The Chatter of the Maidens

Chapter Twelve

They would have left the wood sooner, had Brother Saul not insisted that they bury the remains.

Helewise had resisted the temptation to suggest it; the expedition was under her command, and she was responsible for the brothers who were with her. She could sense peril all around them — and the sense that they were being followed, their every movement being observed, grew stronger by the minute — and, despite the clear Christian duty to inter what was left of the dead body, she felt it was an occasion when the living must take precedence over the dead.

But Saul insisted.

Augustine went to help him. They found lengths of wood to use as makeshift spades and, working hard, managed to dig a shallow pit within quite a short space of time; the recent heavy rain now worked in their favour, having softened the ground. Then Helewise helped them to pick up all the pieces of bone they could find and place them in the grave.

Augustine held up the pelvis. ‘This was a man and no mistake,’ he said quietly.

‘How can you tell?’ Helewise asked.

The boy gave a faint grin. ‘My family have been gravediggers, in their time. I was taught about bodies when I was quite young, and told how the wider opening’s for a woman’s skeleton, the narrower, more pointed arch for a man’s.’

Helewise felt quite faint. ‘Thank you, Augustine. Shall we put those bones in with the rest?’

When they were as satisfied as they could be that nothing of the man had been left within the ruined cottage for animals to destroy, the two lay brothers filled in the grave. Helewise recited the prayers for the dead, and they all stood in silence for some time with bowed heads. Saul found two pieces of roughly straight wood, and he fashioned them into a cross, tying them together with a piece of twine taken from the cord around his waist. He stuck it into the ground above the dead man’s head.

Then they returned to the horses.

It could reasonably be expected to be dark, in there under the trees. But, when they emerged into open countryside, to Helewise’s dismay she noticed that the sun had almost set.

Dear God, where were they to sleep that night?

Saul kicked the old cob into a canter and overtook both Helewise and Augustine, disappearing up the track into the gloom. They caught sight of him again as they entered Medely; he had dismounted and, leading his horse, was tapping at the doors of each of the inhabited dwellings.

Nobody was answering his knock.

Even the house from which the old man had peered out was shut up and dark. If he were within, he was lying low.

Saul turned to her, a look of desperation in his face. ‘I am sorry, Abbess, but I can’t make anybody hear.’

‘Never mind, Saul.’ She was, she realised, feeling better now that they were out of the wood. ‘We shall go into one of the empty houses. Should anyone come to ask what we’re doing, we shall say, with total honesty, that we tried to ask for accommodation but were ignored. We shall not do any harm, and we shall be gone tomorrow.’

Then, kicking the mare into a trot, she led her party up the track to the furthest of the deserted dwellings. And there, out of the wind and the night time mist if nothing else, they spent the night.

Helewise was awake very early the next morning. She lay listening, but could hear no sounds of human beings other than faint snores from one or both of the brothers, over in the far corner of the room.

She huddled deeper under the warm, wool cover. She was thankful to have it; she had only packed it because Josse had said you never knew when you might have to spend a night in the open, and it was better to go prepared.

Josse. How was he? I wish he were here right now, she thought, I could do with his good sense and his insight. Not that I am criticising dear Saul and Augustine, she added to herself, they have been exemplary companions. But Josse and I have puzzled over many a problem together. .

She dozed for a while, then had a half-sleeping, half-waking dream in which she sat before Josse and told him that she had brought him a hand and a pelvis, and that he must put the dead man together again. But Josse held up his wounded arm and said he couldn’t manage such a task just then, and instead snapped off two of the skeletal fingers and made them into a cross.

It was quite a relief to wake up.

When all three of them were awake and had eaten a sparse breakfast, she asked Brother Augustine to prepare the horses. When he had done so, she said, ‘I think, my brothers, that it is time we went home.’

‘Is there nothing more that we can find out here, Abbess?’ Saul asked.

She smiled at him. ‘Many things that I should like to find out, Saul. But who is there to ask?’

