by Alys Clare
Helewise felt a sob rise in her throat. She suppressed it. It was, after all, the lot of those in command to impose harsh penalties from time to time. No use weeping about it.
She continued her prayers, slipping into some of the familiar and beloved forms of words that always brought comfort. And, eventually, she felt calm.
As she got up from her knees and left the church, the sole emotion she had left was pity.
She had been anticipating a quiet end to what had been anything but a quiet day. Sister Alba had been provided with food and water, and two of the nuns had wordlessly handed covers from their own beds to Sister Martha, to be given to their Sister in torment. Special prayers had been said at Compline and now, Helewise fervently hoped, there remained nothing further for the community to do but to settle down for the night.
But, as the nuns left the church and headed for their dormitory, they all heard the sound of pounding footsteps from outside the gate, swiftly followed by loud banging and a voice shouting, ‘Open up! I need help; a man’s been attacked on the road to the Vale! Open up!’
Sister Ursel glanced at Helewise, who nodded her permission. As the porteress rushed to unbolt the gates, followed by several more of the nuns, Helewise caught at the sleeve of Sister Martha. ‘If you would, Sister, slip out of the rear gate and find Brother Saul. We have more need of him and his companions, I fear.’
The man at the gate had been admitted and, shaking and clearly in shock, he was blurting out his story. There was blood on the front of his tunic.
Helewise approached him. Holding up her hand to quieten him, she said, ‘Help is coming. We have summoned some of our lay brothers, who will accompany you back to where this poor man lies and bring him here to the infirmary, where we may tend him.’
‘Reckon you’ll be too late, Abbess,’ the man said. Calmer now, he was looking at Helewise with heavy-lidded, sorrowful eyes. ‘Reckon nobody could survive long, not with half their head bashed in.’
Somebody gave a low moan of distress. Belatedly, Helewise ordered the horrified nuns to go to the dormitory. I have only the trials of today, she thought ruefully, to excuse my lapse. Dear Lord, go with them, and protect them as they sleep and dream.
She waited alone for Saul, who arrived very soon afterwards, two other sturdy lay brothers with him. One of them, she noticed with relief, had had the good sense to arm himself with a stout stick.
She saw them on their way, the man who had sounded the alarm walking in their midst. Then, turning to go and join Sister Euphemia in the infirmary, she noticed the lone and forlorn figure of Berthe, coming towards her from the dormitory.
‘Berthe.’ Helewise put out her hands to greet the girl.
But Berthe shook her head. ‘Oh, Abbess, don’t be kind to me, not when we’re bringing you such troubles!’
‘None of which are your fault, Berthe,’ Helewise began. ‘And, in any case—’
But Berthe was rapidly losing what little control she had left. Flinging herself into Helewise’s arms, she sobbed, ‘Abbess, oh, dear, Abbess, Meriel’s gone missing!’
PART TWO
Travellers
Chapter Six
The dead man had been a visitor at the Holy Water shrine in the Vale. Brother Saul and Brother Firmin had both talked briefly to him, and they had a vague impression that the man had spoken with a strange accent.
That, and the information that he had been well equipped for travelling and unaccompanied, was all that the brothers could add to what was evident from the man’s dead body. Which was that he had been around thirty, bearded, with dark hair and a swarthy complexion, sturdily built, of middle height, and well nourished.
One or two of the other pilgrims – pop-eyed with amazement to have the extraordinary thrill of a murder in a place where they had gone for prayer and healing – said that the dead man, who had but recently arrived, had attended some of the services conducted by the brothers, but had hidden himself away at the back, as if he wanted to be unobtrusive.
Nobody knew his name.
But, whoever he was, somebody had badly wanted him dead. He had been attacked from behind, and struck down with a series of blows to the back of the head. There was evidence of severe damage to the skull which, in one place, had collapsed into a distinct indentation. It appeared that further blows had been struck after the man had been felled, since there were deep cuts across his brows.
