Faithful Dead

by Alys Clare

  ‘Some might say that you were in fact giving this mystery woman a very special gift,’ Helewise said quietly.

  ‘Aye, but then there’s this business of the girl having what Sidonius called psychic powers, whatever they may be,’ Josse protested. ‘Well, I can’t be sure about my sisters-in-law – although they seem a pretty ordinary quartet to me – but I know for certain there’s never been any of that magic stuff in my family!’

  Helewise was silent. She was thinking very hard.

  She knew – or at least she strongly suspected – something that Josse did not. And she knew that she must not tell him, because the secret was not hers to keep or give away. Always assuming that her suspicions were right.

  He was waiting for her answer. ‘Abbess Helewise? Will you take the Eye or not? It’s a heathen thing, I know, but there must be some good in it. I’m told its magic will only work for its rightful owner, but if I give it away of my own free will, then the recipient surely becomes the rightful owner. Anyway, it would be for the best, I’m sure, to keep it here because Sidonius said the Eye was only safe in the hands of the very strong, the very wise and the very good, and you and your nuns here at Hawkenlye are all of those.’

  Touched both by the generosity of his compliment and by his faith in her community, she raised her eyes to look at him.

  ‘I will,’ she said gravely. ‘I shall speak to Sister Euphemia and Sister Tiphaine, both of whom will, I suspect, find better uses for the stone than I could. If it will work for them, that is. From what you tell me, I imagine that it could be a very handy thing in the infirmary, and Sister Tiphaine might find its poison-detecting ability useful when she is working on new remedies.’

  She had seen the relief sweep through him from the moment she said ‘I will’. His face was full of emotion: gratitude, certainly, but something more . . .

  Preferring not to dwell on that, she said, ‘However, Sir Josse, we at Hawkenlye Abbey will look upon our custodianship of the Eye purely as temporary; the stone will be on loan. We will keep it safely here as long as you wish it. But if ever the day comes that you and––’ She almost said, you and your descendants, but managed to stop herself – ‘that you wish to claim it back again, you will only have to ask. Is that all right?’

  He was smiling broadly. ‘More than all right, and I thank you with all my heart. And I won’t want it back, my lady, I can assure you of that. I’ll be delighted to see the back of it!’

  She waited. He had it with him, presumably, so he would probably present it there and then.

  Nothing happened.

  She said, ‘Sir Josse? Do you wish me to take over the Eye now?’

  He watched her for a moment. Then he said, ‘I have been selfish in making this request just at this moment, Abbess Helewise.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Because Prince John is here seeking it. And, although John Dee has given his word not to let his master know the truth, I fear that the Prince will not meekly ride away without further questions.’

  Understanding, she said, ‘And you would not have me lie, if he comes to me demanding to be told what I know of the Eye.’

  ‘Exactly so. I’m thinking, my lady, that, were I to hide the stone somewhere myself, some place that you do not know, you could say to the Prince that you have no idea where the Eye is and be telling the truth.’

  She smiled. ‘I think that might be considered to be a falsehood by omission,’ she observed.

  ‘Aye, I was afraid you would say that.’ He stared at her, the fatigue apparent in his face and his very stance. ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘First, you must allow me to be the judge of what lies I choose to state or to imply.’ She had not intended to sound as if she were reprimanding him, but the droop of his mouth suggested that he took her remark in that way. ‘Sir Josse?’ she said kindly, and he raised his eyes to meet hers. ‘I meant no reproof.’

  ‘No, my lady.’

  He did not seem to be comforted in the least. Very well; best, she decided, to proceed. ‘I propose that you do just as you suggest, and hide the Eye. Should the Prince ask me about it – which I rather doubt that he will, since all along he has dared only to enquire about a man called Galbertius Sidonius, not what this man may or may not have carried with him – I shall respond as I see fit. The one thing that I shall not say’ – she leaned forward, speaking earnestly–– ‘is that we now know who Sidonius is, that you have spoken to him and that he has given you what is rightfully yours.’

