The Chatter of the Maidens Page 7

  No. There were some tasks that only the commanding officer could do, and this looked like one of them.

  He said, knowing what she would say, ‘Will you not wait for a week or so, and allow me to escort you?’

  She gave him a smile of great sweetness. ‘No, Josse, I won’t. For one thing, if I were to agree to that, you would get up and set out before you were ready, and we might well end up back where we started. For another, I don’t believe I should wait at all. Meriel is missing, we know her to be in a very depressed state, and – well, the sooner I discover what lies behind this sorry affair, the sooner we may be able to help her. If, that is, we manage to find her,’ she added under her breath.

  ‘Now, then, no defeatist talk!’ he muttered back. He felt the bonds imposed by his sickness acutely just then, though, and it was hard to put any levity into his voice.

  ‘I shall ask at Alba’s convent if they know the whereabouts of the former family home,’ the Abbess was saying. ‘They ought at least to be able to supply the father’s name. I cannot imagine a convent in which a woman arrives with no background and no past.’

  ‘She did not give you her family name when she came here?’ Josse asked.

  ‘No, she merely said she had come from another convent. In Ely, as I said. And, before you ask, she provided no details of her sisters’ former lives either, other than to say they were recently orphaned.’

  ‘If I can’t be of any other help to you,’ Josse said – which in itself was a painful admission – ‘then may I make some suggestions about your journey? I am a not inexperienced traveller, as you know, and perhaps I may be able to ensure a bit of comfort for you on the road.’

  She gave him another smile. ‘I was hoping that you would. Please, proceed. I’m listening.’

  For some time after that, he went through a list of the preparations he would make for a journey from Kent to Ely. It was, he told her, a good time of year for travelling; the days were lengthening perceptibly, the weather was warm, and a long dry spell meant that the roads would be in a good state. Furthermore, April usually saw the start of the pilgrimage season; although this meant that wayside inns might be busy, that was compensated for by the fact that there was safety in numbers. You were far more likely to reach your destination when the roads were well peopled than as a solitary traveller; then, you were prey to thieves.

  But, in any case, she should not, of course, go alone; he was adamant about that. ‘Could Brother Saul be spared?’ he asked. ‘I have always held his sense and his capability in high regard.’

  ‘So have I,’ she agreed. ‘I shall ask Brother Firmin in such a way that he has no choice but to say yes.’

  ‘You should take one other,’ Josse said. ‘Another lay brother. It might be best to get Saul to propose someone.’ A thought struck him. ‘Has the Abbey mounts for three?’

  She frowned. ‘We have the cob, the pony and the mule,’ she said. ‘Although the mule is very old and weary. Brother Saul can ride the cob – he often does – and I suppose I could ride the pony.’

  ‘He’s only a small pony,’ Josse said.

  ‘Yes, but very strong.’ She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘I hope, Sir Josse, that you are not implying I would be too heavy a burden.’

  She was a tall woman, and well built, and that was exactly what he had been implying. ‘Er – I – well, of course not, Abbess, it’s just that you have a long road to travel, and—’

  Her face alight, she interrupted him. ‘Oh, what a fool I am! I had forgotten, but we do have another horse. A pale chestnut mare, a most beautiful animal, given into our care by—’ Her hand flew to her mouth and she stopped.

  But she hadn’t needed to say. Josse knew as well as she did who had ridden a pale chestnut mare. Someone whose new life must surely make caring for an elegant, well-bred mare almost impossible. . . .

  ‘You have Joanna’s mare,’ he said tonelessly.

  ‘Yes,’ the Abbess said quietly. ‘She left her with us. We promised to take care of her – she is called Honey, by the way – and we are allowed to ride her in exchange for her keep.’

  ‘I see,’ Josse murmured. But he was hardly listening. He was thinking of Joanna. With an effort, he made himself attend once more to the Abbess.

  ‘. . . can’t think of a lay brother small enough to ride the pony, which means we shall still be a mount short, unless we take the mule,’ she was saying.

  ‘Take Horace,’ he said. ‘He’s at New Winnowlands, but someone can be sent to fetch him. I’m not using him,’ he added bitterly.

