The Tavern in the Morning

Chapter Six

Helewise was feeling well again.

Three days’ total bed rest had done the trick. She was a robust woman, and, as Sister Euphemia remarked, it had only been necessary for her to act sensibly and take to her bed, which had allowed Mother Nature to do the rest.

Sitting at her table once more, the truckle bed and the brazier — such signs of weakness! — removed, out of sight and out of mind, she was eagerly going through Sister Emanuel’s entries in the accounts ledger.

She was, although she didn’t admit it to herself, looking for mistakes.

There weren’t any.

Sister Emanuel, whose usual duties revolved around the care of the elderly folk in the retired nuns’ and monks’ house, was an educated woman. She was — and this was another thing Helewise didn’t care to admit — probably more learned than her Abbess.

Helewise came to the end of Sister Emanuel’s entries. Closing the heavy ledger, she folded her hands on top of it and tried to empty her mind of the many other items clamouring for her attention.

I resent the fact that another nun has just proved herself as capable as I over this matter of keeping the accounts in a neat, legible hand, she thought, spelling it out relentlessly to herself. My pride is bruised, because she can do a task I liked to think only I could do.

This I must confess, and I must do penance. Pride is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, and particularly ill-housed in a nun.

Then I shall humbly ask Sister Emanuel if, amid her busy life, she can find the time to help me out by taking on the task of keeping the accounts ledger up to date.

That, Helewise was well aware, was going to hurt.

All the more reason, said her conscience firmly, to do it. When it hurts, it means it is important.

What, then, shall I do with the spare time I shall have bought for myself? she wondered. Then, as she sat there, still trying to empty her mind so as to make it receptive, she remembered a scheme she had dreamed up long ago, in the heady days when she had just been appointed Abbess of Hawkenlye and believed she could change the entire religious world single-handedly.

I shall teach my nuns to read and write.

Oh, not all of them! That would be impossible! For a start, there are too many, and secondly, many are not … She tried to find a way of expressing the fact that many were not bright enough for such skills without it seeming patronising or condescending (which would have added to her present weight of pride). Many are possessed of talents that do not suit them to the acquiring of literacy, such as skill with plants or animals, the ability to sew beautiful embroidery, a tender and patient hand with the sick.

Was that all right? she asked the Lord timidly.

She found herself suddenly feeling much happier. As if she had been … lifted. Taking this as a sign of the Almighty’s approval, she got up and went in search of Sister Emanuel.

* * *

When the company of Hawkenlye Abbey was leaving the Abbey church after Nones, there was a sudden commotion at the gate. Helewise hurried across to join Brother Saul, Sister Martha and Sister Ursel: Sister Martha was holding the reins of a large, heavy horse, soothing him and gently stroking his nose; Brother Saul and Sister Ursel were bending over the figure who had just slid off the horse’s back.

‘It’s SirJosse!’ Sister Ursel said, which Helewise had just seen for herself. ‘He reached out to push at the gate, fell off his horse, and had landed on the ground before I could rush out to aid him!’

‘He’s barely conscious,’ Saul said. He was sitting on the hard earth, with Josse’s head cradled in his lap. ‘He’s been hurt — there’s a bandage round his head.’

‘Sister Martha, would you please take Sir Josse’s horse into the stables and see to him?’

‘Of course, Abbess.’ Sister Martha led Horace away.

‘Brother Saul, can we, do you think, help Sir Josse between us to the infirmary, or should I summon help?’

‘I can walk!’ Josse said from the ground.

‘Come, then, Sir Josse,’ Saul said, helping him up, ‘the Abbess here and I will support you.’

Helewise went round to Josse’s other side, and they half dragged him the short distance across to the infirmary, where Sister Euphemia, assessing her latest patient with a practised eye, put a hand to his forehead, nodded and said, ‘No fever. Put him in the little cubicle at the end, please. No need to make him lie with my fever patients.’

Helewise and Saul did as they were ordered. Then Sister Euphemia shooed them out. ‘My nuns and I can manage now, thank you,’ she said firmly.

And Helewise, longing to ask Josse a dozen questions, had to nod meekly and leave.

* * *

Sister Euphemia came to report to her soon afterwards.

‘A bad blow on the head,’ she said, ‘which, according to Sir Josse, happened three nights ago. He’s confused, though, and he may not really know for sure. Says he was following someone through the woods, and was struck from behind. That he was, indeed. He was cared for, so he says, by some woman.’ Euphemia gave a sniff. ‘Put a poultice on his head, she did.’ Another sniff, as if Euphemia had trouble with the concept of anyone but herself having sufficient wits and knowledge to apply a poultice properly.

