Girl In A Red Tunic

Chapter 5

Time passed.

To the casual glance, Hawkenlye Abbey maintained its air of calm, each day slowly unfolding to revolve around the seven offices that punctuated the hours from dawn until dusk. But the calm was an illusion and maintained entirely by the discreet and silent hard work that went on without ceasing beneath the surface.

The cold took a grip like a wolf’s teeth on the bones of a carcass. Helewise, observing the additional burden which this imposed on both her nuns and monks and on the wider community centred around the Abbey, ordered that fires be lit wherever there was — or could be contrived — a safe hearth in which to set them. The Abbey had a vast store of wood, gleaned by the industrious lay brothers over successive seasons from natural wastage in the huge forest right on their doorstep. Vowed as they were to poverty, the devout souls of Hawkenlye accepted shivering through the winter as part of the gift they offered to God. However, their Abbess was sensible as well as devout and appreciated that her nuns and monks would be little use to those they were there to help if they were all so cold that they could not function.

Word spread, as word always does, that there was comfort to be had at Hawkenlye for those who went asking and there was an abrupt increase in the numbers who came to seek the various sorts of solace that the Abbey offered. Pilgrims arrived at the shrine in the Vale and at times the mood down there was more like a holiday than a self-denying and arduous experience for the sake of the visitors’ souls, with excited children slithering across the frozen pond and adults collecting around the braziers swapping tales of hardship as they drank their hot, thin soup. But Helewise turned a blind eye and suggested to Brother Firmin that he do the same. Her sanction was more than enough for the soft-hearted old monk, whose instinct all along had been to welcome the cold and the hungry in the true spirit of his master Jesus, even if it was patently obvious that, at this time anyway, the cold and the hungry had come for food and warmth rather than for the precious holy water so dear to Brother Firmin’s heart.

Up at the Abbey, people began arriving at the infirmary with a variety of complaints ranging from coughs, colds and chills to damaged limbs caused by falls on icy paths. But the biggest problem was bellies that ached because there was nothing in them and hadn’t been for days. Hungry people, as the infirmarer observed with compassionate anger, all too readily fell victim to any ailment that tried to seek them out.

Josse gave up his comfortable berth in the infirmary and moved to his usual lodgings down with the monks in the Vale, where he was welcomed like a long-lost brother and enjoyed a morning of informative gossip with several of his particular friends there. Brother Saul, working like three men to make room for all the visitors, was heard to mutter that God must have had His holy ear cocked Saul’s way because hadn’t Saul been praying as hard as he knew how for an extra pair of hands, particularly ones that belonged to someone as strong, capable and willing as Sir Josse?

Rohaise seemed to be responding to Sister Euphemia’s dedicated attempts to help her, although whether it was the herbal remedies or the infirmarer’s store of wisdom and loving-kindness that was making her better it was impossible to say. But, away from one, at least, of the dark spectres that she had believed were stalking her back home at the Old Manor, her spirits lifted considerably and, as her terrors receded, her intelligence and practical good sense were able to come to the fore. Like Josse, she did not need prompting to realise that there were no beds now in the infirmary for the undeserving; she vacated her little recess, moved her few belongings to the guest room where Leofgar and Timus had been put up and announced to Sister Euphemia that she would really like to help and what could she do for her? Sister Euphemia was not one to refuse such an offer and soon Rohaise could be seen, her russet gown covered by a white apron, busy on the many basic nursing tasks within her admittedly limited ability. But someone had to do them, Rohaise reasoned, and if she was that someone, then it left the skilled nurses free to get on with more exacting tasks.

Sister Euphemia watched and took note. As Rohaise’s colour and mood improved with the more she had to occupy her mind and her hands, the infirmarer observed to the Abbess that possibly a part of the young woman’s problem all along had been too much time in which to think up fanciful notions. Had Helewise not recently had a certain conversation with her son, she might have agreed; as it was, she took Sister Euph emia aside and quietly told her what had happened back at the Old Manor.

‘The priest did what?’ the infirmarer hissed, scarlet with indignation.

‘He suggested to Rohaise that poor little Timus is a change ling and that her real son has been spirited away.’

Sister Euphemia was shaking her head in disbelief. ‘And we’re told to obey these priests and any nonsense they cook up without question,’ she muttered, not quite far enough under her breath for her superior not to hear.