The body, the surrounding area and the clothing of anybody who had touched the corpse were all heavily stained from the copious amounts of blood that had spattered out like a fountain.
Helewise asked Brother Saul to go through the dead man’s belongings. Saul reported that the man’s small leather satchel was well made but worn, as if from long use, and that the pilgrim’s broad-brimmed hat was decorated with the shell of Santiago di Compostela, and the souvenir badge from the Shrine of Our Lady at Walsingham. His water bottle, made from a gourd, looked quite new.
He had been dressed in a simple tunic and cloak which, like the rest of his garments, were of cheap, undyed fabric. His boots, however, were sturdy and made of good leather.
From the bloodstains on its thick end and from the location where it had been discovered – beside the dead body – it appeared that the man’s heavy, iron-tipped walking staff had been employed as the murder weapon.
Helewise sat with Brother Saul and Brother Firmin in the rough shelter where the pilgrims took their meals. Brother Firmin, who headed the fully professed monks in the little community, was clearly distraught and not a great deal of help; Helewise had to arrest the swift wish that he would go away and find something else to do and send her one of his other monks instead. Not that any of them would be a great deal better, she reflected; they were excellent at tending the shrine and seeing to the small needs of their visitors, and their devotion to the Virgin and her Holy Place was remarkable. But when a practical mind and a deft pair of hands were required. . . .
Each to his own, the Abbess told herself firmly. God calls us all, but sets each of us on a different path.
‘Brother Saul,’ she said, meeting the alert eyes of her secret favourite among the lay brothers, ‘your summary?’
Brother Saul paused, brows together in a frown of concentration as he gathered his thoughts. Then, with admirable brevity, he said, ‘I would judge that the dead man was an habitual and well-travelled pilgrim. The souvenir badges suggest extensive journeys, and both the scrip and the boots show wear. He may have come from far away, he travelled alone, and he liked to keep himself to himself.’ Saul paused again. ‘We know that he sat here, in this very shelter, for the evening meal, and we surmise that he went for a walk before settling for the night, where he encountered his killer.’
‘He was deliberately killed?’ Helewise asked. ‘It cannot have been an accidental death?’
Again, Saul seemed to think carefully about his reply. Then: ‘Had the weapon been a stone, then it might just have been possible that he had slipped and bashed his skull against the stone as he fell. But the thick knot at the top of his staff shows blood and hair, and the hair seems to look very like that of the dead man.’
‘And it is surely beyond the bounds of possibility for a man to kill himself by falling on his own staff,’ Helewise concluded for him.
He nodded. ‘Yes. And, Abbess, there are the wounds to the forehead to consider. A fall could scarcely inflict damage to both the back and the front of the head simultaneously.’
‘Indeed not. Thank you, Brother Saul.’
It was her turn to think. Beside her, Brother Firmin was fretting, his hands busy with the end of the cord that he wore knotted around his waist. He was muttering under his breath, and Helewise wished he would stop. Saul, by contrast, sat still as a rock, eyes focused on some spot in the middle distance.
Presently Helewise said, ‘Are any other pilgrims absent this morning? Who were here yesterday, I mean?’
‘All are present, Abbess,’ Brother Firmin said. ‘No more new arriva
ls, for which we must thank the good Lord, since it would only add to our burden to have newcomers in our midst, making everything more complicated.’
‘Quite.’ Helewise suddenly turned to Saul; something in Brother Firmin’s little outburst had reminded her of a question she should have asked already. ‘Brother Saul, was there anything about the position of the body to suggest whether the man had been coming to the shrine or going away from it?’
Saul must have been thinking the same thing, for instantly he said, ‘Going away, I would judge, Abbess. I should say that he was walking along the path when somebody crept up on him from behind – perhaps they were tiptoeing in the grass, so as to be quite silent – and struck him from behind.’
‘With his own staff,’ she mused.
‘Aye.’
She met Saul’s eyes. ‘Did they wrest it from him to strike him, then?’
