The Chatter of the Maidens

by Alys Clare

  He raised an anguished face to hers. ‘There have been two deaths, Abbess! Two! We must – we ought to be . . .’ But his resolve seemed to have run out.

  ‘To bed, Sir Josse,’ she insisted. Still he did not move; she realised that she was going to have to help him. ‘Come,’ she said, returning to his side, ‘I will walk with you to the infirmary. I shall confess to Sister Euphemia that it was I who exhausted her poor patient, and that you are not to blame.’

  He stood up, managing a weak grin. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t go doing that, Abbess; Sister Euphemia’s like a mother hen with her patients, she’ll have you scouring out slop bowls for the next week as a punishment.’

  ‘One that I richly deserve,’ Helewise murmured.

  She noticed, as they went across to the infirmary, that he was leaning on her. Deeply touched at this evidence of his physical weakness, she could not bear to linger; almost pushing him towards a surprised Sister Beata, she said somewhat gruffly, ‘I’ve tired your patient, I’m afraid. Please look after him.’

  Then she turned abruptly on her heel and strode back to her room.

  Soon afterwards, it was time for the evening devotions. Joining her voice with those of her sisters in the beautiful words and sounds of Compline, eventually she began to feel a little better.

  The next day saw an end to the spell of warm, sunny weather. The sky was overcast, and a light drizzle was falling. The weight of clouds massing over the forest suggested that heavier rain was not far away.

  Helewise’s mind was racing and, eager to implement the plan she had worked out while lying sleepless in the early hours, she had little appetite for breakfast. But she made herself eat; she knew that she would be less well equipped to face the challenge of the day on an empty stomach.

  As soon as she could get away, she set off for the Vale to find Berthe.

  The monks and the pilgrims were all in the little shrine that had been built over the holy water spring. They were in the middle of a service.

  Helewise stood at the back of the shrine, at the top of the short flight of rough-hewn steps that led down to the pool. Even above the soft murmur of praying voices she could hear the gentle, steady sound of the water, falling from where it seeped out of the rocks into the pool below.

  On a plinth, set into the rocky walls over the spring, stood a wooden statue of the Virgin. She was raised above the floor, so that her small, bare feet were at eye level. Her arms were outstretched and her hands were spread out with the palms uppermost; she seemed to be giving a constant gesture of invitation, and this benevolence was echoed in the gentle smile on the softly curving mouth.

  Helewise, who was always moved by this beautiful image of the Holy Mother, breathed a sigh of pure happiness.

  It was such a wonderful place, this shrine, she thought. For a few precious moments, she put her pressing preoccupations aside and opened her heart and her soul to the kind blessing that seemed to be present in the very air of the shrine.

  The service ended, and Helewise stood back as the monks escorted the pilgrims out of the shrine and into the lean-to shelter adjoining it. The able-bodied visitors stood at the back; the infirm were helped to sit down on roughly made wooden benches that the lay brothers had placed ready in a semicircle. Then Brother Firmin gave out small, earthenware cups of the precious healing water.

  Helewise studied Brother Firmin’s lined old face. As he raised each cup to a pilgrim’s lips, it seemed that a light shone from him. The strength of his faith, she thought, is an example to us all.

  She had been so entranced by the simple service and the giving of the waters that she had all but forgotten why she had gone to the shrine. Forcing her mind back to her anxieties, she looked around for Berthe.

  And, after a while, saw her. She was crouched on the beaten earth floor of the pilgrims’ rest house, whose wide doors had been thrown back to air it after the night. She was playing with two small children, whose laughter was bringing a smile to the faces of quite a few of those who heard it. Beside her, the crossed legs and sandalled feet of another figure could just be seen.

  Helewise went over to the rest house. The other person was Brother Augustine; as Helewise went inside, both he and Berthe got to their feet and bowed to her.

  She returned their greetings. Then she said, ‘How lovely to hear the children laughing! It must have been a good game.’

  Brother Augustine grinned. ‘It was, Abbess.’ He glanced at Berthe, who was blushing furiously. ‘But – er. . . .’

  Helewise guessed at the cause of the confusion. ‘But a little vulgar, dare I suggest?’

