Whiter than the Lily

6

At New Winnowlands, Josse was engaged in the same sort of task that had been absorbing the Abbess of Hawkenlye. A quarter of his annual income. He had heard the phrase bandied about, had said it himself, but, until this moment when he was actually facing what it meant in the harsh light of day, he had not quite appreciated just what it was going to entail.

Josse was not a wealthy man and his modest estate of New Winnowlands, although well managed and reasonably profitable, was not going to make him one. But he was and always had been a true King’s man and, if asked, would have said he’d willingly give all that he had to release Richard from his dishonourable, humiliating captivity and bring him safely home again. However, now that he was having to turn words into action and come up with the money, he was discovering that his feelings were not quite as wholehearted as he had believed them to be. A niggling little thought kept saying, well, the King’s got himself into this mess so why should his loyal people have to pay so heavily to get him out of it? Is it really right that we shoulder the burden in this way?

He sat for some time, a deep frown on his rugged face, allowing rein to this traitorous thought. Then, with a sigh, he picked up his quill and laboriously began to write out figures; writing was not a skill that came readily to him, any more than reading was, which made the task even more unwelcome. But his innermost sentiments would have to remain secret. After all, it was not a question of giving only if you felt you would like to. However you looked at the matter, Josse concluded, paying up was horribly inevitable. There was no point in moaning so he had better get on with it.

When at last he had finished, he felt that he deserved a reward and the first thing that sprang to mind was a visit to Hawkenlye. He had a ready-made excuse — not that he truly felt he needed one — in that he had recommended the nuns’ care and skill to Ambrose and Galiena Ryemarsh. And, indeed, he had proposed that they renew their pleasant new acquaintance over at Hawkenlye, hadn’t he? The young woman would be there now, he thought, and probably the old husband would have ridden over to join her. Deciding that he would like to see the business through to whatever conclusion it might reach, Josse summoned Ella and asked her to prepare a small pack for him as he was planning a few days’ absence from home.

With a brief nod, she turned and put her foot on the first of the short flight of steps leading up to Josse’s sleeping chamber. Then, almost as an afterthought, she said, ‘Give my respects to the Abbess, sir.’

Josse, wondering how and when he had come to be so predictable, got up and went to tell Will to fetch Horace from the paddock.

It occurred to him as he set off that Brice of Rotherbridge might like to join the party at Hawkenlye, especially since Brice appeared to be a good friend of the Ryemarshes and to have their interests at heart; had it not after all been he who had introduced Josse to Ambrose and his young wife as one who knew Hawkenlye and its good works? It was only a short detour to Brice’s manor and so Josse turned Horace’s head and set off to find his neighbour.

Brice was not at home. His stable lad, Ossie, said that the master had set out at first light two days ago and that he was not expected home before nightfall of that day at the earliest. ‘Like as not ’e won’t be back afore tomorrow, ’e said,’ Ossie added. In response to Josse’s enquiry about where Brice had gone, Ossie shrugged. ‘’E didn’t say.’

Wondering why Brice’s journey to some undisclosed destination should seem sinister, Josse nodded to the lad, set off down the track and told himself not to be fanciful. But against his will he saw again Brice’s air of tense expectancy when they sat in Ambrose Ryemarsh’s hall. Saw in his mind’s eye the suppressed excitement in Brice’s handsome face. And, although he tried to stop himself, Josse recalled what he had thought then.

Was he right? Dear Lord, he prayed that he was not.

But, either way, it seemed likely that joining Galiena and her husband at Hawkenlye promised to answer a few questions.

He did not hurry on his ride to the Abbey. The day had started warm and, as the sun rose higher in the sky, warm became hot and then very hot. In the early afternoon, he found a patch of deep shade in a place where willows grew along a stream bank and, unsaddling Horace, he tethered the horse by the water and threw himself down on the cool grass. Ella had packed bread, a thick slice of her own cured ham, a honey tartlet, a couple of juicy, sweet apples and a flask of ale and, when he had rested for a while, Josse rediscovered his appetite and ate the food hungrily. The ale slipped down almost without his noticing. Then, meaning only to close his eyes for a short time, he fell deeply asleep.

He was woken by a burning sensation in his face. Sitting up with a start, he realised he had been asleep for so long that the sun had moved round and was now shining down full on his head and shoulders. From the feel of his cheeks under his exploratory hands, it looked as if he had given himself a fine case of sunburn.

He knelt by the stream and repeatedly splashed cold water on his face, which gave temporary relief. Horace watched him with mild curiosity. Turning to the horse, Josse said ruefully, ‘Well, I can’t kneel here with my backside in the air for the remainder of the day. We’d better be on our way to Hawkenlye, old Horace, and pray as we go that the infirmarer has a cure for a flaming, scarlet face.’

