by Alys Clare
Josse looked down at her but, other than a muttered, ‘Farewell, Abbess Helewise,’ said no more.
There was, she reflected, little more to say.
She called out her goodbyes to them both, and stood waving until the two brothers were out of sight. Then, feeling suddenly downcast, she went back to her room.
Postscript
All Saints’ Day 1192
Helewise had taken her time over deciding how to go about using the Eye of Jerusalem. The stone still gave out its strange emanations when she picked it up but, after its night under the altar, she no longer felt on it the dark shadow of brutal death.
But, as the end of October approached and the wet weather changed to bitter cold, the Abbey, the Vale and the infirmary steadily began to fill with people praying to be spared from sickness, praying for those already sick, and, naturally, with the sick themselves. It was just the time – if, indeed, the time were ever to come – to present Sister Euphemia and her nursing nuns with what might turn out to be a powerful ally.
The Eye lived up to its reputation. It lowered fevers. Or, of course, it might have been Sister Euphemia’s endless efforts, her patience and skill. Sister Euphemia, that was, guided by and acting for God.
Helewise was still very aware that a Prince had been – probably still was – going to considerable pains to track down the stone. She therefore urged caution in its use and the infirmarer and her nuns, too busy for questions, merely nodded and got on with their work. Observing them, she was gratified – and hardly surprised – to see that, overworked and tired as they were, still they obeyed her instructions faithfully; not even the merest glimpse of the Eye was permitted to the patients.
But for the gifts it bestowed – seemed to bestow, she reminded herself, still determined to retain at least a degree of scepticism – it might not have been there.
On the last day of October, All Saints’ Eve, Helewise went to seek out Sister Tiphaine. The infirmarer was asking for the next brew of the herbalist’s patent cough mixture and Helewise, at that moment having nothing better to do, had offered to go and fetch it.
Sister Tiphaine was nowhere to be found.
Someone said they’d heard her remark that she had to go out to gather ingredients for her concoction. The somebody – it was Sister Anne, endlessly interested in the doings of others but never very astute – also reported that Sister Tiphaine had said she might be some time.
Two things struck Helewise.
One was that Sister Tiphaine should not have left the Abbey without asking her Abbess’s permission.
The other was that the herbalist would indeed be a long time, if she really had set out to gather fresh ingredients. Because it was October – almost November – and nothing was growing.
February to the end of October, thought Helewise. Nine months.
And she thought she knew exactly where Sister Tiphaine had gone.
What should she do? Follow the herbalist out into the forest? But she had absolutely no idea where she had gone, if, indeed, she was in the forest at all.
And I still may be wrong in my suspicions, she thought, chewing at her thumbnail in her anxiety. Sister Tiphaine may know nothing whatsoever of the forest folk and those with whom they associate. She might be doing exactly what she said she was doing, collecting ingredients for the cough remedy. And what a fool I should look, if I go out searching for her, find her going peacefully about her duties and can find no excuse for having hunted her down except that she should not have left the Abbey without my permission.
Which, given the urgency with which Sister Euphemia requires that medicine, would be a little over-fussy of me.
I cannot solve this one, she decided. I have pressed Tiphaine as much as I can, and she stares blank eyed and declares she has nothing to say. I must leave this matter, I think, to her own conscience. If indeed she bears a secret and has been withholding something that I, her Abbess, have a right to be told, then it may weigh upon her so that, in time, she will confess it.
A thought struck her. Sister Tiphaine might well have done just that. And Father Gilbert, her confessor, would certainly not report it to the Abbess.
Helewise had come, she realised, to a stone wall.
She made her way to the church. In the peace of its cool interior, the light of the autumn day was already beginning to fade. She knelt in front of the altar and put the matter into God’s hands.
Then she prayed, ‘Of thy mercy, dear Lord, look after Sister Tiphaine. If she is abroad in the forest, guide her footsteps so that she may go about her business – whatever it is – watched over by Thee and, in her own good time, return safely to us.
‘And if what I suspect is right, please, Lord, look after Joanna as well.’
Then she pressed her face into her palms and, in the calm silence, thought, there! I have handed my burden over to more capable hands.
As the relief washed through her, for the first time in weeks she felt the serenity begin to come back.
In a hut out in the wild heart of the Great Forest, two women sat either side of a fire burning in the small room’s central hearth.
One was ancient. Or so it seemed, judging by the long fall of white hair. But her face was unlined, and her grey eyes were clear and bright. And, when she moved, it was with the supple grace of a young woman. Lora, venerated elder of the forest people, had probably forgotten herself just how old she was, but she had seen more seasons turn than most folk; it was merely that she carried her years lightly.
