Whiter than the Lily

8

Josse, weak with what he prayed was not a premature relief, watched the Abbess walk steadily away from the herbalist’s hut and back towards the Abbey buildings, Sister Euphemia at her side. She had announced that she must get on with the day’s duties and he had overheard her say quietly to Ambrose Ryemarsh that she had already sent word to Father Gilbert, who had promised to come over to Hawkenlye as soon as he could.

Aye, Josse thought. There was the poor girl’s burial to be arranged. He watched the old man who, straight-backed, was speaking to Sister Tiphaine. Was he, Josse wondered, apologising for having accused her of poisoning his wife? It was possible.

Then, as the herbalist, went back inside her little room and shut the door, Ambrose turned to him. ‘Forgive me, Josse, for not having greeted you before now,’ he said, giving Josse a quick bow. ‘My mind, I am afraid, was on other matters.’ He sighed. ‘I truly believed that we had the solution to this terrible misfortune, but it seems I was wrong.’

‘I think so too, sir,’ Josse said gently. ‘Of course, it is possible for anyone to make a mistake, but I am of the firm opinion that Sister Tiphaine’s scrupulous care and impressive reputation suggest that she is the last person to accuse of accidentally poisoning someone who sought her help.’

He wondered even as he spoke at his choice of the word accidentally; who would deliberately poison a patient?

But, even as he wondered, a frightening possibility occurred to him. Sister Tiphaine would not; he was as sure of that as he was of the sun rising each morning. But someone else might have done. A man, for example, whose mistress had conceived an unplanned child whose existence threatened to turn a pleasant dalliance into something altogether more serious …

No. No. The idea followed on a suspicion that had already been developing in his mind but, all the same, surely it was just too far-fetched to be credible.

Shaking his head as if to clear the unpleasant thoughts from his mind, he realised that Ambrose was speaking to him. ‘I don’t hold you to blame, Josse, for recommending the Hawkenlye nuns,’ he said.

‘I am glad of it,’ Josse replied.

Ambrose gave a great sigh and then, eyeing Josse ruefully, said, ‘I should, I suppose, prepare myself to meet this priest who will bury my wife. What say you, Josse? Is he a good man?’

‘Aye.’

‘Hm.’ Ambrose did not look convinced. ‘As I said at our last meeting, I have no great respect for the clergy. It is to be hoped that this Father-?’

‘Father Gilbert,’ Josse supplied.

‘-that this Father Gilbert is the exception who will prove that my misgivings do not universally apply.’

‘He is a good man,’ Josse said. ‘He will have been genuinely sorry when told of your wife’s death and his prayers for her will be heartfelt.’

Ambrose studied him for a moment. Then: ‘Thank you, Josse. Your words comfort me.’

‘I am glad of it.’

Ambrose went on studying Josse, who became increasingly uncomfortable under the scrutiny. It was, he imagined, something like a mouse must feel when the kestrel hovers above, fixing it with fierce, unblinking eye.

Breaking the awkward silence — it was awkward for him, anyway — he said, ‘Sir? Is there something else you would ask of me?’

‘Yes, Josse, indeed there is.’ Ambrose paused, then went on, ‘I desire greatly to send word to my wife’s kinfolk of her death. I would go to their manor myself only I must stay here. I need to be with her while yet I can,’ he added in a murmur.

‘I understand,’ Josse said.

‘Also there is the priest to see, and arrangements to discuss.’ Ambrose’s face darkened into a frown.

‘I will ride to break the news to Galiena’s family, if that is what you wish of me,’ Josse offered.

‘Will you?’ Again, the fiercely intent look. ‘Can I trust you to find the right words, Josse? They are a close and loving family and this will be a bitter blow for them.’

‘I can only do my best, but you have my word that I will try to be gentle and considerate,’ Josse said with dignity.

Instantly Ambrose’s hand was on his arm. ‘I apologise, Josse. I did not mean to imply otherwise. It is merely that in circumstances such as these, when a man longs to perform a delicate task himself, it is hard to entrust it to another.’

Again Josse muttered, ‘I understand.’

