Whiter than the Lily

21

At Rotherbridge, Josse, Brice and Isabella hardly spoke as they saw to the horses and then went inside. The girl seemed to be recovering a little. She had been muttering during the ride from Saltwych and Josse had moved her so that, for the latter stages of the journey, she had sat astride in front of him, leaning back against him. He hoped that perhaps the fresh air, and being outside in the beautiful day after her long confinement in the hut, had helped her. She had suffered bouts of shivering, and Josse had contrived to fasten the old blanket more securely around her.

Inside Brice’s hall, it was cool and shady. Brice headed straight for the door to the kitchens and hollered for wine and, as soon as it was brought, poured out deep mugs of it for himself and for Josse. Isabella had declined; she insisted on first attending to the girl and so, helped by Josse, the two of them took her through into a smaller room that led off the hall. Brice was sent to fetch warm water, washing cloths and towels; Josse was commanded to collect Isabella’s saddlebag, in which she said she had spare clothes. The sacking garment and the blanket, Isabella said firmly, she would throw out to be burned.

Josse and Brice were on their second mugs of the cool wine when a sudden cry shot them both to their feet. Brice in his alarm threw his mug on to the flagstones and rushed for the door of the little side room.

He yelled, ‘Isabella! Isabella!’ And, with a shout of alarm, flung his weight against the door.

On the journey to Ryemarsh and in the course of the day and a half that she had spent there with Ambrose, Helewise felt that she had learned a great deal about him. He was, as she might have predicted, unfailingly courteous and considerate and, as soon as they were ensconced in his house, he was revealed as a man of authority who knew exactly what he wanted and usually got it instantly. His household seemed to be both deeply in awe of and genuinely fond of him which, in Helewise’s experience, was rare enough to be noteworthy.

She had not known how wealthy he was. His house spoke loudly of his means, from the finely carved wooden furniture in his hall and the richly worked tapestries on the walls to the high standards of his board.

But all the money in the world could not help him in the moment when he first set foot into the home that no longer included his wife. Helewise, walking beside him, felt him falter and she heard him mutter something under his breath. He dropped his head and put a hand up to his face, as if to conceal his emotions from the servants who stood in the hall to welcome their master home.

She waited, uncertain whether or not he would want her to intervene. But in the end she was glad she did not for, from the front rank of the household staff, an elderly man stepped forward and said gently, ‘We are glad to have you home, my lord. We too mourn her and it is good that you are here with the folk who loved her best.’

It was perhaps over-familiar, but Helewise realised that the little speech was just right. Raising his head, Ambrose gave the old man a sketchy smile and said simply, ‘Thank you, Julian.’ Then, turning to Helewise, he said, ‘My lady, may I present Julian, who is the head of my household staff. Julian, this is Abbess Helewise of Hawkenlye. Please give orders for the best guest chamber to be prepared.’

Then, squaring his shoulders in a gesture that went straight to Helewise’s heart, he went into his hall.

In the morning following their arrival, visitors were announced. Helewise, who had been outside strolling in Galiena’s garden, heard the call go up from the courtyard and soon afterwards there came the sounds of a group of horsemen. It is none of my business, she told herself, and resumed her quiet walking. Later Ambrose sought her out and said, with a wry expression, ‘My lady, you have just missed the Queen’s couriers.’

‘Indeed?’ Momentarily having forgotten about King Richard’s humiliating captivity and the huge ransom demand — which she guessed must be the sole preoccupation of the court and its members just now, if not indeed that of the entire country — she wondered what message Queen Eleanor should wish to send to Ambrose Ryemarsh. ‘All goes well with the Queen, I trust,’ she said.

‘I believe so.’ Ambrose paused and then said delicately, ‘I have sent a certain sum already towards the King’s ransom and I am engaged in raising more. The Queen has sent me a letter expressing her thanks for my generosity.’

Still the odd smile remained on his face. Curious, Helewise said, ‘Why, my lord Ambrose, does that amuse you?’

Ambrose’s smile widened. ‘They tell me, my lady, that you are personally acquainted with the Queen?’

‘I have that honour and pleasure, yes,’ Helewise said, a little stiffly.

‘Oh, I share your high opinion of the lady,’ Ambrose assured her. ‘I think, however, that you too will understand why I smile when you read her note.’

