The Chatter of the Maidens

Chapter Eighteen

By the time Helewise and Berthe were safely back inside the Abbey’s gates, the nuns were already making their way to the church for Compline. As Sister Ursel carefully barred the gate behind her, engaging the Abbess in a few brief words of conversation as she did so, Helewise wondered if there was anything she could say which would have the effect of sending Berthe more happily to her bed.

She couldn’t think of anything.

And when she turned from Sister Ursel and walked on towards the church, she saw that Berthe had already hurried away. The child was not even going to have the solace of prayer before she went to bed.

Helewise, while not entirely sure what she could have done differently — done better — was nonetheless filled with the feeling that she had failed Berthe. Failed her badly.

Since Meriel and Jerome undoubtedly would not have fled had the Abbess not announced that she was about to set Alba free, she probably had.

The nuns dispersed after the Office, most heading for the dormitory and a well-earned night’s sleep, but some going off to various parts of the community for night duty. Helewise knew she should go to bed — she was worn out — but her mind was still racing.

It is no use my going to bed, she realised, for I shall not sleep.

She slipped away from the rest of the sisters and, walking in the shadows of the great church, made for the rear gate. Perhaps some time spent looking out over the Vale, absorbing its serenity and its peaceful, natural beauty, would calm her.

She unbolted the gate and went outside. It was almost fully dark now, but there was a half moon in the clear sky, and she could make out the details of the familiar landscape. Strange, she thought, I hardly ever come out here unless some matter has called me to visit the shrine. I wonder why I should have felt drawn to come and stand here this evening?

Perhaps it was because there had been a death down there on the path that led off along the Vale. A death that seemed to have gone out of most people’s heads, driven away by other, more pressing problems.

Why do I think of that poor soul now? Helewise wondered.

But there was no answer.

After a while, she went back inside the Abbey walls and fastened the gate.

She was back in her room, tidying away her earlier attempts to complete her tasks and leave a perfectly clear table to greet her the next day, when there came a knock on the door.

It was so soft that at first she doubted whether she had really heard anything. Stopping what she was doing, standing perfectly still and holding her breath, she waited.

The tapping came again.

Clearing her throat, which seemed to have gone quite dry and closed up, she said in a low voice, ‘Come in.’

The door opened slowly. Against the dark backdrop of the deserted cloister, she could not see who stood there. But it was a tall figure, broad-set. .

Alarm making her sound shrill, she said, ‘Step forward into the candlelight and show yourself!’

Instantly the figure obeyed.

And, once again, the bearded stranger from the Vale made her that deep, graceful reverence.

‘I regret having alarmed you,’ he said as he straightened up again. ‘I did not mean to. I thought about approaching you just now, when you were outside the gate, but I feared that would scare you even more.’

‘I am not scared!’ she said crossly, swiftly removing her hand from where she had pressed it against her wildly thumping heart. Then, as a worrying thought occurred to her: ‘How did you get in? I barred the gate when I came back inside!’

He gave her a quick grin, momentarily making him look like a boy caught out in a misdemeanour. ‘I know. I heard you do it. But there is a place just along from the gate where a convenient tree branch allows a determined person to climb over the wall.’

‘Is there, indeed,’ she said coolly, making a mental note to tell Brother Saul to make sure all such branches were ruthlessly lopped off. ‘And why, may I ask, were you so determined to get in?’

‘I had to speak to you,’ he replied. There was no mistaking the earnestness that now filled his face. ‘I have been watching out all afternoon and evening, waiting for my chance to catch you alone. But you kept disappearing, Abbess. You are, indeed, a hard woman to follow.’ He smiled briefly. ‘When I saw you step outside the rear gate, I believed that my prayers had been answered, and that you had come to find me.’

‘It’s strange,’ she said musingly, ‘but I did sense a weird and quite unprecedented urge to go and look out over the Vale. .’ Then, hearing what she had just said, mentally she pulled herself together and demanded, ‘Who are you? And what do you want with me?’

‘My name is Bastian.’ There was the briefest hesitation, as though he were usually more forthcoming but, in this instance, had chosen not to be. ‘I have heard tell that you propose to release the former nun known as Alba, and I have come to beg you to reconsider.’

How did he know about Alba? Helewise wondered. Had he overheard Berthe and Augustine discussing her? But that was not the most important thing; waiting for a moment until she was sure she could speak calmly, she said, ‘I have no choice but to let her go. She is not a nun, as you appear to know already, and I cannot contemplate her joining the Hawkenlye community. As either a nun or a lay worker.’ He started to speak, but she did not let him. ‘Rest assured, however, that it is not our way to turn people away without first ascertaining that they have somewhere to go. A place will be found for Alba.’ Whatever business it may be of yours, she wanted to add.

