The Chatter of the Maidens

Chapter Six

The dead man had been a visitor at the Holy Water shrine in the Vale. Brother Saul and Brother Firmin had both talked briefly to him, and they had a vague impression that the man had spoken with a strange accent.

That, and the information that he had been well equipped for travelling and unaccompanied, was all that the brothers could add to what was evident from the man’s dead body. Which was that he had been around thirty, bearded, with dark hair and a swarthy complexion, sturdily built, of middle height, and well nourished.

One or two of the other pilgrims — pop-eyed with amazement to have the extraordinary thrill of a murder in a place where they had gone for prayer and healing — said that the dead man, who had but recently arrived, had attended some of the services conducted by the brothers, but had hidden himself away at the back, as if he wanted to be unobtrusive.

Nobody knew his name.

But, whoever he was, somebody had badly wanted him dead. He had been attacked from behind, and struck down with a series of blows to the back of the head. There was evidence of severe damage to the skull which, in one place, had collapsed into a distinct indentation. It appeared that further blows had been struck after the man had been felled, since there were deep cuts across his brows.

The body, the surrounding area and the clothing of anybody who had touched the corpse were all heavily stained from the copious amounts of blood that had spattered out like a fountain.

Helewise asked Brother Saul to go through the dead man’s belongings. Saul reported that the man’s small leather satchel was well made but worn, as if from long use, and that the pilgrim’s broad-brimmed hat was decorated with the shell of Santiago di Compostela, and the souvenir badge from the Shrine of Our Lady at Walsingham. His water bottle, made from a gourd, looked quite new.

He had been dressed in a simple tunic and cloak which, like the rest of his garments, were of cheap, undyed fabric. His boots, however, were sturdy and made of good leather.

From the bloodstains on its thick end and from the location where it had been discovered — beside the dead body — it appeared that the man’s heavy, iron-tipped walking staff had been employed as the murder weapon.

Helewise sat with Brother Saul and Brother Firmin in the rough shelter where the pilgrims took their meals. Brother Firmin, who headed the fully professed monks in the little community, was clearly distraught and not a great deal of help; Helewise had to arrest the swift wish that he would go away and find something else to do and send her one of his other monks instead. Not that any of them would be a great deal better, she reflected; they were excellent at tending the shrine and seeing to the small needs of their visitors, and their devotion to the Virgin and her Holy Place was remarkable. But when a practical mind and a deft pair of hands were required. .

Each to his own, the Abbess told herself firmly. God calls us all, but sets each of us on a different path.

‘Brother Saul,’ she said, meeting the alert eyes of her secret favourite among the lay brothers, ‘your summary?’

Brother Saul paused, brows together in a frown of concentration as he gathered his thoughts. Then, with admirable brevity, he said, ‘I would judge that the dead man was an habitual and well-travelled pilgrim. The souvenir badges suggest extensive journeys, and both the scrip and the boots show wear. He may have come from far away, he travelled alone, and he liked to keep himself to himself.’ Saul paused again. ‘We know that he sat here, in this very shelter, for the evening meal, and we surmise that he went for a walk before settling for the night, where he encountered his killer.’

‘He was deliberately killed?’ Helewise asked. ‘It cannot have been an accidental death?’

Again, Saul seemed to think carefully about his reply. Then: ‘Had the weapon been a stone, then it might just have been possible that he had slipped and bashed his skull against the stone as he fell. But the thick knot at the top of his staff shows blood and hair, and the hair seems to look very like that of the dead man.’

‘And it is surely beyond the bounds of possibility for a man to kill himself by falling on his own staff,’ Helewise concluded for him.

He nodded. ‘Yes. And, Abbess, there are the wounds to the forehead to consider. A fall could scarcely inflict damage to both the back and the front of the head simultaneously.’

‘Indeed not. Thank you, Brother Saul.’

It was her turn to think. Beside her, Brother Firmin was fretting, his hands busy with the end of the cord that he wore knotted around his waist. He was muttering under his breath, and Helewise wished he would stop. Saul, by contrast, sat still as a rock, eyes focused on some spot in the middle distance.

Presently Helewise said, ‘Are any other pilgrims absent this morning? Who were here yesterday, I mean?’

‘All are present, Abbess,’ Brother Firmin said. ‘No more new arrivals, for which we must thank the good Lord, since it would only add to our burden to have newcomers in our midst, making everything more complicated.’

‘Quite.’ Helewise suddenly turned to Saul; something in Brother Firmin’s little outburst had reminded her of a question she should have asked already. ‘Brother Saul, was there anything about the position of the body to suggest whether the man had been coming to the shrine or going away from it?’