He handed to Helewise a roll of parchment bearing the Queen’s distinctive handwriting. Swiftly scanning the note — it was not long — Helewise did indeed smile. The Queen, so clever in her use of words, managed in five short lines to convey her gratitude, her admiration for the speed with which Ambrose had rushed to contribute to the appeal and her heartfelt delight that this was to be but the first of his donations. ‘With the continuing generosity of his most loyal subjects such as you,’ she finished, ‘it surely cannot be long before my precious son our King is once more free.’

‘Had you in fact promised her that you would send more?’ Helewise asked, returning the parchment to Ambrose.

‘Not exactly,’ he replied. ‘Our beloved Queen, it appears, is adept at reading between the lines.’

Helewise studied him. The Queen’s message had come at a good time, she thought, for it gave Ambrose both a pleasant distraction and also reminded him that he had an important job to do. Giving him a brief bow, she said, ‘With such a summons, my lord, you had better get on with your task.’

Returning her bow, he turned and hurried away back to the house, leaving her to reflect on the implications of having discovered quite how high her host rode in Plantagenet favour …

They had finished supper — a light but delicious meal taken at a small table in a cosy corner of the great hall — when, once again, there came the sound of horsemen. Julian appeared from the doorway leading through to the kitchens and, at a nod from Ambrose, went out to see who had arrived.

There was some excited talk, a cry, then nothing.

Ambrose, listening intently, shot to his feet. There was an expression of strain on his face that made it appear that he was suffering in some way.

Helewise, suddenly anxious for him, said calmingly, ‘Ambrose, I am sure it is nothing; will you not sit and finish your meal?’

But he did not appear to hear. Moving slowly, as if sleepwalking, he walked across the hall to the wide doorway. It was a mild evening and the sky was still light, so the door had been propped open to let a soft and sweet-smelling breeze flow through the house.

She got up and followed him.

Standing beside him at the top of the steps leading up from the courtyard, she saw that three horses were being received by the Ryemarsh stable lads. Dismounting from the horses were three — no, four — people.

One was Brice of Rotherbridge, standing beside a woman whom Helewise did not know and who was dressed in a man’s tunic and hose. She wore a wide-brimmed hat pushed back from her face. Another was Josse, and he was supporting the slim frame of a young girl. She too wore man’s clothing and the garments were too big for her. Her face was concealed by the deep hood of a light travelling cloak.

Ambrose was trembling.

Helewise put a hand on his arm and said softly, ‘Ambrose, I am sure that-’

But he shook her off.

He ran down the steps and, to her amazement, threw his arms around the girl in the cloak who, at his approach, stepped away from Josse’s supporting arms and threw herself at Ambrose. There came the sounds of muffled sobs, but Helewise did not know from whom.

Amazed, shocked, she did not know what was happening. Josse must have read her confusion in her face for, hastening across the yard and bounding up the steps, he said, with a huge smile, ‘My lady, we have found her! We have brought her home to him and, other than a weakness which will pass as soon as she begins to eat again, she is fine! Quite unhurt!’

Not daring to believe the sudden hope that flared up in her, Helewise whispered, ‘Who is it?’

And Josse said, ‘It’s Galiena.’

They took her inside and the woman with Brice — presented to Helewise as somebody called Isabella de Burghay — led her away to be washed and dressed in her own clothes. The maids of Galiena’s own household all offered their help but Galiena seemed to prefer Isabella. Judging by the brief impression that she received as the girl was helped across the hall, still in her hooded cloak, Helewise thought that this Isabella must have been important to Galiena in the first moments after whatever ordeal she had been through. For the time being, the younger girl appeared to depend on the woman.

Well, thought Helewise, it is good that she has someone she can turn to.

Ambrose, both bemused and at the same time so happy that he kept throwing his arms around them all, ordered fresh food and drink. Then, while they waited for Galiena to reappear, he pressed them all to eat and drink.

Helewise sought out Josse. ‘You too are unharmed, my friend?’ she asked quietly.

‘Aye.’ He gave her a grin. ‘What joy to find you here, my lady Abbess, the one person with whom I wished to share this triumph! I had envisaged having to wait to give you the good news until I reached Hawkenlye, but here you are!’