Helewise, however, decided to let it pass. It would have been difficult, she realised, to criticise dear Euphemia for expressing a sentiment which she herself was fighting so hard not to let take root in her mind.

‘You really think that Rohaise improves?’ she asked instead.

Distracted from her muttering, Sister Euphemia stared along the infirmary to where Rohaise was crouching down beside a very old woman and, with infinite patience, encouraging her to take sips of broth from a small wooden spoon. The sips were so tiny, and the woman’s rate of drinking so slow, that it looked as if Rohaise would be there for some time, but that did not dim the encouraging smile on her face.

‘Aye,’ Sister Euphemia said, ‘she’s improving all right. Next test’ll be to see how she is with that lovely little grandson of yours, my lady.’

The little grandson was having a wonderful time.

Fourteen months was too young for him to have any understanding of the things that had happened back at home; all he knew was that his mother had cried a lot and his father had looked angry. Or worried. Or very upset. Or all three at once. Nobody had had much time for Timus and he had been sad and lonely even before-

He did not think of that. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, because something in his mind had blocked it off. He remembered that there was something that had been very, very frightening but he did not know what it was. He had been afraid to utter the chattering sounds that he used to make in case … In case what? He couldn’t remember that, either. And he had really been afraid to laugh because not only was there nothing to laugh at, but also someone might hear him. He could not quite think why, but he knew that must not be allowed to happen. His mother and his father had been so strange that he hadn’t wanted to be with them and no funny things had happened like they usually did, such as his father making silly faces and pretending to be a horse. Then they had come here, to this big place with all the women dressed alike in black and white, and the big man in the bed had done that funny thing with his thumb and Timus had giggled. Nobody had been cross with him; in fact the big man had done another trick and Timus had been so entranced that he’d said the one word he could say: More! That had been all right, too, and the big man was now just about Timus’s favourite person and he sought him out whenever he could so that the big man would pick him up — Timus wasn’t very good at walking yet and could only manage a few tottering paces at a time — and the man would cuddle him in those strong arms. Timus felt really, really safe with the big man. The big man was nice.

Today it was very cold and Timus’s father had wrapped him up in lots of bulky clothes before letting him leave the room where they were staying. Then they had gone out into a long alley with pillars along one side and his father and the big man had helped him with his walking. His father put Timus on the ground and told him to walk to the big man, which he did. The big man picked him up and said ‘Well done, Timus!’, then put him down again and told him to walk back to his father. Timus did this several times and realised that he was taking a few more steps each time. Then he missed his footing and sat down quite hard on his bottom, which didn’t hurt at all because of all the clothes he was wearing, but his father said it was enough for now and he and the big man took Timus off to the place where they served the food and he had a hot drink and a sweet cake with currants in it. The cake was so delicious that he would have liked another and so he tried out his word again: ‘More?’ But the fat lady with the black veil and the white cloth round her red-cheeked face looked very sad and she shook her head and said sorry but one was all she could spare. Timus felt sad that she was sorry and he gave her a big smile and reached up to take her hand, at which two big tears welled up in the fat lady’s eyes and she said, ‘Oh, the little love! And to think that anyone could say he-’ But the big man gave her a nudge and she stopped what she was saying.

And Timus still didn’t get another cake.

The Abbess might believe that what her son had confided in her remained a secret known, apart from Leofgar and Rohaise, only to Josse, the infirmarer and herself. But the very air of Hawkenlye seemed to have the ability to pass on whispered confidences and within a day, almost everybody knew that some well-meaning (most nuns were tolerant people when it came to the clergy) but misguided priest had told the Abbess’s poor daughter-in-law that her little boy had been snatched by evil spirits who had left one of their own in his place. Virtually all the nuns — and several of the monks, who soon heard the tale too — found some excuse to have a peep at the child and not one of them saw anything but a normal, smiling, healthy little human boy. Their sympathy would have been engaged even had the child not been their Abbess’s grandson; since he was, the emanations of love that surrounded the little boy wherever he went served only to increase the incomprehensible but very lovely feeling that life, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, was all right again.

If only he could have a little more to eat …

Food was uppermost in Timus’s grandmother’s mind as she sat in her room wrestling with herself as she tried hopelessly to make one bag of flour do the work of four. She had just returned from yet another round of the Abbey and seen for herself what she could no longer ignore: the underlying cause of Hawkenlye’s sudden popularity was that the people outside its walls were slowly starving and had come for help to the only place they could think of.

