by Alys Clare
There were so many points with which to take issue in that little speech that Helewise didn’t know where to start. She opened her mouth, but then Jenna spoke up.
‘You really shouldn’t patronize Helewise in that way, Cyrille,’ she said, ‘for she is a great deal more experienced than you in these matters.’
Cyrille turned to her, a sugary smile of stunning insincerity on her round face. ‘I wouldn’t dream of patronizing anyone, Jenna dear, especially a woman so very much older than I,’ she said with a smug little shake of her head.
Helewise heard someone gasp – Isabelle, she thought – but, before anyone could comment, Cyrille got up and began pacing to and fro.
‘We must be vigilant, at all times,’ she declared, ‘and, just now, even more so than usual, for much is at stake.’ She turned, her eyes roaming in turn over each of those present. ‘Charity is all very well, but we would be guilty of grave irresponsibility were we to admit a leper into our household.’ She nodded quickly several times, as if agreeing with herself.
Helewise watched her closely. Something was affecting the woman deeply, she thought, and, thinking back over the evening just passed, she realized that Cyrille’s behaviour had been odd; even more odd than usual. She had seemed restless and agitated, once or twice getting up to pace to and fro. Her eyes had shone and her normally pallid face was flushed. It was almost as if she was hugging to herself a very precious secret, one that she was not ready to share. Since supper, she had been starting conversations, interrupting others relentlessly when they tried to respond, demanding that people pay her attention even if it was clear their thoughts were elsewhere and they needed a little time to themselves.
She had been very rude to poor Herbert, too, giving him a harsh telling-off when he proffered a dish of jugged hare and pushing it away from her as violently as if it had contained something foul and rotten.
It was all very strange.
Breaking quite a long silence, Josse went to sit beside Isabelle and asked her quietly how Peter Southey’s convalescence was progressing. Looking across at the two of them, Helewise noticed that everyone else was doing the same. She bent her head, smiling. Dear old Josse! No doubt he had meant the conversation to be private, between him and his cousin, but his idea of speaking softly was normally perfectly audible to everyone else, provided there was no distracting noise.
Isabelle said, ‘He is not so good tonight. I persuaded him to get out of bed today and sit on the settle, and Editha and I helped him to walk round the room and up and down the passage. I fear it may have been too much for him, for this evening he has been complaining of a worsening headache.’
‘The effect of his fall?’ Josse said.
‘Undoubtedly,’ Isabelle agreed. ‘I’ve prepared a specific for him containing both willow bark for the pain and various herbs to make him sleep. He’s already had a dose, and I shall check in the night and see if he requires more.’
‘I could do that, if you like,’ Helewise offered. ‘Peter’s room is, after all, much closer to ours than to your quarters.’
Isabelle gave her a grateful smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I must admit, I should welcome a chance to sleep the night through with no disturbance.’
Cyrille had edged closer. ‘I do hope you know what you’re doing, Isabelle,’ she said primly. ‘Myself, I have always considered it a little perilous to mix treatments for the alleviation of pain with sleeping draughts.’
‘In my experience, it is common practice, providing the herbalist is well versed in her craft,’ Helewise said with polite reasonableness, ‘as I am quite sure Isabelle is.’
Isabelle muttered something, which, fortunately, was inaudible.
‘I’m sure I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, but we should not take any chances with our poor invalid,’ Cyrille persisted.
Isabelle said shortly, ‘I don’t intend to.’
Cyrille made a face like a small child who has just suffered a telling-off. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘Somebody’s getting overtired.’
Isabelle shot to her feet, her face scarlet, and with a brief ‘Goodnight’, strode out of the hall.
Cyrille had subsided again, a smug little smile on her face, and was back in her seat, her sewing on her lap. Nobody spoke; the Old Hall fell silent. Once again, Helewise reflected, the entire family – herself and Josse included – had meekly sat back and allowed Cyrille to vent her opinions, insulting and unwelcome as they were, with barely a word of protest.
Dear Lord, Helewise prayed in silent desperation, what on earth is wrong with us all?