  Both young people nodded. The children, overawed at having the Abbess of Hawkenlye herself visit them, sat on the ground with their mouths open, staring up at her.

  ‘Please do not let me interrupt,’ Helewise went on. ‘Augustine, may I borrow Berthe for a few moments?’

  ‘Of course, Abbess.’

  She beckoned to Berthe to follow her, and led her a little way along the path leading on down the Vale. When she was sure they were far enough away not to be overheard, she stopped. It was still raining, although not very hard, so she indicated to Berthe that they should stand beneath the shelter of a chestnut tree.

  She studied the girl. There was, she decided, a definite look of apprehension in the young face.

  ‘Berthe, I have come to tell you what I have discovered during my travels,’ Helewise began. ‘I found the convent where Alba was; it is called Sedgebeck. But I am afraid I must tell you that Alba was excused from her vows and she left the community. Her behaviour was—’ Oh, dear, was there a diplomatic way of telling the poor girl? ‘She was not suited to convent life,’ she said. Then, before Berthe could press her for more, she hurried on, ‘Then I went to Medely, and I was given directions to your farm. It is, as presumably you are well aware, now quite deserted.’

  Berthe was watching her closely. ‘Yes, Abbess. We understood that there was not to be a new tenant. The land, you see, is not very good.’

  ‘No, indeed.’ Helewise paused, thinking hard. Berthe had, she realised, just given her an opening . . . ‘No, we noticed that yours was the only farm in the immediate vicinity. The only dwelling, in fact, for some miles around. My, but you were isolated out there, weren’t you, you and your family?’

  Berthe’s eyes were fixed on hers. Was there a hint of fear? Did the girl know why Helewise was saying all this about being so alone?

  Slowly Berthe nodded. ‘Yes, Abbess. It was isolated. The village, as you saw for yourself, was some distance away. And there were no other inhabited dwellings nearby.’

  Very neat, Helewise thought. No other inhabited dwellings. Which tells me nothing for sure, but which suggests that Berthe knew there was a cottage in the woods, but also knew it to be empty.

  Should I press her further? Helewise wondered. Why not? At the least, Berthe’s reaction might reveal whether or not she was aware that her empty dwelling had become a dead man’s pyre.

  ‘You were aware, of course,’ she said, trying to keep her tone casual, ‘of the old cottage deep in the woods? I dare say that it was uninhabited when you lived at the farm.’

  Berthe was nodding. ‘Yes, I know it. A very old couple used to live there – I can just remember them from when I was small. Sometimes Mother and I used to call on them. Mother would take them something – some eggs, or something from the vegetable plot – and once the old man made a garland of wild flowers and crowned me with it.’ A soft smile of reminiscence briefly lit her face. ‘But they died,’ she finished. ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘And nobody took over the cottage?’

  ‘No. It was tumbling down around them even when the old folks were there. When they died, it was too far gone for anyone to bother. We used to use it as a camp, when we could escape from Alba’s vigilance, and, later on, Meriel—’

  But she must have realised that she was about to say something she shouldn’t. She shut her mouth abruptly, turning away from Helewise and staring out to
wards the lake that filled the bottom of the Vale.

  ‘Meriel?’ Helewise prompted. ‘What about her?’

  Berthe spun round to face her. ‘Abbess Helewise, I can’t!’ she cried. ‘You mustn’t ask me, because if you really press me for an answer, I’ll have to lie to you, and I don’t want to do that. But I can’t break my promise!’

  She was sobbing now, violent, convulsive sobs that made her whole body shake. Helewise put her arms round the thin shoulders, and for a few moments Berthe leant against her. ‘I know, Berthe, I know,’ she murmured soothingly. ‘You must understand that I do not pry from mere curiosity – I am trying to help you.’

  ‘I know you are!’ Berthe cried. ‘But I—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ Helewise interrupted. ‘You can’t break a promise, even though you may well feel it would be better if you did. Yes? Am I right?’

  Berthe broke away from her and looked up into her eyes. She did not speak, but slowly she nodded.

