Dark Night Hidden Page 3

  With growing dread, Phillipa had watched as Gwydo’s health began to fail. A lifetime of poverty – his work was beautiful beyond compare, but what use was that if nobody knew of it and presented themselves with purses full of gold to buy it? – and of sitting hunched and cold over his work while his concave stomach burned and rolled with hunger had undermined him. When sickness came to the village, Gwydo nursed his feverish daughter with a tenderness that spoke deeply of his love for her. Succumbing himself just as she was returning, thanks to him, to strength and health, he had little in reserve with which to combat the disease.

  He died two days later.

  Phillipa, shocked, grieving, weeping and shaking, had nobody in the world to turn to. Gwydo had been her life and, so far as the future was concerned, she had vaguely imagined continuing to work alongside him and taking over when he could no longer work. Now he was gone, there was no money and nothing, other than her and Gwydo’s materials, to sell. Since nobody in the village had any use for those, it looked as if Phillipa would starve.

  They told her to go to Hawkenlye. Still deep in her mourning, she obeyed. Initially the nuns received her only as a patient, skilfully drawing her lost mind back as they healed her weak, half-starved body. The impulse to become one of them, to enter the Hawkenlye community as a postulant, had grown on her but slowly, at first dismissed as an emotional response that grew out of her gratitude. But then, praying with the sisters, lapping up the love and the care that they daily offered to her, she started to think it might be more than that. She understood – or thought she did – that their limitless devotion, pouring from them, used up yet constantly replenished, had a source: it came from God. After six months she had made up her mind and she entered the community the following week.

  Postulants and novices were not allowed to do work of a specialist nature; before there could be any question of that, they had to learn what it was to be a nun. Phillipa did her share of cleaning, pot-scrubbing, bandage-washing, laundry, herb gathering, weeding, vegetable scraping and cooking. She also prayed, more frequently and at greater length than ever before, and as she did so, learned to love the peace and the power of the Abbey church and the presence of the Lord within it.

  She took the first of her vows after a year, her perpetual vows two years after that. Then, at the interview with Abbess Helewise which all of the newly professed must face, she was asked that astonishing question: ‘At what, Sister Phillipa, are you best? Where, would you say, do your talents lie?’

  Closing her mouth, Phillipa had swallowed, taken a breath, decided to go for the truth and confessed. ‘I love to paint and to letter,’ she said. ‘I know it is immodest to say so, but my father was a great artist and taught me well.’ Then, folding her hands in her lap and dropping her eyes, she waited.

  ‘A painter,’ Abbess Helewise murmured. Then she added – or Phillipa thought she did – ‘How very refreshing.’

  In retrospect, it must surely have been a mistake. The Abbess was just not the sort of person to make such a remark, expressing as it did relief, of a sort, to have someone with artistic talent present herself in the community. Art was not nearly as worthy as, say, being good at sponging the befouled bodies of the sick, or possessing the endless kindness needed to cope with the aged who wandered in their minds, or having the patience to teach grubby and snotty-nosed little urchins not to drink filthy water, pick their scabs and noses and belabour each other with sticks. No. Phillipa must have misheard.

  She had returned to the duty on which she had then been engaged: helping one of the infirmary nurses scrub out a curtained recess in which a patient had lately died of a plague of pus-filled, bloody boils. She had put all thought of her conversation with the Abbess right to the back of her mind.

  But then, a few weeks after Christmas, Abbess Helewise had sent for her. And, wonder of wonders, told her to produce a piece of work. A painting and some lettering. When Phillipa had hesitatingly asked, ‘What should I paint?’ the Abbess had replied, ‘Something that one might find within the pages of a herbal.’

  So now, neither knowing nor caring why, that was precisely what Sister Phillipa was doing.

  Sitting back, looking at her work and trying to see how it would look to another, she read what she had written.

  Blossom of the bramble is beneficial for fresh wounds. Lay fresh blossom of same direct on to the injured flesh and the flowers will heal the hurt.

