by Alys Clare
He was shocked.
He had been prepared for her to be considerably older than her two sisters; he’d already been told that. But he had not expected the pale face, thin to the point of emaciation, nor the bleak look in the deep-set, dark eyes. Sister Martha must have heard his intake of breath; turning, she whispered, ‘They do say she has not been eating, poor wretch.’
And, to prove her point, Josse saw that on the floor was an untouched tray of food.
The Abbess stepped forward. At Sister Martha’s gesture, Alba got reluctantly to her feet and faced her.
‘Alba, I must tell you that I have visited your convent at Sedgebeck, and I have been informed that you have been released from your vows as a nun,’ she said, her voice level and unemotional. ‘Since I now know that you are not in holy orders, I have no authority to keep you imprisoned here. You are not under my jurisdiction and, as soon as we can find a place for you, you will be free to go.’
A range of emotions ran across Alba’s gaunt face. Shock, shame, a brief flaring anger and, finally and most enduringly, horror.
‘You can’t make me go, Abbess!’ she said in a whisper. ‘I am a nun! That is my vocation, and I shall be the best nun ever! I shall rise, just like you, to be Abbess – just wait and see!’
‘You are no longer a nun, Alba,’ the Abbess insisted firmly. ‘You knew that when you presented yourself to me, and yet you told me you had been fully professed for years.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sorry,’ Alba said impatiently, as if brushing a minor matter out of the way. ‘But I’ll just have to begin again. Here.’
‘You cannot, Alba!’ The Abbess sounded aghast.
‘Ah, but I must!’ Alba countered. ‘You see, it’s my sisters. They are to take the veil, I’ve told them so, and I must be here, senior to them, to tell them what they may and may not do.’
‘But they – you wouldn’t—’ the Abbess began. Then, as if, like Josse, she realised she was addressing an irrationality that verged on mania, she stopped. ‘You have heard my decision, Alba,’ she said with dignity. ‘We shall do what we can to find you somewhere to go, then you will be released and you will leave Hawkenlye. That is final.’
The Abbess turned and left the cell, and Brother Saul swung the door shut and bolted it.
But, as the four of them walked away, they heard the dreadful sound of Alba hurling herself against it.
Josse could see that the Abbess was shaken. As Sister Martha and Brother Saul returned to their duties, he said to her, ‘Why not leave it for a while, Abbess? Sit and compose yourself, rest, go and pray, and—’
She turned to him, and the expression in her clear grey eyes silenced him. ‘I cannot stop until I see this through,’ she said coldly. Then, her face softening: ‘Oh Josse, forgive me! You meant only to help me, I know. But would you advise a general to have a little rest just when the battle is at its height?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then. All the time this awful, disturbing mystery remains with us, there can be no rest, for me or for any of my nuns. No. I shall speak to Brother Augustine and entrust to him his vital mission, then I shall find Berthe, and tell her what I have just told Alba.’
He nodded. ‘Aye. That’s for the best.’ He put out his hand and touched her wrist. ‘Good luck, Abbess. God be with you.’
Her muttered ‘Amen’ floated back to him as she hurried away.
The early afternoon was a quiet time down in the Vale. As Helewise approached the little clutch of simple buildings, she noticed that several of the pilgrims were resting under the overhanging roof outside the shelter; it was all part of the cure, she reflected, for them to be encouraged to take naps. As Sister Euphemia often said, going to sleep allowed the body to get on with the work of healing itself without any distractions.
She could see Berthe in the distance, sitting at the waterside further along the Vale. She had a clutch of children with her, and, from their rapt faces, it looked as if she were telling them a story.
Some of the monks and lay brothers were about, engaged in various tasks. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry. It was all most peaceful. . . .
Helewise told herself to stop daydreaming and remember why she had come. She wondered where Brother Augustine was. She was just about to send a monk to go and find him for her when one of the pilgrims got up from where he had been sitting, leaning against the front wall of the shelter, and came over to her.
She stared at him as he approached. She didn’t think she had seen him before, although it was hard to tell with so many people passing through all the time. And there was actually something vaguely familiar about him.
