Alys Clare: Whiter than the Lily

Josse was offered hospitality at Ryemarsh overnight, which he accepted. There was little point in riding away only to have to return in the morning to escort Galiena to New Winnowlands. He took a bite of supper with his host and hostess early in the evening — Brice had already left for home — and soon after they had eaten, Ambrose and Galiena retired to their own chamber.

Josse went out into the soft twilight to take a last turn around Galiena’s garden. Bats were flying, swooping in elaborate circles as they pounced on blundering insects. Up above the darkening sky was clear, still faintly tinged with a deep orange band of light in the west. In the east the stars were appearing; Josse let his eyes roam around the sky until he found the great summer constellation that men called the Swan. The scent of flowers was strong; Josse, his head reeling, felt as if he had drunk strong wine.

He turned back towards the house and, making his way up a narrow stair, settled down in the luxury of Ambrose’s guest chamber. He stood at the window as he unfastened his tunic, looking out over the starlit garden. All was quiet, all was still. But — what was that? Peering into the night, he saw a movement in the shadows and watched as a cloaked figure slipped light-footed away from the house.

Despite his curiosity, Josse turned his back on the window and strode resolutely across to the bed. If Galiena chose to have one more attempt to bring about through her own efforts the thing that she and her husband so dearly wanted, then that was entirely up to her. Josse had no right either to pass judgement or, far more importantly, to spy on her. Fighting to banish the seductive images from his mind — naked under the moonlight — he screwed up his eyes and violently shook his head.

There were crisp linen sheets on his soft bed and, as he moved, they rustled and gave off a faint scent of lavender. Well fed, with the taste of his host’s excellent wine still in his mouth, he was warm and comfortable. Soon he was sound asleep.

Dickon was waiting for them in the courtyard in the morning; it was he who had greeted Josse and Brice on their arrival the previous day. He was a sturdy young man who looked, Josse thought, as if he could handle himself in a fight. He had the horses groomed and ready, with Galiena’s and her maid’s small packs attached to their mounts’ saddles, when the party came out of the hall. Galiena was sombrely dressed in a light travelling cloak of dark blue wool, its deep hood pulled up over her white veil and all but hiding her face. She looked pale, as if she had not slept well, and she seemed tense. There is much at stake for her in this, Josse thought compassionately. He watched as Ambrose helped her into the saddle; the older man said something quietly to her and she gave him a brief smile.

The maid, Aebba, turned out to be a dour woman in early middle age. Like her mistress, she too looked as if she had not slept well, or perhaps the sour, disgruntled expression was the one that she usually wore. She was tall and strongly built, with a pallid and slightly greasy complexion. Her hair was completely hidden by a linen veil that was arranged so as to shade her face and a close-fitting wimple covered her chin and throat. Her eyes — of a shade somewhere between ice blue and palest green — were the most colourless that Josse had ever seen. She did not speak as she mounted her mare and settled herself, save to order Dickon curtly to adjust her stirrups.

When the party was ready and farewells had been said, Josse glanced at Dickon, nodded briefly and led the way out of the courtyard and off on the road to New Winnowlands.

The morning was fine and sunny. They reached Josse’s manor in good time and he managed to persuade Galiena to step into the house and take some refreshments; Will’s Ella, silent and shy as ever, worked her usual magic and had cups of cool wine and a platter of warm, spiced cakes ready in next to no time. Aebba was offered the same courtesy but, with a brief shake of her head, she declined. Will was sent out to Dickon, left holding the horses, with a flagon of ale and a hunk of bread and cheese.

Then Josse saw the party on their way.

Standing beside Galiena as she sat on her horse, he sensed her nervousness. ‘Do not fear, my lady,’ he said quietly, for her alone to hear. ‘They are good people at Hawkenlye and will do their best to help you.’

‘But if I should fail!’ she said, her voice anguished.

‘Do not dwell on that,’ he advised. ‘Keep hope strong, for often that is the way to bring about what it is you desire.’

Fleetingly the tension left her white face and she smiled at him. ‘What a sound fellow you are, Josse d’Acquin,’ she murmured. Then, lightly touching her heels to her horse’s sides, she rode straight-backed out of the yard.

Leaving Josse with the distinct but surely mistaken impression that she had been flirting with him.

Helewise, Abbess of Hawkenlye, was absorbed in one of the great leather-bound ledgers in which the Abbey’s financial records were carefully detailed. In company with every other monastic foundation in the land, Hawkenlye was going to have to give up its wealth to go towards King Richard’s ransom; Helewise was in the middle of preparing an inventory of the Abbey’s assets.

It was neither a charitable nor a loyal thought, but she could not help but be extremely grateful that Hawkenlye enjoyed the patronage of Queen Eleanor. The Queen might be more eager than anyone else to see the ransom collected and paid over and her favourite son released, but, as Helewise well knew, Hawkenlye was special to the Queen. Had she not taken a personal interest in its construction and dedication, searching out the best craftsmen that France and England could produce to ensure that the Abbey would be memorable in its beauty? Had she not bestowed as her own personal gift — or so they said — the Abbey’s greatest treasure, the walrus ivory carving of the dead Christ in the arms of Joseph of Arimathea?

It was possible, Helewise acknowledged, that the Queen would demand the return of her gift so that it might be sold for the ransom. But somehow it did not seem likely.

Wishful thinking, Helewise told herself sternly, returning to her ledger. That’s what that is. And if we are commanded to give up our treasures, then we shall do so willingly for the King’s sake.

Queen Eleanor had visited Hawkenlye in April. The first desperate anxiety over her captive son had abated; she had recently received a letter from him in which he assured her that he was well and content. He also revealed that he had established a friendly and affectionate relationship with the Emperor, and he expressed his deep gratitude to his mother for her endeavours on his behalf. Eleanor, who had previously been beside herself with worry, had been bombarding the frail and elderly Pope Celestine with impassioned letters demanding that he do something to help the great Lionheart. Frustratingly, Celestine had yet to answer; he was, according to the Queen, shaking in his papal shoes at the prospect of performing any action that might offend the Emperor and so, in Eleanor’s own words, he had ‘taken the coward’s way and decided to do nothing’.

The encouraging message from Richard, together with the great comfort of actually being able to do something herself towards his release, had combined to make the Queen feel a great deal more positive, and it was in this mood that Hawkenlye had received her.

‘I shall set up a council,’ she had informed Helewise, striding to and fro across the best guest chamber and ticking off points on her long, elegant, fingers. A huge emerald caught the light and glinted on her forefinger. ‘That is my priority, to ensure the help of good men to collect the money. The Earl of Arundel, the Earl of Sussex, Richard Fitznigel, Bishop of London — oh yes, and that handsome fellow Hubert Walter shall be at their head, which is only his due as our new Archbishop of Canterbury.’