Before joining Josse in their room at the end of the passage, Helewise went to look in on Peter. She found Isabelle standing beside the bed, a small earthenware bottle in her hands. Hearing Helewise behind her, quickly she put it down on the little table, next to the ewer and the wash cloth.
‘I was going to administer another dose of the draught,’ she said softly, ‘but he is sleeping soundly at present and I see no need.’
‘No, it would be a pity to wake him,’ Helewise agreed. ‘I will return later, and give him more if he is restless and in pain.’
‘Good. This much –’ Isabelle indicated with forefinger and thumb on the side of the bottle – ‘in warm water.’ She pointed towards the fire in the small hearth. ‘I’ve left a pot of water there. It ought to suffice.’ She went on staring at Helewise. ‘Sure you don’t mind?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘And – er, you won’t sleep right on till morning?’
‘Oh, no. I’m used to waking in the night.’
Isabelle nodded. ‘I see,’ she muttered. Then, with a nod, she left the room.
Peter Southey opened his eyes. Something had disturbed him, and, in the weak light of the gently smouldering fire, he peered round the room, trying to make out what it could have been.
He thought he saw movement: a deeper darkness in the shadows, over there in the doorway.
‘Is anybody there?’ he hissed.
I should not feel so afraid, he told himself. I am a grown man, not a child like that poor little boy who screamed and screamed.
He tried to raise himself up on one elbow, but the effort caused a shooting pain through his injured shoulder, and an even worse pain – like a knife stabbing his skull – in his head. He lay back, a groan escaping him.
He closed his eyes. Perhaps, if he could sleep again, the pain would go away.
Something – some change in the light – penetrated his pain. He opened his eyes. The room looked different … oh, yes; the fire had died right down, so that now the room was almost in total darkness. I must have slept, he mused, for the embers were still glowing when last I was aware.
The pain was still there, relentless, and steadily worsening. His hand felt across his chest and he grabbed at his lucky charm, fumbling at the strings of the little leather bag and pulling out the chess piece. He put it to his lips, kissing it. Help me! Help me! He gave a soft cry of agony, trying to form the words to pray. Dear, merciful Lord, please send someone to me! I cannot bear this!
Then, Oh, thank you, Lord, somebody was there. The fire had been tended. An arm was insinuated behind his head, raising him on his pillows, and he felt the hard edge of the medicine cup touch against his lips. He struggled to sit up. ‘Do not disturb yourself,’ a soft, gentle voice whispered right in his ear. ‘There is no need, for I will support you. Drink this, now.’ Obediently he parted his lips, and the hot liquid was carefully poured into his mouth. By a hand well used to the action, he thought vaguely, for whoever it was tipped the liquid at exactly the right rate, allowing him time to swallow before the next mouthful came. ‘It is a draught prepared by Isabelle,’ the quiet voice continued, ‘and you must drink it down straight away, while the full potency is in it!’ He obeyed, greedily sucking in the liquid. It was heavily laced with honey, but the bitterness of whatever gave it its power broke through the intense sweetness, almost making him gag. ‘Steady, steady,’ soothed the calm voice. ‘No
t so fast!’
But Peter went on gulping it down. He would have drunk anything, just then, if it promised to relieve his agony.
Presently he noticed that the mug had been taken away from his lips. He made a small sound of protest – it was surprisingly hard to speak, for already sleep was fast overcoming him – and the quiet voice said reassuringly, ‘No more now – you’ve drunk it to the dregs.’
He murmured his thanks, although the words were no more than a vague mumble. He was aware of movements; one or two quiet sounds; footsteps, soft, as if someone walked on tiptoe so as not to disturb him.
He smiled, already half in dreams. No need to step quietly on my account, he thought to himself. He could feel the chess piece, safe in his right hand, and, as always, it gave him comfort. A horse galloping down the passage would not keep me awake now …
Some time before dawn, when the first light had not yet shown in the eastern sky, Helewise woke, quietly got out of bed, took a warm shawl and, wrapping herself snugly, hurried along the passage to attend to Peter.