‘I rode home with Ambrose because — er, because-’ She found that she was at a loss to explain without either making Ambrose appear weak or herself sound self-important.

But Josse, bless him, said, ‘I think I understand. You helped him to face a home without her.’

And thankfully she whispered, ‘Yes.’

After a moment she said, ‘What happened?’

Josse replied, ‘We do not know the full story yet. Galiena refuses to tell us; she begged our indulgence but said it was only proper that she reveals it first to Ambrose.’

‘So you have had to contain your impatience,’ she murmured. ‘How very trying for you.’

He gave her a sharp glance. ‘Indeed, my lady.’

‘The dead girl whom we buried at Hawkenlye,’ Helewise asked softly, ‘do you know her true identity?’

‘Not so far,’ he whispered back. ‘Galiena implies that she may be able to tell us. You think of her grave, I imagine?’

‘I do. She is buried in our plot as Galiena Ryemarsh but clearly that is not who she was.’

‘Hm.’ He thought for a moment. ‘My lady, if it is necessary I will press the matter for you. It may be that it is overlooked in the excitement of Galiena’s return, but I know that it is important to you and I will help if I can.’

‘Thank you.’ She touched his arm lightly with her fingers. And she thought, dear Josse. Dependable as ever.

When Galiena reappeared, it was obvious that she had taken great trouble over her appearance. Her clear skin shone with cleanliness and her hair had been washed and was still damp; as it dried, its white-blonde colour reappeared. There was a bruise on her forehead and her deep blue eyes seemed overlarge in her pale face. Before she had time to say more than a few words of greeting to the company, Isabella led her firmly over to the table and stood over her while she ate a plateful of food and drank some rich red wine.

Then, with Ambrose holding her hand, she went to sit beside him on one of the benches that Brice and Josse had drawn up before the great fireplace. Brice and Isabella sat on another, Josse and Helewise on the third.

As they settled themselves, Helewise studied the girl’s face. Yes, there was a strong resemblance to the woman who had taken her identity and ridden into Hawkenlye Abbey. But Galiena was lighter in build, shorter in stature and her face was finer-boned. She was also younger, by quite a few years, Helewise guessed. And she had a — how to describe it? An altogether softer quality, she decided. An air of kindness, of generosity, as if anyone approaching her would know instinctively that they had found a friend.

It was no wonder, Helewise thought, that she and the Hawkenlye nuns had formed such a very dissimilar impression of the woman they knew as Galiena Ryemarsh from that which Josse had gained; the Hawkenlye nuns and Josse had unknowingly been talking about two different women.

At last Galiena was ready to speak. Looking first at Ambrose, she said, ‘My dearest, it is through the efforts of three very dear people that I am here returned to you, and I would first give them my heartfelt thanks.’ Standing, she bowed to Josse, to Brice and to Isabella, who in turn got up to return the courtesy. Then, looking at Helewise, she said, ‘My lady Abbess, you and I should have met some days ago, and I wish that it had been so, for many people would then have been spared pain, heartache and death.’ Death! Helewise thought. Well, there was the dead woman at Hawkenlye and also the poor young groom, Dickon, whose body Brother Saul and Brother Augustus had discovered.

Hoping very much that the death toll was not to be any greater, she said, ‘Galiena, I too wish that you had made your way in safety to Hawkenlye and found the help from my nuns that you had hoped for.’

Galiena’s eyes were firm on Helewise’s. ‘I shall come, my lady,’ she said. ‘If I may.’

‘Of course,’ Helewise said. ‘We shall look forward to it.’

‘Sweetheart, will you now proceed with your tale?’ Ambrose prompted gently.

And with an obedient nod she did so.

Some time later, in the soft darkness of the midsummer night, Helewise again walked in Galiena’s garden. Ambrose had taken his wife off to bed some time ago; the young woman was clearly exhausted and had wanted nothing more, once her story was told, than to lie in her husband’s arms and seek the comfort of a long sleep. Isabella had been given a guest chamber next to Helewise’s, and she too had retired, as had Josse and Brice to their own chamber. The three of them had been almost as tired as Galiena and, despite the many things she burned to talk over with Josse, Helewise had seen that it would have been cruel to keep him from his rest.