  Dipping her brush into the madder pigment, she added a blush of pink to the white petal of her bramble blossom. Then, hearing in her head Gwydo’s oft-repeated reminder that a good artist knows when to leave well alone, she cleaned the brush and laid it down. I have done my best, she thought. Now it is up to the Abbess to make what use she wishes of my skills. If any, she added, superstitiously crossing her fingers against the unpleasant possibility that Abbess Helewise would make no use of her at all.

  Sitting there in her chilly corner, a thought occurred to her. Slowly she uncrossed her fingers, muttering aloud a swift apology to God. Then she got up, carefully covered her work and made her way to the Abbey church. Some time spent on her knees was, she knew, a far more suitable way of asking for what she wanted than any amount of finger-crossing.

  In another part of the Abbey, Abbess Helewise presented to her visitor an outward demeanour as serene as that of Sister Phillipa working at her lettering. However, in Helewise’s case a smiling face and calmly folded hands hid an irritation that was swiftly escalating into anger.

  She had been on her knees in the small room reserved for her own use, from which she conducted much of the day-to-day business of the Abbey, deep in thought and about to enter into a fervent prayer. The object of her thoughts had been an earlier visitor, one who was always welcome and whom Helewise wished would spare more time from her busy life to rest in Hawkenlye’s peace . . .

  Queen Eleanor was and always had been deeply involved with Hawkenlye Abbey. Its foundation had occurred at a time when Eleanor, newly married to Henry, had the power to exercise an influence over the determining of its nature. She had urged that it be based on the model of her beloved Fontevraud, the great abbey in the Loire region where nuns and monks served in the same community under the rule of an abbess. Eleanor had watched Hawkenlye grow, had engaged French stonemasons and a French architect to build it and, it was rumoured, had presented to the Abbey the jewel of its treasury: an English-made carving in walrus ivory of the dead Christ supported by Joseph of Arimathea. Her involvement did not cease once the Abbey was functioning. At the very least, she tried to be present each time a new abbess was elected, and she did her best to spend a night or two, or just a few hours, at Hawkenlye whenever practical.

  She was particularly close to Abbess Helewise. It was not uncommon for the Queen to talk to the Abbess of matters close to her heart, and so Helewise had been delighted but not surprised when Eleanor had arrived, several weeks into the New Year, and unburdened herself of her fears for her captive son in the privacy of Helewise’s little room.

  Helewise had already heard a rumour of King Richard’s fate. Hawkenlye was close to the road that ran from London to the coast and travellers calling in at the Abbey frequently brought news from the capital. But she would never have come to hear a detailed account of the business had it not been for the Queen.

  Eleanor was on her way back to Westminster from Robertsbridge. Exhausted, the strain evident in her face, for once the Queen had looked her seventy years; Helewise had instantly ordered food and drink and, as the Queen took refreshment, had sat at her feet and listened to her speaking.

  ‘I knew, Helewise, that something was amiss,’ Eleanor sighed. ‘There should have been news, you see – we knew he had set sail from Acre back in October, and there were reports that the Franche-Nef had put in at Cyprus and Corfu. The ship was sighted near Brindisi and we understood he was making for Marseilles. It seemed only a matter of weeks before he would be back – indeed, all of Normandy was making ready to welcome him home! But then,
nothing.’ She reached for her goblet of wine and drank deeply. Then: ‘I feared for his realm.’ There was no need for her to elaborate: Helewise knew full well what she meant. ‘I ordered that the borders of Normandy be strengthened; one cannot be too careful.’

  ‘No, my lady,’ Helewise murmured.

  ‘Then I received the letter.’ Eleanor’s voice was dull, almost expressionless. ‘My good Walter of Coutances’s man had fulfilled his mission – exceeded it, one might say – and managed to obtain a copy of Emperor Henry’s letter to that vile cur, Philip of France. On 21st December, the letter said, the King of England – oh, Helewise, how they disparaged him, calling him “the enemy of our Empire and the disturber of your kingdom”! – was taken prisoner by Duke Leopold of Austria. Walter knew full well how this frightful news would affect me, for he enclosed a letter of his own exhorting me to bear up and be brave.’