The fire in his room still glowed red, and she glanced at him quickly as she went in. He was asleep, and she wondered whether it would be best to leave him. She decided to wake him; he had already slept long, and might soon be stirring. Another dose of the draught administered now would provide many more hours’ sleep, and that was the best thing for a man recovering from a serious head injury.
She bent down beside the hearth, picking up the jug of water. It was still warm; hot enough, she thought, to dilute the thick potion and make it drinkable. She went over to the bed, picking up the earthenware bottle and measuring out the right amount into the small cup set beside it. She poured on the water.
‘Peter,’ she said softly. ‘Peter, wake up, for it is time for another dose of medicine.’
There was no response.
‘Peter?’
She stood utterly still, holding her breath, listening.
Then, dropping the bottle on the floor, she bent down over Peter’s sleeping form. She put her hand to his throat. She pressed her ear to his chest. She put her cheek against his slightly parted lips. She took his hands in hers, first the right, then the left.
Shaking, she straightened up. The words came readily to her – how many times she had said them! – and she took her time. Then she turned away from the bed, left the room and, at first walking steadily, then breaking into a run, flew down the passage to find Josse.
TEN
Josse, Helewise and Isabelle stood over the dead body. After a swift dash back to Peter’s room to verify Helewise’s dreadful news, Josse had hastened away to the family’s quarters and quietly roused his cousin. Now, watching her as she stood white-faced, repeatedly shaking her head as if to deny what lay before her, Josse wished he could have left her peacefully sleeping.
Helewise took hold of Isabelle’s hand. ‘It is what quite often happens after a bad blow to the head,’ she said, her voice soft and soothing. ‘I have seen it several times. The patient seems to be improving, and is encouraged to resume a normal, active life, and then it is as if some grave injury hidden within the hard bones of the skull asserts itself, the patient falls unconscious and, sad to say, there is nothing anyone can do to save him.’
Watching Isabelle, Josse wasn’t at all sure she’d taken in Helewise’s kind words. She did, however, seem to appreciate the gentle tone and the hand holding hers.
‘I gave him only a modest amount of the preparation,’ she said, not for the first time. ‘Enough dried willow to ease the pain, so that he would sleep, and enough of the soporific to ensure he stayed asleep.’ She gave an anguished cry, stifling it swiftly with her free hand. ‘I have given far more powerful doses in the past with no ill effect!’
‘Helewise is right,’ Josse proclaimed, ‘and I, too, have observed deaths that occur several days after a fall and a blow to the head. You cared for him devotedly, cousin, and there is nothing to feel guilty about.’
‘He’s dead, Josse!’
‘Aye, I know, but through no fault of yours,’ he insisted. Realizing that standing there helpless beside the body was not helping Isabelle to cope with the shock, he said briskly, ‘Now, there is much we must do. The body must be laid out, arrangements must be made to remove it to some private spot within the house, and we must consider how and where he is to be buried.’ He thought swiftly. ‘Fortunately we know who he is, and we must set about discovering where he comes from so that we can inform his family.’
‘He is all alone in the world,’ Helewise whispered. ‘Remember, Josse?’
Isabelle said softly, ‘Do you think he really is Aeleis’s son? Because if he is, we’ll have to seek her out and tell her he’s dead.’
Josse felt they had enough to deal with without the added distress of planning how they would break the news to Aeleis. Ignoring the sudden surge of love for her that rose up in him, he said firmly, ‘The idea that Peter was her son was no more than speculation. It cannot be permitted to affect our efforts to locate his kin, if, indeed, he has any. All we have to go on is his name, and the fact that he was on his way to Lewes, and—’
‘He wasn’t really going to Lewes at all,’ Isabelle said impatiently. ‘He was coming here, to us, and he had Aeleis’s Queen Eleanor with him to prove he was her son.’
Josse sighed; this was getting him nowhere. Forcing a smile, he said, ‘Isabelle, will you attend to the laying-out and the temporary care of the body?’
Isabelle seemed to make an effort. Disengaging her hand from Helewise’s, she squared her shoulders and nodded. ‘I will. I’d better go and wake Editha so she can help me.’
