Whiter than the Lily

13

Helewise was still pondering on the wisdom of her decision not to send Brother Saul and Brother Augustus chasing after Josse when she woke the next morning. She had been quite sure she was right when she had dismissed the brothers last night; a strong part of her mind told her that they were passing on pagan horror stories and that she should set a good example by giving the frightening old legends no credence.

And, as she had told the brothers, Josse had been offered their company but had declined it. He did not believe he was going into danger. Why, then, should she?

But I do believe it, she thought as she went into the Abbey church for Prime. Although it appears irrational, I fear for him. And, she told herself, fears are none the less real just because we do not perceive the reason for them. Just as this day, dawning so fair and so warm with the sky above clear and blue, holds the promise of rain.

She did not know how she could be so certain it would rain that day, any more than how she was sure that Josse was in danger.

And she did not know what to do.

But, she thought as she entered the great church, I am going to the right place to ask for help.

She went straight back to her room after the office, forgoing her breakfast as an offering to God in return for his guidance. She still did not know what to do.

She had half expected to see Ambrose at Prime; it was not unusual for visitors staying more than a day or two to slip into the habit of worshipping with the community. However, he had not appeared and Helewise concluded that he preferred to remain down in the Vale with the monks. Well, if he found comfort in the company of those good souls and their simple little shrine, then that was fine. As far as Helewise was concerned, the poor man could stay as long as he liked.

Putting her anxiety about Josse firmly to the back of her mind, she reached for the ledger she had been working on yesterday and resolutely set to work. If there were going to be any heavenly guidance, it would arrive in its own good time. Feeling calm for the first time in many hours, she bent her head and picked up her stylus.

Late in the afternoon she was disturbed by Sister Martha, who announced that there was a visitor wishing urgently to speak to the Abbess. Suppressing a sudden excitement, Helewise waited a moment, then said composedly, ‘And who is the visitor, Sister?’

‘He says he’s Brice of Rotherbridge,’ Sister Martha replied, as if she had cause to doubt that the man spoke the truth.

Brice! The man whom Josse suspected of being Galiena’s lover! If Josse were right — and Helewise realised that she believed he was — then Brice was also the man whom she herself had been pitying so deeply because he did not know that his young love was dead.

And I, she thought, shall have to tell him.

She said quietly, ‘Ask him to come in, Sister Martha.’

After a few moments, Brice of Rotherbridge strode into the room and stood in front of her.

She had not met him before, although she had known his late brother. There was a resemblance between them, she thought. She remembered — just in time — that, after the matter concerning his dead wife and her sister, Brice had made a generous donation to Hawkenlye Abbey. As she looked up into his brown eyes, the memory served to provide an opening remark.

‘Some years ago, Sir Brice,’ she said, ‘you gave us a handsome gift. Please be assured that we have used it well.’

‘Of that I have no doubt, my lady Abbess,’ he replied, giving her a graceful bow. Then, a wry expression crossing his face, he added, ‘How very long ago that all seems now!’

‘Four years,’ she murmured. What a lot, she thought, has happened in that time. ‘You wish to see me, Sir Brice?’

‘I do.’ He paused and then said, ‘I am neighbour and, I hope, friend to the lord Ambrose Ryemarsh and his wife. I visited their household with Sir Josse d’Acquin a while ago and I was there when Ambrose and Galiena decided they would visit you here at Hawkenlye, Galiena going on ahead. Although Sir Josse was unable to join them straight away — and I had pressing matters of my own to attend to — the three of them agreed that they would meet here when they could.’ There was a strange light in his eyes, as if, she thought, he were speaking of something weightier than this innocent reunion of friendly neighbours. ‘I have decided that I will join them. I should like, if possible, my lady, to see my friends as soon as possible.’

She made herself hold his glance. Then, speaking quietly and gently, she said, ‘Sir Brice, I deeply regret to have to tell you this, but there has been tragedy here. The lady Galiena did indeed arrive in advance of the lord Ambrose, but, soon after his arrival, Galiena became sick.’