* * *

He rode in through the gates of Hawkenlye to tragedy.

The infirmary door was open and, amid the strange hush that seemed to have descended on the Abbey, there came the dreadful sounds of sobbing: deep, harsh, broken, painful sobs that, if he were any judge, were being emitted by a man. Some poor soul has lost a loved one, he thought. Child, wife, mother. Ah well, it was sad but unfortunately not uncommon; even the skills of the nursing nuns could not save everybody. Josse dismounted and led Horace across to the stables, where Sister Martha came out to meet him.

In the clear golden light of the westering sun, he could see that her strong old face was creased with distress.

Reaching out absently to take the horse’s reins, she responded briefly to Josse’s courteous greeting and then, even as he began to frame the question ‘What has happened?’ she shook her head and led Horace off inside the stable block.

A sudden terrible fear took hold of Josse. Feeling as if cold fingers had reached inside his chest and were slowly and relentlessly squeezing his heart, he turned and raced for the infirmary.

Bursting inside, he stood on the threshold, trying to look everywhere at once. Where would they have laid her? Would she still be here, or had they taken her to the Abbey church? Oh, dear God, he wept silently, and I never said goodbye to her! Never told her that I -

But just at that moment the hangings around a curtained-off recess at the far end of the infirmary moved slightly, parting as a tall figure passed between them. And walking towards him, her hands held out to him and her face white, came the Abbess.

For an instant his relief was so powerful that he almost embraced her.

No, he told himself firmly. Not that. Never that.

Instead he took hold of her outstretched hands — they were icy cold, even in the heat — and said quietly, ‘My lady Abbess, good evening. What has happened here?’

‘She’s dead!’ the Abbess said, her voice unsteady. ‘And he — oh, Josse, it breaks my heart to see his pain!’

She was allowing her cool air of authority to slip and he flattered himself that it was perhaps because he, whom he hoped she looked on as an old and trusted friend, had arrived and was in effect offering her a shoulder to lean on. It had, after all, happened before.

But, knowing her as he did, he was aware that she rarely allowed her emotions to break through in front of her nuns. He said very softly, ‘My lady, why not step outside with me into the shade of the cloister where, in privacy, you can tell me who has died and why everyone seems so distressed?’

His words brought her instantly to herself. Grabbing her hands back, she tucked them away in the opposite sleeves of her habit, straightened her back, composed her face and said distantly, ‘Yes. Follow me, please, Sir Josse.’

Suppressing a smile at her suddenly steely tone, meekly he fell in behind her.

She led the way across to the courtyard off which opened her own private room and to a far corner of the encircling cloister where, in the shade, there was a stone bench set into the wall. Indicating that he should sit — he did, but then, seeing she was not going to join him on the bench, immediately stood up again — she said, ‘A young woman has been with us. Sister Euphemia and Sister Tiphaine have been trying to help her; she wishes to conceive and they have made concoctions to help her.’

‘Aye, I-’ I know and I sent her here, he was about to say. But the Abbess seemed neither to hear nor acknowledge that he had spoken.

‘Her elderly husband came to join her. But-’ Her voice broke. She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘But she’s dead. Just now. She came into the infirmary gasping for breath and Sister Euphemia tried to help her, but it was too late and she died.’

Josse did not know how he managed not to put his arms round her. But it would not have been right, or at least he thought not. She was clearly struggling for control and he would not help her in her efforts by offering kindness. She was in shock, he thought, and probably the best thing for her was to maintain her air of cool authoritative competence.

Whatever the cost.

He said tentatively, ‘And it is her husband whom I heard weeping?’

‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I was with him when Galiena stumbled in through the door. He’s in the infirmary and Sister Euphemia has him under her care.’

‘He is sick?’ But he had seemed perfectly all right that day Josse had visited him at home. Well, other than being old and almost blind, but neither condition, surely, was one for which the infirmarer could come up with a cure.

‘Yes,’ the Abbess was saying. ‘He — his mind has been wandering and he is very sleepy. Sister Euphemia said-’ She broke off, distress clear on her face.

‘She said what?’ he prompted gently.

‘Oh — she didn’t think he looked very strong and she said that if Galiena really wanted to have his child she ought not to delay. But it’s too late now.’

He knew she was in danger of drowning in emotion. And, recalling the beautiful, lively and affectionate young woman he met that day at Ryemarsh, he could not blame her. But they would achieve nothing if they gave in and sat there howling out their grief. He took a steadying breath and then said in a businesslike manner, ‘My lady, I should say straight away that I know of Ambrose and Galiena Ryemarsh. My neighbour, Brice of Rotherbridge, took me to their manor to make their acquaintance. Brice knows, of course, of my contacts with Hawkenlye Abbey and felt that I was the person to answer Ambrose’s questions as to whether the sisters here might be able to help Galiena in her wish to bear her husband a child. We spoke together and I urged him to bring his wife here to you. Indeed, I had the pleasure of escorting Galiena and her companions as far as New Winnowlands, from where they came on to Hawkenlye. Ambrose could not set out straight away but was to join Galiena in a few days’ time.’