‘You will go, then?’ Ambrose appeared to need confirmation.

‘Tell me where to go and I will set out straight away.’

In the event, it was not until after the noon meal that Josse set out. The Abbess, informed of the arrangement, gave him a look in which he read both compassion — presumably for the unpleasant task he had taken on himself — and, he thought, a certain admiration. Or perhaps the latter was merely wishful thinking. Either way, he recalled with pleasure that she had said she would keep him in her thoughts until his return and pray that he find the right words with which to inform Galiena’s family that she was dead.

The fact that he had found her sitting in her chair and busy working had been immensely reassuring. Aye, it was still just possible that whatever she had drunk from the bottle meant for Galiena might yet work some harm in her but, with every hour that passed, surely that possibility grew less. Or so he fervently hoped.

She came to the stables to see him on his way. Studying her closely, he perceived a faint flush in her cheeks. ‘You are quite well, my lady?’ he asked. ‘You ate a good dinner? With — er, with no ill effects?’

‘I am quite well, Sir Josse,’ she agreed, smiling. ‘I ate heartily and feel the better for it. My digestion, I assure you, has never been better. Do not worry,’ she added kindly, ‘I have suffered no hurt. The mystery of what caused Galiena’s death is not to be so easily solved.’

‘Aye, I fear you are right.’ He remembered, against his will, that sudden moment of suspicion. Was it possible she had been poisoned deliberately? But — for surely his instinctive thought was miles from the truth — by whom? And why?

He finished fastening his small pack to Horace’s saddle and, unhitching the reins, clucked to the horse to move on out into the sunshine.

‘First things first, though,’ the Abbess said encouragingly. ‘You must complete your mission and I must make arrangements with Father Gilbert. We should bury the poor young woman as soon as we can, I think, for nothing is to be gained by waiting and also there is-’ Abruptly she broke off but he was almost certain she had been going to say that there was also the hot weather to consider.

‘Aye, my lady,’ he said quietly. ‘I know.’

She walked beside him as he led Horace to the gate. Then, picking up his dagger and sword from Sister Ursel in the porteress’s little room beside the entrance and settling them in their sheaths at his belt, he swung himself up into the saddle and looked down at her.

‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘Return to us soon.’

‘I will, God willing.’

The echo of her soft ‘Amen’ stayed in his ears as he rode away.

Ambrose had given him clear directions for finding his way to the house of Galiena’s kin. It lay to the north-east of the Ryemarsh estate and, approaching from Hawkenlye, Josse’s quickest route was to cut across country north of Newenden, aiming for the little fledgling settlement of Small Hythe. ‘Keep well above the inlet that flows down on its southern side,’ Ambrose had said, ‘for the stretch of water is tidal and can be treacherous, even when the weather has been dry.’ Galiena’s family home, he said, was to the north-east of Small Hythe; if necessary, Josse might ask for further directions there since, according to Ambrose, anyone could tell Josse where to find the house.

Galiena’s father was called Raelf and his manor was at Readingbrooke. Pressed for further details, Ambrose would only say that Raelf’s wife was named Audra and that there were four other daughters all younger than Galiena.

It was to this unsuspecting and, according to Ambrose, close-knit and loving family that Josse was now bound with such terrible news.

Despite the fine weather and the beauties of the June countryside, he could not find the smallest element of pleasure in the day.

He rode into Small Hythe in the late evening. He had not hurried; he had no intention of going on to Readingbrooke until morning. He had vaguely thought that he would look for somewhere to put up for the night in Small Hythe; it was possible there might be an inn or he could seek out a friendly farmer willing to offer a night’s accommodation in exchange for a modest payment. However, as the sun set in rich, burning shades of orange across the perfect, dark blue sky, he changed his mind. For one thing, there was nothing remotely like an inn in the tiny settlement of Small Hythe, which, as far as Josse could see in the fading light, consisted of a few wooden huts along a dried-up, muddy creek. For another thing, he knew he did not want company. All through the journey he had been thinking ahead to his meeting with Galiena’s family and somehow his sombre cast of mind did not seem suitable for venturing into a tavern or a farmer’s kitchen and making small talk.

