Girl In A Red Tunic Page 2

  But she had not yet told Father Gilbert what it was that persistently and exclusively occupied her mind. He would have to know soon, she was well aware, if the sorry situation did not mend itself. She redoubled her efforts, spending so long on her knees that her work piled up on the heavy old oak table that served her as a desk and she had to labour long into the night to catch up. Then she would drag herself to bed, exhausted with the work and the emotional strain, hoping against hope that the dream would not come back.

  But it did.

  Not every night; sometimes she would wake refreshed and filled with hope. But then, the next night or the one after that, those powerful, emotional images would be there again and all the things that she was trying so hard not to think about – had no right to think about, having forfeited that dubious pleasure when she left the outside world and became a nun! – would come crashing back.

  Now, sitting at her table with one of the Abbey’s huge account ledgers before her, she sat deep in thought, distracted, studying the end of her stylus with unfocused eyes. Her feet were numb. It was a bright November day but the lack of cloud had allowed the cold to penetrate. Usually one of her nuns would slip into her chilly little room at the end of the cloister with a hot stone wrapped in flannel, but she had discreetly ordered them not to; suffering feet like ice was part of her self-imposed penance.

  I must bring myself to speak to Father Gilbert again, she told herself firmly. It is no good continuing to try on my own – I need help. Perhaps if I tell him about my dreams and why it is they disturb me so, he will talk it all over with me and rid me of my problem.

  She went on sitting there.

  Yes. I’ll go and see Father Gilbert straight away.

  She did not move.

  Then, with a gesture of despair, she flung down her stylus, folded her arms across the great ledger and dropped her head. In a fierce whisper, she muttered, ‘Oh, how I wish Josse were here!’

  But Josse, as she well knew, was far away.

  In the afternoon she begged a basket of dainties from Sister Basilia in the refectory and set out for Father Gilbert’s modest little house. It was quite a walk and she threw herself into the exercise, shoulders back, basket held firmly in one hand and the other arm swinging powerfully. Her numb feet grew warm and soon the heavy woollen cloak that Sister Euphemia in the infirmary had insisted she wear began to make her sweat. As she marched, puffing slightly, she rehearsed what she would say to the Father.

  After trying out several different approaches, each of which sounded as contrived as the rest, she decided that the only thing to do was to give him the unadorned truth.

  Which, a short time later, blushing and hesitating in so uncharacteristic a manner that Father Gilbert was gravely concerned for her, she did.

  Father Gilbert walked with her back to the Abbey. They had been talking for what felt like hours and Helewise was feeling a great deal of relief; after her initial awkwardness, the Father’s sympathetic ear had made her confession relatively easy. Filled with a new hope that her dreams really would go away now and leave her in peace to do her best in this life that she had chosen, she would have broken into a run from sheer happiness had Father Gilbert not been with her.

  As they went in through the Abbey gates, Sister Ursel, the porteress, was greeting some visitors. They were a group of three: a young man, a pale-faced, nervy looking woman and a child of about a year. Father Gilbert went forward to greet them. It did not often happen that he was in the Abbey when visitors arrived and he intended to make the most of the opportunity to hear news of the world outside his own small domain. He turned to Helewise, saying, ‘My lady Abbess, come and speak to the newcomers and—’

  But the words died on his lips. Helewise, her face even paler than that of the young woman now being helped down from her horse, was staring with fixed eyes at the young man. He was staring right back and, for anyone sufficiently observant to notice, there was a remarkable similarity between the two pairs of eyes. Helewise put out a hand and began to say something. Then she fainted.

  She came round quickly to find herself lying on the hard ground with her head on Sister Ursel’s soft lap; the sister was stroking her superior’s forehead with a gentle hand and murmuring anxiously, ‘There, there, my lady!’

  Struggling to sit up, feeling very foolish, Helewise accepted the helpful hands offered by Father Gilbert and Sister Ursel and got to her feet. The young man was still staring at her, concern written all over his handsome face. Before anyone else could speak, he strode over to stand before her, took hold of both her hands and said, ‘Oh, God, Mother, you’re not ill, are you?’