‘And did her nursing have any effect?’ Helewise made sure to keep her tone neutral.

‘Aye,’ Euphemia admitted grudgingly. ‘He’s on the mend. Leastways, his wounds are. But I reckon he’s still suffering from concussion. He’s complaining of dizziness — which was how come he fell off his horse, and that wasn’t the first time, either, when he came a cropper outside our gates. He says he’s been on the road since first light, only he fell off earlier, and must have lain senseless for some time before he came to again.’

‘Oh, dear,’ Helewise said, frowning in anxiety. ‘This sounds serious.’

‘Don’t you fret now, Abbess dear,’ Euphemia reassured her. ‘He’s a tough one, is Sir Josse. It’ll take more than a bash on the head and a couple of tumbles off his horse to keep that one down!’

‘I pray you are right.’ Helewise hesitated. ‘May I visit him, Sister? I must admit, I’m longing to talk to him. Or would it be better to let him rest?’

‘I think he’d rest better if he talked to you first,’ Euphemia said. ‘He’s fretting, see.’ She gave Helewise a speculative look. ‘Seems there’s something he wants to tell you.’

* * *

Josse looked, Helewise thought, stepping into the curtained-off cubicle where Euphemia had put him, pretty dreadful. She opened her mouth to say something bracing, but he got in first.

‘Don’t even try,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m quite sure I look as bad as I feel.’

She folded her hands in her sleeves and said, ‘Sister Euphemia says you wanted to speak to me.’

‘Aye.’ His voice dropping, he said, ‘Can we be overheard?’ She glanced out through the hangings. ‘No.’

He beckoned her closer. ‘Only it’s a secret. I gave my word I wouldn’t tell, but I’ve stumbled into a right clutch of adders,’ he said softly. ‘On the trail of little Tilly’s handsome stranger, I saw a man in Tonbridge Castle who wasn’t there, and, when I tried to trail him, he ended up following me. Then, when he surprised me, he hit me hard enough to half kill me.’ Leaning forward so that he spoke almost into Helewise’s ear, he whispered, ‘I was saved by a child with incredibly blue eyes, whose mother is plainly so desperate to keep her whereabouts a secret that I felt obliged to leave her before I should have done.’ Sinking back, he said, ‘And here I am.’

Helewise, trying and failing to make sense of what he had just told her, wondered if he were still fuddled. ‘A man who wasn’t there?’ she asked softly. ‘What does that mean?’

‘I was told nobody was at home,’ Josse said irritably. ‘In the castle. At Tonbridge. The Clares have gone to some other residence of theirs, to escape the sickness down in the valley. Their man told me nobody was at home, but I saw him. The man. Then I waited, and, when he sneaked out at dusk, I followed him.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Helewise nodded. ‘Was he the man from the inn?’

‘I don’t know.’ Josse frowned, the movement of his brows bringing his fresh white bandage down low over his eyes. ‘Every instinct tells me he was, but I have no grounds whatsoever for saying so.’

‘Assuming he was,’ Helewise said tentatively, ‘why should he attack you? Because he knows you’re investigating the death at the inn, and he’s afraid you’ll find out something he doesn’t want you to?’

Josse said tiredly, ‘Abbess, we don’t even know that the man at the inn is involved in the death! In fact, since he himself seems to have been the intended victim, then he’s surely the last person we should suspect. A man’s hardly going to poison himself, now, is he?’

‘No, no.’ It was her turn to frown. After a moment’s thought, she said, ‘Sir Josse, what about this? Somebody else knew why he had come to Tonbridge. They tried to stop him — with the poisoned pie — but the wrong man died. Now this stranger is pursuing whatever brought him here, and that’s why he attacked you. Because he must keep his purpose here a secret. Which surely points to its being something suspicious? Something, can we propose, to do with your mysterious woman hiding in the woods?’

‘You reason well, Abbess.’ He gave her a weak grin. ‘As ever. But no!’ he said suddenly. ‘What of our earlier conclusion, that he can’t have been here for any evil purpose because, if he had been, why advertise his presence by spending the evening at the inn?’

‘Oh.’ Helewise felt deflated. But then she said, ‘Unless he had to go to the inn!’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know … to meet someone? To seek information?’

‘Hm.’ Josse closed his eyes, and, in repose, Helewise saw the lines of pain and fatigue in his face.