No. He would make a private camp somewhere and keep his own company. He had a pair of thick blankets rolled up behind his saddle and it would not be the first time he had slept out of doors. Sister Basilia had made up a package of the best that Hawkenlye’s kitchens could offer a traveller and he was already looking forward to tucking into the meats and the sweet pastries. There was also a small flagon of wine and Josse knew from long experience that the cellarer nun, Sister Goodeth, would not have provided for him anything but her best.

He rode slowly along the creek, the last of the setting sun behind him throwing his long shadow on ahead of him. He was on the creek’s north bank — it seemed to run almost due west to east — and on his left side, the land rose in gentle folds up to where, to judge from Ambrose’s directions, he guessed he would find Readingbrooke.

As he rode on, a new sound on the still air gradually permeated his consciousness. Drawing rein so as to listen, he tried to identify what it was. It grew steadily louder and, with a smile, he recognised what it was.

It was the sound of running water.

Dismounting and walking forward right to the edge of the creek, he looked down. What had appeared to be a dry stream bed with a soggy, muddy bottom was turning, quite quickly, into a narrow river. Gathering together what he knew of the marshlands — which was not much — he realised what had happened. Somewhere a long way off to the south and the east lay the sea. And the tide had turned.

He stood for some time watching the moving water. Looking back along the creek towards Small Hythe, he now noticed that wooden platforms had been constructed, extending out from the northern bank and over the water. Whatever the men of the settlement did there, it must, Josse concluded, depend to a degree on the water.

The sound was comforting. He decided to make his camp somewhere near enough to the creek so that he could continue to hear the water as he settled down for the night. It might just help him to sleep.

He had the soldier’s knack of quickly and efficiently making himself comfortable in the field. Turning to his left, leading Horace now, he climbed a short, shallow slope that rose up to the side of a small stream flowing down to meet the creek. Where the slope levelled out, he found a sheltered spot between a length of hawthorn hedge and a gnarled old willow tree. If it should rain in the night — unlikely, Josse thought, since the sky was still clear and what wind there was came from off the land and not up from the south-west — then the thick foliage of the tree would shelter him. And the hawthorn, curving round in an arc from the distant line of the creek, would act as a windbreak if the breeze turned into something more spiteful.

He was not going to find anywhere better so he unsaddled Horace, took off the horse’s bridle and, loosely holding a clump of the horse’s mane, led him over to the stream, waiting patiently till he had drunk his fill. Then he took a length of rope from his pack and fashioned a rough head collar, fastening the end of the rope to an alder a few paces away along the hedge. Horace, used to such treatment, waited until Josse signalled with a slap on the horse’s rump that he was finished, then ambled off and began grazing.

Josse unrolled his blankets and laid out the coarser one on the ground beneath the willow tree. The other one he would use to cover himself. Then, sitting down with his back to the tree’s broad trunk, he opened up the neatly tied cloth that contained his supper and began eagerly to eat.

Before he settled for the night he took a last stroll down to the creek. In the hour that had elapsed since he last looked at the water, the level had risen considerably. The water was flowing fast, still busily filling up the creek, and Josse reckoned it must be a few hours yet till high tide. Then there would be that still time before the tide turned and the creek began to empty once more.

Well, he would be asleep by then. Yawning, he turned and walked back to his camp, unbuckling his sword belt as he paced up the slope. It seemed a quiet enough spot but, all the same, he would sleep with his dagger to hand and his sword within easy reach. It did not do to be careless.

He lay under his blanket looking up at the stars. Then, yawning again, he stopped fighting the heaviness in his eyelids and, turning on to his side, was soon asleep.

He was awake and ready for the day by the time there were any signs of activity along the creek at Small Hythe. He had washed his face and hands in the cold water of the little stream, watered Horace and fed him from the supplies brought with him and eaten his own breakfast from the remains of last night’s supper. He was ready — or so he hoped — for whatever the day might bring.