‘I’ll help, if you like,’ Helewise offered. ‘It is still very early, and it’s a pity to disturb Editha when I am already awake.’
Isabelle turned to her. ‘Thank you. Let us do it together.’
‘What will you do, Josse?’ Helewise asked.
Josse had been staring round the room, noting what few possessions had arrived with the dead man. ‘I shall go through his belongings,’ he said, ‘and see if they reveal any clue as to where he came from.’
Peter Southey had travelled light. Apart from his garments – chemise, padded tunic, hose, cloak and boots, all of good quality but showing signs of hard use – he had a leather purse, attached to his belt. It contained money; a substantial sum. Nothing else. He also had a pack, containing a change of personal linen and a spare pair of hose, as well as a soft, sweet-smelling woollen blanket. Josse, a seasoned traveller himself, understood why a man would carry such an item. Blankets supplied by wayside inns – if, indeed, they did supply them – were usually filthy, verminous and hard as a board from too much use and too little washing.
He found Queen Eleanor on the floor beside Peter’s bed. Reverently he picked her up, brushed off a piece of fluff and returned her to the little leather bag on its thong around Peter’s neck. ‘She’s back with you now, safe and sound,’ he whispered, bending down low over the dead man. ‘She’ll go with you to your grave.’
Then, sensing that his presence in the small room was impeding the women in their sad work, he left.
He was in no mood for company and, to his relief, he found the Old Hall deserted apart from two or three servants coming in and out, seeing to the fire and preparing the board for the first meal of the day. He stood for a moment, undecided. Then suddenly he knew what he must do. Hurrying on across the hall, he went through the arch into the family’s quarters and strode through the maze of passages, open spaces and interconnecting rooms until he reached Uncle Hugh’s chamber.
He had gone to seek him out yesterday, angry and upset because nobody seemed to be able or willing to tell him what had become of Aeleis. But, yesterday, he had been frustrated because first Hugh was sound asleep and then, once he woke, his mind was wandering and he thought Josse was his father.
I shall do better today, Josse vowed, pausing in the doorway. It is very early still, and he will be fresh from his night’s sleep.
>
I will have some answers.
He straightened his tunic, drew a deep breath and went on into the room.
To his relief, Uncle Hugh was sitting up in bed, eyes bright and alert, looking expectantly towards the door as if the very thing he wanted was someone to come in and entertain him with a good, long conversation. One of the household had already been in to tend him: his sparse hair lay smooth on his scalp, and his cheeks were still slightly damp from shaving. The room was adequately warm, and a tray beside the bed held an empty mug and a wooden platter bare but for some crumbs and a hard rind of cheese.
‘Good morning, Uncle!’ Josse greeted him. ‘You’re looking well.’
‘Yes, my boy, and I feel well, too.’ Hugh smiled cheerfully. ‘Today is going to be a good day, for the sun is out and presently we shall all go outside and enjoy the fresh air.’ Ah, thought Josse. Should he break it to the old man that snow lay on the ground, and nobody would be venturing out unless they had no choice?
But Hugh was still speaking. ‘You’re up early – something on your mind, is there? A question you want to ask?’
There seemed no point in denying it. ‘Aye.’
‘Ask away!’ Uncle Hugh hummed a few notes of an old folk melody.
‘I want to talk to you about Aeleis.’
The humming stopped in mid-tune. Hugh’s happy smile vanished and his fingers began to play with the sheet. ‘Aeleis,’ he echoed in a whisper.
‘I’m sorry if it pains you to think of her,’ Josse hurried on, ‘but it’s important that we find out where she is, and what’s become of her.’
Hugh’s eyes shot to meet his. ‘Why?’ he demanded. There was a definite touch of ice in his voice.
‘Something’s happened.’ It sounded inadequate, but Josse wasn’t ready yet to explain about Peter Southey and the chess piece. ‘You heard a rumour concerning her, didn’t you? One of your friends told you about the exploits of a beautiful woman at court, and you thought it was Aeleis. You—’