  Mother. Oh, dear God, it was so long since she had been addressed like that in the real, waking world! Squeezing his hands so hard that he winced, she said, ‘No, Leofgar, I am well.’ And, opening her arms to him, she hugged her son in an embrace that she did not want to end.

  There was at first no opportunity for private talk and Helewise had to hold back her impatience. But her mind now raced even faster in its search for explanations. She urgently needed to know why it should be, by what miracle it had happened, that this son of hers should now appear in the flesh when, for the past two weeks or more, she had been dreaming of him. Hearing in her sleep his calls for her help, so real in her dreaming mind that, awake, she had been able to think of nothing else.

  The Hawkenlye community threw itself into a bustle of preparations to welcome this son of their Abbess. Helewise found a moment to slip away by herself into the Abbey church where she offered up a prayer of thanks. ‘This was not the help that I expected, Lord,’ she whispered, ‘but it is a far better answer to my prayers than I could possibly have wished for.’

  Putting aside for the moment any thoughts of just why her son should have chosen to seek out his mother after so many years, she gave herself up to gratitude that he had.

  Helewise had known of her son’s marriage to Rohaise Edgar, the daughter of a friend of the knight to whom the young Leofgar had been page and then squire before, on maturity, taking up his inheritance from his late father. Leofgar was the elder of Helewise’s two sons and lived on the manor that had been Helewise’s marital home. His brother Dominic, sixteen months his junior, was a soldier in Outremer and had not seen either his family or his homeland for eight years.

  Leofgar and Rohaise had married when the groom was twenty-two and the bride just sixteen. Their child – a willowy little boy named Timus – had been born two years later; he was now aged fourteen months. These were the bare facts known to Helewise when, feeling as nervous as a girl, she allowed Leofgar to escort her from her room across to the refectory for the welcoming meal. As they took their seats at the head of the long table, Rohaise got up to greet Helewise. There was a strange expression on the girl’s face, Helewise noticed, and she was still ashen. Perhaps that was her normal colour, although the rich brunette hair neatly dressed beneath the small veil and the dark brown eyes – huge, and circled in grey as if the girl did not sleep – made this seem unlikely. The deep russet shade of her gown seemed to increase the pallor. Trying to put her concern out of her mind, Helewise responded to her daughter-in-law’s politely formal words and, putting both arms on the girl’s thin shoulders, raised her up from her deep bow of reverence.

  They sat down to eat and then, as Helewise had been secretly longing to do, she took her grandson on to her lap and began to make his acquaintance.

  Quite early in the evening, Rohaise asked if she might take Timus to settle him for the night, adding that she would like to retire too, if that was acceptable. Assuring her that it was, Helewise gave orders for the girl and the baby to be shown to the guest accommodation that had been prepared for them.

  As if by tacit agreement, the members of the Hawkenlye community quietly faded away and Helewise and her son were left on their own. There was a half-full jug of mulled wine left over from the meal and Helewise, having summoned Sister Basilia to pick it up and bring two clean mugs, led Leofgar out of t
he refectory and along to her own little room. Silently thanking whichever nun had foreseen this event and placed a small brazier in the room, Helewise pulled out the visitors’ stool and set it before her table. Dismissing Sister Basilia, who bowed and tactfully retreated, closing the door behind her, Helewise poured wine into the two cups then, seating herself in her throne-like chair, said, ‘Now, Leofgar. Tell me why you are here.’

  Watching him intently, she saw his brief smile, there and gone in a flash. ‘What is it?’ she demanded.

  ‘Oh – this is so strange,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t seen you for years but you’re just the same. Anyone else’s mother might have asked other things in the first private moment with her son. How are you? How are things at the Old Manor and are you managing all right? Are you happy?’ Briefly his face clouded, then, with an effort, he grinned. ‘It’s only my beloved mother who goes straight to the point and demands to be told the purpose of my visit.’