  ‘Horace,’ the Abbess breathed. ‘Oh, Sir Josse, are you sure? Such a valuable horse, and so big!’

  ‘Get Saul to find a man who’s a good rider,’ Josse said. Suddenly he was weary of talking. Weary of being in pain, weary of being a prisoner in his bed when he wanted to be out in the fresh air, busy with myriad things that would take his mind off his memories.

  The Abbess must have understood, for she leaned over him, put a gentle hand on his forehead and said softly, ‘We will speak again before I depart; I cannot go until I have sought and obtained permission from the Archbishop. But for now, dear Sir Josse, rest. Sleep, if you can.’ She hesitated as if not quite sure whether she should go on. Then, deciding, she whispered, ‘You will get better. That I know.’

  Then she was gone, leaving him wondering sleepily whether she had referred to his wounded arm or his sore heart.

  Probably both.

  He woke later from a fretful dream. Something was worrying him, some connection he should have made and hadn’t . . . Something important, to do with the Abbess and her quest. . . .

  No. It had gone. He went back to sleep, and this time slept so deeply that, when next he woke, whatever it was that had been troubling him had disappeared without trace.

  Chapter Seven

  Brother Firmin was very reluctant to spare Saul, one of his hardest workers, to accompany the Abbess to Ely, so she had to turn a polite request into an order. The old monk made one or two comments under his breath, which Helewise pretended not to hear. Then, when she was back in her room fuming silently about silly old men who had forgotten there was any other world save the cloister, he confounded her by tapping softly on her door and presenting her, with the sweetest of smiles, with a small phial of the holy water ‘to keep Our Lady with you on your travels’.

  Brother Saul, on being informed of his unusual mission, was filled with a very obvious delight. His normally sombre face split into a wide grin, over which he appeared to have little control; he wore the same expression constantly for the next few hours, until the first delight wore off.

  Helewise went to find him in the stables; he had rounded up the cob – who, for some long-forgotten reason, answered to the name of Baldwin – and was grooming him within an inch of his life.

  ‘Brother Saul, may I interrupt you?’ she asked, coming up behind him.

  Instantly he stopped what he was doing and gave her a bow. ‘I am at your disposal, Abbess. What can I do for you?’

  Touched at the devotion in his face, she said, ‘Saul, Sir Josse advises me to take two of the brothers with me. Now, this raises a couple of questions; one, who do you think would be suitable, and two, would this suitable man be up to riding Sir Josse’s horse? That is,’ she added, fearing that she had not been very diplomatic, ‘unless you would like to ride it?’

  Brother Saul was shaking his head emphatically at the very thought. ‘Not me, Abbess, thank you all the same. Great hairy thing,’ he muttered. Helewise thought, suppressing a smile, that it was just as well she knew he was referring to the horse. ‘No, I like old Baldwin here,’ he said, giving the cob a friendly slap. His face took on a frown of concentration. Then, clearing again, he exclaimed, ‘Brother Augustine! He’s the boy we want, Abbess!’

  ‘Brother Augustine?’ she repeated. ‘I don’t believe I know the name . . .’ What an admission, she berated herself. I am Abbess here; I should know everyone in my community!

  Bro
ther Saul must have read her consternation. ‘You might not know the name, Abbess, but I’ll warrant you know the boy. Dark hair, dark eyes, foreign look about him, legs from his feet to his armpits, natural touch with animals and crotchety children?’

  ‘That is Brother Augustine?’ Of course she knew him! Why, she had remarked to Brother Firmin only last week what a help the lad must be when there were babies and toddlers needing to be watched while their parents were at prayer! ‘But I thought he was called something else . . . Gus, that was it.’

  Saul grinned. ‘Aye, we mostly call him Gus. He seems to prefer it.’

  She said, ‘Tell me about Brother Augustine, Saul, if you will.’

  Brother Saul leaned an arm over the cob’s back, and, in that relaxed position, began. ‘He’s been with us six months or thereabouts. Family are tinkers – fairground entertainers, that sort of thing – and Gus, he’d been hearing Our Lord’s call for a year or more when they fetched up here. His mother took sick – had a baby that died, and it took it out of her – and they came to the Vale to take the healing waters. Now young Gus loves his mother, anyone with eyes can see that, and he was that thankful when she recovered and began to smile again that he reckoned this was the moment to answer God’s call.’

