for the wine, she stood staring at him. He had leaned his arms on her table and the dark head was bent over his folded hands. He was well dressed, she noted, in tunic and hose that were plain and undecorated but clearly of good quality. And, she had to admit, he was an attractive man. And he had lived on his own — or so she presumed — since the death of his young wife. A sudden worldly thought intruded and she realised that it was no surprise for him to have taken Galiena as his lover.

But I must not believe Josse so unquestioningly! she berated herself. It was only an impression, he said as much himself, and-

There was a timid tap on the door and a young novice from the refectory came in with a tray, a jug and two mugs. Her hands were rough and red; presumably part of her training involved doing incessant pot-scrubbing. ‘Pour wine just for our visitor,’ Helewise commanded quietly, and the girl did so. She then stood back and waited, head bowed, for further instructions.

‘You may leave us,’ Helewise said. Cross with herself, she could not remember the novice’s name … then, with an effort, she brought it to mind. ‘Thank you, Sister Arben.’

The nun gave her a brief, blushing smile, then hurried away.

Brice observed the exchange over the rim of his mug and briefly his well-shaped mouth twitched into a smile. ‘You have just made that young person very happy, my lady,’ he remarked. ‘To be thanked by so grand a presence as her Abbess — who, what’s more, remembered her name — is a great honour.’

Helewise opened her mouth to make a dismissive remark but, keenly aware that Brice was watching her as closely as she was watching him, changed her mind. Inclining her head slightly, she said, ‘They work hard, our novices. They deserve thanks.’

There was silence as Brice sipped his wine. His colour was improving, she noticed; presently she said, ‘Sir Brice, the lord Ambrose is still here. He lodges with the monks in the Vale where one of our older monks is, I understand, giving him care and comfort. He was quite unwell when he arrived, and-’

‘Unwell?’ Brice’s interruption was stark.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Although he rallied, I am told, after some rest in the infirmary and-’

Again Brice interrupted. ‘But Ambrose is hale and hearty. What ailed him? Why did he need to be treated in the infirmary?’

‘I do not know,’ she said, a degree of frost entering her voice. ‘I was on the point of asking you’ — before you interrupted me, was the implication — ‘if you wished to see him.’

‘Ambrose? No.’

Good Lord above, she thought, is that response relevant? Does this abrupt refusal to comfort a bereaved neighbour imply that Josse is right?

‘It might be a kindness,’ she persisted. ‘Ambrose has lost his wife. The condolences of a friend and neighbour’ — deliberately she used Brice’s own words — ‘could be of comfort to him, do you not think?’

He stared at her. ‘I cannot see Ambrose,’ he said.

Because you were his wife’s lover and you feel guilty? Helewise wondered, but she kept her peace and waited.

‘I must go to Galiena’s kin and take them the terrible news of her death,’ he said heavily.

‘There is no need,’ Helewise said. ‘Sir Josse was here and he has already fulfilled that sad mission.’

There was a moment’s silence, then Brice said, ‘They will be broken hearted. Especially — They all loved her well.’

She had not realised that Brice knew Galiena’s adoptive family and, fleetingly, she wondered if he was aware that they were not Galiena’s blood kin. But then, she supposed, country families did tend to be familiar with each other, and it was probably only natural that Brice, a friend of Ambrose and his wife, should also be acquainted with her family. ‘Yes. It is to be hoped that they may take comfort in each other.’ And in their faith in the Lord’s mercy, she would have added, but for some quality in Brice that suggested he would not want to hear the words.

‘You mentioned Josse,’ Brice said. ‘Is he here now?’ Suddenly he seemed more animated.

‘No.’ Should she tell him what Josse had discovered, and what it had led to? Where he now was, God protect him?

‘Then where is he?’ Brice demanded.

She stared at him, her mind racing. Something was telling her to confide in this man, that it was not only sensible but imperative.

And, indeed, why should she not?

She took a breath and said, ‘He discovered at Readingbrooke that Galiena is not the true daughter of the family there but that she was adopted as a baby.’ Brice’s face was impassive, giving no clue as to whether or not this was news to him. ‘They told Josse that she came from a place out on the far reaches of the Marsh, over on the Saxon Shore. It was a place called Deadfall.’

‘Who told him that?’ Brice demanded. ‘Was it Raelf?’

‘No.’ She tried to remember exactly what Josse had said. ‘No, not Raelf. Her mother — her adoptive mother — came out as Sir Josse was leaving and explained. She spoke with Sir Josse and told him about Deadfall.’

‘Aye, I know the lady Audra,’ Brice said, with a degree of impatience. He was frowning deeply, apparently thinking hard on matters that did not please him.

Helewise decided that, strong man that he was and, without a doubt, suffering deeply from the news of Galiena’s death, still it was time to remind him where he was. And, more importantly, who she was; his habit of speaking dismissively might be all very well when he was addressing servants but it was not appropriate when conversing with the Abbess of Hawkenlye.

Pride, she thought ruefully. Still I have pride, for all that I tell myself that it is not myself whom I defend but the office that I hold.

She said quietly, ‘Are you feeling better, Sir Brice? Has the wine helped you to recover yourself after the ill tidings?’

Instantly he was on his feet, out of her chair and coming round the table to stand before her. ‘Aye, my lady, your cellarer keeps a fine wine and it has indeed helped. I apologise for my bluntness,’ he went on disarmingly, ‘I spend too little time with women of quality and I forget how to conduct myself.’ Now for the first time he smiled properly at her and she was surprised at the difference it made to his face; she was right, he was handsome. Very handsome.