  ‘Poor child,’ Helewise said gently. And, although she did not further dismay Berthe by saying so aloud, she feared that things would have to get quite a lot worse before they got better.

  Especially if she could convince herself that she would be justified in implementing a certain course of action she had just thought of. . . .

  ‘Come along, let’s get you back to work,’ she said bracingly, giving Berthe a little shake and brushing the tears from her cheeks. ‘There, that’s better. You hardly look as if you’ve been crying – I don’t expect anyone will notice. Not those happy little children, anyway!’

  Berthe managed a watery smile. ‘No, they won’t,’ she agreed. ‘But Gussie will.’

  Gussie? Ah, yes, Brother Augustine’s nickname was Gus, Helewise recalled. And that had been softened by this sweet-natured girl to Gussie. ‘Will he?’ She was hardly surprised; Augustine, she had perceived, missed very little. ‘Well, I’m sure he won’t tease you about it.’

  ‘No, he won’t. He’s very considerate, actually.’ Berthe was looking a lot more cheerful, probably, Helewise thought, at the prospect of imminently being with ‘Gussie’ again. ‘He doesn’t tease me at all. He’s very kind to me.’

  Was that, Helewise wondered, because the lad had seen what was in that cottage in the woods? And, having seen, was concerned and sorry for this young girl, who must surely be somehow caught up in the wretched business?

  Good for Augustine, if so, she thought. To have realised Berthe’s need, and to turn himself into a kind and supportive friend, was Christian indeed.

  Was it likely Augustine had spoken to Berthe about the journey to East Anglia? More particularly, about the visit to her old home? Instinct told Helewise that it wasn’t; the boy was responsible and obedient, and surely would have held his peace unless specifically told that he might break it. Nevertheless. . . .

  ‘Berthe, has Augustine told you anything of our trip?’ she asked casually.

  Immediately Berthe gave a brief tsk! of irritation. ‘No, Abbess Helewise, not a word! I’ve pressed him and pressed him, tried to wheedle out a few remarks, but he just shuts his mouth up tight and says it was Abbey business and he’s not allowed to gossip. Gossip! Really! And it was my own village he went to! Well, amongst other places.’

  ‘Now, now, don’t be cross with Augustine,’ Helewise soothed. ‘He is right to be cautious. And anyway, Berthe,’ – she crossed her fingers and hoped God would understand the lie – ‘there wasn’t much to see.’

  Only slightly mollified, Berthe said, ‘Huh!’

  Helewise took the girl’s hand as they went back to the shrine, hurrying now for the rain was coming down harder.

  She watched her go back inside the rest house – and the laughter from within suggested that the same game was still in progress – then, accepting Brother Saul’s offer of a piece of sacking to cover her head and shoulders, she walked quickly through the rain back to the Abbey.

  As she ran in through the rear gate, a clap of thunder detonated right overhead. Hoping that it was not an omen of dire happenings ahead, she headed for the shelter of the cloister and made her way to her room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Josse had expected to feel very tired after his first whole day spent outside. But, when he woke the next morning, he was delighted to find that he was full of energy.

  Sister Euphemia was sceptical when he told her. ‘Are you sure you’re not just telling yourself that because you want to go racing off to help the Abbess sort out these wretched sisters?’ she asked. ‘Mind, I’m not suggesting she couldn’t do with a bit of help; they do say trouble comes in threes, and it certainly has done with Alba, Meriel and poor little Berthe.’

  ‘Aye, that it has,’ he agreed. ‘But I promise you, I really do feel well, Sister Euphemia. After all,’ he added craftily, ‘I would be of little help to the Abbess if I were to collapse at her feet from exhaustion, now, would I?’

  Sister Euphemia gave a snort of laughter and dug him in the ribs. ‘Go on with you!’ she chuckled. ‘You’ve always got a plausible answer, haven’t you?’

  Agreeing that he had, he shooed her away while he put on his tunic and his boots.

  He was sitting on a bench outside the infirmary when, some time later, Helewise came to look for him. The side of the long building which faced into the courtyard was lined with a deep cloister and, tucked in against the infirmary wall, he was sheltered from the rain. Sister Beata had thoughtfully brought out a sheepskin fleece, which she had draped over his legs, and he was adequately warm.