  ‘He is a man,’ Helewise said softly, ‘and has not a mother’s heart.’

  She felt the brief pressure of the Queen’s hand on her shoulder. Although Eleanor did not speak, Helewise knew that, in that instant, both of them were thinking the same thing.

  ‘What will happen now, my lady?’ Helewise asked after a moment.

  ‘I have sent the Abbot of Robertsbridge to Austria to search for the King. He is to be accompanied by the Abbot of Boxley. They are sound men and I know that they will do their utmost. But oh, how I yearn to be going myself ! I would find him, I know it, and then let the piddling Duke Leopold and his scurrilous master the Emperor look to their defences! They would not understand what an enemy they had unleashed until I descended on them!’

  The room rang with the echoes of the Queen’s shout. Then, as silence fell, she said, ‘Ah, well. I am an old woman, and I can do more good here in England.’

  ‘You hearten us, as always, by your presence and by your brave example,’ Helewise said. Her words were no empty flattery; she spoke from the heart.

  The Queen, it seemed, knew it. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What can we do, my lady?’ Helewise asked. ‘Anything that is in our power, you only have to command and it is done.’

  ‘Will you pray for us, for my poor captive son and his grieving mother?’

  ‘Yes! Oh, yes, of course we will!’

  The Queen smiled. ‘If you put such fervour into your prayers, Abbess Helewise, then surely God cannot help but hear.’

  Helewise returned her smile. Then she asked, ‘Would you care to pray with us, my lady, before you leave?’

  ‘Yes. I should like that very much.’

  The Queen had prayed that evening and again the next morning. Before she left, surrounded by her attendants and in haste to return to Westminster where there might be news, she took Helewise aside.

  ‘I have asked my nuns at Fontevraud and at Amesbury also to pray for us,’ she said quietly. ‘Like you, they earnestly promise to comply.’

  ‘I am quite sure—’ Helewise began.

  The Queen held up a hand. ‘I know. What I wish to say, Abbess Helewise, is that Queen Eleanor does not ask a boon without giving something in return.’

  ‘But there is no need—’

  Again, the Queen stopped her words with an imperious gesture. ‘I have for Hawkenlye a bag of gold,’ she said. ‘Put it to whatever use you see fit. My only stipulation is that whatever you do is done in the name of the King and of his mother.’

  Helewise bowed low. ‘You do us, as ever, too much honour.’

  Eleanor put her hands on Helewise’s shoulders, raising her up again. ‘Not so. In Hawkenlye I am given support and rare comfort. Why should I not bestow upon the community a little of what I have in abundance?’

  Then, to Helewise’s amazement, the Queen leaned forward, embraced her and kissed her.

  Clutching the bag of gold as she watched the royal party depart, Helewise had tears in her eyes.

  That visit was now several days in the past and already Helewise had taken the first steps towards the spending of the Queen’s unexpected bounty. A Hawkenlye Herbal, she thought, what better use could there be, for it would serve both as a permanent tribute to King Richard and his mother and also, because of its content, benefit healers both currently engaged at the Abbey and those that were to come. Sister Phillipa was even now engaged in preparing a demonstration of her skills, and Helewise had written out – although not yet despatched – an order for parchment, pigments, inks, brushes and quills.

  She had retired to her room to go over in her mind the recent interview with the Queen and to pray for her. Then, just as she had settled on to her knees, the knock at the door had come. And Sister Ursel, the porteress, had announced that Father Micah was outside and wished to speak to her.

  ‘I have told him that it may not be convenient but—’

  ‘But I insisted,’ Father Micah interrupted, pushing Sister Ursel out of the way and entering the room. ‘Your prayers must wait, my lady Abbess, for I need to speak to you urgently.’