‘You need to sleep,’ she said, moving away from his bed. ‘Let me worry over this puzzle for a while, Sir Josse.’

He opened his eyes again. ‘I wish you joy of it,’ he murmured. Then, making a visible effort, he added gallantly, ‘I can think of nobody more likely to come up with an answer.’

* * *

His faith in her was, she had to admit as she prepared for bed that night, generous but ill-founded.

The trouble was, there was so much that they had to assume.

That Tilly’s stranger and the man who attacked Josse were one and the same, for one thing. That the man had been searching for the mysterious woman, for another. Oh. dear, this was getting them nowhere!

She lay down, wondering if there were any chance at all of quieting her mind to enable her to sleep.

Poisoned pie. An attack in the woods, a child with blue eyes, a poultice that managed to win Sister Euphemia’s vote of approval.

Something was stirring on the very edge of Helewise’s mind. Mentally, she ran towards it, only to have it recede.

Go to sleep, she ordered herself. There’s nothing more to be done tonight.

* * *

She went to see Josse in the morning, after Tierce. He looked better, but was very drowsy. Helewise was quite relieved when Sister Euphemia asked her not to stay with him long. She had nothing to tell him, and didn’t want to admit it.

Back in her room, she was surprised a little later by Sister Ursel announcing a visitor.

‘A man, Abbess, well-dressed, well-set up, like.’

‘I see, Sister. And his name?’

‘He says he’s Denys de Courtenay, Abbess. Means not a jot to me.’

Nor to me, Helewise thought. ‘Did he say what he wanted?’

‘He did not. A private matter, for your Abbot, he said. Course, I put him right on that, soon as you like!’

‘You’d better show him in, Sister Ursel.’

A stranger, Helewise thought as Sister Ursel went to fetch the visitor. Anybody familiar with the area would know that Hawkenlye Abbey was headed by an Abbess …

Sister Ursel opened the door, announced, ‘Denys de Courtenay,’ then, with a brief nod to the Abbess, departed.

The man stood just inside the door. Helewise looked at him, briefly taking in his details. Quite tall, with dark, shiny hair, worn a little longer than was the fashion. Dark eyes, with a particularly watchful look. Handsome face, wearing a wide smile. Clothes well-made, the colours chosen carefully to blend together pleasingly; dark red hose, tunic of a slightly lighter shade.

A man, Helewise thought, who was aware of his impact on others and who enhanced it to the utmost of his ability.

A man whom she mistrusted on sight.

‘Come in and be seated,’ she said, indicating the wooden stool she kept for guests.

‘So kind, Abbess — er — Helewise.’ The smile stretched still wider, revealing white, even teeth. ‘Good of you to see me. I am most grateful.’

‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?’ she asked, making herself return his smile.

He laughed. ‘No, no, of course not!’ He lowered himself on to the stool. ‘I meant only that you must be busy and I am intruding on your time.’

‘We are here to help those who ask it of us,’ she said.

‘I do ask your help,’ he said, his voice urgent suddenly. ‘For your prayers and your help. In a delicate matter, indeed, a family matter, one which has brought me here in wretched anxiety, eager to offer my support and my comfort, only-’ He smiled at her again. ‘But, no. I must begin at the beginning.’

‘It would be best,’ she agreed. I must keep an open mind! she told herself firmly. But, fighting as she was with the instinct that told her she was witnessing a very clever, calculated piece of play-acting, she knew it wasn’t going to be easy. ‘Pray, begin.’

He sat in silence for a moment, eyes raised towards the ceiling, hands pressed together, for all the world as if he sought heavenly guidance. Then, bringing his gaze to rest on Helewise, he said, ‘Abbess, I have a niece, by name Joanna. She is lost, and I fear for her very life.’ He leaned forward, as if increased closeness could convince her of his sincerity. ‘Both her parents are dead and her elder brother died in infancy, the year after she was born. She is alone, Abbess, and this is not a fit world for a girl alone!’

‘How old is she?’

He gave a short, indulgent laugh. ‘I say a girl, for indeed that is how I think of her, the dear child. But, let me see…’ He made a pretence of calculating, counting on his fingers. ‘She would be twenty-four years old now! In faith, I can scarce believe it!’ He laughed again. ‘How they do grow, Abbess!’

‘Quite,’ Helewise said. ‘How does she come to be lost, sir?’

‘Ah, Abbess, a terrible tale! She was wed, to an older man, yes, but a fine one. He cared for her, cherished her, showered gifts and trinkets on her, and made her lady of his estates. But tragedy struck, for he was out hunting when he was thrown from his horse and killed! Dead before they got him back to his own hall, God rest his soul.’