He mounted Horace and rode the short distance back to where a group of three older men and a couple of lads had appeared and were standing on the bank staring at him, their mouths open. He wished them good day and the eldest of the men grunted something in reply. He wondered again what work they did in that out-of-the-way place but thought it best not to admit his ignorance by asking. Instead he said, ‘Can you tell me the way to Readingbrooke? I wish to speak to Sir Raelf.’

The grunting man, who seemed to be the group’s spokesman, said, ‘That I can, sir. You follow the north bank a ways, you cross the stream you’ll come to in a short while, then you’ll take a turn on to your left hand up into the higher ground. Now you’ll need to take care there a’cause it’s right steep in places, but it’s not near so dangerous now it’s summer and dry as in winter when it’s wet.’ He grinned, showing pink gums empty of teeth save one that had worked its way across to the middle of his upper jaw. ‘Now, you’re with me so far, sir?’

‘Aye,’ Josse replied.

‘Right, then.’ The man seemed to be momentarily stuck for inspiration but then, as if recalling where he had got to, he said brightly, ‘Then ’tis easy, for you follow the edge of the Hanging Wood till you find a track leading off to your right and, if you follow it right to its end, you’ll find yourself at Readingbrooke, can’t help it!’

Memorising the instructions, Josse nodded his thanks and, reaching into the soft leather purse on his belt, extracted a couple of coins and lobbed them to the man, who shot out a hand and deftly caught them.

‘Much obliged,’ the man said, touching the hand that was clenched around the coins to his forehead.

Josse wished the group good day and then, leaving them still staring at him, kicked Horace into a trot and rode away.

* * *

He reached Readingbrooke too soon, for he had still not worked out exactly what he was going to say to Galiena’s family. But breaking the news would become no easier for waiting so, without pausing for thought, he rode on into the courtyard that opened out before Raelf de Readingbrooke’s modest manor house and called out, ‘Halloa! Is anybody at home?’

A woman with a sacking apron over a nondescript dark brown gown came out of a building to his right. From the sounds that followed her out, it appeared that it was a dairy and that she had been in the middle of milking.

‘Yes?’ she said, looking up at him curiously. ‘What do you want?’

‘I wish to speak to Sir Raelf and his wife,’ Josse said.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘Josse d’Acquin.’

She nodded. ‘You have the manor at New Winnowlands. You’re a King’s man, so they say.’

‘Aye,’ he said, to both statements.

‘The master and the mistress are in the solar,’ she said, ‘together with the girls. Wait here. I’ll tell them you wish to see them and I’ll send someone out to tend to your horse.’

‘Thank you.’

He slipped off Horace’s back and, a short time later, a lad of about thirteen came out and shyly took the big horse’s reins, leading him off into a shaded corner of the yard where there were tethering rings set in the wall and a large tub of water.

‘Give him a drink, if you would,’ Josse called after the lad, who nodded.

Then the woman was back and, beckoning to him, she led him up the steps and into the hall, which they crossed to reach another, narrower flight of stairs that circled up to a smaller room on a higher level. The room had wide windows facing south, whose leather hangings were at present fastened back, allowing the sunshine to stream in.

There was a long, narrow table placed in the middle of the room and along each side was a bench. At each end of the table were chairs, beautifully made of pale oak. In the larger chair sat a ruddy-faced, broad-shouldered man aged, Josse thought on first impression, about forty. In the other sat a woman, petite, brown-eyed, perhaps five or six years younger. On the benches sat their four daughters, two to a bench. All four girls were dark-haired like their father and had their mother’s round face and ready smile. They were aged, Josse guessed, from about sixteen down to a toddler of three or four. The woman and two of the girls were stitching at fine embroidery; the littlest child was being helped in a simpler piece of work by one of her sisters. The man appeared to be doing nothing except watch his women folk.

At Josse’s approach, the man got to his feet — he was quite short in stature — and said, ‘I am Raelf de Readingbrooke. We welcome you, Sir Josse d’Acquin, and wonder to what we should ascribe your visit?’

Oh, it was difficult! Turning from the courteously spoken Raelf to his smiling wife, Josse regretted more than ever the task he had to do. But do it he must; he had made a promise.