She said pleasantly, ‘Good day to you, pilgrim.’
He stopped a few paces from her and made her a deep reverence. She noted fleetingly that it was exactly the way that the professed greeted one another; the man must have a good eye for detail. Then, straightening, he met her eyes. His, she noticed, were dark, as was his short-cropped hair. And, unlike most men, he wore a beard.
He said in a low-pitched voice, ‘I believe I have the honour of addressing the Abbess of Hawkenlye.’
Helewise bowed her head briefly in acknowledgement, and his serious expression lightened momentarily into a smile.
‘You have arrived just today?’ she asked.
He nodded, but then said, ‘Er – yesterday.’
‘Have you yet taken of the precious, holy water?’
‘No.’
She was about to ask whether he was there for healing – not that he looked anything but the picture of health, but you could not always tell – or to offer prayers at Our Lady’s shrine. But she stopped herself. It was not usually her way to question visitors; why should she do so now?
The stranger was still staring at her. Beginning to feel a little uncomfortable, she said, ‘Excuse me, please. I must—’
But again she stopped herself. She was not in the habit of explaining her movements to the pilgrims, either. Giving him the smallest of nods, she turned away.
As she hurried off to find someone to locate Augustine for her, she was surprised to find that her heartbeat had quickened.
Why? she wondered. She tried to analyse the emotion coursing through her. It was not exactly fear, but it was quite close. Apprehension?
Yes.
Then suddenly she thought, it’s as if I’ve just had to go before a superior with an inadequate excuse for some fault!
Amazed at herself – it was a long time since she had been in that position – she put the image of a pair of disturbingly penetrating dark eyes to the back of her mind and beckoned to Brother Saul.
Brother Augustine, who had been helping one of the pilgrims treat his old mule’s cut foot, came hurrying to find her as soon as he was told of her summons. She explained what she wanted him to do and, putting her trust in his shining honesty, told him why.
He frowned as he absorbed her words. ‘You’re really going to use Berthe to lead you to her sister,’ he said slowly.
‘I am, Augustine,’ she replied. She kept her eyes on his. ‘I do not like myself for doing so, but I feel that a greater evil is perpetuated by allowing Berthe to continue living this life of pretence.’
He nodded. ‘Aye. She’s not happy, poor lass.’
‘I don’t suppose that she has confided in you?’ Helewise asked.
‘No.’ He grinned briefly. ‘And that’s the truth, Abbess.’
She laughed softly. ‘Oh, Augustine, I believe you. Really, I never knew a pair so transparently honest as you and Berthe!’
‘Thank you,’ he said gravely. Then, after quite a long silence: ‘I will gladly go for you, Abbess. And, when this is all over, I will explain to Berthe why I did so. Is that all right?’
Thankfully she said, ‘Yes, Augustine. Indeed it is.’
She gave him a little while to find himself a hiding place from which he could observe Berthe. Then, trying to control her excitement, she walked along the path to where the girl was still sitting with t
he group of children.
Catching sight of Helewise, Berthe leapt up to greet her.
‘Abbess, how nice to see you!’ she said ingenuously.
‘Good day, Berthe. Will you walk with me? I have something that I wish to tell you.’
‘Of course!’
She led the girl further along the path, away from the shrine. Then she said, ‘Berthe, I told you yesterday that Alba is no longer a nun. This means that I have no authority over her, and therefore I cannot keep her imprisoned. I have informed her that, as soon as we can find her somewhere to go, she will have to leave Hawkenlye.’
Berthe’s rosy face had gone dead white. ‘You—’ she began. Then, trying again, ‘But surely she wants to stay?’
‘What she wants is not relevant,’ Helewise said gently. ‘Berthe, she is not at all suited to life as a nun, nor indeed to living in a convent as a lay sister. She is too disruptive an influence. I have the well-being of all my community to consider and, although it is hard on Alba, I have no alternative but to send her away.’
‘I understand, Abbess.’ Berthe’s face had set into a strangely adult, resigned expression, which looked incongruous on one so young.