Helewise got up and went to the door. Opening it, she checked that there was nobody nearby, then she shut it firmly and for a few self-indulgent moments, stood in the middle of the floor and gave vent to her feelings, addressing an imaginary King Richard and telling him exactly what she thought of him. ‘It’s your fault your people are going hungry,’ she said in a suppressed but still furious hiss, ‘and it’s this hunger, that you’ve brought about by demanding more than they can afford to give you, that’s making them even more susceptible than usual to the maladies of winter. And you’re not even here to witness the results of your own folly! You couldn’t quell that adventurous, crusading, foolhardy spirit of yours, could you? And see what it has led to! Sire,’ she added as an afterthought. Pausing for breath, she went on, more quietly now, ‘Some of them have got nothing left, my lord King. They come here and throw themselves on our mercy, yet we too have had to give more than we can spare, so that now, when we have such need of our emergency supplies, the cupboard is bare.’

Abruptly her anger faded. With slow, tired steps, she walked round to the far side of her big table and sat down heavily in her chair. Then, drawing towards her the fat ledger in which every item brought into or out of the Abbey was recorded, she once more went through the list of supplies that had to last through the winter. It still amounted to the same result: not enough. Not nearly enough. Already her nuns and monks were on short rations and what she was about to do would not be welcomed by hungry, hard-working people who needed more food than they were currently receiving to get them through each long, arduous day.

But the decision could not be put off any longer. Acting now, she reasoned, might mean that some of the people at present wondering whether it would be a good plan to make for Hawkenlye while they still had the energy would change their minds and stay at home. Their numbers might be few but even that few could make the crucial difference between the Abbey’s surviving or not.

Don’t think about not, she commanded herself firmly.

Then she drafted out the order and, a little while later, set about putting it into action.

The initial reaction of the Hawkenlye community to being told that their food rations were to be cut by a quarter so that more could be given to the desperate poor was fairly predictable. They might be vowed nuns and monks but they were people too, and people running on far from full bellies at that. But the dismay and the grumbling soon passed; Helewise ordered a special service in the Abbey church and gave thanks to God that a good harvest meant enough food at the Abbey for them to be able to give some away. She made sure not to mention just how much of that good harvest had already disappeared to raise funds towards the King’s ransom; it would not have been the moment and in any case, everybody had a pretty good idea anyway.

The mercy visits began that same day. Pairs of nuns, usually a fully professed and a novice, went out carrying wicker baskets full of bread, flour, strips of dried meat, one or two apples and some small folded packages containing Sister Tiphaine’s sovereign remedies for the most common winter ailments. They also carried little phials of the precious holy water from the miraculous spring in the Vale; given Hawkenlye’s reputation, which was founded originally on that same healing water, these were perhaps the most beneficial gifts of all.

Each pair of nuns was accompanied by a couple of the stronger and tougher lay brothers to act as bodyguard; rumour had it that there were ruffians and desperate men lurking in the fringes of the Great Forest and it was not wise to take any chances. Hunger makes beasts of men and someone who was dying of starvation might very well not have the usual scruples about attacking unprotected nuns carrying food to desperate peasants. Josse and Leofgar volunteered their services and Helewise gratefully accepted; the two of them, together with Helewise’s favourite lay brothers, Saul and young Augustus, formed the nucleus of her bodyguard force and made countless excursions each day.

Josse had begun to think of returning home to New Winnowlands; he was fully recovered from his fever and his would be one less mouth to feed if he left the besieged Abbey. But he realised that the Abbess badly wanted him to stay. For one thing, she suspected — and he had to agree — that they had not yet got to the bottom of the strange events that had brought Leofgar and Rohaise running for the safety of Hawkenlye. The Abbess and Josse had talked over the matter and decided that all they could do was wait on events and hope that either Rohaise or Leofgar would break their silence and confide in someone, hopefully Helewise or Josse. To this end, Josse was spending as much time as he could spare with Leofgar and little Timus, and Helewise made sure that she made room in her busy day for at least one visit to her son and her daughter-in-law.

The other reason why the Abbess did not want to lose Josse just yet was because his strength was such a boost to the morale of the nuns and lay brothers engaged on the mercy visits. Some of the homes that they visited were little more than hovels and presented a pitiful sight; constant repetition of the experience of misery made even the most courageous souls begin to waver. But then there would be Josse, riding up on Horace at just the right moment, offering a bundle of firewood to a frozen family and leaping down to cut up logs with his powerful arms and a sharp axe. Then he would make them all smile as, with exaggerated delicacy, he gave two tired nuns a leg-up on to Horace’s back, pretending to close his eyes in shock if either showed so much as a bare ankle.