  He said, with an air of wonderment, ‘You would do that? Withhold the very information that he seeks, if he asks for it?’

  ‘I would. I shall.’ He still seemed perplexed. ‘Sir Josse, it is, as you are aware, a sin to lie. To lie to a prince of royal blood may in addition be a crime – it might even be treason, I do not know. But even if so, it is better than the alternative.’

  ‘Letting the Prince have the Eye,’ he said dully.

  ‘Quite so. And, as you told me, even John Dee indicated the folly of that.’

  There was a silence during which she – and, she imagined, Josse too – considered just how Prince John’s ambition, intelligence and ruthlessness might put a magic talisman to use.

  ‘We would in truth be doing the Prince a favour, not letting him have the Eye,’ Josse said eventually.

  ‘We would? How so?’

  Josse grinned. ‘I won’t give it to him freely, so, if he took it, he would not be the rightful owner. John Dee says the powers won’t work for such a person. Could even work against him.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  Had she needed further justification of her decision – which she didn’t – Josse had just supplied it.

  There was a further, longer, silence. Then she said gently, ‘I suggest you go and hide it now, Sir Josse.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The Eye.’

  ‘Ah. Oh, yes.’

  It was a measure of his fatigue and his state of mind that he turned and left the room, quietly closing the door after him, without even bidding her good night.

  She sat there in silence for some time after he had gone.

  She had just remembered that, when he had left her earlier in the day with John Dee, he and his brother had been going to take the old man to Sister Tiphaine, for treatment for his bad back.

  Had the herbalist said anything? Oh, dear, supposing––

  But with a deliberate act of will, Helewise cut off that line of thought. I am quite certain that she did not, she decided. For one thing, during our conversation just now Josse hardly looked like a man who had recently learned a life-altering piece of news. For another, Sister Tiphaine adamantly refuses to discuss the matter with me, so why presume that she would reveal the secret to Josse the moment she had a chance?

  Wearily Helewise dropped her aching head down on to her arms, folded on her table. And all of that, she thought, presupposes that I am right.

  Am I?

  She thought back to her last talk with Sister Tiphaine. She had sought out the herbalist in her garden; it had been the day that Josse and Yves had set out to visit Prince John, and come back with the sheriff and his men bearing the dead body of the old man’s servant lad.

  She had told Sister Tiphaine what she suspected. Had asked – no, ordered – the herbalist to tell her the truth. Tiphaine had stared steadily at her out of those deep, mysterious eyes and said, ‘I have nothing to tell, my lady Abbess.’

  Which, as Helewise was well aware, was ambiguous and could equally well mean, there is nothing to tell, or – surely more likely! – I have something to tell you but I am not going to.

  It was Helewise’s duty, as Abbess of Hawkenlye, to care for the souls of her nuns. And, if Sister Tiphaine were concealing something, something for which she was willing to lie, then it was up to Helewise to get her to admit it, confess it and seek absolution.

  ‘But if it concerns Sir Josse!’ Helewise had pressed, voice an urgent whisper.

  And Sister Tiphaine, f
ace a blank, had said, ‘If what concerns Sir Josse?’

  Now Josse had been in the herbalist’s company. There must have been a moment when she could have taken him aside and told him . . .

  But it seemed that she had not.

  Which, Helewise reflected, slowly getting to her feet, probably meant that she had been wrong all along, that Sister Euphemia had been mistaken and that there was nothing to tell.

  She had, she realised, come to the end of that particular road.

  For now.

  In the morning, the Prince came to see her. He apologised for having taken up so much of the Abbey’s valuable time and announced that he and his party were about to depart for London.

  ‘You still search for Galbertius Sidonius?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘We do,’ Prince John agreed. ‘I believe we have wasted our time in coming here to Hawkenlye; either that or your monks, my lady, are very adept at concealing things which they do not wish outsiders to know.’ The intelligent blue eyes regarded her steadily; it was an unnerving experience, but she hung on to her courage and stared back. After a moment, the Prince, with an almost imperceptible smile, murmured, ‘Ah, well.’