He closed his eyes briefly, and his lips moved silently. It looked as if he were praying. Then he said, ‘Abbess Helewise, I appreciate that this is not how I should be doing this. You do not know who I am, and anything I tell you of my background could, as far as you are concerned, be a pack of lies. All I can do is beg you to put your trust in me.’

His dark eyes seemed to connect with hers, and she found herself staring right into him. It was uncanny but, she discovered, not frightening. After a moment, deliberately breaking the contact, she said, ‘About what do you ask me to trust you?’

A look of relief crossed his face, prompting her to add, ‘Be aware that I have not yet decided if I will trust you,’ eliciting another of his smiles. The contrast of his dark beard against his revealed teeth, she noticed, made the teeth look extremely white. They were very good teeth, evenly sized, with no gaps. .

‘It is to do with Alba.’ His voice interrupted her musings. ‘As no doubt you have guessed, I know her. Or rather, I should say, I know of her; she and I have never met. She is irrational to the point of mania; she was instrumental in the death of Adela, wife of Wilfrid of Medely; and I believe she was personally responsible for the murder of a young man who burned to death in an abandoned cottage.’

Oh, no! Oh, dear God, Helewise prayed, help me! Here is a stranger putting into words the things that I have been dreading might be true. Am I to believe him? Does he bring the proof that I have been so desperately searching for?

The stranger seemed to understand her inner conflict. He said no more, and gave her the courtesy of turning away, appearing to study the bare wall to his right, while her frantic thoughts chased each other round and round inside her head.

Deliberately, she stilled them.

And waited.

Then she looked at Bastian. Just at that moment, he turned to look at her. Their eyes met. I believe him, she realised. I do believe him! Is that God’s answer, to make me confident that I can trust this man?

She said, ‘We found the body in the cottage. We knew it to be that of a man. I had — without proof I could not be sure, but, ever since then, I have been haunted by the fear that Alba was involved.’

‘More than merely involved,’ Bastian said. ‘She followed him there, to the empty cottage. She crept up behind him, hit him on the back of the head and knocked him unconscious, and tied his wrists to a stake in the floor.’

Helewise knew what was coming next. She did not want to hear. ‘No,’ she whispered.

But he was relentless. ‘I must tell you, Abbess, in order that you recognise Alba for what she is. Having rendered the young man helpless, she fetched the dry fuel she had prepared and set light to it. Then, while the cottage and its human contents burned, she stood and watched.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Because somebody saw her do it.’

‘Why didn’t they intervene?’

‘The witness was a child. Who, God be thanked, thought that Alba had done nothing worse than set her supper on fire. The boy could not tell the smell of burning human flesh from roasting beef or lamb. But he did wonder why she had filled the cottage with bales of hay and put a flame to them.’

‘A child,’ Helewise whispered. Oh dear Lord, what might Alba have been driven to do if she had known a child had seen her perpetrate a murder?

‘The child told his mother — who is known to me — and she told me,’ Bastian went on. ‘But not until some time later. By then, Alba had disappeared, taking Meriel and Berthe with her. The mother refused to allow the child to lead us to the spot — reasonably enough, I suppose.’ He glanced at Helewise, who nodded her understanding. ‘Although we searched for the place, we were unsuccessful. The child’s account was unclear; I did not realise that he spoke of a location which in fact I knew. We decided our prime concern should be to hunt for Alba and her sisters, and-’ He stopped himself, and a brief frown darkened his face, as if at some ill memory. ‘Er — we sent people to track them. And when I discovered that — that is, as soon as I could get away, I followed.’

Only half hearing him, suddenly Helewise had remembered what Jerome had said, when Josse asked if he had managed to pick up the sisters’ trail. Yes. It was not difficult. And I had-

What had he been going to say? ‘And I had help’?

‘Jerome followed them!’ she exclaimed. ‘Jerome and somebody else, somebody more experienced?’

Bastian’s frown lifted; for an instant Helewise thought he appeared relieved. ‘You are perceptive, Abbess,’ he said smoothly. It was only later that she realised he had not actually answered her question. ‘And I see that you have met young Jerome. He is well, I hope?’

‘He’s married,’ she said before she could stop herself. ‘He and Meriel are man and wife.’

‘I know.’ Bastian gave her a calm smile. ‘They were wed before they left Medely.’

‘What?’ But it was not the moment to ask that; recalling what they had been discussing, she said, ‘Jerome must have found the burned body in the cottage, and realised that Alba had to get away from the farm before anyone else came across it, in case she was suspected of being involved.’ She paused. ‘I do not believe Jerome knows the truth,’ she said slowly. ‘He and Meriel may have their suspicions, but I believe they have no proof.’