Saul must have been thinking the same thing, for instantly he said, ‘Going away, I would judge, Abbess. I should say that he was walking along the path when somebody crept up on him from behind — perhaps they were tiptoeing in the grass, so as to be quite silent — and struck him from behind.’

‘With his own staff,’ she mused.

‘Aye.’

She met Saul’s eyes. ‘Did they wrest it from him to strike him, then?’

Saul shook his head. ‘I cannot imagine that was how it was, Abbess. Taking the staff from the dead man would have alerted him to the fact that someone was attacking him, and surely, in that case, the heaviest blows would have fallen on the front of his head. They’d have been face to face, wouldn’t they?’

‘Yes, they would.’ She was thinking hard. ‘Then, Brother Saul, can it be that, setting out merely for a stroll, he didn’t take his staff, but left it here, by his bedroll? And that someone else crept in to fetch it, then followed the poor man and killed him?’

Brother Saul began to speak, but Brother Firmin overrode him. ‘Abbess Helewise, you speak of the Holy Vale as if it were a den of thieves and cut-throats!’ he protested. ‘Killers stealing staffs and stalking each other? Caving in each other’s heads on the path? And now some girl has gone missing, they say? Dear Lord above, but all this cannot be true!’

For a tiny instant, Helewise caught a flash of sympathy in Brother Saul’s eyes as he looked at her, as if to say, see what we have to put up with?

She made quite sure her expression was bland as she turned to Brother Firmin. ‘It is shocking and dreadful, Brother Firmin, I agree. Particularly for you who tend this precious place. However, it is not the first time that we have had violent death here, and I do not suppose it will be the last. For the sake of the dead man and, indeed, for all of us, our duty now is to find out what happened, and, with God’s help and if it is within our power, see that the perpetrator is brought to justice.’

‘Amen,’ Brother Saul murmured.

Brother Firmin crossed himself. Then he said, ‘You have Sir Josse d’Acquin in the infirmary, Abbess?’ She nodded. The same thought had occurred to her. ‘Might I suggest that you talk this over with him?’

Her faint irritation with the old monk vanished as she stared into his earnest, anxious eyes. ‘I shall indeed, provided he is strong enough.’ She rose to her feet and, courteously, the two brothers did the same. ‘Thank you both for your help,’ — she nodded to them — ‘and I will keep you informed.’

Brother Saul walked with her back up the path from the shrine to the Abbey. Neither of them spoke until he left her at the gate. Then he said quietly, ‘It’s a nasty business, Abbess Helewise. I shall pray for your success in resolving it quickly.’

It was, she thought as she went into the Abbey, a heartening thing to know that Brother Saul was praying for you.

Josse had reached the stage of convalescence when he was well enough no longer to sleep all day but not sufficiently strong to get out of bed. Not that he hadn’t tried to; contravening Sister Euphemia’s strict orders, he had made an attempt to walk to the latrine. And, just as she had predicted, had fainted and suffered the ignominy of being carried back to his bed.

He had made it clear that he needed someone to talk to, and, to his delight, the cheerful, bubbly Berthe had become his most frequent visitor. Not only did she keep him informed about the small — and not so small — happenings in the community; she also got him playing the most absurd, childish games. It did him good to hear her laugh, and even more good to laugh with her.

A couple of days ago, she had brought her sister Meriel with her. Studying the elder girl’s sad, pale face, Josse had felt a great sympathy for her. He tried to draw her into the conversation, asking her about her work — she was helping Sister Emanuel in the home where elderly nuns and monks were cared for — but the girl was monosyllabic in her answers.

Was this sister in accord with Alba’s order that they all be nuns? Josse wondered. Was her misery a reaction to what was in store for her? Poor lass, it cut deep, he thought, whatever sorrow she bore.

The girls had left his bedside together, Berthe leaning down to give him a kiss on the cheek — she smelt of fresh air — and Meriel giving him a little bow. But, as they left, Meriel turned and smiled at him. And suddenly he had seen what a beautiful young woman she was.

This morning, he had received no visitors. And there had been some sort of a commotion the previous night — someone had been brought into the infirmary very late, and he had heard snatches of whispered conversation.

Nobody had come to inform him what was going on. Nobody seemed to have time for so much as a ‘Good morning, Sir Josse, how are you feeling today and what would you like for breakfast?’ One of the least communicative of the nursing nuns had brought him a wooden tray of bread and one of the infirmarer’s hot, herbal concoctions. It was the one for healing wounds, and it tasted absolutely foul.