‘Amen,’ said the Abbess. ‘How shocking it must have been for your niece, to lose a husband in such circumstances. When did this happen?’

‘A much-loved husband,’ Denys said, ignoring her question. ‘Much loved, despite the difference in their ages.’ He seemed, Helewise noticed, strangely insistent on the point. ‘Yes, a shock indeed. And, Abbess, I hate to say this, but the horror of it unhinged my niece.’

‘Unhinged her?’

‘Yes.’ He gave a dramatic sigh. ‘Before his family could step in and take care of her, she had run away! Can you believe it, Abbess Helewise? She packed up a few belongings, crept out at dead of night and was gone! Lost!’

‘A worrying business,’ Helewise said. ‘And presumably you have reason to believe she may have come here? To Tonbridge, you think?’

He edged the stool even closer. ‘I believe it may be a possibility, yes. I — she-’ For the first time he hesitated. Then, as if he realised he had no option but to respond to what was, after all, a perfectly reasonable question, he confided, ‘She has a friend hereabouts. A woman. I’m not sure where she lives, but I do recall hearing Joanna speak of her.’

‘And you think this woman may be caring for your niece?’

‘It’s the only thing I can think of!’ Denys de Courtenay flung his hands up in an expansive gesture. ‘No family of her own, as I said, save myself! And, for reasons which I cannot even begin to guess, she wished to distance herself from her late husband’s kin.’

She also wished to distance herself from you, Helewise thought. Or so it appears. ‘She did not try to contact you?’ she asked.

‘She — ’ The smile spread out across the handsome face, white teeth gleaming in the smooth, olive skin. ‘Abbess, she had no way of knowing I was at present in England.’ Leaning confidingly towards her again, he whispered, ‘She knows me to be a King’s man.’ He nodded as if in confirmation of his words. ‘Joanna, I am certain, would have believed me to be in Outremer. With the King.’

He obviously expected her to be impressed, so she said, ‘Indeed! With King Richard!’

He looked smug. ‘I have enjoyed the great privilege of being permitted to be of use to His Majesty in the past, I have to own. He knows he can depend on me, when he needs a good man in a fight.’ He examined the long fingernails of one hand.

‘But not this particular fight,’ Helewise said softly. ‘This supreme fight in which King Richard is now engaged, to regain the Holy Places.’

Denys de Courtenay raised his head and glared at her. The unctuous charm had quite vanished, and, for a split second, she saw something feral, something infinitely sinister and cunning, in his dark eyes.

He recovered as swiftly. So swiftly that she could almost have thought she had been mistaken.

Almost.

‘Abbess, Abbess,’ he smiled, ‘what can you know of the world of fighting men?’ Quite a lot, she could have answered. ‘I see I must enlighten you!’

‘Please, don’t trouble yourself,’ she said quickly. ‘My ignorance must remain, for there are weightier matters for our attention. You were speaking of your niece’s friend, the woman with whom she may be lodging.’

‘Yes, yes, so I was.’

‘What is the woman’s name?’

Again, there was that strange reluctance to divulge details. Instead of answering Helewise’s question, Denys said, ‘I suppose it is too vain a hope to ask if she has been here? Joanna, that is?’

‘Here?’ After her initial surprise, suddenly Helewise was quite sure this was what de Courtenay had been leading up to. The simple question: have you seen her? Then why all the rigmarole? Why all the acting? ‘Has she been to the Abbey, do you mean? Or to the Holy Shrine down in the Vale?’

She thought it was the first he had heard of any Holy Shrine. ‘Oh — here, I meant. Seeking food or shelter, perhaps…?’

‘I recall nobody named Joanna among our recent visitors,’ Helewise said. ‘More importantly, for she could easily have used a different name, I recall no young noblewoman. Our visitors, sir, tend more usually to be the poor and the sick.’

‘Of course, of course,’ he said smoothly.

‘What name does she go by?’ Helewise asked. ‘I ask in order that I may enquire of my nuns, monks and lay brothers, those, that is, who have dealings with the outside worlds.’

He had got to his feet, and she thought for a moment he wasn’t going to answer. His expression was stern, distracted, almost …

Then, replacing the seriousness with another smile, he said, ‘Her name? Did I not tell you?’

‘No,’ Helewise said. ‘You only said she was called Joanna.’

‘She was born Joanna de Courtenay,’ he said, ‘the daughter of one Robert de Courtenay.’