‘Which, as you see, he did.’ The Abbess frowned. Watching closely, Josse thought that he might have achieved his purpose of turning her mind away from her distress. But then she added, almost under her breath, ‘It was strange, then, as indeed I thought at the time, that Galiena did not forewarn us that her husband would be arriving.’

‘Eh? What’s that?’

She raised her eyes to meet his. For an instant, her sad expression broke into a smile as, apparently for the first time, she looked at him properly. She said, ‘Sir Josse! Whatever has happened to your face?’

‘I fell asleep in the sun,’ he said shortly.

Trying, not very successfully, to suppress a laugh, she said kindly, ‘It looks very sore. We must see what Sister Euphemia can provide to alleviate the discomfort. I am sorry, I interrupted you.’

‘You were saying that Galiena did not announce that Ambrose would be coming to join her here.’

‘That’s right. No, she did not.’

‘She told nobody?’

The Abbess looked thoughtful. ‘She did not tell me. I cannot swear that she did not mention it to any other sister but I do not think so, for word would surely have reached me.’

‘Hm.’ It was his turn to frown, which, he discovered, creased the flesh on his burned forehead and hurt quite a lot. ‘Well, maybe she was too busy with her own concerns and simply forgot.’

‘She was certainly preoccupied,’ the Abbess agreed. ‘And, I think, rather embarrassed at the whole procedure of coming here to be treated for her barrenness. As Sister Euphemia pointed out to me, all very understandable.’

Josse wondered if now was the moment to ask the question that he had been wanting to ask ever since the Abbess had told him the news. Studying her, he thought it was as good a time as any. He said quietly, ‘My lady, how did Galiena die?’

She stared at him. Then: ‘We do not know. Sister Euphemia is even now studying the — er, the body.’

‘Was the girl unwell?’ he persisted. ‘Was there any obvious wound, such as might have been made had she fallen, for example?’

‘She was not unwell,’ the Abbess said tonelessly. ‘She was anxious, distressed even, but not, I think, unwell. As to a wound-’ She shrugged. ‘Nothing obvious at first glance. No blood on her garments, no twisted limb or bump on the head. Just the swelling of her poor face and the one episode of vomiting, or whatever it was.’

‘Vomiting?’

She shook her head impatiently. ‘Not exactly that. She opened her mouth and liquid came out. Watery liquid.’

‘I see.’ It was a silly remark, as he definitely did not see. Not with any certainty, at least, although a horrible suspicion was dawning. Hoping that he was doing the right thing and not making a bad matter worse, he said, ‘My lady, can it be, do you think, that Galiena was poisoned?’

The Abbess stared at him in silence for a moment. Then she said, ‘It is what I have been dreading. I pray that it is not so, but …’ She left the sentence unfinished.

‘But what else could it be?’ he murmured.

‘Sister Euphemia has promised to report to me as soon as she has finished,’ the Abbess said. ‘I fear, Sir Josse, that all we can do is wait.’

They did not have to wait long. But it was not the infirmarer herself who came to find them but Sister Caliste, one of the Abbey’s youngest fully professed nuns and a competent and compassionate nurse. She approached, made a graceful obeisance to her superior and greeted Josse with a wide smile. Although she did not speak to him, he read clearly in her expression that she was glad to see him again.

‘Sister Euphemia asks me to say that she is ready for you now, my lady,’ Sister Caliste said to the Abbess. ‘If you both would like to follow me, I will take you to her.’

Josse and the Abbess walked in silence behind the young nun through the cloister and across the courtyard to the infirmary. There Sister Caliste led them along to the left and into a small room leading off the main chamber. In it there was a single, raised cot on which now lay a body covered with a clean white sheet.

Realising that the body was probably naked beneath the linen, Josse stood back. But the Abbess, turning to him, said, ‘Please, Sir Josse, come in with me if you will. Your experienced eyes have helped us before and, in truth, this is no time for delicacy.’

Sister Euphemia, overhearing, said, ‘Come on in, Sir Josse. The poor lass is decently covered and all I need to show you is her face.’

The Abbess stepped across to stand over the cot and Josse took his place beside her. Sister Caliste remained just inside the door, which she had quietly closed behind her.

Without preamble, the infirmarer said, ‘I reckon she was poisoned. There was fluid in her mouth, although I cannot say what it was, and her face had swelled up, especially the lips. I’ve seen similar symptoms in cases of poison.’

‘This fluid you speak of,’ Josse said. ‘What was it like? Was there undigested matter in it?’