  Rising to her feet, Helewise had swallowed her annoyance and, with a smile, invited Father Micah to be seated.

  Standing before him – he had ignored the stool which Helewise kept for visitors and sat himself down in the Abbess’s own throne-like chair – she listened in growing incredulity as Father Micah divulged the nature of his urgent matter. Now, swallowing her growing anger, Helewise was finding it more and more of an effort to keep the smile on her face.

  For Father Micah’s discourteous interruption had been for nothing more grave than to inform her that he was in need of a housekeeper. ‘One of your nuns will do,’ he was saying with a wave of a long, bony hand. ‘Get her to come in once or twice a day. There is cleaning to be done and, for all that my appearance belies it, I have a good appetite and I need a woman who can cook a decent meal.’

  Helewise was speechless. Biting down the angry retort – that her nuns had their own duties, thank you very much, and it was up to Father Micah to see to his domestic arrangements – she reflected how very, very sorry she was that poor Father Gilbert had broken his ankle and dumped this ghastly replacement on the Hawkenlye community. For a moment Father Gilbert’s kindly face swam into her mind; he had struggled down to the small pond near to his house to break the ice and allow the birds to drink. Then, turning to go back inside, he had fallen heavily on the rock-hard ground. As well as the broken ankle, he had given himself a severe concussion.

  His benign image helped her to reply politely, ‘My nuns have work enough here, Father Micah, but perhaps I can find someone in the neighbourhood who will be able to cook and clean for you—’

  ‘I’m not having some slut of a girl with dirt under her fingernails and lust in her heart!’

  ‘I would not recommend such a girl, even if I knew of one.’ Helewise kept her tone level.

  Father Micah was looking suspiciously at her. ‘I don’t want one of those whores you tend in your house of fallen women, either,’ he went on, as if she had not spoken.

  That idea was so inconceivable that Helewise almost laughed. ‘Quite so, Father,’ she murmured. ‘It would not be suitable at all.’

  ‘They are evil in God’s sight,’ the priest declaimed, ‘and by their foul and unnatural behaviour they lead good men into sin!’

  Helewise, who had always considered that it was at least as much the other way round, wisely kept her peace. It was not the moment – if moment there ever would be – to remind the Father that many women were driven to prostitution as the only alternative to death by starvation. Which, while it might be acceptable to a woman on her own, with only herself to worry about, was certainly not an option when she had a child or two to feed.

  And, anyway, was mankind not taught that their God was a God of love, and that He forgave those who repented of their sins?

  Listening to Father Micah – he had taken the opportunity to launch out into a vicious diatribe against women who turned men’s eyes, heads and hearts from where they should be, rapt in the contemplation of the Lord – Helewise a
dmitted to herself how much she disliked him.

  And that, she well knew, was going to be very awkward since, all the time Father Gilbert lay incapacitated in his bed, Father Micah was her confessor.

  Oh, dear Father Gilbert, she pleaded silently, come back to us soon! How am I to manage with this cold substitute, who stares at me as if he hates me and who is as likely to understand the particular problems of my position here as the stable cat?

  Helewise and Father Gilbert had, over the years, established an excellent relationship. It was helped by the fact that they genuinely liked one another and were good friends. Although Father Gilbert took his responsibility for Helewise’s soul far too seriously for there to be any question of leniency with her, nevertheless, once he had heard her confession and given her penance, he frequently managed to turn their subsequent conversation round to matters that caused her anxiety. There had been the time, for example, when Sister Euphemia, the infirmarer, had reported to Helewise that the daughter of a rich and influential merchant was not, as her fond father believed, suffering from a stomach upset but was in fact pregnant. The girl had quietly lost the baby and Helewise had not corrected the father when he said what a relief it was to see his girl over her sickness and with no harm done.

  Having heard her confess her lie and awarded her penance, Father Gilbert had remarked gently that it was wise to ask oneself three things before answering a difficult question. Is my reply true? Is it necessary? Is it kind?