He said, ‘Sir Raelf, I am afraid that I bring bad news. Perhaps you and I should speak privately …?’

Hurrying forward and grabbing hold of Josse’s arm, Raelf said, ‘Bad news?’

‘It concerns your daughter Galiena,’ Josse murmured in his ear.

Raelf muttered something — it might have been, ‘Oh, dear God.’ Then he said, ‘Tell me. What has happened?’

‘She is dead,’ Josse whispered. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Dead.’ The colour blanched from Raelf’s face. ‘Oh, but I cannot believe it. She is young, healthy! You are quite certain that it is she, my Galiena, who has died?’ His voice broke on the word.

‘Aye,’ Josse said. ‘I saw her with my own eyes.’ He pictured the beautiful face, grossly swollen and distorted in death.

Raelf coughed and cleared his throat. ‘How did this happen? How do you, Sir Josse, come to be the bearer of this ill news?’

‘She had gone to Hawkenlye Abbey to consult the nuns who tend the sick there. She — it appears that somehow she took poison.’

‘Poison! Was this some remedy that she was given?’

Josse could understand the poor man’s puzzlement but he knew he must deny that suggestion instantly. ‘No, it cannot have been the remedy that affected her for someone else drank of the same substance and she’ — the Abbess’s rosy face swam before his mind’s eye — ‘she is quite well.’

‘Then what was it?’ Raelf asked plaintively.

‘We do not yet know.’ Josse spoke gently. ‘But we will find out, Sir Raelf, be sure of that.’

Tears were forming in Raelf’s dark eyes. Finding it impossible to witness such silent agony, Josse dropped his own eyes. Then Raelf said, ‘You say she went for treatment. Do you know for what?’

Josse looked up. ‘She — her husband, the lord Ambrose, and she were unable to — er, she found that she could not conceive the child that they both wanted so much. She had tried certain simples that she made herself, I understand, but to no avail. She hoped that the skills of the Hawkenlye infirmarer and herbalist might be more extensive.’

‘So she was barren?’ Raelf said.

Shrinking from the harsh word, Josse nodded.

‘Dear Lord, what irony!’ Raelf said with sudden harshness. Then his face crumpled. A sob broke from him as, covering his eyes with his hands, his shoulders began to shake. His wife, who had, Josse now saw, been steadily approaching so that now she stood just behind Raelf, gently touched his arm, at which he turned and bent to bury his face on her shoulder.

Her arms going round him, one hand smoothing and soothing his back as if he were a small, distressed child, Audra de Readingbrooke said softly, ‘He will take this hard, Sir Josse, for Galiena was his eldest daughter and he loved her dearly.’

‘Aye. I am so sorry,’ Josse said inadequately.

Audra smiled faintly. ‘Thank you. And thank you, too, for your willingness to bring us such terrible news.’

‘Ambrose would have come to tell you himself and indeed he very much wanted to,’ Josse said hastily, ‘only he remains at Hawkenlye Abbey, where he must make — er, make certain arrangements with the priest and the Abbess concerning — er, concerning her burial.’

‘Of course,’ said Audra, her eyes bright with tears. ‘A dreadful task, for an old man to see his young wife into the ground before him.’

‘Aye.’

Sensing his awkwardness, Audra wiped her eyes and said, ‘Sir Josse, may I suggest that you leave us for a while? There is much that we would ask you but first we must break the news to the girls’ — she gestured behind her to the four daughters sitting with anxious faces at the table — ‘and take what comfort we may in one another. Would you be so kind as to wait for us down in the hall? Ask Tilde to fetch you some refreshments. We shall not keep you waiting for long.’

Already stepping gratefully back towards the stair, Josse said, too loudly and too eagerly, ‘Take your time, lady, please, take as long as you need!’ Catching her understanding glance, he smiled back at her and, more softly, added, ‘I’ll be waiting when you are ready to talk to me.’

Then, hurrying down the stairs so fast that he all but slipped, he emerged into the cool hall and left the family to their grief.