Slowly he nodded, gazing out at the empty track outside. ‘Aye. And the three people who we know to be most closely involved are back at Hawkenlye.’

‘Do you think that Alba and her sisters knew of that place in the woods?’ she mused. ‘It is so close to their father’s farm that it is hard to believe they did not. They will be distressed to know of the fire, and even more so if we tell them that we found a body inside. The poor man might even have been somebody they knew.’ She thought for a while. ‘In fact I think, brothers, that we should not tell them.’

Both the brothers nodded.

Then, leaving Medely as silent as it had been when they arrived, they mounted the horses and turned their heads for the long road home.

Josse’s days of convalescence seemed interminable. He was bored, sick of the sight of the four walls of the infirmary, and longed to be up and out in the fresh air. He was quite sure he was ready for such an excursion, but had not yet managed to persuade Sister Euphemia. At least he was now visiting the latrine, though, and spared the ignominy of using a bottle to pee in.

As his spirits and his health recovered, Sister Euphemia allowed him more visitors. He was relieved to discover that talking no longer exhausted him. He enjoyed long conversations with many of the nuns and quite a few of the monks; Brother Firmin brought him a daily phial of holy water, praying solemnly with him while he drank it. Whether it was the water, or whether he was catching Brother Firmin’s sincere and fervent belief in it, the daily drink always left Josse feeling full of vitality.

His most frequent — and, he had to admit, most beloved — visitor was Berthe. She came to see him at least once every day, and often managed to slip back in the evening when the infirmary was meant to be closed to visitors. He began to think that she might treasure their time together as much as he did for, although she never said as much, he guessed that she was lonely, worried and very unhappy.

Their conversation had steadily become more wide-ranging as they relaxed in one another’s company. Berthe never mentioned the sister penned up beneath the infirmary, and she seldom speculated about where Meriel was. That in itself was a little suspicious, Josse thought; while she easily might not be too disturbed to have the bullying Alba unable to get at her, surely she must be desperately anxious about Meriel? The two younger sisters had appeared to be so close.

Puzzling over the problem one morning, a thought occurred to him. Perhaps Berthe wasn’t worrying about her sister because she knew quite well that Meriel was safe. .

Feeling only a little ashamed of himself, Josse resolved to do some gentle probing the next time Berthe came to see him.

He did not have long to wait. Towards the end of the morning, he heard her light step coming down the long ward of the infirmary and, leaning forward, he saw her approaching his bed.

‘I’ve brought you some bluebells,’ she said, proffering a small bunch. ‘Alba used to forbid us to pick them, because they would always droop so quickly and then she had to throw them away and wash out the jar. But Meriel says — Meriel used to say the smell was so perfect.’

A pink blush was creeping up the girl’s face. Dear child, Josse thought, lying doesn’t really suit you. ‘Thank you,’ he said, pretending he hadn’t noticed either the slip or the blush. ‘Have you been into the forest?’

‘Yes! But only a little way, the nuns told me it’s easy to become lost.’

‘The nuns were quite right.’ He pretended to be preoccupied with the bluebells while he thought how to proceed. Berthe was on her guard, he realised, so questions pertaining directly to Meriel were probably not the best way. After a moment, he said, ‘There were woods near where I grew up. One of my earliest memories is of picking flowers with my mother.’

‘We used to do that, too, Mother and Meriel and me!’ Berthe responded, with such innocent pleasure that Josse cringed at his own duplicity. ‘Sometimes when Father wasn’t there, Mother used to pack up food, and we’d be out all day. Once we made a pretend house out of dead branches and stuff, and Mother even let us have a fire. We had to make a proper hearth — she showed us how, using stones from the stream as a surround so that the fire didn’t burn out of control. After Mother died, sometimes Meriel and I-’

Too late, she heard her own words.

Josse began to say, ‘It’s all right, Berthe, we’d already-’ But, observing with alarm the girl’s face, he stopped.

