Alys Clare: The Chatter of the Maidens

Brice was frowning. ‘Likely the good Father will hurry your master’s passage into the next world rather than heal him,’ he muttered. ‘He’s a blood letter, Will. Believes a good bleeding is the cure for everything from an overheated imagination to a dose of the pox.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, I only thought-’ Will began.

Again, Brice dropped a reassuring touch on Will’s shoulder. ‘You did what you thought best, Will, and no man can be asked to do more. No, I know what we must do for our Sir Josse here.’ He smiled briefly as the solution came to him. ‘Will, have you a cart long enough to let a tall man lie down comfortably? And a steady horse to pull it?’

‘Aye, Sir Brice, that we have.’

‘Then, please, go and prepare it. Put in pillows and blankets, whatever you think, and water for drinking and for bathing the patient’s burning skin.’

Puzzlement on his face, Will said, ‘How far are we going, sir? To what place?’

And, as Brice told him, a smile began to light up Will’s face too.

Josse, coming fleetingly out of his delirium, was surprised to see three men standing round his bed. Will he would have expected to see — Will and Ella had been unstinting in their care of him — but what was Brice doing?

And, even more unexpected, why was he receiving a call from Father Anselm?

‘. . must insist that I be allowed to treat him as I see fit,’ the priest was saying in his precise way, thrusting a bowl of what looked horribly like leeches in Brice’s face.

‘Like you treated old Sir Alard’s servant a few years back? Bled him till he was white as the driven snow?’ Brice yelled.

‘It was necessary,’ Father Anselm protested, ‘as indeed it is now!’

‘Alard’s man wouldn’t agree with you,’ Brice shouted back, ‘even if he could, from beyond the grave!’ As Josse watched, he gave a nod to Will and, approaching Josse’s left as Will went round to his right, added to the priest, ‘However, if you really do want to be of assistance, you can help us carry him downstairs to that cart out in the courtyard, and. . ’

But just then, as Will and Brice began to lift him, Josse’s attention was distracted. Because, gentle as his manservant and his friend undoubtedly were, the least movement was excruciating for Josse.

And being lifted, manoeuvred out of bed, across the room, down the stairs and out to the waiting cart involved rather a lot more than the least movement.

As they edged their way round the bend in the stairs, Josse passed out.

He came round to find himself looking up into a clear, spring sky, with the sun warm on his face and a skylark singing its heart out somewhere nearby.

He was in a cart and, beside him, Will was dozing, eyes closed, arms folded across his broad chest. Between Will’s knees stood a pail of water; aware all at once of how desperately thirsty he was, Josse tried to call out.

By the time Will woke up and heard, Josse’s desperation had grown so much that, humiliatingly, he felt like weeping; Will, tutting at his own carelessness and referring to himself by names not heard in polite society, gave him cup after cup of cool water, sponging his face and neck for good measure.

When Josse had been settled back down again, thirst slaked, it occurred to him to wonder where they were headed.

‘Will?’

Instantly Will stiffened to attention. ‘Master?’

‘Will, where are we going?’

A beaming smile lit Will’s face. ‘Why, Master, we’re going to the nuns. It were Sir Brice suggested it, and for the life of me I can’t think why me and Ella didn’t come up with it ourselves.’

‘The nuns,’ Josse repeated, thinking happily of shady cloisters, capable, attentive hands, clean, crisp linen and herby-smelling medicaments. ‘The nuns of Hawkenlye Abbey.’

‘Aye,’ Will said, nodding for emphasis. ‘That infirmarer sister, what’s her name-?’

‘Sister Euphemia,’ Josse supplied.

‘Aye, her,’ Will agreed. ‘We’re off to see her, sir.’ And, with a firm confidence which Josse entirely shared, Will added, ‘ She’ll put you right in no time.’

Helewise, Abbess of Hawkenlye, knelt in the Abbey church, concentrating fiercely on her prayers.

She was praying humbly for the charity to feel love for each and every one of her sisters, even — especially — the least lovable. She was also beseeching God for at least a few days of fine weather, which would stop Sister Tiphaine’s constant lament about her non-thriving herb plants. Beneath those two specific requests was an ongoing plea for either an extra pair of hands for herself — which would actually be a rare miracle — or, more realistically, for God’s help in making her better at delegation.

It was April, and, so far, the year — 1192 — had been a hectic one for the Abbess of Hawkenlye. In February, there had been that disturbing business with the runaway, Joanna de Courtenay; the excitement of those weeks was still quite a talking point among the nuns at recreation. Then there was the worry over the King, still absent on crusade in the Holy Land. It was all very devout and laudable, Helewise reflected, for a king to do his duty before God with such wholehearted enthusiasm.

But what of King Richard’s duty to his realm?

Her mind wandering away from her prayers, Helewise thought of the last time that King Richard’s mother, Queen Eleanor, had paid a visit to Hawkenlye. As ever, the lady had been in a hurry, and — also as ever — Helewise and her nuns had tried to make the two brief days, all that Queen Eleanor had been able to spare, as restful and as tranquil as possible.

‘Abbess, you and your nuns spoil me,’ Eleanor had told Helewise on the first evening when, after a splendid supper brought up to a specially-prepared cell of the guest accommodation, Helewise had tapped on the door and brought in a warmed stone wrapped in cloth for the Queen’s cold feet, and a jug of hot, spiced wine to help her sleep.

‘It is our great pleasure to be able to do so,’ Helewise had assured her.

The wine had made both women relax. As she often did, Eleanor had confided some of her anxieties to Helewise. And, almost as much a joy to Helewise, the Queen had invited Helewise to share some of her own troubles.

The Queen had perceived — to Helewise’s mixed relief and regret — that the Abbess was gravely overworked. She had also perceived that it was not in Helewise’s nature to ask for help, and she had not exactly offered any.

What she had said was that Helewise must herself effect some changes in the administrative arrangements for the Abbey.

‘It is merely a matter of accustoming oneself to a new way of looking at the matter,’ she had said firmly. ‘You, Helewise, see yourself as the hub of the wheel. Everything that happens in the Abbey is your responsibility and relates to you. Yes?’

‘I — well, yes. But that is what my appointment as Abbess means, surely?’

‘Naturally. However, imagine, if you will, not a spoked wheel but a triangle, sitting on its base with its point at the top. Are you imagining it?’ Helewise nodded. ‘Now, draw several lines across the triangle, noting how the lines are narrow at the top and broader towards the base. Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Now, you are the topmost point. The top line, which is the narrowest, is for your immediate subordinates; there are only a few of them, four or five, perhaps. The next line is for their subordinates — more of them, do you see? — and the line below for theirs , and so on and so forth.’

‘I see.’

‘Now, according to this model,’ the Queen had continued as if Helewise hadn’t spoken, ‘the only matters that will permeate all the way up to you are those which nobody subordinate to you has been able to deal with.’ She had shot Helewise a swift assessing glance. ‘Of course, the success or failure of the concept depends on your refraining from leaping in to offer your help and advice before it is asked for and where it is not necessary. . ’