Alys Clare - The Chatter of the Maidens

Within a short space of time Helewise — no longer hungry nor thirsty, and exhausted from the physical and mental efforts of the long day — was settling down on a hard-packed straw mattress, drifting off to sleep.

She was awakened by the sound of a nun’s voice, calling out with clearly audible joy, ‘Praise be to God, who in His goodness has awarded us the gift of this new day!’

From close beside her, Helewise heard the crackle of straw mattresses as the other nuns flumped out of bed and on to their knees on the cold, beaten-earth floor, raising their voices in the morning prayers. After a few moments, she joined in with the familiar words.

Then, still in almost total darkness, she did as she presumed the others were doing and put on wimple, coif and veil, draping her robe over her undergown and fastening her belt. Stepping out from behind the curtained-off section of the room, she found that the main living area was lit by a pearly, early morning glow.

One of the nuns was laying out chunks of bread on five wooden trenchers, placing them equidistant apart along a rickety-looking table. Five earthenware mugs stood ready beside a pot of water that was simmering over the hearth. The nun looked up and, noticing Helewise watching, gave her a very sweet smile and beckoned her to be seated.

The sparse breakfast was taken in silence. Then Abbess Madelina stood up, led Helewise and the sisters in a brief prayer and, with a nod, dismissed her nuns.

Helewise looked out through the door as they left. It appeared to be a lovely day.

‘They all have their allotted tasks,’ Abbess Madelina said. ‘And, Abbess, you will be pleased to hear that your two lay brothers are making themselves useful. One has already rounded up the pig — sensible fellow, he knew the animal would return as soon as she heard the rattle of the stick on the feed bucket — and the other is making good a damaged section of our enclosing fence.’

‘They are reliable men, both of them,’ Helewise replied.

‘And the elder quite devoted to you.’ Abbess Madelina gave her a smile. ‘He asked how you fared, and was clearly anxious lest you had taken chill.’

Oh, dear, Helewise thought, I do hope Saul was diplomatic.

‘Don’t concern yourself,’ Abbess Madelina added, ‘he was perfectly courteous. Now’ — she pressed on while Helewise was still reeling from yet again having had her thoughts read so accurately — ‘to poor Alba. I said I would tell you what I know, and indeed I shall. Although, in the light of experience of the woman, I do wonder how much will prove to be the truth. . However, that remains to be seen.’

She paused, gazing into the corner of the room as she seemed to decide how best to begin. The action gave Helewise a strong sense of affinity with her; she, too, had been trained during her novitiate to assemble her thoughts before she spoke, so as to ensure both clarity and economy of speech.

‘Alba came here early last summer — in May, I believe it was,’ Abbess Madelina began. ‘My first impression was that she sought admission with us because of some intolerable situation in the world, which is not, of course, the same thing as a vocation. However, I tried to maintain an open mind and, indeed, to begin with she did seem to adapt quite well to community life. One might almost say too well, for she was rigid in her self-discipline and also in her assessment of the discipline of others. For example, Sister Mary is elderly and deaf, and in addition suffers grievously from pains in her joints, and I turn a blind eye when she fails to hear a summons to prayer, or when she slips a piece of cloth between her aching knees and the cold, hard, damp floor of the chapel when she kneels to pray. Alba, in her single-mindedness, always brought these things publicly to my notice. And she would take our dear Sister Celestine to task over her absent-mindedness; she kept coming to me to report that Celestine was standing staring up into the sky when she should be working, or humming gently to herself when she should be engaged in silent prayer. Now, Abbess, I know Sister Celestine, and I understand that she is blessed with a rare and precious gift, that of communion with the Lord, whose voice she hears in the wind, in the beating of the rain, in birdsong, and in any number of other natural sounds. Who are we, her sisters, to interrupt when Our Blessed Lord chooses to speak? And, as I repeatedly told Alba — who just would not listen — Sister Celestine always makes up her share of the duties.’

‘But over-eagerness is quite common among postulants,’ Helewise remarked.

Abbess Madelina nodded. ‘Yes, indeed it is. That was what I kept telling myself. And, as the weeks passed and Alba began pressing to take her first vows as a novice, I decided to ask her about her background. It can be of help, I find, to know what it is in a person’s personal history that has given rise to certain habitual behaviour.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She said she was from a wealthy family — which was in fact supported by the fact that she had arrived with a generous endowment including both money and goods — and that the richness of her home life had become a great burden to her. The lavishness of her father’s hall sickened her very soul, she declared, when, within so short a distance of that warm, glowing place of abundance, the poor were dying of hunger and disease. She was called to a humble life of prayer, she told me, and fervently hoped that her own renunciation of wealth and comfort would mitigate against her family’s state of self-indulgent comfort.’

‘She must have been quite a trial to her family,’ Helewise commented.

‘Exactly what I thought, Abbess. I did wonder, although I am ashamed to confess it, whether the generous dowry was her father’s way of saying that he would pay any price to be rid of her.’

‘Quite.’ Helewise was thinking, trying to remember exactly what Alba had told her on arriving at Hawkenlye.

As she had half expected before Abbess Madelina had even begun, it was totally different from what the woman had told the Abbess of Sedgebeck. Alba had said that her family had farmed a smallholding — which they had not owned — and, when the parents died, the girls had been left homeless. And, presumably, penniless.

Where had the Sedgebeck dowry originated, then? And why had Alba made up the story about coming from a wealthy home?

Unless perhaps that story were the true one, and the tale of poor homeless orphans was the lie?

A thought occurred to Helewise.

‘Abbess, what did Alba look like?’

The blue eyes held hers, a shrewd expression in them. ‘Is the story she told us so very different that you question whether your Alba and ours are one and the same?’

Helewise smiled. ‘Yes.’

‘Alba is of medium height, but with a wiriness that gives the illusion that she is tall. Her face is habitually pale, save when she flies into a rage, when she takes on a violent flush. Her mouth is small, with thin lips that fold in on themselves when she disapproves of something. Her eyes-’ The Abbess broke off. ‘Do you know, I cannot recall what colour Alba’s eyes are.’ She sounded as if it were cause to reprove herself.

‘Neither can I,’ Helewise agreed. ‘They are rather small eyes, deeply-set.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Abbess Madelina sighed. ‘I do think, Abbess, that we refer to the same woman.’

‘Yes, I am sure of it. And, as you rightly guessed, the story she told to me of her background was entirely different.’ Briefly she related it. ‘One similarity, however, does occur to me.’

‘Yes?’ Abbess Madelina said eagerly.

‘Oh, it’s only a small point! I was just thinking that, in both cases, Alba made herself out to be heroic.’ No — that sounded far too accusatory. ‘I should say, the circumstances that she related suggested, in each case, that she had acted with courage and a nobility of soul. When she came here, she said she had given up a life of luxury because she could not equate it with the sufferings of the poor. When she came to Hawkenlye, she said she had been forced to leave a community where she was very happy out of duty to her family. Her younger sisters were heartbroken over the death of their parents, and Alba took upon herself the responsibility for their happiness, removing them from the place where they had suffered their loss and taking them on to a new life elsewhere. And — Abbess, whatever is the matter?’