  ‘It does not mean that I am not eager to ask all the other questions,’ she countered swiftly. ‘We learn here to be brief, son. It is simply that I have asked the crucial question first.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. I see.’ Then, drawing a deep breath, ‘Rohaise is not herself and has not been so, in truth, since Timus was born. At first she was euphoric – she greatly feared giving birth and was overcome by her relief at having survived the delivery. But soon she changed. She is fearful all the time, she worries that she is not a good mother; she frets when Timus is out of her sight but is impatient with him when he is at her side. She does not sleep well and I feel that she is deeply unhappy, for she weeps constantly and finds no joy even in the brightest day. And we—’ He stopped. Then, with a quick glance at Helewise, he lowered his head and muttered, ‘She has turned away from me because she fears another pregnancy.’

  Helewise, shocked to her core that her direct question had received such a brutally frank answer, was momentarily speechless. Then, feeling the waves of need pouring out of her son and coming straight at her, she knew she must respond. Not ready to comment on what Leofgar had poured out, she said, ‘And the little boy, Timus? He is well?’

  ‘He—’ Leofgar hesitated. ‘Yes, for the most part. He—’ Again he stopped and when he finally spoke, Helewise was quite certain that what he said was not the first response that had come to his mind. ‘He’s overly timid at times and he clings.’

  ‘Clings?’

  ‘Yes.’ Leofgar shifted impatiently on the small stool. ‘He refuses to let go of my hand, or he’ll bury his face in his mother’s skirts.’

  ‘He’s little more than a baby,’ Helewise said gently.

  ‘I know! You asked me, so I’m telling you!’

  Nineteen years fell away and Helewise was in the parlour of the Old Manor, her former home, face to face with a furious, indignant six-year-old trying to evade a justified punishment for having kicked a sharp-edged stone at his little brother. She had demanded furiously why Dominic’s cheek was bleeding and Leofgar had said, because the stone hit him. When she had cried out, oh, how can you confess such a thing? he had replied with those exact words: you asked me so I’m telling you.

  But that was then, she thought, a variety of emotions coursing powerfully through her. And this is now.

  She said carefully, ‘What help do you ask of us?’

  She could plainly see the relief in his face; it was as if, she thought, he had expected to be ordered to give more explanation and was very glad that this was not the case.

  ‘We who live out in the world hear tell of the Hawkenlye nuns and monks and always the tales are good,’ he said quietly. ‘I am proud that my own mother heads the community and I am happy each time I hear your name spoken.’

  His eyes met hers and she inclined her head, acknowledging his compliment. ‘I am fortunate in my hardworking and devoted nuns and in my monks who selflessly tend those who come to take the cure here,’ she said. ‘If indeed we have achieved a sound reputation, then it is to them that the credit is due.’

  ‘You’re the chief, though,’ he observed.

  ‘I know, but—’ No. It was not the moment to go into that. ‘So, you believe from what you hear of us that we can help you?’

  ‘You must,’ he muttered, ‘you’re my only hope.’

  She was horrified at his desolate tone. ‘You forget God,’ she said quietly. ‘Have you not asked God’s help?’

  ‘I have. I’ve done what our priest tells me to do and I’ve prayed till I can pray no more, and when no help comes he just says it’s because my faith is insufficient and if I really believed God can do it, I could raise your table here without moving a hair.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Yes, Helewise thought, I’ve heard that argument many times before. She tried to suppress the reaction that it had scarcely been either appropriate or helpful in her son’s case.

  He was gazing intently at her table as if he were indeed trying to move it by faith alone. With a smile she said, ‘Give it up, Leofgar. I don’t believe a caring God concerns himself with jumping tables and I’m quite sure he is more interested in all the other ways in which we demonstrate our love for him.’

  Leofgar returned her smile. ‘I wasn’t trying to move it, I was just thinking that I recognised it.’

  ‘You do,’ she said shortly. ‘It used to stand in the long hall at the Old Manor and it had been in your father’s family for generations. By rights I suppose it should be yours but actually I’m rather attached to it myself.’