All in all, by noon, Josse was feeling thoroughly disgruntled.

When, a little later, Sister Beata came along to usher in a visitor, he was surprised and delighted to see that it was the Abbess.

‘Abbess Helewise, you must have detected my discontent, and been angel enough to respond,’ he began, smiling up at her.

But she neither smiled back nor replied in a similar vein; instead, coming to stand close beside him, she said in a low voice, ‘Sir Josse, trouble has come to us.’ And, briefly and succinctly, she proceeded to tell him all that had happened in the Abbey and the Vale over the past day and night.

His first question, when at last she stopped to draw breath, was, ‘Do you think that the two events — the death and the girl’s disappearance — are connected?’

‘That is what is vexing me most,’ the Abbess admitted. ‘But all that in truth links the two things is their timing. I fear that to treat them as connected may mislead us.’

‘Hmmm.’ Josse scratched his head with his left hand. ‘The dead man had an odd accent, did somebody say?’ The Abbess nodded. ‘And the sisters, Alba, Meriel and Berthe, come from some distance away?’

‘Indeed. Sister Alba mentioned having been in a community at Ely.’

‘Ely,’ Josse repeated. ‘In the Fenlands of East Anglia.’

‘Do men there speak with an odd accent?’ the Abbess asked.

Josse shrugged. ‘I have no idea. But it seems always true that people speak differently in different areas of a country — I know they do in France — so it is fair to say that yes, probably they do in East Anglia.’

‘But it is too little evidence from which to conclude that the dead man and Meriel were known to one another!’ the Abbess exclaimed.

‘I agree,’ Josse said. ‘Let us merely keep it in mind.’

The Abbess seemed to be engaged in her own thoughts; for some moments she did not share them with him. He kept his peace, knowing how irritating it could be when somebody interrupted a line of reasoning that was reluctant to resolve itself.

After a time, she raised her head and met his eyes. But what she said took him completely by surprise; in as normal a tone as if she were announcing that it was time for dinner, she said, ‘I shall have to go to Ely.’

‘What on earth for?’ His response was automatic; with a very little amount of thought, he could have answered his own question.

‘Because that is where they came from. Where Sister Alba came from, anyway. She was in a convent there.’

‘And you know which one?’ Josse had no idea how many religious establishments there were in the vicinity of Ely, but he seemed to remember having been told there were several; apparently the geographic setting of the Fens suited those in search of solitude and the contemplative life.

‘I shall find out,’ the Abbess said with dignity. ‘Then I shall be able to ask Sister Alba’s former superior all the many questions I have been puzzling over.’

‘And that will help you to find Meriel?’

‘Not necessarily,’ she admitted. ‘However, I sorely need to penetrate this screen of secrecy that exists around the girls. They won’t tell me the truth; Sister Alba because she has made up her mind not to, and Meriel and Berthe because they are very afraid of something or someone. Of Alba, for all I know.’ She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I see only one way out of the dilemma, Sir Josse.’

‘Could someone not go for you?’ he asked gently. ‘It is a very long way and, on your own admission, the Abbey is in a time of trouble. Would you not do more good staying here?’

‘Perhaps. But, Sir Josse, I cannot send anybody else on such a delicate matter. Goodness, I should not really be speaking to you of this!’ She looked faintly shocked at her lapse in convent etiquette.

‘I understand,’ Josse whispered. ‘You are, in effect, doubting the word of a professed nun and, because your mind and your conscience cannot rest until you know the truth, you are going to have to go and check up on the tale you have been told. Yes?’

Dumbly she nodded.

What a problem, he thought, relaxing back on to his pillows. And she was right, he could see that — she could hardly despatch even one of her senior nuns to the superior of another convent to ask, did you have a nun called Alba here, and was she any good? I need to know what she told you of her background, because I’m quite sure she told me nothing but a pack of lies.

No. There were some tasks that only the commanding officer could do, and this looked like one of them.

He said, knowing what she would say, ‘Will you not wait for a week or so, and allow me to escort you?’

She gave him a smile of great sweetness. ‘No, Josse, I won’t. For one thing, if I were to agree to that, you would get up and set out before you were ready, and we might well end up back where we started. For another, I don’t believe I should wait at all. Meriel is missing, we know her to be in a very depressed state, and — well, the sooner I discover what lies behind this sorry affair, the sooner we may be able to help her. If, that is, we manage to find her,’ she added under her breath.

