Alys Clare: The Tavern in the Morning

… which, as she awoke with a start, changed into the regular pulsation of pain searing just above her eyebrows.

All right, Helewise thought wearily as she sat up again — more slowly this time. All right. Back to work.

She moved over to the high-backed wooden chair that stood behind the broad table at the end of her room. Both items were well-made and costly, relics from her former life as the wife of a knight. Dear old Ivo had given her the table, which, in those earlier times, used to be stacked with items representing the many aspects of Helewise’s duties: mending for the two boys — her sons had always been harsh on their garments; bundles of herbs or bunches of flowers, to be turned into some useful cream or potion for the benefit of some member of the household, human or animal; and, always, the accounts. Ivo, who himself hadn’t been able to write much more than his own name, had treasured his literate wife, her head for figures and her fine hand.

Helewise brought herself back from her reverie — really, what was wrong with her today? She just couldn’t keep her mind on her work! — and sat down, pulling towards her the great leather-bound ledger into which were inscribed details of everything and everybody coming into Hawkenlye Abbey, and everything and everybody going out again.

She was totting up for the fourth time the amounts given away by Brother Firmin to itinerants calling at the Holy Shrine down in the Vale — she had arrived at a slightly different amount on each of the first three attempts — when there was a very soft knock on her door.

Resisting the temptation to fling her quill across the room, instead Helewise laid it carefully down, folded her hands in her lap and said calmly, ‘Come in.’

The door opened a fraction and the earnest face of Sister Ursel appeared in the gap. ‘You’re not asleep, then, Abbess?’ she whispered.

‘As you see, Sister Ursel, I am not.’ Helewise forced her features into an expression approximating welcome. ‘So there’s no need to whisper.’

‘Ah. No, no indeed.’

‘And do come in and close the door, Sister.’ Helewise’s smile was feeling increasingly like a rictus.

‘Oh. Ah. Yes.’ Sister Ursel did as she was told, closing the heavy door behind her with exaggerated care. Stepping forward, leaning towards Helewise, she said, ‘Now, how are you feeling, Abbess? Sister Euphemia said I wasn’t to tire you out by chatting, and not to come in at all if you were resting, only you’re not, so I can tell her it was all right to go in. Come in, I mean.’ She frowned. ‘Or is it go in? I-’

‘Sister Ursel?’ Helewise prompted gently. ‘You wanted to see me?’ Oh, dear, she thought, as well as a wandering mind, I’m presently cursed with a very short temper. Here’s poor old Ursel, doing her best to be kind and considerate, and here I sit wanting desperately to fling this wretched ledger at her … She made a mental note to make humble and contrite penance for being so uncharitable to a fellow sister, then gave Ursel an encouraging smile.

Which, unfortunately, cannot have looked to Ursel as Helewise had wanted it to, since the porteress gave a muffled gasp and took a step back. ‘Abbess! Have you taken a turn for the worse? Should I fetch Sister Euphemia?’

‘No,’ Helewise said rather too firmly. ‘I am quite all right, Sister Ursel. Now, will you please tell me what you want of me before I- Well, just tell me.’

Sister Ursel gave an injured sniff. ‘That Sir Josse’s outside,’ she said shortly. ‘Wants to know if he can come in to see you.’

She muttered something that sounded like, wouldn’t bother if I was him, but Helewise, her spirits lightened immeasurably at the prospect of seeing her old friend, scarcely heard. ‘I’d love to see him!’ she said happily. ‘Send him straight in, please, Sister!’

Josse, stomping into the room a few moments later, wore a cheerful, expectant grin. Which, on seeing Helewise, rapidly changed to an alarmed frown. ‘God’s boots, what have you done to yourself?’ he enquired, hurrying towards her, ignoring her outstretched hands and instead taking a firm grasp on her elbow and ushering her back to her chair. ‘Sit down, sit down! Before you fall down,’ he added with a grunt.

‘I am quite all right,’ Helewise said, for the second time in a very few minutes.

Josse was staring down at her, still frowning. ‘You’re not,’ he stated. ‘I dare say your sisters allow you to tell them that you are, but I’m not going to join them in flattering your vanity.’ He came to lean on her table, bending down and putting his face close to hers. ‘You’ve had the fever, I would say, and you’ve got yourself up and gone back to work long before you should.’

‘But I-’ Helewise began.

With a wave of his hand, Josse shut her up. ‘But nothing!’ He curled the hand into a first and thumped it down on the table. Helewise’s abandoned quill bounced up and fell on the floor. ‘You may think you’re indispensable, Abbess, but you’re not. Nobody is. What’s this you were doing?’ Before she could stop him, he had turned the large ledger round and was studying it. ‘You’re doing the accounts!’ He stared at her, his expression as amazed as if he’d found her painting pictures of naked men.

‘Somebody has to,’ she said primly. ‘And it’s my job.’

He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘When you’re well, yes. But surely you can delegate?’

‘Not many of the others can read and write,’ she said, registering in passing that she seemed to be taking his proposal seriously, ‘and of those who can, I don’t know who would have a sufficiently fair hand.’

He was nodding infuriatingly, as if she had proved a point he was trying to make. ‘Just as I said! Indispensable, aren’t you? The only nun among — how many is it? Nigh on a hundred? — who can write neatly enough for the account book. It’s not an illuminated manuscript!’ he cried. ‘Not holy writ! Would it really matter if, just for a week or so, the records were kept in a less than perfect hand?’

‘Yes!’ she protested, automatically. Then — her headache was getting worse by the minute — she said in a whisper, ‘No. Of course not. As long as we do our very best, there can be no grounds for complaint.’

She dropped her hot face into her cold hands, momentarily luxuriating in the comfort afforded by the contrast.

She sensed him coming to stand beside her. A moment later, there was a tentative touch on her arm. ‘Abbess?’ His tone was kindly now. ‘Would it be against all protocol for you to talk to me while lying in your little bed there?’

She looked up. His strong-featured, humorous face was creased into anxious lines, as if he really was afraid his suggestion would have mortally offended her. Wanting to laugh, valiantly she suppressed it, said meekly, ‘Not in the least, Sir Josse,’ and allowed him to lead her the few steps to her truckle bed. He propped the pillow behind her head, covered her with the blankets and then stood back.

It was, she had to admit, a huge relief to be lying down.

He watched her for some moments without speaking. In case he was waiting for her signal to speak — what had he come to see her about? she wondered — she said, ‘Sir Josse? You are, naturally, a welcome visitor, but was there something particular you wanted to discuss?’

He had, she observed, backed away until he was standing against the door. Assuming this was how he imagined a man should behave when in the same room as a nun lying on her bed, again she wanted to laugh.

‘I don’t think I should be bothering you with my worries,’ he said. ‘Not when you’re meant to be convalescing.’

‘Well, you’re here now,’ she replied. ‘Why not tell me anyway?’