The only wakeful person in the house, she had waited till all was quiet and then slipped outside. Now, walking alone in the soft, scented night, she went right back to the start of Galiena’s extraordinary story and went through it all over again …

She had had such high hopes of the Hawkenlye nuns. Had known, somehow, that they would be able to help her. And, oh, how she wanted to be helped! To give her beloved Ambrose a child was her dearest wish. And she wanted children too, for her own sake, she who had known such love in her childhood from those generous, big-hearted people who had taken her in and who, in all but the blood, were her true kin. A boy first, she hoped — and, with Ambrose’s permission, we will call him Raelf — and then a little girl. Two little girls. The first we will call after my beloved Isabella, closer to me than any sister, and the second, Audra for my mother.

They set out for the Abbey as soon as they could. Dear Ambrose had not been able to ride with them, preoccupied as he was with the business of the King’s ransom. But it did not matter because Josse d’Acquin offered to escort her part of the way, and young Dickon and Aebba would accompany her on the remainder of the road to Hawkenlye.

She had never liked Aebba and did not welcome her company. She did not care for Aebba to be with her even when she was about her normal daily round and to have her there, a silent and oppressive presence, on this particular journey, with its precious and above all private purpose, was depressing. But Aebba had a claim on Galiena and Galiena did not feel that it was right to send her away.

It happened only a few miles after they had passed New Winnowlands, where they had left Josse. The three of them, Galiena, Aebba and Dickon, were riding on a stretch of track that was shady and dark beneath overhanging trees. Dickon — poor Dickon! — was in the lead, Galiena behind him and Aebba in the rear.

Five men in rough cloaks, their fair hair long and plaited, jumped out on to the track. Four leapt on them, the fifth — who had a woman riding pillion behind him — sat on his horse watching. Dickon was dragged to the ground; Galiena was grabbed by two men who rushed up on either side of her. Spinning round, she screamed to Aebba to help her.

But Aebba just sat there.

Dickon was on his feet, wrestling with the man who had thrown him down, and he managed to cripple his assailant with a knee to the man’s groin.

‘Yes, Dickon!’ Galiena had yelled, wildly struggling with the two men holding her arms. They had pulled her from her horse and she kicked out hard, trying to catch them on their shins. Dickon, hearing her cry, spun round to look at her.

He shouted back, encouraging her — ‘Aye, that’s right, my lady, fight dirty! That’s the way! A heel in the bollocks if you can, then-’

But then the fifth man, who appeared to be the leader of the band, rushed at him, a club in his upraised right arm. He brought it crashing down on the back of Dickon’s head. And Dickon neither fought nor cried out any more.

They wrapped him in some sacking and rolled him in a ditch. They made an attempt to cover him with leaves and branches, but it was not a proper burial. And nobody said prayers for him except Galiena, who said the words silently, for God’s ears alone, as the tears flowed down her face.

In her grief and her shock, they thought to overcome her easily. But as Aebba curtly ordered her to control herself, because there was a long way to go, something in Galiena woke up again. Waiting her moment, she stood drooping until the chance came.

Then, grabbing an unguarded moment, she leapt back into the saddle and, shouting ‘Help! Help!’ at the top of her voice in case some blessed traveller should be within earshot, she raced away. They were after her instantly and, half-turning, she grasped her riding whip and launched a savage, cutting slice at the face of the man nearest to her. As he cried out in pain, the man behind her kicked his horse and came up on her other side, so she slashed at him too. Then she set spurs to her mare’s sides and flew off up the track.

But the two men she had attacked were not badly hurt and there were still three more men and Aebba. Galiena’s resistance did not last long; the men’s horses rode down her gallant mare and soon they were upon her. They took her down from the mare and, as she stood held fast in their firm grip, the woman got down from the fifth man’s horse and swung up into Galiena’s saddle. Then, after a quick exchange with the leader, she and Aebba rode off up the track, westwards towards Hawkenlye.

Galiena was still wondering why the woman was dressed in garments that should have been hanging in Galiena’s own bedchamber when the two women disappeared around a bend in the road.

Now the men took no chances. Her hands were bound behind her back and, to stop her shouting again for help, they stuffed a cloth in her mouth and tied it in place with a length of cord. Then they put a heavy cloak around her and pulled its hood over her head, securing it with more cord until she was trussed so tight that she could hardly move. Then they slung her across the saddlebow of the leader of the band.

