Alys Clare - The Tavern in the Morning

‘Dressed up as a nun?’

‘To hide him,’ she explained. ‘Where better to hide a tree than in a wood? In robe and veil, Ninian looked much like all the others, once his grubby boy’s hands were tucked out of sight. A little smaller, but then there are plenty of grown women of short stature.’

‘Joanna must have been grateful for that. I don’t think she knew de Courtenay had actually searched the Abbey.’

‘Indeed he did, and very thoroughly.’

There was a short pause. Then Josse said, ‘Abbess, will she be all right?’

Helewise composed her reply before uttering it. ‘I believe she will,’ she said eventually. ‘It near broke her heart to say goodbye to her son, but, as we walked to the gate, we comforted ourselves with the thought that, had she and Ninian remained where they were in her Breton knight’s house, the time would soon have arrived for Ninian to go away to another man’s household anyway, to begin his knightly apprenticeship. The break was harder for Joanna — for the boy, too — because they have spent these past months and years in such mutual dependence. But there would have been a break. And, I imagine, they both knew it, and had privately been preparing for it. I-’

She had been about to say, I certainly did, when it was my turn. But we are not speaking of me, she reminded herself.

It was a reminder she was needing quite frequently, at present.

Josse gave her a smile. ‘You comfort me, too,’ he said. ‘As always.’

She bowed her head, studying her hands folded in her lap. It was not easy to accept his generous words, when her conscience was pricking her. Perhaps she should … No. Euphemia could so easily have been mistaken.

‘… out in the wildwood?’ Josse was saying.

‘I’m sorry, Sir Josse, what did you say?’

He looked at her curiously. ‘You were not attending, Abbess!’

‘No, I was thinking of Joanna. You were speaking of the wildwood?’

‘Aye. I was wondering how you thought she would fare. living in Mag Hobson’s old shack. She did tell you of her intention, to continue learning the old crafts?’

‘She did. And I think she will do very well. Sir Josse, bearing in mind Joanna’s character and her recent past, I truly believe her best chance of happiness — perhaps her only one — is to detach from the world she has known. It has treated her roughly, and she bears a heavy burden of resentment and anger. Living alone out there in the woods, with nature all around her, she will have a tough life, but I believe it will heal her. She needs, above everything, to be mistress of herself. I feel that she will find contentment. I pray that she will.’

‘Amen to that,’ Josse muttered. Then: ‘You are easy with yourself, living with the knowledge that she is out there in the forest, consorting with Mag Hobson’s old friends, learning all that they will pass on to her?’

Easy with myself? Helewise thought. No, I am not. For, despite her strength and her self-sufficiency, Joanna is a human being, needing love, as do we all. Needing God’s help and blessing, as do we all. Yet there she will be, alone, turning her back on Our Lord, following the old ways …

But, then, it was Joanna’s choice. And, as Helewise herself had just said, Joanna knew her own mind.

Something told her not to repeat these reservations to Josse. Making herself face him, forcing a bright smile, she said, ‘I must be easy with myself, Josse. As must you be. For Joanna has made her decision, and we must live with it.’

He was getting to his feet, preparing to leave. He still moved his right arm stiffly; Helewise had seen the wound, when Sister Euphemia dressed it earlier, and, even in its largely healed state, the sight of the great slash had near made her pass out. He had been lucky not to lose the use of the arm; the cut had gone deep into the muscle.

It was Euphemia’s opinion that only Joanna’s neat stitches and cleansing, healing salves had saved the arm, let alone Josse’s use of it.

Another legacy of Joanna de Courtenay, Helewise thought, walking with Josse to the stables. He will always bear that scar, to the end of his days. As will he also always carry his love for her.

She stood by Horace’s side as Josse swung up into the saddle. Looking up, she met his eyes. There was so much she wanted to say, about love never being wasted, about what he had shared with Joanna being of precious value, even though it was over.

But we do not have that sort of talk between us, she told herself. So she just said, ‘Farewell, Sir Josse. Come and see us again soon.’

He gave her a vague wave, and turned Horace’s head towards the gates. ‘Aye, I will,’ he said. ‘Farewell, Abbess Helewise.’

She watched until he had ridden away and out of sight.

Then, with a sigh, she returned to her duties.

Joanna was approaching the beginning of her first autumn of living in Mag Hobson’s shack. It was October, still mild, but she had reluctantly to admit that summer was over. The midday sun was no longer as powerful, the leaves were starting to turn and, in some cases, to drop, and once or twice she had been tempted to stoke up the fire in her hearth to warm her through the night.

Since quitting Hawkenlye Abbey — and the precious person it then had contained — back in February, she had spent virtually all her time in the hut in the clearing. She went up to the manor house now and then, to make sure all was well and that doors and gates were secure. But the house was too full of the presence of people she had loved and lost. Ninian. Mag. And Josse. She far preferred life in the shack.

There had been little need to clean it or tidy it, for Mag had cared for it well. But Joanna had felt a certain impulse to add something of her own personality to the small dwelling and its surroundings; she brought from the manor house a few carefully-chosen items, each of which was important to her in some way.

She brought the willow basket which Ninian had made, under Mag’s tuition. She also brought his long-discarded hobby horse; she had painted its face herself, an age ago, and had given the horsy features a look of Ninian. It was comforting, to have standing in the corner of her little shack an object which radiated her son’s elemental self.

She also brought the furs and the rugs which had lain before the fire in the hall, on which she and Josse had first made love. If she buried her face in them and breathed in deeply, she could conjure up Josse’s presence. That, too, was a comfort.

There had been little need to bring clothing, for she always wore the same garments, washing them when they needed it and, while they dried by the fire, spending the time naked, making her tender flesh become accustomed to the air, the rain, the sunshine, the frost and the snow. She possessed only a loose linen shift, a hooded cloak, a white head-cloth and a generously-sized, dark-coloured veil. And she habitually wore her heavy woollen robe, stuck into the belt of which she carried her black-handled knife.

Lora had shown her how to purify it.

‘It needs no purification from the sin of slaying Denys,’ Joanna had protested, ‘because that was no sin.’

‘Nay, nay, child!’ Lora had cried, scolding and laughing at the same time. ‘More an act of charity, as far as the rest of the world’s concerned, I’d say. Like putting down a malformed calf. But it has been stained with his blood, and that’s why you cleanse it. See? It’s precious, is your knife. Take good care of it.’

They had performed the ceremony together, their two right hands holding the blade in the flame of a specially built, small fire out in the woods. Joanna had burned her fingers quite badly, and Lora had said that was all a part of the cleansing.