‘She’s sick?’ Something had leapt into his face, some fleeting expression that was there and gone before she could identify it. Now he looked stern. Almost — could it really be? — accusing.

‘She is dead, Sir Brice,’ Helewise said softly. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Dead.’ He repeated the word in a whisper. ‘Dead.’ Then, a hand before his face hiding his eyes, he said, ‘How did she die?’

‘We think she might have been poisoned,’ Helewise said. ‘By accident, of course. Something she picked up in the woods, some-’

But Brice, who apparently knew of Galiena’s skills as well as her father did, protested straight away, ‘No. She walks the fields and woods of her home and there is no plant that she does not know. It is impossible that she would have been so reckless as to taste something that was poisonous.’ Then, removing his hand and fixing Helewise with an angry stare, he added, ‘Unless it were something growing in Hawkenlye’s herb patch.’

Biting down her instinctive reaction to the dismissive — and inaccurate — use of the word patch, she said, ‘It is, of course, a possibility, although my knowledge of Sister Tiphaine, who is our herbalist, tells me that she is far too careful even to think of growing poisonous plants where incautious visitors could pick them. If indeed she grows anything that is poisonous, I am quite sure that it is kept under her strict supervision.’ Already, she noted, the anger was fading from his face. But, to emphasise the point that she was prepared to consider anything, no matter how unlikely, she said, ‘I will ask Sister Tiphaine if she thinks it possible that Galiena could have taken harm from the herb garden.’

‘Oh, don’t bother,’ he said brusquely. ‘I am sure you are right. I spoke in haste and without due consideration. Forgive me, my lady.’

‘Of course,’ she said instantly. ‘You are, I dare say, not yourself.’

‘Not myself,’ he murmured. Then, rubbing at his jaw, his face puzzled, he said again, ‘She’s dead. That lovely, loving young girl is dead.’ Then, his face crumpling with emotion, he said, ‘I’m sorry, my lady, but I just can’t seem to take it in.’

‘I know,’ she said, wanting to comfort him. ‘It is always so hard to understand the ways of God when the young are taken.’

‘She was good!’ he cried suddenly.

The echoes of the word rebounded in the small room. Good, good, good. And Helewise thought, despite herself, despite her sympathy for Brice, was she good? In the eyes of the church she was an adulteress; if not with this handsome fellow standing before me, then with somebody. For if the child she carried were in truth the fruit of Ambrose’s seed, then why had Galiena planned and acted out that elaborate deception?

But it was for God to judge her. And, whatever he had done, Brice needed comfort, that was for sure; he looked shocked and pale and she was worried for him. Standing up, she said, ‘Sir Brice, sit down in my chair here. I will call for a restorative for you.’

Dumbly he did as she said. She went outside into the cloister, summoned a nun with a brief beckoning gesture and, in a low voice, told her to fetch spiced wine from Sister Basilia in the refectory; Sister Goodeth had sent up a cask of a good French wine and the best, Helewise reflected, was only suitable for this man who had once been a benefactor of the Abbey.

While they waited for the wine, she stood staring at him. He had leaned his arms on her table and the dark head was bent over his folded hands. He was well dressed, she noted, in tunic and hose that were plain and undecorated but clearly of good quality. And, she had to admit, he was an attractive man. And he had lived on his own — or so she presumed — since the death of his young wife. A sudden worldly thought intruded and she realised that it was no surprise for him to have taken Galiena as his lover.

But I must not believe Josse so unquestioningly! she berated herself. It was only an impression, he said as much himself, and-

There was a timid tap on the door and a young novice from the refectory came in with a tray, a jug and two mugs. Her hands were rough and red; presumably part of her training involved doing incessant pot-scrubbing. ‘Pour wine just for our visitor,’ Helewise commanded quietly, and the girl did so. She then stood back and waited, head bowed, for further instructions.

‘You may leave us,’ Helewise said. Cross with herself, she could not remember the novice’s name … then, with an effort, she brought it to mind. ‘Thank you, Sister Arben.’