  Then he said, ‘Dee has been gazing into that black ball of his, and he tells me there may be a sniff of the man up in the city. The Templars, apparently, may have a lead.’

  Bless you, John Dee, she thought. ‘I wish you good luck,’ she said. ‘May you meet with success.’

  He stared at her with ironic eyes. ‘Oh, my lady, how should I interpret that?’ he murmured.

  ‘However you wish,’ she replied primly. He was clever, she thought; too clever, really. It was proving difficult – more so that she had anticipated – to tread the delicate line between not telling or implying outright lies, and not giving away things that she must keep to herself.

  He was still watching her. Feeling that if he went on staring quite so hard he would eventually see right into her heart and what it contained, she rose to her feet and said politely, ‘If you would reach London before dusk, it would be best for you not to tally, sire. I will accompany you to the gates, where I may wish your party God’s speed.’

  Short of actually demanding what it was that she was not telling him – for which breach of manners he surely could have no excuse – there was nothing he could do but accept her courteous dismissal. They walked together across the cloisters and over to the gates, where the Prince’s men and the horses were waiting. Dee was already mounted; he bowed to Helewise and murmured a greeting.

  What a true friend you have been, she thought, meeting his eyes and trying to transmit her gratitude. You are taking your Prince away not a moment too soon.

  As if he had heard, Dee bowed his head once more and gave her a very sweet smile.

  Josse and Yves came to join her, and they stood with the nuns as the royal party set off. When they were almost out of sight, Sister Martha gave a sigh and said, ‘Ah well, that’s that.’

  Helewise hoped fervently that she was right.

  As she had known he would, Josse asked to see her privately.

  When they were alone in the safety of her room, he reached inside his tunic and handed her a small silver box. ‘This is what it has been kept in,’ he said, holding it out, ‘although you may of course prefer to make other arrangements.’

  ‘You hid it successfully last night, then.’

  ‘Aye.’ He smiled. ‘I buried it carefully round behind the latrines, where nobody in their right mind tarries long.’

  ‘Ah. Quite. And the Prince . . . ?’

  ‘Came down to the Vale early this morning. Said he wanted a last look at the Shrine, to say his prayers there and pray for the sick and the needy who come visiting.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No, I didn’t believe him, either.’ Josse laughed shortly.

  ‘He questioned you again?’

  ‘Aye. And the monks. To a man they gave the straightforward reply that they’d never heard of Galbertius Sidonius, and they spoke the truth. If Saul and Augustus – aye, and Erse, too – suspected there was more to the question, they had the sense not to say so.’

  ‘And you, Sir Josse?’

  ‘Oh, I lied through my teeth,’ he admitted easily. ‘Said I reckoned the fellow had never been here in the first place, and that I’d had no approaches by strangers bringing me long-lost family treasures. Promised I’d tell the Prince if anything came to light, too.’

  ‘I think,’ she said carefully after a moment’s thought, ‘that it might be wise to confess those lies to Father Gilbert, in due course. Bearing false witness is a sin, Sir Josse, even if done with the purest of intentions.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, his face grave. ‘Aye, my lady. I will seek out the Father.’ With the ghost of a smile, he added, ‘But happen I’ll wait until Prince John has had time to get safely back to London.’

  She bowed her agreement. It seemed the least she could do.

  He was still holding the silver box. She held out her hand, and he placed the box in it. ‘Do you want to have one last look?’ she asked, about to see if she could work open the little fastening.

  Josse came to stand beside her and said, ‘You push that tiny lever and a spring makes the lid pop open. No!’ – as she went to do so – ‘please, Abbess, don’t, not till I’ve gone.’

  ‘Very well, but why?’

  He grinned sheepishly. ‘I might change my mind.’

  Then, with uncharacteristic haste and the briefest of farewells, he hurried out through the door and was gone.