And, of course, riding out with the bodyguard meant that Josse spent much of each day with Leofgar, which gave him the time to study the younger man without Leofgar noticing. Or so Josse believed.

When the mercy visits had been going on for a week — Josse and Brother Saul had discovered that it was possible to extract roach and rudd and sometimes a large pike from the pond in the Vale and now smoked strips of admittedly fairly unappetising fish were going out in the baskets — the Abbey received a visitor who, at first sight, was neither sick, wounded nor starving.

He was, however, cold and so Helewise took him straight away to warm himself by the small fire that was kept burning in her room. As Gervase de Gifford, lawman of Tonbridge, swept back his fur-lined cloak and removed his heavy leather gauntlets so as to hold his hands to the flames, Helewise summoned a nun and ordered hot, spiced wine, and only when it had arrived and been poured out did she finally ask de Gifford what she could do for him.

‘It may be a case of what I may do for you, my lady,’ he replied. ‘Oh, this is good!’ He held up his cup in a silent toast.

‘Much watered down, I am afraid,’ she said apologetically. ‘Like everyone else, we have had to draw in our belts.’

‘Yes, I have heard of your nuns’ visits to the worst-off families,’ he said. ‘It is what I would have expected of Hawkenlye.’

She bowed her head. ‘In truth, we do what we do in part for our own sake, in the hope of keeping to manageable proportions the influx of visitors constantly arriving here to seek our help.’

He nodded his understanding. ‘I have heard too of the way in which your numbers here have swelled.’ He finished his wine and, when she went to refill his mug, shook his head with a smile. ‘No, my lady. Thank you, but I will not have more if you do not join me, and I know full well that you won’t.’

She smiled and replaced his mug on the tray. There was plenty of wine left in the jug and she was grateful for de Gifford’s forbearance, which would mean that at least two people would later have a drink with their food that they hadn’t been expecting. Then, indicating that he should sit down by the fire and resuming her own seat, she said, ‘Now, tell me why you are here.’

He paused as if collecting his thoughts and then said, ‘It may be nothing but I can’t stop thinking about it, which is why I’ve come. One of my more sharp-witted officers overheard a conversation yesterday in the tavern in Tonbridge. It was between two men, one of whom is a ruffian well known to my officer, which was why my man was listening in to what the fellow had to say. The ruffian’s companion was a different class of man altogether — better dressed, well spoken, obviously of more substantial means than the other.’ He frowned as if still doubting whether he should be wasting her time telling her this.

‘Do go on,’ she prompted. ‘You believe that what your officer overheard concerns us here at Hawkenlye?’

‘Perhaps.’ He gave her a wry grin. ‘The two men spoke of a missing person — a man, apparently a friend or possibly a relation of the ruffian. The well-dressed man was telling him not to worry and that the missing man would turn up. The ruffian said no, he wasn’t satisfied with that, he was going up the hill’ — here he caught her eye to make sure she appreciated the significance of the words he had emphasised and she nodded that she did — ‘to see if he, by which presumably he meant the absent ruffian, had gone where they reckoned he’d been heading.’

‘I see,’ she said, working it out as she spoke. ‘Two men are trying to find a third, who has apparently come up here to Hawkenlye.’

‘Not necessarily,’ de Gifford said quickly. ‘Other roads lead uphill out of Tonbridge, although I grant you that it’s usually the Abbey that people of the town are referring to when they say up the hill.’

‘Yes.’ She was still thinking hard. ‘What I don’t understand is why you felt the necessity to warn us that the ruffian’s friend, or whatever he is, was coming here. Do you think he is dangerous?’

De Gifford studied her. ‘I mentioned that the ruffian in the tavern was known to my officer.’

‘Yes.’

‘He is also known to me, and so is his usual companion. If it is he who is missing and is the man to whom the other two referred, he’s called Walter Bell and he is the ruffian’s brother.’ De Gifford’s clear green eyes met hers and he added softly, ‘Walter Bell is the more violent of the brothers. He has committed murder, although circumstances were such that he was never put on trial for it. Had he been, I should have done my utmost to see that he hanged.’