Saul shook his head. ‘I cannot imagine that was how it was, Abbess. Taking the staff from the dead man would have alerted him to the fact that someone was attacking him, and surely, in that case, the heaviest blows would have fallen on the front of his head. They’d have been face to face, wouldn’t they?’
‘Yes, they would.’ She was thinking hard. ‘Then, Brother Saul, can it be that, setting out merely for a stroll, he didn’t take his staff, but left it here, by his bedroll? And that someone else crept in to fetch it, then followed the poor man and killed him?’
Brother Saul began to speak, but Brother Firmin overrode him. ‘Abbess Helewise, you speak of the Holy Vale as if it were a den of thieves and cut-throats!’ he protested. ‘Killers stealing staffs and stalking each other? Caving in each other’s heads on the path? And now some girl has gone missing, they say? Dear Lord above, but all this cannot be true!’
For a tiny instant, Helewise caught a flash of sympathy in Brother Saul’s eyes as he looked at her, as if to say, see what we have to put up with?
She made quite sure her expression was bland as she turned to Brother Firmin. ‘It is shocking and dreadful, Brother Firmin, I agree. Particularly for you who tend this precious place. However, it is not the first time that we have had violent death here, and I do not suppose it will be the last. For the sake of the dead man and, indeed, for all of us, our duty now is to find out what happened, and, with God’s help and if it is within our power, see that the perpetrator is brought to justice.’
‘Amen,’ Brother Saul murmured.
Brother Firmin crossed himself. Then he said, ‘You have Sir Josse d’Acquin in the infirmary, Abbess?’ She nodded. The same thought had occurred to her. ‘Might I suggest that you talk this over with him?’
Her faint irritation with the old monk vanished as she stared into his earnest, anxious eyes. ‘I shall indeed, provided he is strong enough.’ She rose to her feet and, courteously, the two brothers did the same. ‘Thank you both for your help,’ – she nodded to them – ‘and I will keep you informed.’
Brother Saul walked with her back up the path from the shrine to the Abbey. Neither of them spoke until he left her at the gate. Then he said quietly, ‘It’s a nasty business, Abbess Helewise. I shall pray for your success in resolving it quickly.’
It was, she thought as she went into the Abbey, a heartening thing to know that Brother Saul was praying for you.
Josse had reached the stage of convalescence when he was well enough no longer to sleep all day but not sufficiently strong to get out of bed. Not that he hadn’t tried to; contravening Sister Euphemia’s strict orders, he had made an attempt to walk to the latrine. And, just as she had predicted, had fainted and suffered the ignominy of being carried back to his bed.
He had made it clear that he needed someone to talk to, and, to his delight, the cheerful, bubbly Berthe had become his most frequent visitor. Not only did she keep him informed about the small – and not so small – happenings in the community; she also got him playing the most absurd, childish games. It did him good to hear her laugh, and even more good to laugh with her.
A couple of days ago, she had brought her sister Meriel with her. Studying the elder girl’s sad, pale face, Josse had felt a great sympathy for her. He tried to draw her into the conversation, asking her about her work – she was helping Sister Emanuel in the home where elderly nuns and monks were cared for – but the girl was monosyllabic in her answers.
Was this sister in accord with Alba’s order that they all be nuns? Josse wondered. Was her misery a reaction to what was in store for her? Poor lass, it cut deep, he thought, whatever sorrow she bore.
The girls had left his bedside together, Berthe leaning down to give him a kiss on the cheek – she smelt of fresh air – and Meriel giving him a little bow. But, as they left, Meriel turned and smiled at him. And suddenly he had seen what a beautiful young woman she was.
This morning, he had received no visitors. And there had been some sort of a commotion the previous night – someone had been brought into the infirmary very late, and he had heard snatches of whispered conversation.
Nobody had come to inform him what was going on. Nobody seemed to have time for so much as a ‘Good morning, Sir Josse, how are you feeling today and what would you like for breakfast?’ One of the least communicative of the nursing nuns had brought him a wooden tray of bread and one of the infirmarer’s hot, herbal concoctions. It was the one for healing wounds, and it tasted absolutely foul.