  ‘You keep it, Mother, I don’t want it!’

  He spoke fervently, and she wondered why. ‘Do you not care for it?’

  He grinned. ‘Too many memories of being taught my lessons. That priest who used to come to instruct Dominic and me had a habit of rapping our knuckles with a stick.’

  ‘No doubt you deserved it.’ Helewise had vivid memories of just what a task the poor priest had had to engage Leofgar and Dominic’s attention, especially on bright days when their hounds used to sit outside the door and howl for their young masters to come out and take them hunting.

  Leofgar had got to his feet and was peering closely at one corner of the big table. With a smile, he pointed and she could see two initials faintly carved, an L and a D. Funny, she thought, I’ve sat staring at this table all these years and never noticed that my naughty sons marked it ...

  But these happy reminiscences were dangerous, for her at least, and in any case, presumably nothing to do with the reason why her son had sought her out. ‘About Rohaise,’ she said gently, and instantly the smile left Leofgar’s face. ‘Would you like our infirmarer to talk to her? Sister Euphemia is wise and very experienced, but she is also kind and loving. She may be able to help.’

  Leofgar looked as if he thought that was a forlorn hope. ‘Thank you, Mother,’ he said politely, if not very enthusiastically, ‘that would be good. Maybe Rohaise would open her heart to someone whose opinion she respected.’

  Which suggests, Helewise thought but did not say, that she has neither opened her heart to nor respects you, her husband. And that, she discovered, hurt. She put out her hand and took his. ‘Sister Euphemia knows a great deal about women and their babies,’ she said encouragingly. ‘She was a midwife before she was a nun and I often think that she shows her most skilful and devoted face to sickly infants and troubled young mothers. Whatever ails your Rohaise, if anyone has ever experienced anything similar and can offer help, then it is Sister Euphemia.’

  Leofgar said quickly, ‘Timus is not sickly, he’s—’ But yet again he did not continue; whatever he feared might be wrong with his son, clearly he was not ready to share it with his mother.

  We are getting nowhere with this discussion, Helewise thought. It is time to conclude our talk and make a decision, before Leofgar’s distress becomes more than he can cope with.

  ‘It is late,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Let us find our way to our beds and seek the comfort of sleep.’ She placed her hands on her son’s head and added softly, ‘I shall
pray for you and for Rohaise, that the night brings you rest and the morning, hope. God bless you, son, and keep you safe.’

  Briefly Leofgar closed his eyes to receive her blessing. Then, opening them, he said suddenly, ‘Mother, why did you faint when you saw it was me? You said you’re not sick, so was it just the surprise?’

  She laughed. ‘Son, I very rarely faint and certainly do not do so when faced with a surprise, even one as extraordinary as seeing my son after so long. No, it wasn’t that.’

  ‘What was it, then?’

  She looked into his wide grey eyes and almost seemed to see in them a reflection of her own. ‘In fact it really was no surprise.’ She made herself give a light laugh, as if to suggest that she did not speak seriously. ‘You see, son, I have been dreaming. When you arrived, I was on my way back here with our priest, with whom I had just had a long and helpful talk during which I described those dreams in some detail.’

  She paused, trying to make sense of something illogical. He said, ‘Go on, Mother. Describe them to me, too.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, very well. I kept seeing the same scene and it has been affecting me so much that during the day I have not been capable of keeping my mind where it belongs, on my work and on my prayers. That’s why I talked it over in such depth with Father Gilbert, because I realised I was wasting God’s time all the while I was closed to his voice.’

  With an impatient sigh, Leofgar said, ‘What did you dream?’

  Her eyes on his, she said, ‘I dreamed of you. You were a child again and you were calling me, over and over again. You desperately needed my help and I could not reach you to give it.’

  Her words must have affected him for he lowered his head so that she would not see his face. Then, his voice tight with emotion, he said, ‘I do need you. I kept thinking about you and once or twice when – well, when things were really bad, I would call out to you.’ Raising his head again, he whispered, ‘I can’t believe you heard me!’