‘I looked carefully, but found nothing,’ Sister Euphemia replied.

‘Strange,’ Josse mused.

‘Strange?’ the Abbess queried.

‘Aye, my lady.’ Josse glanced across the cot at the infirmarer, who gave a brief nod as if to say, you explain. ‘Often when somebody takes poison, the substance causes vomiting as soon as it reaches the stomach. The vomit then can be seen to contain whatever the poison was and also some of whatever else was in the stomach, such as-’

‘Yes, thank you, Sir Josse,’ the Abbess interrupted, ‘I understand.’

‘But this is not the case here,’ Josse finished.

‘No, it’s not,’ the infirmarer agreed. ‘Just that clear, colourless fluid.’

‘Could she recently have taken a drink of water?’ the Abbess suggested. ‘In her distress, she might simply have spat it out.’

Again Josse met Sister Euphemia’s eyes. He was quite sure she thought it as unlikely as he did, although both of them were too polite to say so. ‘It’s possible, my lady,’ the infirmarer said.

‘But not probable,’ the Abbess said with a faint smile. ‘I can tell by your tone, Sister.’

The three of them stood in silence around the still figure beneath the sheet. Then Josse said tentatively, ‘You mentioned swelling, Sister Euphemia. Might I be allowed to look?’

He wondered even as he spoke whether the two nuns would disapprove of his request but, with a quick gesture, Sister Euphemia twitched back the sheet and said, ‘Of course, Sir Josse. Maybe you’ll see something I missed.’

She folded the sheet across the dead girl’s shoulders, exposing only her face, neck and a little of her chest. And Josse stared down at Galiena Ryemarsh.

His heart turned over with pity at what the poison had done to her. She was still beautiful — the perfect oval of her face and the pleasing symmetry of her bone structure were unchanged. And the abundant, pale blonde hair that he remembered so well had been dressed slightly differently — perhaps by one of the nuns who had helped lay her out? — and now the two thick braids were entwined across the top of the girl’s head like a coronet.

Almost unaware of what he did, Josse stretched out a hand and gently touched them. The infirmarer said softly, ‘Her hair was disarrayed. Sister Caliste combed it out and plaited it for her, then arranged it as you see.’

Josse turned to Sister Caliste. ‘You did well, Sister,’ he said softly. ‘I am sure she would have approved.’

But even the most perfect hairstyle in the world could not have distracted the attention for long from the dead girl’s mouth. The rosy lips were deathly pale now but, even worse, they were grossly swollen. Around them the white skin bore the residue of a pinkish rash. The lower part of Galiena’s face was almost unrecognisable.

With a deep sigh Josse said, ‘I have seen enough, Sister.’ More than enough, he thought bitterly, for now I shall remember Galiena in death and not as she was in life. He turned away from the cot.

The Abbess murmured something to the infirmarer, who leaned down and carefully replaced the mercifully concealing sheet over the dead girl’s ruined face.

Then the infirmarer said, ‘My lady, Sir Josse, there is one more thing.’

The Abbess and Josse turned to face her. ‘Yes?’ the Abbess asked.

Looking straight at her superior, Sister Euphemia said quietly, ‘The lass was pregnant. Three or four months gone.’

In the first unbelieving moment, Josse looked at the Abbess. Her face expressionless, she said, ‘But Galiena came here because she could not conceive. She cannot have known that already she bore Ambrose’s child.’ His own emotions dangerously near to the surface, he watched as the Abbess’s face slowly crumpled in distress. ‘Oh,’ she cried softly, ‘oh, and now the poor girl is dead!’

The infirmarer was staring down at Galiena. ‘Aye,’ she breathed, ‘aye. It is a bad day.’ She glanced at the Abbess. ‘But as to her not knowing, it may well be that she remained ignorant of her condition. With a first pregnancy, many women do not realise until they are some months along and-’

She was interrupted by the sound of hurrying feet outside and by a sudden gasp from Sister Caliste. Still standing just in front of the little room’s door, she had been pushed forward by somebody roughly opening it.

All four of them turned to see who had come in.

It was Aebba. Her icy eyes fixed to the sheeted figure on the cot, she said, her low voice almost a growl, ‘Is it true? She’s dead, then?’

It was the Abbess who spoke. ‘I am afraid that she is.’

Josse was watching Aebba. His first impression of her at that meeting at Ryemarsh was that she was a cold and distant woman, uninvolved with those around her. But now her pale face worked as the extremity of her emotion flooded briefly through her.

Puzzled, Josse thought, aye, but different people show their grief in different ways, and I should not judge her when the poor woman’s probably in shock. I am wrong. I must be!

Because in that first unguarded reaction to the dreadful confirmation of the rumour of Galiena’s death, the sentiment that Josse thought he had read in her face was not distress but fury.