  He knew from the Abbess’s face that she was troubled. He shifted along to make room for her to sit down beside him, then said, ‘What is it?’

  Without preamble she said, ‘I have thought of a plan. I intend to tell Berthe that I must release Alba – indeed, that Alba will have to leave the Abbey – and then I shall have Berthe followed. She will, I am quite sure, go straight to find Meriel, to tell her that Alba is once more to be on the loose.’ Before he had time for even the briefest comment, she rushed on. ‘Oh, there’s no need to tell me I’m being cruelly devious, and taking advantage of a suffering girl’s confusion and concern! I know I am, and I just hope it will prove worth it. But I must speak to Meriel, and I cannot think of another way.’

  She finished, turning an angry, defensive face to Josse. He said mildly, ‘I think it’s a splendid plan.’

  ‘Oh! Do you?’

  ‘Aye, Abbess. I understand how you feel. I wouldn’t like to think I was making use of Berthe, either. But look at it this way: she must be suffering agonies, trying to keep Meriel’s secret and worrying about how she’s managing, wherever she is. And your scheme, although possibly hurtful to her in the short term, will ultimately help both Berthe and Meriel. Won’t it?’

  The Abbess’s face was clearing. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said. No, he thought, you wouldn’t. You were too busy accusing yourself. She gave him a brief bow. ‘Thank you, Sir Josse.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ he murmured. Then: ‘Who have you in mind to act as hound to Berthe’s hare?’

  She gave a short laugh. ‘I should like to go myself, but a nun’s habit is hardly the garb in which to go creeping through the undergrowth trying to be quiet and inconspicuous. I thought I might ask Brother Augustine. He is young and lithe and, because he accompanied me on my travels, he is already aware of many of the finer points of the situation.’ She hesitated, then went on, ‘In addition, he is, I believe, fond of little Berthe, and thus may be eager to help her.’

  ‘A good choice,’ Josse agreed. He wished yet again that he were fully fit. He would have argued her out of appointing any other man but himself, had he been able to go. But, even assuming he were able to walk into the forest, he certainly wasn’t up to doing so stealthily. Trying to be sensible and ignore the childish protest clamouring, send me!, he said, ‘When do you propose to put your scheme into action?’

  ‘I was only waiting to discuss it with you,’ she said.

  Moved, he
muttered, ‘You do me too much honour, Abbess. You do not need my advice, when your own decisions are so sound.’

  ‘Oh yes, I do,’ she countered.

  There was a moment’s rather weighty silence between them. Then, deliberately lightening his tone, he said, ‘You’ll have to brace yourself if you’re really proposing to go and see Alba. Or will you just tell Berthe you’ve done so, and not actually inform Alba that she’s to be released?’

  ‘Oh, I intend to visit Alba first,’ the Abbess said. ‘And I know what you mean about bracing myself; the nuns who have had the care of her report that she is increasingly restless, and that they have had to resort to the threat of depriving her of her daily excursions.’

  ‘Humph.’ Josse privately thought that it had been over-charitable to allow a violent and possibly unbalanced woman out twice a day to take the air. But, knowing the Abbess would not agree, he merely said, ‘I hope you’re not planning to go in to see her alone. Take Saul, and maybe one of the more robust nuns with you.’ Then, realising what he had just said; ‘I apologise, Abbess. I did not mean to give you orders.’

  But she was smiling. ‘Apology accepted. And thank you for the advice.’ She got up.

  On an impulse, he said, ‘May I come with you to Alba’s cell?’

  She studied him for a moment. ‘Yes. Provided you do not attempt to form part of my bodyguard.’

  He grinned back. ‘I promise.’

  They sent for Brother Saul, and Sister Martha came over from the stables; the Abbess made her leave her pitchfork behind. Then the four of them went down the steps into the undercroft beneath the infirmary, and the Abbess unlocked the stout door of Alba’s prison.

  Josse, keeping his word and remaining behind the Abbess and her two guardians, peered round Brother Saul and caught his first glimpse of Alba.