‘Now, then, no defeatist talk!’ he muttered back. He felt the bonds imposed by his sickness acutely just then, though, and it was hard to put any levity into his voice.

‘I shall ask at Alba’s convent if they know the whereabouts of the former family home,’ the Abbess was saying. ‘They ought at least to be able to supply the father’s name. I cannot imagine a convent in which a woman arrives with no background and no past.’

‘She did not give you her family name when she came here?’ Josse asked.

‘No, she merely said she had come from another convent. In Ely, as I said. And, before you ask, she provided no details of her sisters’ former lives either, other than to say they were recently orphaned.’

‘If I can’t be of any other help to you,’ Josse said — which in itself was a painful admission — ‘then may I make some suggestions about your journey? I am a not inexperienced traveller, as you know, and perhaps I may be able to ensure a bit of comfort for you on the road.’

She gave him another smile. ‘I was hoping that you would. Please, proceed. I’m listening.’

For some time after that, he went through a list of the preparations he would make for a journey from Kent to Ely. It was, he told her, a good time of year for travelling; the days were lengthening perceptibly, the weather was warm, and a long dry spell meant that the roads would be in a good state. Furthermore, April usually saw the start of the pilgrimage season; although this meant that wayside inns might be busy, that was compensated for by the fact that there was safety in numbers. You were far more likely to reach your destination when the roads were well peopled than as a solitary traveller; then, you were prey to thieves.

But, in any case, she should not, of course, go alone; he was adamant about that. ‘Could Brother Saul be spared?’ he asked. ‘I have always held his sense and his capability in high regard.’

‘So have I,’ she agreed. ‘I shall ask Brother Firmin in such a way that he has no choice but to say yes.’

‘You should take one other,’ Josse said. ‘Another lay brother. It might be best to get Saul to propose someone.’ A thought struck him. ‘Has the Abbey mounts for three?’

She frowned. ‘We have the cob, the pony and the mule,’ she said. ‘Although the mule is very old and weary. Brother Saul can ride the cob — he often does — and I suppose I could ride the pony.’

‘He’s only a small pony,’ Josse said.

‘Yes, but very strong.’ She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘I hope, Sir Josse, that you are not implying I would be too heavy a burden.’

She was a tall woman, and well built, and that was exactly what he had been implying. ‘Er — I — well, of course not, Abbess, it’s just that you have a long road to travel, and-’

Her face alight, she interrupted him. ‘Oh, what a fool I am! I had forgotten, but we do have another horse. A pale chestnut mare, a most beautiful animal, given into our care by-’ Her hand flew to her mouth and she stopped.

But she hadn’t needed to say. Josse knew as well as she did who had ridden a pale chestnut mare. Someone whose new life must surely make caring for an elegant, well-bred mare almost impossible. .

‘You have Joanna’s mare,’ he said tonelessly.

‘Yes,’ the Abbess said quietly. ‘She left her with us. We promised to take care of her — she is called Honey, by the way — and we are allowed to ride her in exchange for her keep.’

‘I see,’ Josse murmured. But he was hardly listening. He was thinking of Joanna. With an effort, he made himself attend once more to the Abbess.

‘. . can’t think of a lay brother small enough to ride the pony, which means we shall still be a mount short, unless we take the mule,’ she was saying.

‘Take Horace,’ he said. ‘He’s at New Winnowlands, but someone can be sent to fetch him. I’m not using him,’ he added bitterly.

‘Horace,’ the Abbess breathed. ‘Oh, Sir Josse, are you sure? Such a valuable horse, and so big!’

‘Get Saul to find a man who’s a good rider,’ Josse said. Suddenly he was weary of talking. Weary of being in pain, weary of being a prisoner in his bed when he wanted to be out in the fresh air, busy with myriad things that would take his mind off his memories.

The Abbess must have understood, for she leaned over him, put a gentle hand on his forehead and said softly, ‘We will speak again before I depart; I cannot go until I have sought and obtained permission from the Archbishop. But for now, dear Sir Josse, rest. Sleep, if you can.’ She hesitated as if not quite sure whether she should go on. Then, deciding, she whispered, ‘You will get better. That I know.’

Then she was gone, leaving him wondering sleepily whether she had referred to his wounded arm or his sore heart.

Probably both.

He woke later from a fretful dream. Something was worrying him, some connection he should have made and hadn’t. . Something important, to do with the Abbess and her quest. .

No. It had gone. He went back to sleep, and this time slept so deeply that, when next he woke, whatever it was that had been troubling him had disappeared without trace.