‘I believe you are right,’ Bastian put in quietly.

But she barely heard. ‘He — Jerome — would surely have hurried to the farm. But before he had time to prevent her, Alba had swept up her sisters and fled — Jerome would have found nothing but an empty house. Since Alba must have known that Meriel wouldn’t go with her otherwise, she told her that Jerome had died in the cottage.’ She even showed me. ‘Oh, God,’ she murmured. ‘Alba made Meriel look. And how convincing she must have been in persuading the girl that the poor, dead youth was Jerome!’

Bastian was looking at her sorrowfully. ‘Alba was convincing because she believed he was Jerome. It was her intention to murder Jerome, and she thought she had done so.’

‘But why?’

Bastian gave a deep sigh. ‘It is all to do with the person that Alba is,’ he said, ‘or, perhaps, the person that her life has made her.’ His eyes on Helewise’s, he asked, ‘Will you hear the tale?’

And, late though it was, surreal though it seemed to be sitting here with a stranger in the silent, candlelit dimness of her room, she nodded.

‘Alba,’ he began, ‘is considerably older than her sisters, as you will have observed. This meant that, when Meriel and Berthe were born, Alba developed a rivalry with their mother, Adela, over who had the greater responsibility for them and, indeed, for their father. Alba had been used to caring solely for Wilfrid, and he allowed a far greater intimacy to develop between the two of them than he ought to have done. But he was a weak man. An autocrat within his own four walls, but without the moral strength to recognise a developing wrong and correct it.’

‘You speak of the two of them, Alba and Wilfrid,’ Helewise put in. ‘What of Adela?’

‘Adela was not Alba’s mother. In his young manhood, Wilfrid took a village whore to his bed and impregnated her. She died giving birth to the child, and my predecessors — that is, those who had overseen events made sure that the baby was placed where she belonged, with her father. Wilfrid was faced with the baby, Alba, and he had no choice but to accept his responsibilities. Village gossip being what it is, Alba grew up in no doubt about the identity of her mother, who was, indeed, a loose-living, indolent soul with few, if any, saving graces.’

‘Only God can know that,’ Helewise put in gently. ‘We receive many prostitutes here, Bastian, and their profession does not necessarily remove them from God’s love and favour.’

‘I know, Abbess. I accept your reprimand.’ He bowed his head briefly. It was hardly a reprimand, she thought. He went on, ‘And in any case, I am only repeating what others said, which I should not do.’

She had, she realised, interrupted the flow of his story. ‘Please, continue,’ she said.

‘Thank you. Alba, the child of a whore, began early in her life her attempt not only to better herself, but also to raise up the family into which, on her father’s side, she had been born. He was, as I have said, a weak man, and it was easier for him to go along with Alba’s high-flying aspirations than to argue her out of them. Indeed, he probably enjoyed her flattery and her insistence that only the best would do for them. There was an adequate living on the farm and Alba, for all her faults, was a good manager. She was apparently horrified when Wilfrid announced he was going to marry Adela, who, decent and loving woman that she was, came from very humble stock.’

‘Then, when Meriel and Berthe were born, Alba would have sensed that she was being thrust into the background, and doubled her efforts to make herself and her family shine,’ Helewise said thoughtfully. ‘Because she saw them as hers, any achievement of theirs reflected back on to her.’

‘Precisely. With Wilfrid’s support, Alba became bossy, then dogmatic, and finally domineering to the point of tyranny. She instigated a system of punishments, and even Adela sometimes suffered, although never as much as the girls. Wilfrid, one gathers, was vastly amused at the sight of his middle child being penned up outside with the hounds because she had forgotten to feed them, and by the howls of little Berthe shut in the cellar for answering Alba back.’

‘Meriel said Berthe is afraid of the dark,’ Helewise said pityingly.

‘Is it any wonder, when Alba worked on that childish fear to increase Berthe’s suffering? It was a dreadful life, Abbess, and, although Wilfrid was perhaps even more to blame, he is dead and gone. Alba, on the other hand, is very much alive.’

But Helewise was following another thought. ‘Meriel, too, said that Alba was instrumental in Adela’s death,’ she said. ‘Is that truly so?’