The other was younger. She had deep, mysterious eyes that held secrets and were the windows to an intelligent mind full of potions and remedies. She was the herbalist of Hawkenkye Abbey.
‘You should go back,’ Lora said, breaking a silence that had lasted for some time. ‘You will be missed.’
‘It is not important.’
‘It is,’ Lora insisted. ‘Your absence will create questions.’
‘I have already given my reason for being out.’ Tiphaine pointed to a little basket made of woven willow that stood by the door. It held a collection of freshly dug roots.
‘What use have you for those?’ Lora queried.
‘None. But nobody within knows that they have no medicinal qualities.’
Lora smiled. Then her face straightened and she said, ‘You should not deceive the Abbess woman. I hear well of her.’
‘Aye, she’s fine,’ Tiphaine agreed.
But she went on sitting where she was.
Presently there came another groan from the platform up to the right of where the two elders sat. Lora got up and climbed the short ladder that led to it. Above, lying in a tangle of bedding, violently twisting her naked, sweating body and flinging back the heavy fur rug that covered her, lay a young woman.
She was heavily pregnant, and in the process of giving birth.
Lora clambered on to the platform and settled beside her. Taking one of the outflung hands in both of her own, she said, ‘Hold on, my lass. Clench on to me, and I will help you through the pain.’
Joanna de Courtenay, trying to cling on to her courage, gave up and let out a great cry. As the contraction rose to its peak, she clenched her hand on to Lora’s. So fierce was the grip of her strong fingers that Lora winced.
After what seemed to both of them a minor eternity, Joanna relaxed and fell back against her pillows. Panting, she said through dry lips, ‘They come closer together now.’
‘Aye,’ Lora said calmly. ‘Not long now, lassie.’
Tiphaine’s veiled and wimpled face appeared at the top of the ladder. She smiled at Joanna.
‘You’re still here, Sister,’ Joanna said.
‘Aye.’
Joanna glanced out through the little window to the right of the bed. ‘It’s getting dark. You should go back to Hawkenlye.’
‘That’s what I told her,’ Lora agreed.
‘Presently,’ Tiphaine said. Crawling on to the platform, she said, ‘I would see the child born. I have brought medicines whi
ch may come in useful.’
‘Leave them with me,’ Lora urged. ‘Can I not administer them?’
Tiphaine grinned. ‘Undoubtedly.’
‘But you want to stay,’ Lora finished for her. ‘Well, if you get locked out and have to shin up over the wall, it’s your own fault.’
‘I know.’
‘And I suppose you’ll tell them you got lost.’ There was heavy irony in the emphasis on the last word. ‘You who know the Forest’s secret paths and ways as well as the lines that cross your own palm.’
‘Aye, that I will.’
Joanna, listening, gave a brief laugh and said, ‘I’d better hurry up, then, and save your skin, Sister. I think––’ But then another contraction came, longer, stronger, and more agonising than any so far. Joanna’s smile faded to a grimace, then to a mask of pain, and, with one hand holding Tiphaine’s and one holding Lora’s, she flung back her head and screamed.
Then the contractions came so close together that they almost seemed to merge into one long pain. Tiphaine took Joanna’s head in her lap, stroking the sweat-soaked forehead, massaging light fingers through the long dark hair, while Lora knelt between Joanna’s spread legs and watched.
Suddenly Joanna cried, ‘She’s coming! I can feel something – it – I – oh!’
Lora took hold of her arms and pulled, while Tiphaine got round behind her, pushing her to a sitting position, then into a squat. Bracing herself, back to back with Joanna, she took the younger woman’s weight, supporting her in her exhaustion. Lora released her grip on Joanna’s wrists and, kneeling, bending low, cupped her hands beneath Joanna, fingers exploring, peering down to look.
She cried, ‘The head’s coming! Steady now, Joanna, slowly does it––’
Joanna gasped, moaned, then seemed to gather all her energy into another great push.
‘Steady!’ Lora cried. ‘You’ll tear yourself, pushing her out so fast!’
‘I can’t help it!’ Joanna shouted back.
There was a brief pause, during which Joanna slumped back, spent, against Tiphaine. Then she cried, ‘Oh, it’s happening again – oh – OH!’
‘Too fast! Too fast!’ Lora muttered, but then there was a squelching sound, a cry from Joanna, and one by one the baby’s shoulders emerged from out of its mother, swiftly followed by the rest of the tiny body.
Lora took hold of the infant in strong hands and held it up. The umbilicus pulsed, the child opened its mouth and screamed, almost as loudly as its mother had done, and its colour rapidly changed from newborn pallor to a healthy pink.
Joanna said, ‘Is she – is it all right?’