  ‘If he’s been here six months,’ Helewise said doubtfully, ‘then doesn’t that mean his novitiate is over, and he’s about to take the first of his vows?’ It was not a moment to take a novice monk away from the Abbey, she thought.

  ‘He’s not a novice,’ Saul said. ‘Not yet, anyway. He’s a lay brother.’

  ‘But—’ Helewise began. If the boy had heard God’s call so clearly, then why had he not asked to join the professed monks? It is not for me to ask, she told herself sternly. It is between God and Brother Augustine. Instead, turning her mind to practicalities, she said, ‘He rides well, this Gus? Well enough to get Sir Josse’s horse safely to Ely and back?’

  ‘Aye, God willing,’ Saul replied. ‘See, he’s got no fear, Abbess. He’ll be happy enough sitting up there on old Horace’s back, even though the animal’s as high as a house. Been in the saddle since he were a little tacker, I’ll warrant. Travelling folks, you see.’

  ‘Indeed I do.’ Helewise nodded gravely. ‘Well, then, Saul, I suggest that, when you’ve finished polishing Baldwin, you take Brother Augustine over to New Winnowlands and bring Sir Josse’s horse back here.’

  Saul looked doubtful. ‘Will they let me?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘Of course they will,’ she said. ‘They know you, Saul, don’t they, Sir Josse’s manservant and his woman?’

  ‘Aye, but—’

  Touched by his modesty – did he not know he had the most honest face of any man? – she said bracingly, ‘No buts, Brother Saul. Go and see Sir Josse, explain your mission, and he will tell you what to say.’ She turned to go. ‘Oh, and Saul . . . ?’

  ‘Abbess?’

  ‘When you return, would you please groom the chestnut mare, too?’

  Saul grinned. Beckoning her, he led her the few paces along to the end stall. Looking over the half-door, Helewise saw Joanna’s mare. Her pale coat had been groomed until it gleamed. ‘Oh!’ Helewise exclaimed, instinctively holding out her hand, ‘I had forgotten how beautiful you are!’

  The mare came up to her, nuzzling a soft nose in her outstretched palm. The dark eyes studied her, and then the mare tossed her dainty head and gave a gentle whicker.

  ‘Hello to you, too,’ Helewise murmured. I am going to ride this lovely horse, she thought, a thrill of excitement coursing through her. For a very good reason, I am going on a long journey through springtime England. I know that the fact of my being so delighted at the prospect suggests that I should not be doing it, but really, I have no choice.

  The mare had extended her head over the door, and Helewise leaned her face against the warm, smooth-haired flesh of the mare’s gracefully ached neck. Forgive me, Lord, she prayed, if I am eager to go out into Your world. It does not mean that I love Hawkenlye any the less, nor that I am weary of my service to You in this place. But I must go.

  As she walked back across the courtyard to her room, she resolved to tell Father Gilbert of her joy at the prospect of her journey. No doubt he would find a way to help her cope with it.

  Her elation was, however, swiftly tempered by the realisation that she must decide what to do about Alba; the woman could hardly be left in the punishment cell indefinitely, and only the Abbess could release her.

  She knelt in her room, asking for guidance.

  And, after a while, she recalled an occasion when somebody else had had to be penned up at Hawkenlye Abbey. Not a monk, nor a nun, but a sad, mentally sick young man who had committed an unlikely murder. They had put him in an end chamber of the infirmary undercroft, in a dark little room with a lock on the door. Oh, Helewise thought, but, apart from being larger, was that any better than the punishment cell?

  There are other rooms down there, she thought, there must be. Getting up, she hurried off to look.

  She found what she needed. Not the end chamber, at the dark far end of the undercroft, but a larger one near to the entrance. It had a sizeable grille in its stout door; anybody imprisoned within would have at least some daylight.

  She went in search of Brother Erse. He was a carpenter and could, she was sure, fit a bolt to the door in the time it took to arrange the chamber for its new prisoner.