The nun gave her a brief, blushing smile, then hurried away.

Brice observed the exchange over the rim of his mug and briefly his well-shaped mouth twitched into a smile. ‘You have just made that young person very happy, my lady,’ he remarked. ‘To be thanked by so grand a presence as her Abbess — who, what’s more, remembered her name — is a great honour.’

Helewise opened her mouth to make a dismissive remark but, keenly aware that Brice was watching her as closely as she was watching him, changed her mind. Inclining her head slightly, she said, ‘They work hard, our novices. They deserve thanks.’

There was silence as Brice sipped his wine. His colour was improving, she noticed; presently she said, ‘Sir Brice, the lord Ambrose is still here. He lodges with the monks in the Vale where one of our older monks is, I understand, giving him care and comfort. He was quite unwell when he arrived, and-’

‘Unwell?’ Brice’s interruption was stark.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Although he rallied, I am told, after some rest in the infirmary and-’

Again Brice interrupted. ‘But Ambrose is hale and hearty. What ailed him? Why did he need to be treated in the infirmary?’

‘I do not know,’ she said, a degree of frost entering her voice. ‘I was on the point of asking you’ — before you interrupted me, was the implication — ‘if you wished to see him.’

‘Ambrose? No.’

Good Lord above, she thought, is that response relevant? Does this abrupt refusal to comfort a bereaved neighbour imply that Josse is right?

‘It might be a kindness,’ she persisted. ‘Ambrose has lost his wife. The condolences of a friend and neighbour’ — deliberately she used Brice’s own words — ‘could be of comfort to him, do you not think?’

He stared at her. ‘I cannot see Ambrose,’ he said.

Because you were his wife’s lover and you feel guilty? Helewise wondered, but she kept her peace and waited.

‘I must go to Galiena’s kin and take them the terrible news of her death,’ he said heavily.

‘There is no need,’ Helewise said. ‘Sir Josse was here and he has already fulfilled that sad mission.’

There was a moment’s silence, then Brice said, ‘They will be broken hearted. Especially — They all loved her well.’

She had not realised that Brice knew Galiena’s adoptive family and, fleetingly, she wondered if he was aware that they were not Galiena’s blood kin. But then, she supposed, country families did tend to be familiar with each other, and it was probably only natural that Brice, a friend of Ambrose and his wife, should also be acquainted with her family. ‘Yes. It is to be hoped that they may take comfort in each other.’ And in their faith in the Lord’s mercy, she would have added, but for some quality in Brice that suggested he would not want to hear the words.

‘You mentioned Josse,’ Brice said. ‘Is he here now?’ Suddenly he seemed more animated.

‘No.’ Should she tell him what Josse had discovered, and what it had led to? Where he now was, God protect him?

‘Then where is he?’ Brice demanded.

She stared at him, her mind racing. Something was telling her to confide in this man, that it was not only sensible but imperative.

And, indeed, why should she not?

She took a breath and said, ‘He discovered at Readingbrooke that Galiena is not the true daughter of the family there but that she was adopted as a baby.’ Brice’s face was impassive, giving no clue as to whether or not this was news to him. ‘They told Josse that she came from a place out on the far reaches of the Marsh, over on the Saxon Shore. It was a place called Deadfall.’

‘Who told him that?’ Brice demanded. ‘Was it Raelf?’

‘No.’ She tried to remember exactly what Josse had said. ‘No, not Raelf. Her mother — her adoptive mother — came out as Sir Josse was leaving and explained. She spoke with Sir Josse and told him about Deadfall.’

‘Aye, I know the lady Audra,’ Brice said, with a degree of impatience. He was frowning deeply, apparently thinking hard on matters that did not please him.

Helewise decided that, strong man that he was and, without a doubt, suffering deeply from the news of Galiena’s death, still it was time to remind him where he was. And, more importantly, who she was; his habit of speaking dismissively might be all very well when he was addressing servants but it was not appropriate when conversing with the Abbess of Hawkenlye.