  She sat quite still for some time. Then she sprang open the lid of the silver box and took out the Eye of Jerusalem.

  Again, she felt the tremor in her hands, as if the stone were communicating with her. But stones are inert and do not behave like that, she told herself firmly. She put it back in its box and was about to fasten the box’s silver chain around her neck when she noticed that it was broken.

  Of course. Galbertius Sidonius had done that when he wrenched the Eye in its case from the neck of the Lombard’s young servant. The box, the chain, even the jewel itself, carried death with them.

  She knew then what she must do.

  She waited until evening.

  Then, after Compline, when the church was empty, she went forward to the simple altar and, praying as fervently as she knew how, fell on her knees and begged God’s help.

  I cannot turn this jewel away, she pleaded silently, because poor Josse has entrusted it to me, and he has good reasons for doing so. Also, we must see whether it can in fact help us in our work, because it may have been your intent, Lord, to bring it to us for that very purpose.

  She thought hard, then resumed.

  But the Eye carries the taint of violence, and I am not happy for it to be used until it has been purged. Therefore, dear Lord, I leave it with you, here in your holy house, and I pray that you cleanse it and make it fit for the healing work to which we would try to put it.

  That was all she wanted to say. She prayed on, and the familiar, comforting words restored and calmed her, as they always did. Then, making absolutely sure she was alone, she crept round behind the altar and located the hidden ledge beneath it where a wooden support was concealed under the plain linen covering. She put the Eye in its box on to the shelf, then let the cloth fall back into place.

  Perhaps the Eye should really have been placed on the altar. But then, she thought, the good Lord knows quite well where it is.

  Feeling that her steps were suddenly lighter, she bowed before the cross, murmured one final prayer, and walked away.

  In the morning, Josse came to find her and said that he and Yves were about to leave. Yves was eager to return home to Acquin, and Josse wanted him to put up at New Winnowlands at least for a night before he did so.

  ‘I wish you both a good journey,’ she said, ‘Yves in particular, since he has the farther to go.’

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ Josse said. ‘I may even decide to go over to Acquin with him. I
t’s time I paid my family another visit.’

  ‘Will you stay in France for Christmas?’ she asked.

  He hesitated, then said, ‘Perhaps. But there is another visit I now wish to make. Yves and I have been speaking at great length about my father, and about my mother, too. Summoning my mother’s memory has made me realise that I should have made some effort to maintain contact with her kinfolk. After all, they are only at Lewes, which is not all that far from here.’

  ‘Lewes,’ she repeated. ‘A pleasant town.

  ‘Is it? I can scarcely remember. Well, I dare say I shall be seeing it again for myself, before long.’

  ‘Don’t forget us here at Hawkenlye in all this travelling around,’ she said. ‘We are always pleased to see you.’ Watching him, the comforting solidity of him, the honest face that expressed his total dependability, she thought that ‘pleased’ was perhaps understating the case.

  ‘I won’t forget,’ he said quietly. Then, as if he were suddenly finding this parting rather hard, he lunged forward, took her hand and kissed it, instantly seeming ashamed of his courteous action. He said quickly, ‘Thank you, Abbess Helewise. From the bottom of my heart,’ and hurried away.

  She knew perfectly well the cause of his deep gratitude; she hoped, in that moment, that it was justified and that she had taken the right decision.

  She was not entirely sure . . .

  She gave him a while to collect his belongings and order the horses. Then, wishing to say goodbye to him and to Yves and to wish them God’s speed, she went out to the gates.

  They were on the point of leaving. Yves, seeing her, came over to her and thanked her for her hospitality. ‘Keep us in your prayers, my lady,’ he said. Then, looking intently at her, he added, ‘I am glad to have met you at last. Now I––’

  But whatever he had been about to say was brushed aside by a call from Josse. ‘Come on, Yves, don’t be all day or we’ll be too late for Ella to cook up a decent dinner.’

  Yves gave Helewise a last glance. Then he smiled at her and, turning, mounted his horse.