‘Aye, perfect, just perfect.’ Lora was wrapping a clean cloth tightly around the infant, carefully wiping around its eyes, nose and mouth. ‘And you were right the first time, my girl.’
With a grin, Lora tucked in the end of the swaddling clothes and handed Josse’s daughter to her mother.
Not very long afterwards, the herbalist collected her basket and set out back to Hawkenlye. It was now almost fully dark, but she knew the way. If she hurried, she would be back in time for Compline.
She had had no need of the medicines she had brought with her. Lora knew how to find her if she was needed; if, for example, Joanna were to fall sick with the terrible, killing fever that sometimes took new mothers.
But Tiphaine doubted whether she would be summoned. Lora was as skilled in her own way as the herbalist, and would manage whatever she might be faced with. They preferred it that way, Tiphaine knew. She was only allowed what minimal involvement she had with them because Joanna liked to know how things went in the outside world.
Liked to be assured, in truth, that all was well with Josse.
She may not want him, Tiphaine reflected, striding out hard for the Abbey, but she needs to know he is all right.
Ah, well. It was Joanna’s business.
She broke into a trot. Hawkenlye was in sight now, and it would be good to be home.
Back in the hut in the forest, Joanna was suckling her daughter. Lora had made her a drink, and was insisting that she finish it, every last drop. ‘Your milk will be in, after a day or two, so it’s best to get into good habits now and drink all you can take.’
Joanna, more grateful than she could say for Lora’s presence – and for Tiphaine’s – during the birth, now wished guiltily that Lora would go away and leave her alone.
She could manage. She had managed for the long months of her pregnancy, had got used to living on her own, depending on herself, coping. The little hut that was now her home was not really big enough for two.
For three, she corrected herself, staring down at the baby sleeping at her breast.
Margaret. My little Margaret.
She stroked a gentle finger across the baby’s brows, which were knitting briefly in some infant dream. The child’s skin was soft, downy, and the long, dark eyelashes curled and made shadows on the rounded, perfect cheeks.
Lora had earlier taken the baby outside. In a brief ceremony that Joanna knew about and accepted – even if she could not wholeheartedly approve it – the elder had briefly stripped the baby naked and laid her on the ground.
‘Child of the Earth, feel the Earth beneath you.’ Her quiet chanting tones had reached Joanna, inside the hut. ‘Mother Earth, feel your child who lies on your great breast.’
Margaret had squawked her protest at the sudden chill of the night air on her bare skin, and Lora had bundled her up and brought her inside again.
But before she had given her back to Joanna, she had knelt down in the firelight and studied the child. Margaret, eyes wide open, had stared back at her.
‘She will be one of the great ones,’ Lora murmured. ‘She will have the skill, Joanna. And, unless I am very much mistaken, she has the Sight.’
Joanna leaned over the edge of the platform. ‘But why? She is not of the blood, is she?’
Lora smiled. ‘Not at her conception, maybe. But you have spent the months that you have carried her learning new ways and new crafts, my lass. Do you not think that some of your acquired knowledge may have gone into her making, as she grew steadily in your belly?’
With wondering eyes, Joanna had stared down at her child.
Now, holding her once more, little body snug against her as the baby slept and dreamed, Joanna tried to work out how she felt. A daughter born safe and well was a joy, perhaps the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to her. Oh, there was Ninian, of course. There was always Ninian, even though he was now, and always would be, far away from her. Another son would have had to go the same way; living in a forest hut with his wiccan mother was no life for a boy, not once he grew towards manhood.
A daughter, now, was another matter. But a daughter who, only hours after her birth, was marked out as a great one . . . well, that was something else again.
After some time – Lora had gone to sleep, and Joanna at last had the illusion, if not the reality, of being alone with Margaret – she came to the sensible conclusion that it was no use worrying about what might or might not be to come in the future. The baby was here, she was sound and, if she really was what Lora said she was, then there was nothing whatsoever Joanna could do about it.
‘My job is to love you and keep you safe, my little Margaret,’ she crooned softly. ‘That, for now, is all.’ Settling herself – it took some time to find a comfortable position for her bruised, sore body – she cradled the baby in the crook of her arm and, like the tiny child and the old woman lying down by the fire, soon fell deeply asleep.
Outside, the moon rose up in the sky and the small clearing was bathed in pale light. The forest was dark and silent, the stars above like the tiny flames of candles an unimaginable distance away.
All seemed still.
Yet the folk of the forest knew that another soul had been born to them and, in secret, unknown dells and caverns, there were quiet celebrations. It was Samhain, after all, one of the forest people’s major festivals.
To
have a Samhain child to welcome just made it even better.
About the Author
The fifth novel in the acclaimed medieval crime series set around Hawkenlye Abbey in the Wealden Forest of Kent.