‘It is.’ Bastian’s face was grave. ‘The girls used to use the old tumbledown cottage as a sort of play house, and, I suspect, as a refuge. Alba rarely went there — whenever the girls and their mother were out of the farmhouse, she used to bask in being in sole charge. One day, Adela took the girls to the old cottage for the day, and they were having such fun that Adela forgot the time. She rushed home to start on Wilfrid’s dinner — he used to be violent if his meals were late — and all would have been well except that Alba told him. She said something like, what a shame we have to have this stew again! Had Adela not been so late home, she would have had time to prepare something fresh! Wilfrid ordered his wife to cook something else, but she had nothing to cook. She was going to slip out, run all the way down to the village and try to beg something from kindly people there, but Alba said slyly that it surely wasn’t fit for a wife of Wilfrid’s to be seen begging. Wilfrid agreed and told Adela instead to go and dig up some vegetables from their own plot. He wouldn’t let her back inside until he was satisfied she’d got enough to feed them all. It was raining, and dark, and cold, and Adela took a chill. Weakened by it, she succumbed to the ague.’

‘They were monstrous, Alba and her father!’ Helewise cried. ‘Especially Alba!’

‘Monstrous?’ Bastian seemed to reflect. ‘Yes, perhaps. But we have to look at it from Alba’s viewpoint, Abbess. Unwanted at birth, thrust on to a father who didn’t want her either, then, as soon as she began to make some progress in her life, the father ousts her by taking a wife and begetting two enchanting little girls. Whose mother, incidentally, adored them both and worshipped the very ground they walked on. Whereas Alba’s mother was a reviled, hapless woman who had died at her birth.’

‘I do see what you mean,’ Helewise acknowledged. ‘But her distressing background cannot be allowed to condone her behaviour.’

‘I did not intend to suggest that it should,’ he said. ‘But what happened to her when she was young can perhaps explain why she grew up as she did.’

‘She murdered a young man.’ Helewise felt the horror begin again. ‘Whom she believed to be Jerome. Did she know they were married, he and Meriel?’

‘No. Nobody knew except Berthe. She knew about Jerome from the start, and was sworn to secrecy. But the poor child inadvertently let the secret out to Alba that Meriel and Jerome were in love. They all knew Alba would make a fuss, both because she couldn’t bear to lose control over any of her family, and also because, although she had never met Jerome, she had heard that he was an orphan, brought up by distant kin and very much a poor relation.’

‘What did they do?’

‘Jerome had a constant companion; another orphan brought up in the same place. He was a splendid youth, by the name of Felix, and he suggested that, to put Alba off the scent, they pretend that he was Jerome and Jerome was Felix. The idea was that Felix would be pointed out to Alba as if he were Jerome, and he would lead her off on a wild goose chase and give Jerome and Meriel a chance to slip away and be married.’

‘But didn’t they realise the risk they were taking?’

Sadly Bastian shook his head. ‘I do not think that anybody believed Alba capable of actual murder,’ he said. ‘She has deteriorated far further into her own private world than any of us suspected.’

‘So, believing this poor Felix to be Jerome, she followed him to the cottage, and-’

‘The cottage was Meriel and Jerome’s trysting place,’ Bastian said.

‘Yes. I see. So she followed Felix there, and presumably believed he was waiting for Meriel. Then-’

‘Alba knew Meriel wouldn’t disturb them.’ Once more, he interrupted. ‘She’d seen Meriel and Berthe set out. Although Alba didn’t know it, they were on their way to meet Jerome, for Meriel to marry him.’

Helewise was picturing the deserted cottage. In her mind’s eye, a young man sat there, alone. Perhaps he was smiling, both at the sheer fun of fooling Alba and because, through his suggestion, he was giving his great friend this precious time to be united with his Meriel.

Then through the underbrush came Alba, some heavy weapon in her hands. . she swung it up high, then brought it crashing down on Felix’s unsuspecting head. And, while he was out cold, she manoeuvred the body until she could tether the hands to that hard, firm stake.

And then. .

No. It was too dreadful to contemplate.

Pushing her fists against her eyes to blot out the images of flame and smoke, Helewise gave a low moan.

From across the room, Bastian spoke.

‘I regret that I have had to burden you with this terrible tale.’ There was deep compassion in his voice. ‘But it was, as I am sure you appreciate, necessary.’ He paused. ‘Necessary,’ he went on quietly, ‘in order that you understand what a danger Alba is. To her sisters, and even more to those who threaten her by taking her sisters from her.’

She thought he had finished. She lifted up her head and looked at him. Meeting her eyes, he gave a brief, almost apologetic glance. ‘Felix was very special to me,’ he said quietly. ‘As is Jerome. Felix was born to my late sister, and Jerome is the son of my younger brother, who died when Jerome was a child.’ For a split second, she saw a flash of fury in his face, but he controlled it.

Then he said neutrally, ‘Alba has murdered one of my nephews. I do not intend to let her have the other.’