Berthe had gone deadly white, and had thrust her knuckle so hard into her mouth that she had drawn blood. She was rocking to and fro in a compulsive, persistent rhythm that was dreadful to watch, emitting all the time a soft, high-pitched keening.

Josse opened his arms to her. After an instant’s indecision, she threw herself against him and began to sob.

She even sobs quietly, he thought, compassion for her drenching his heart. As if crying out loud were likely to earn her a punishment. Poor lass, what can her life have been like?

When the crying subsided, he said very softly, ‘Berthe my love, we had guessed that some of what you have told us wasn’t quite true. We also understand that sometimes people have to tell a lie. It may be to protect somebody else, or it may be because someone is threatening to hurt them if they tell the truth. Which means, sweeting, that a lie isn’t always a bad thing.’

She said, her voice muffled, ‘Father beat us if we lied. He beat us with a belt, and the buckle used to cut our shoulders.’

He stroked the thin back with his left hand. ‘Your father can no longer hurt you, Berthe. You don’t have to tell lies for him any more.’

‘Alba can hurt me,’ Berthe whispered.

‘Not all the time she’s imprisoned.’

Berthe raised her face and stared at him. ‘How long will that be?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘She certainly won’t be released until Abbess Helewise comes back.’

‘I like Abbess Helewise,’ Berthe remarked.

‘She likes you, too.’

‘Does she? How do you know?’

‘She told me.’

‘You’re friends, aren’t you? You and the Abbess?’

‘We are.’

She frowned. ‘I didn’t like it when she asked me about Alba. Before she went away, I mean. She asked if I knew the name of the place where Alba went to be a nun, and I couldn’t tell her because I don’t know.’

‘If you didn’t know, then you couldn’t possibly tell her,’ Josse said reasonably.

‘Yes, but you see, there were other things I could have told her but I didn’t,’ Berthe persisted. ‘And it’s not fair, when she’s been so kind to me.’ The girl was still half-lying on Josse’s bed; now she drew up her legs and settled against him, like a puppy curling up to its dam. ‘I wish she were here.’

Josse sensed the thought forming in her. He held his peace; if he were to suggest it, she might clam up. .

She said presently, ‘I suppose I could tell you. You’re her friend, you just said so, and so telling you would be almost as good. Wouldn’t it?’

This child is suffering from a heavy conscience, Josse thought. The urge to unburden herself is strong.

Hoping he was doing the right thing, he said, ‘Yes, Berthe. And whatever you tell me, I promise to pass on to Abbess Helewise, as soon as she gets back.’

Berthe gave a soft little sigh. Then: ‘My mother died a long time ago. I don’t know why Alba said we had to say she died when Father did, and I didn’t like saying it. Mother was loving and kind. Father wasn’t kind at all, and it didn’t seem right to pretend that they’d died together, because if Mother had died just recently, when Father did, then we’d really be grieving for her. I didn’t like people seeing I wasn’t sad, and thinking it meant I hadn’t loved my mother. Do you see what I mean?’

‘Very clearly.’ Josse gave her a hug. Then he asked, ‘Berthe, you just said you didn’t know why you had to pretend your mother had only just died. But, if you’re really clever, and puzzle at it terribly hard, do you think you could have a guess?’

Berthe though for a while. Then she said tentatively, ‘Perhaps it was because Alba knew we weren’t really unhappy over Father dying. So if people knew the truth — that it was really only Father who’d just died — they’d think there wasn’t any real excuse for her taking us away from our old home.’

Josse thought he understood. ‘She needed a convincing story to cover her action in getting you all away from the area,’ he said slowly. ‘And so she said it was the shock and the grief of losing both your father and your greatly-beloved mother.’

‘Mm,’ Berthe said. She was humming gently to herself, and he sensed that the confession had done her good. With a gentle push, he said, ‘Berthe, will you go and find a jar? The bluebells need to be put in water.’

‘All right,’ she said.