Throughout the endless journey to Saltwych, she bounced helpless before him, the cloth in her mouth making it hard to breathe and the hot cloak making the sweat pour off her. They must have passed along secret, hidden byways, for she heard no sounds of any other horses and the only voices she heard during her long ordeal were those of her captors.

Her pride kept her going. She would not give them the satisfaction of hearing her muffled sobs. Biting on the gag, she kept her resolve. And she survived.

They got to Saltwych in the night. Hands on her hips and her shoulders dragged her down from the horse and the cloak was untied and taken off her. In her silk gown, soaked with her own sweat, she stood shivering in the cool air. With her hands still tied behind her and the gag in her mouth, she was taken into the long hall. Past the animals, restless at being disturbed from sleep, past the gawping people who stared at her, bound and captive, until she stood before a blond man in a throne and a man with silver eyes who sat beside him.

The man in the throne wore a circlet around his brows. He said, ‘I am Aelle. You know what I am and what you are to me, for you were told long ago. But you seem to have forgotten us, your blood kin, and we sent Aebba to remind you.’

She could not speak and refused to try. With an impatient curse, Aelle ordered one of her guards to remove the cloth. Her mouth horribly dry, she tried to form words. The silver-eyed man got up, poured water in a cup and, coming to her side, held it to her lips, tipping it carefully so that she could drink without choking.

She drank her fill and then said, ‘Thank you.’

He gave her a grave bow and returned to his seat.

‘Well?’ Aelle’s tone was curt.

Sipping at the drink had given her precious thinking time. Now she said, ‘I know that I am the daughter of the last chieftain and that you, Aelle, are my brother. I know that our father wished to end our long isolation but that you, as soon as he was dead, took our people straight back to the old ways. You sent me away because you feared I would take after our father and, as I grew up, would persuade the people that our father was right and you were wrong.’

Aelle said, ‘You have been well schooled in your own history.’

‘She taught me well,’ Galiena flashed back. Aelle knew whom she meant by ‘she’.

‘And she also told you of the obligations that you owe to your blood kin? How, in return for our having placed you in a position of wealth and influence, you must support us and advance our status via your son?’

‘I have no son!’ she shouted, using anger to disguise the torment. ‘And the wealth that my husband owns is his to disperse as he sees fit!’

‘He disperses it now to bring back the king they call Lionheart!’ Aelle said with icy fury. ‘His wealth that should be yours and your kin’s to share will instead fill the coffers of some foreign duke while we slowly starve!’

‘Ah, now I see!’ She gave a harsh laugh as she understood. ‘I see why you had to do all this, why I have been brought here now to face your threats and insults. Because Ambrose chooses to answer the King’s appeal and you don’t like it! Well, it has all been for nothing because I will not help you!’

There was a short silence; she could almost hear the collective intake of breath of the people nervously listening all around them.

‘Yes, yes,’ murmured Aelle, ‘it is true what Aebba told me. You have strayed too far from your kin, Iduna, and you forget where your true allegiance lies. But you will not leave here until you have not only been reminded of what you owe to us, but you have also managed to convince us that you will mend your ways.’

‘I will not. I will never do as you command me!’

‘Brave words,’ Aelle said, ‘but mere bombast. You know, Iduna, how we treat those who disappoint us.’

She hung her head at that, for it recalled to her another’s pain and the memory hurt. But then she stiffened in horror for suddenly she understood exactly what it was that Aelle was threatening.

Her eyes met his and she breathed, ‘No. You would not.’ Tears running down her cheeks, she whispered, ‘Not Ambrose.’

‘Why not?’ Aelle said silkily. ‘Think on that, Iduna, in your confinement!’

He beckoned to the guards and they advanced on her, one of them still holding her gag in his hands. She cried ‘NO!’, kicking, screaming, trying to bite the hands that came at her. Then someone had hold of her head in a grip that felt like iron and her mouth was forced open. A mug was crushed against her lips and liquid poured into her mouth. But this time it was not pure, refreshing water; Galiena was a herbalist and she knew what it was for she recognised the taste.

It was the poppy solution that brings deep sleep and oblivion. As, against her will and choking, she was forced to swallow, she realised that it was strong; very strong. Then her legs buckled and the world went black.