‘Your brother.’ So must the woman’s father have been, for Denys de Courtenay to be her uncle.

‘No, Robert de Courtenay’s father and my father were brothers.’ Denys laughed lightly, as if indulging a perfectly natural mistake.

‘Then,’ Helewise persevered pedantically ‘I believe that makes you and Joanna second cousins, or in fact first cousins with one degree of removal. But not uncle and niece.’

‘Does it indeed?’ He laughed again. ‘I never was very good at the complicated network of kin relationships. Not that it matters the smallest bit!’

‘Only if you wished to marry her,’ Helewise observed. ‘Second cousins have been known to be wed, given the proper dispensation, whereas uncle and niece cannot, such unions being commonly regarded as incestuous.’

There was an instant’s icy silence in the room. Then Denys de Courtenay swept his cloak across his shoulder, bowed to Helewise and said, ‘Ah, well. There it is. Now, I fear, Abbess Helewise, that I have wasted your time.’

‘But what of your niece’s friend?’ Helewise said. ‘Her woman friend? Surely-’

But he acted as if he hadn’t heard. Bowing low, he said, ‘I would ask, Abbess, that you and your nuns keep Joanna in your prayers. If it please God, I pray that she and I may soon be reunited.’ His eyes on Helewise’s, he went on, ‘You will tell me if you hear word of her, won’t you? Or if, by God’s grace, she comes here?’

Helewise didn’t want to undertake that she would. Adopting her guest’s evasive tactics, she said instead, ‘And how will we find you to tell you, if we do have news?’

He said, ‘No need for that. I will find you.’

And just why, Helewise wondered, does that sound so ominously like a threat?

‘Now,’ de Courtenay was saying, ‘I have, as I said, taken up far too much of your precious time, so I will take my leave.’

Bowing again, he had let himself out and closed the door behind him before Helewise could say another word.

It did not occur to her for some time that, if Joanna de Courtenay had been married, then her name must now be something other than de Courtenay.

Something else which her uncle — in fact, her cousin — had chosen not to divulge.

* * *

She went straight over to tell Josse.

He was awake, in the middle of eating what appeared to be quite a substantial meal. He was, as she had hoped, riveted by what she had to say.

‘He has to be Tilly’s handsome stranger!’ he said, his mouth full of boiled hare. ‘Your description and hers tally far too closely for him not to be.’

‘It does seem likely,’ she agreed. ‘Denys de Courtenay. A King’s man. Have you ever heard of him, Sir Josse?’

Josse shook his head. ‘No, but that alone doesn’t mean he’s lying. About his royal connections, anyway. And, if he was the man I saw at Tonbridge Castle, that implies a link with the Clares and they certainly have court connections.’

‘If, if, if,’ Helewise said dismally.

‘One less if now!’Josse reminded her.

‘Probably,’ she said.

‘Oh, Abbess, let’s be rash! It is the same man!’

‘Very well. Which leads to the next question: is your mysterious woman in the woods the missing Joanna de Courtenay?’

‘She could well be,’ Josse said. ‘Although her name is not de Courtenay, or, at least, her son’s name isn’t. It’s de Lehon, and it’s a French name.’ He fixed Helewise with an intent look. ‘Did this Denys say she’d lived in France?’

Helewise thought back. ‘No. But, there again, he didn’t say she hadn’t. He was, as I said, very reluctant to tell me anything definite.’

‘Strange,’ Josse mused. ‘And, Abbess, I’ll tell you what else is strange. Your friend Denys didn’t seem to know that Joanna had a son. Did he?’

‘He didn’t mention any child,’ Helewise agreed.

There was a reflective silence. Josse finished his meal, wiped his hands, and, taking a long drink, lay back on his pillows. ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ he offered. ‘Well, I’ll tell you two.’

‘Yes?’

‘First, if he’s the man responsible for my sore head, then it’s just as well we didn’t come face to face just now. I should not want blood spilled in the sacred confines of Hawkenlye Abbey.’ He smiled at her, but she wasn’t at all sure that he wasn’t deadly serious.

‘And the second thing?’

‘If we’re right in our guessing and it is Joanna whom de Courtenay is searching for, then, believe me, she doesn’t want him to find her.’

Helewise saw the man again in her mind’s eye. Tall, strong, oozing a charm that was far too obviously false. And, worst of all, that frightening moment when he had lowered his guard and allowed her to see him for what he really was.

She shivered. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I believe you readily enough.’ She raised her eyes to meet Josse’s. ‘And, having met him, truly, I can’t say that I blame her.’