Pride, she thought ruefully. Still I have pride, for all that I tell myself that it is not myself whom I defend but the office that I hold.

She said quietly, ‘Are you feeling better, Sir Brice? Has the wine helped you to recover yourself after the ill tidings?’

Instantly he was on his feet, out of her chair and coming round the table to stand before her. ‘Aye, my lady, your cellarer keeps a fine wine and it has indeed helped. I apologise for my bluntness,’ he went on disarmingly, ‘I spend too little time with women of quality and I forget how to conduct myself.’ Now for the first time he smiled properly at her and she was surprised at the difference it made to his face; she was right, he was handsome. Very handsome.

She inclined her head. ‘I understand,’ she murmured. ‘And bluntness, in its place, is no bad thing.’

He stood staring down at her; tall though she was, he stood half a head taller. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said.

‘You don’t like what?’

He gave a brief exclamation of impatience but it was, she realised, with himself. ‘Again, I apologise. Despite your intelligence, my lady, there is no reason why I should expect you to be a mind reader. I am not happy that Josse has gone alone to Deadfall. He has gone alone?’

Fighting her own private battle against the pleasure it gave her to have a fine, good-looking man praise her intelligence, she said, too brusquely, ‘Yes he has. I suggested he take two of my more reliable and useful lay brothers with him but he said he did not see that there was danger in his mission and preferred to ride alone.’ Suddenly picturing Josse’s face with vivid intensity, she said softly, ‘He was afraid, Sir Brice, but he was fighting it. He had a childhood fear of the very name and he said he must fight his demons alone.’

‘Demons,’ Brice murmured. Then he said, ‘He has good reason to fear the place, my lady Abbess. And, forgive me, but I can’t see that two feeble old monks could have been much help to him.’

‘Brother Saul and Brother Augustus are neither old nor feeble,’ she said roundly. ‘Would I have suggested them had they been so?’

He grinned. ‘No. Of course you wouldn’t. They are handy with a sword, are they? Able to spot an ambush and take necessary avoiding action?’

‘They do not bear swords,’ she said with dignity. ‘But they would defend Sir Josse to the death if necessary.’

He looked shamefaced. ‘Again, I apologise. If it is any consolation to you after my rudeness, I believe that you were right to propose that Josse did not go alone. It is a pity that he refused to take your advice.’

‘You think he is in danger?’ She could not keep the anxiety out of her voice and she noticed that Brice gave her a very considering look.

‘I — Deadfall is a strange place,’ he replied. ‘It is, as you understood, on the fringe of the Great Marsh, over on the east coast where the land has built up behind the shingle barrier. It lies under the inland cliff where men of old built a fort, above an inlet that gave access to a wide, safe haven that was not reached by the angry seas.’ He was still looking at her but seemed to be focusing on something far away. ‘The inlet filled up and the people went away.’

‘The people in the fort, do you mean?’

‘No, not them. Later, long after they had gone, men built dwellings on the marshland in the summer, when it was relatively dry, and they extracted the salt. But the creek silted up and there was nothing to keep them there. It became a lonely, desolate place. Not a habitation for the good and the godfearing. I-’ But, with a very apparent effort, he broke off.

‘Yet Galiena’s blood kin lived there,’ she said, frightened without knowing why.

‘They did,’ Brice agreed, ‘and I believe that they do still.’

She sensed impatience in him, restlessness that was spurring him on. ‘Will it take you long to get there?’ she asked.

Now he laughed aloud. ‘I was wrong, my lady, when I said I could not expect you to be a mind reader! It is a day’s ride, even on a fast horse. I will be there tomorrow. I will find him and, if it is required and it is in my power, I will help him.’ He took her hand and, bowing over it, added, ‘You have my promise.’

Speechless — for too many conflicting thoughts and emotions were flying through her head — she let her hand drop to her side and watched as he paced out through the door and, with a clink of spurs that reminded her poignantly of Josse, hurried away.

It was only long after he had gone that she thought to wonder how it was he came to know so much about Deadfall.