  When the room was ready, equipped with a straw pallet, covers, a jug of water and a drinking cup, Helewise asked Brother Erse to fetch Brother Saul and, with Sister Martha for support, the four went to let Alba out of the punishment cell and take her to her new accommodation.

  A night in the tiny, dark cell had calmed Alba. Blinking in the daylight, she walked obediently between her escorts across to the infirmary; ushered down into her new quarters, she gave a faint smile.

  ‘You will be taken out for a walk in the fresh air twice a day,’ Helewise told her, ‘provided you behave. Your meals will be brought to you down here. You may have all reasonable comforts and, if you give no trouble, we will allow you a lantern at night.’

  Alba would not meet her eyes.

  Help me, dear Lord, to reach her! Helewise prayed silently. ‘Alba?’ she said gently. ‘Is there anything you wish to say?’

  Alba raised her head. Resentment was evident in her face, but also a grudging appreciation. She opened her mouth and, for a moment, Helewise thought she might be about to speak. But then, with a slight shake of her head, Alba turned away.

  With a heavy heart, Helewise returned to her room and sent for Berthe.

  The girl came quickly, and Helewise was touched to see the clear signs that she had been crying.

  ‘Berthe,’ Helewise said, ‘I am going on a journey. I must talk to the superior of the convent where Alba was before she came here. Can you tell me where it was?’

  There was fear in the girl’s face. She shook her head.

  ‘Are you quite sure?’ Helewise persisted.

  ‘Yes, Abbess! Honestly, I really can’t tell you that, I don’t know it. She never said, and when I asked Father where she had gone and if we could visit her, he said she was dead to us and we must forget her.’

  You poor child, Helewise thought, watching as Berthe struggled with renewed tears. ‘Never mind,’ she said – and how inadequate the words sounded, in the face of the girl’s distress – ‘it’s all right, Berthe, I believe you.’

  Berthe was watching her with a strange expression. She looked almost guilty, Helewise thought. Then, after some inner struggle that was painted clearly on her face, the girl said, ‘We lived at Medely. That’s where my father’s farm was.’

  ‘Medely?’ Helewise repeated. The name meant nothing.

  ‘Yes! It’s quite a small place. And we –’ But then she folded her lips tight shut.

  ‘Berthe?’

  ‘I can’t!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Abbess Helewise, you’ve been so nice to me and I want to help, but I just can’t!’
>
  You are afraid, Helewise thought compassionately. If I pressed you a little harder, I think you might break down and tell me what I need so badly to know. But what would that do to you, child?

  No, she thought, I shall just have to do it the hard way.

  She dismissed Berthe with a swift blessing – the poor child was surely in sore need of the Lord’s blessing – and then summoned Brother Michael, giving him orders to ride down to Tonbridge and report the death of the pilgrim to Sheriff Pelham.

  Thinking that at least she wouldn’t have to deal with him, since, by the time the Sheriff got himself up to Hawkenlye, she would be on her way to Ely, her enthusiasm for her journey began to creep back.

  The Abbess was not the only one eager to be on the road. In the infirmary, Josse lay aching for the party to be gone; only then, or so he hoped, would he be able to have any peace.

  He kept envisaging them on the road; the Abbess, her faithful Brother Saul and this lad, Gus. The one who was going to ride Horace. Would they know what to do if anything unexpected happened? Supposing one of the horses pulled up lame, supposing someone took a bad fall, supposing they found the road flooded, or a river crossing place impassable, would they know how to make a detour?

  Had any of them the first idea of how to get to Ely?

  The Abbess had visited him frequently over the past two days, serenely answering every objection. But she doesn’t really know what it’s going to be like, Josse fumed to himself; when did she ever go off into the blue with only a lay brother and a boy to protect her?

  Then, early in the morning of the day that the party was to set out, he had a visit from Brother Augustine.

  The boy stood in front of him, a friendly expression on his face. He looked, Josse thought, neither nervous nor overawed at this important mission for which he had been selected.

  ‘I thought I should come to see you,’ he said without preamble, ‘being as how you’ve been kind enough to let me ride your horse.’

  ‘Good of you,’ Josse muttered.