When she woke she was lying in a round hut and the man with the silver eyes was sitting beside her. Her hands were free but there was an iron shackle round her ankle, and a long chain led from it to a bolt set high in the wooden planking of the wall. She was naked but for a loose garment of sacking. Her skin felt foul and itchy where mud from the beaten earth floor had stuck to her drying sweat.

She urgently needed to pass water. He must have realised, for he pointed to a wooden bucket beside the wall and he stepped outside whilst she used it.

He came back inside, closing the door. ‘This is kept barred on the outside,’ he remarked. ‘You will not escape, Iduna, even if by some miracle you manage to remove the shackle.’

‘I will be missed!’ she cried. ‘I am expected at Hawkenlye Abbey and they will look for me when I do not arrive!’

‘But you have arrived,’ he said smoothly. ‘A woman of your family who strongly resembles you has gone to the Abbey in your place.’ And, horrified, Galiena remembered the woman dressed in stolen clothes; stolen, no doubt, by Aebba from Galiena’s room. ‘She will tell the good nuns that she dismissed her groom and her serving woman as she reached the gates and, to everyone there, she will be Galiena Ryemarsh, come to seek the help of the nuns because she wishes to conceive. Nobody there knows what you look like, child, but, as I say, in any event your replacement resembles you sufficiently to convince the casual observer.’

She will not convince Ambrose, Galiena thought, with a stab of optimism. And they do not seem to know that he also is bound for Hawkenlye and will arrive there soon. And I, she resolved, shall not tell them; it is my only hope that my dear lord will instantly see that this woman who passes herself off as his wife is no such thing.

She wondered for a moment why they should have bothered with the deception; why was it necessary to send an impostor to Hawkenlye? She could see no reason why she should not ask the silver-eyed man, so she did.

‘Ah, because your friends Josse d’Acquin and Brice of Rotherbridge both know that you are going there,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Word may spread that you are expected. If by mischance they too arrive at the Abbey, then your replacement will have to be very careful that she does not let them approach too closely until she has modestly covered her face with her veil.’

Then he gave her water, then another draught of the poppy potion. She slept once more.

The next time she woke it was Aelle who stood before her. He was furious.

Crouching before her, he said, ‘Aebba has returned. She has told us something that has surprised us and that you, little sister, knew all along.’ He pushed her shoulder with some force and she fell back on to the floor. ‘You knew full well that Ambrose was going to follow you to Hawkenlye!’ Aelle shouted.

‘And just why should I have told you?’ she shouted back, as furious as he. ‘It was my one hope that Ambrose would recognise the impostor and raise the alarm!’

Aelle gave a cruel laugh. ‘Well, you hope in vain, Iduna. Aebba is cleverer than you think and, predicting that your replacement’s disguise would readily be penetrated by your husband, she took steps to prevent the unmasking of the deception.’

Cold suddenly, Galiena whispered, ‘How? What did she do?’

‘She drugged him,’ Aelle said, an unpleasant smile on his face. ‘She has been caring for her lord in the absence of his wife and she managed to slip a certain potion into his drink. His bad eyesight combined with a sudden severe mental confusion meant that he would have been persuaded that almost any fair-haired young woman was you. But Aebba, cunning Aebba, took an extra precaution. Do you want to know what it was?’

Slowly Galiena nodded. She could not help herself.

Leaning confidingly towards her — she could smell his rank sweat — Aelle said, ‘She told your replacement to visit the doddering old fool. She instructed her to take some of the special ointment that you had just made for the pains in his joints and told her to sit at his side and lovingly rub it into his hands. Had he entertained any doubts that it was his own beloved wife who crouched there, then he certainly forgot them then. It was your very own potion that she used — Aebba gave it to her — and very few others know the recipe.’ He touched Galiena’s hand, rubbing the skin as if he too were massaging sore joints. ‘It has a very distinctive smell, I believe?’

It did. Oh, dear God, he was right. Even if Ambrose had entertained any doubts — which seemed very unlikely, since they had drugged him — then the arrival of a woman who looked like her and bearing her own secret remedy would surely have driven them away entirely.

Aelle was looking at her and then he said softly, ‘No one will look for you here.’

I am lost, she thought.

The next time they came to force the poppy sedative down her, she did not resist.