He watched idly as she went off towards the bench where jugs of water were kept. She approached Sister Beata, who bent down to listen, then pointed towards a shelf under the bench.

He was thinking hard. Yes. It was beginning to make sense. The father’s death would have made the girls homeless, but, without the false grief, there was no reason for the sisters to go so far away. The logical thing would surely have been for Alba to find some place locally for her sisters, then return to her Ely convent.

Josse was coming to the conclusion that arranging a new home for Meriel and Berthe had not been the reason behind Alba’s actions at all. What she had been desperate to do was to get herself or her sisters, or possibly all three of them, away from their old home.

A very long way away.

And why?

Suddenly he understood why Alba had been so agitated when Berthe was sent down to work with the pilgrims visiting the Holy Shrine in the Vale. She was terrified that somebody from their old home would arrive and recognise the girl.

Something else was tapping at the edge of his mind. . something that had worried him before, the day Helewise had told him about the murdered pilgrim. .

It would not come into focus. Deliberately he thought about something else. Look at Berthe down there, stopping to let that old woman with the crippled foot smell the bluebells — enchanting, sweet-natured child she is. .

And into his mind flashed the word Walsingham.

Yes! Of course! The dead man had worn a badge from the Shrine of Our Lady at Walsingham.

And Walsingham was only fifty miles north of Ely.

Was it relevant? Had he stumbled on something really useful? He concentrated, trying to see a way through the strands of the mystery. The murdered man could surely be nothing more than he seemed, an honest pilgrim who had travelled to several holy places and, with the visit to Hawkenlye, was adding another to the list.

But they had said he spoke with a strange accent! Could that have been the accent of eastern England?

Oh, Josse thought in frustration, this is useless! Every time I think I have found an answer, two more questions arise from it to vex me!

Berthe had returned, and was placing the jar of bluebells carefully beside his bed. ‘There! I’ve put them close, so you’ll be able to smell the lovely scent.’

‘Thank you, Berthe.’

She answered his smile. ‘I have to go now, Sir Josse. But I’ll come back soon.’

‘Please do.’ He leaned forward as she bent to give the now-customary kiss on his cheek. ‘Goodbye.’

When she had gone, he made himself summarise what he had discovered.

Although Berthe’s mother had died some time before the death of the father, Alba had pretended that grief for both recent deaths had been her motive in taking the girls so far from what was known and familiar.

For some strongly compelling reason, Alba had needed to remove herself and her sisters far from their home.

Alba was so terrified that someone from that home would come to Hawkenlye and recognise Berthe, working in the Vale, that she had been driven to that outrageous, violent reaction when thwarted.

A man who was known to have been to Walsingham had been murdered in the Vale.

And, although Berthe’s much-loved sister Meriel had gone missing, Berthe just didn’t seem too dreadfully anxious about it. .

Sister Euphemia appeared, carrying Josse’s midday meal. ‘She hasn’t tired you out, has she? Lovely lass she is, to be sure, but she is a bit of a talker.’ She put the trencher down on Josse’s lap.

‘She hasn’t tired me,’ Josse said. ‘I enjoy her chatter.’

‘Aye, she’s a breath of spring all right,’ the infirmarer agreed. ‘She has a gentle hand, too — she’s been helping me change the dressing on some of my less badly-afflicted patients, and they’ve all told me they prefer her touch to mine.’

‘I find that hard to believe, Sister,’ Josse said loyally.

‘Ah, it’s not the touch, Sir Josse, so much as the lively, pretty little face and the winning smile,’ Sister Euphemia said shrewdly. ‘Now, eat your meal while it’s hot!’

Josse went on thinking while he ate. But, try as he might, he could not tease out anything more from the assembled facts than what he had just concluded.

I have only half of the puzzle, he thought, reaching down to set the empty trencher on the floor and settling for the prescribed post-prandial nap. There will only be a chance of solving it when the other half is added.

And for that, he would have to wait until the Abbess returned.