All in all, by noon, Josse was feeling thoroughly disgruntled.
When, a little later, Sister Beata came along to usher in a visitor, he was surprised and delighted to see that it was the Abbess.
‘Abbess Helewise, you must have detected my discontent, and been angel enough to respond,’ he began, smiling up at her.
But she neither smiled back nor replied in a similar vein; instead, coming to stand close beside him, she said in a low voice, ‘Sir Josse, trouble has come to us.’ And, briefly and succinctly, she proceeded to tell him all that had happened in the Abbey and the Vale over the past day and night.
His first question, when at last she stopped to draw breath, was, ‘Do you think that the two events – the death and the girl’s disappearance – are connected?’
‘That is what is vexing me most,’ the Abbess admitted. ‘But all that in truth links the two things is their timing. I fear that to treat them as connected may mislead us.’
‘Hmmm.’ Josse scratched his head with his left hand. ‘The dead man had an odd accent, did somebody say?’ The Abbess nodded. ‘And the sisters, Alba, Meriel and Berthe, come from some distance away?’
‘Indeed. Sister Alba mentioned having been in a community at Ely.’
‘Ely,’ Josse repeated. ‘In the Fenlands of East Anglia.’
‘Do men there speak with an odd accent?’ the Abbess asked.
Josse shrugged. ‘I have no idea. But it seems always true that people speak differently in different areas of a country – I know they do in France – so it is fair to say that yes, probably they do in East Anglia.’
‘But it is too little evidence from which to conclude that the dead man and Meriel were known to one another!’ the Abbess exclaimed.
‘I agree,’ Josse said. ‘Let us merely keep it in mind.’
The Abbess seemed to be engaged in her own thoughts; for some moments she did not share them with him. He kept his peace, knowing how irritating it could be when somebody interrupted a line of reasoning that was reluctant to resolve itself.
After a time, she raised her head and met his eyes. But what she said took him completely by surprise; in as normal a tone as if she were announcing that it was time for dinner, she said, ‘I shall have to go to Ely.’
‘What on earth for?’ His response was automatic; with a very little amount of thought, he could have answered his own question.
‘Because that is where they came from. Where Sister Alba came from, anyway. She was in a convent there.’
‘And you know which one?’ Josse had no idea how many religious establishments there were in the vicinity
of Ely, but he seemed to remember having been told there were several; apparently the geographic setting of the Fens suited those in search of solitude and the contemplative life.
‘I shall find out,’ the Abbess said with dignity. ‘Then I shall be able to ask Sister Alba’s former superior all the many questions I have been puzzling over.’
‘And that will help you to find Meriel?’
‘Not necessarily,’ she admitted. ‘However, I sorely need to penetrate this screen of secrecy that exists around the girls. They won’t tell me the truth; Sister Alba because she has made up her mind not to, and Meriel and Berthe because they are very afraid of something or someone. Of Alba, for all I know.’ She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I see only one way out of the dilemma, Sir Josse.’
‘Could someone not go for you?’ he asked gently. ‘It is a very long way and, on your own admission, the Abbey is in a time of trouble. Would you not do more good staying here?’
‘Perhaps. But, Sir Josse, I cannot send anybody else on such a delicate matter. Goodness, I should not really be speaking to you of this!’ She looked faintly shocked at her lapse in convent etiquette.
‘I understand,’ Josse whispered. ‘You are, in effect, doubting the word of a professed nun and, because your mind and your conscience cannot rest until you know the truth, you are going to have to go and check up on the tale you have been told. Yes?’
Dumbly she nodded.
What a problem, he thought, relaxing back on to his pillows. And she was right, he could see that – she could hardly despatch even one of her senior nuns to the superior of another convent to ask, did you have a nun called Alba here, and was she any good? I need to know what she told you of her background, because I’m quite sure she told me nothing but a pack of lies.