She felt a chilly finger of fear creep up her back. ‘And Walter Bell may be on his way to Hawkenlye,’ she whispered.

‘Yes, my lady. Of course, he may not be, but I felt it only right to warn you.’

‘Yes, I understand, and I’m grateful. What should we do?’

He hesitated. ‘Well, it’s difficult because we have no idea why Walter Bell would come to the Abbey. It could simply be that he’s sick, or reckons it would be the best place for a free meal.’

‘Not a very substantial one,’ she remarked. De Gifford’s practical and undramatic reasoning was helping her to regain her composure.

‘Or on the other hand,’ he was saying, ‘perhaps when Bell’s brother said he was coming to Hawkenlye because that was where they reckoned he’d gone, the he in fact meant someone else.’

Something in his tone warned her and, fearful again, she said, ‘Who might that be?’

‘My lady, please do not look so alarmed, for this is but conjecture, but my officer said that Bell’s brother seemed to be furiously angry. It did just occur to me whether the he whom he might or might not be following up here to Hawkenlye could be not his brother but the person whom he holds responsible for his brother’s disappearance.’

He said it is but conjecture, she reminded herself as she waited for her rapid heartbeat to slow a little. Then she said, as calmly as she could, ‘As you are aware, the Abbey is full of people at present. How can we possibly hope to isolate which of them is in danger from this man Bell?’

‘His name’s Teb,’ de Gifford supplied. ‘A nickname, presumably, but it is how he is known.’

‘Teb,’ she repeated. ‘Teb Bell. Is there any point in asking around, do you think? To see if mention of the name raises a response in anyone here?’

De Gifford shrugged. ‘Possibly, my lady. It can surely do no harm, and we might be able to warn the man whom Teb Bell is after, if I have reasoned correctly and this whole miserable tale has not caused you needless anxiety.’

‘Better safe than sorry,’ she said stoutly.

He smiled briefly. Then, looking at her with what looked like a slightly awkward expression, he said, ‘Er — I’m wondering, my lady Abbess, if it might be a wise precaution to ask Sir Josse d’Acquin to come over to Hawkenlye, just until this business is cleared up.’

Now it was her turn to smile and hers was more wholehearted than his. ‘No need,’ she said happily, ‘I’m pleased to say that he’s already here. You have but to wait until he returns from this morning’s second mercy visit, and then you will be able to talk to him yourself and tell him all that you have just told me.’

Josse returned and was briefed by de Gifford. Having as he did such favourable memories of the sheriff and trusting that the man was not causing a fuss about nothing, Josse agreed that they should begin asking all the people currently making use of the Abbey’s various services if the name Teb — or, come to that, Walter — Bell meant anything to them. In particular, whether it brought fear into their eyes. Leofgar and Brother Saul offered to help, and Saul said he would enrol the assistance of some of the other lay brothers; there were, after all, an awful lot of people to ask …

But in the end they had got no further than interviewing the first dozen or so pilgrims down in the Vale before they were overtaken by events.

Two nuns, Sister Anne and Sister Phillipa, were on their way back from the tiny hamlet of Fernthe, accompanied by Brother Erse, the Abbey’s carpenter, and a young lay brother called Peter. They had met with a slight accident when almost within sight of the Abbey; Peter had tripped on a tree root and sprained his ankle. Erse had been of the opinion that, with the support of his stout shoulder, the lad would be up to hopping back to the Abbey if they gave it a while for the pain to subside but, not wanting the nuns to take a chill while they waited around in the cold, he urged them to hasten on to Hawkenlye. It had seemed unlikely that they would meet with any mishap so close to the Abbey’s walls, especially as their baskets were empty and no longer a target for hungry thieves, but if they did, Erse told them ‘to holler as loud as you can and I’ll come running’.

They did as he suggested, as confident as he that nothing unexpected would happen.

But it did. They rounded a curve of the track that ran along beside the Great Forest and walked straight into a body hanging by a rope from the branch of an oak tree. Sister Phillipa had the presence of mind to try to lift the man and take the weight off his neck; a good idea but in fact quite pointless since he had been dead for some time. Poor Sister Anne’s terrified screams echoed not only back to Erse, who dumped Peter on the ground and, habit flying up round his thighs, raced to help; they also echoed faintly in the cloisters of Hawkenlye Abbey, where people looked up in alarm and wondered what on earth had happened now.

It would not be very long before at least some of them found out.