Helewise’s heart turned over with pity. ‘But you may stay here, Berthe,’ she said. ‘Without becoming a postulant, I mean. Sister Euphemia is always on the look-out for suitable young girls to train as lay nurses, and you are certainly suitable, she tells me.’
For a moment, Berthe’s face lit up. But then the depression fell again. ‘It is a lovely idea, Abbess,’ she said politely. ‘But not possible.’
‘Because of Alba?’ Helewise asked. The girl nodded. ‘But you can be free of her, if she is sent away!’
Berthe turned sad eyes to her. She said dully, ‘We can never be free of Alba.’
Hating herself, wanting above all to talk to the child, give her what consolation she could, instead Helewise gave her a short adieu and, turning away, set out back to the Abbey.
She could not bear to sit in her room while she endured the prolonged wait. There was work she could have been getting on with – there was always that – but she could not concentrate. Her mind kept filling with images of Berthe slipping away, running to find Meriel, and breaking her heart as she sobbed out her story. Of Augustine, following her, watching from behind some great tree and recording everything with his observant eyes to report back to his Abbess.
In the end, she went over to the Abbey church, slid into her accustomed place in the stalls and opened her burdened heart to God.
While the Abbess prayed, Berthe and Augustine were engaged in almost exactly the actions she had imagined.
But somebody else was following behind Augustine. Someone whose involvement, had she been aware of it, would have surprised the Abbess greatly. . . .
Augustine came to find her sooner than she had expected. She was back in her room, calmer now, about to go through the cellaress’s latest report when there was a soft tap on the door.
In answer to her response, Augustine came in. Trying to read his face as he greeted her, she thought perhaps he looked relieved.
‘Did the plan work?’ she asked.
‘Aye, Abbess. First, let me tell you that Meriel is safe and, as far as I could tell from a brief glance, seems to be none the worse for a spell of living in the open.’
‘Thank God,’ Helewise whispered.
‘Amen. You were right, Abbess,’ Augustine hurried on, the story seeming to burst out of him, ‘soon as you’d left the Vale, Berthe slipped away. I only managed to trail her because I was expecting her to go off somewhere – she was very clever, she went inside the lean-to and got out through a loose panel at the back. Anyway, like I said, I managed not to lose her.’
‘Where did she go?’
‘I thought at first she was heading up to the Abbey but, before she got to the rear gate, she turned off to her left, circled round the side of the Abbey, then crossed over the track that leads off to Tonbridge and went into the forest.’
‘The forest!’ Dear Lord, Helewise thought. She knew only too well what dangers lurked in the great Wealden Forest.
‘Aye.’ He seemed hardly to have registered the brief interruption. ‘She headed off down a deer path, and it led right into the trees, through thick undergrowth. Then it met a wider track, which led into a clearing. Really, Abbess, you’d never have found it if you didn’t know where to look, or unless, like me, you were following somebody. It was so well hidden.’
‘And what was in the clearing?’
‘There were some shelters. Rough sort of shelters, made of a few poles covered with branches and turfs. Charcoal burners’ camp, I reckon it was, although there hadn’t been fires there in a long while. Well, no more than a little cooking fire, which was burning away nicely. Cooking somebody’s dinner, I’d say, from the appetising smell.’
‘Meriel’s dinner?’ Helewise hardly dared breathe.
With a wide smile, Augustine nodded. ‘Aye. Meriel’s dinner. She came out of one of the huts as Berthe ran into the clearing.’
‘And she looked well, you said?’
‘She did that. Much better, I’d say, than when she was here in the Abbey. She looked radiant. She raced over to Berthe, hugged her, and she was starting to say something, laughing all the while, when Berthe stopped her. Must have told her about Alba, I reckon. Because, whatever it was, it stopped the laughter on an instant.’
Helewise’s mind was racing. The great flood of relief at hearing that Meriel was alive and well was receding a little, and now other anxieties had shot up. I know of folk who dwell in the forest, she thought. I have encountered them, and lived to tell the tale. But that does not mean that I have forgotten how perilous they can be. . . .
‘She was happy?’ she asked Augustine. ‘Radiant, didn’t you say?’
‘Aye, both of those.’
If she has already encountered the forest folk, Helewise thought, and still appears so cheerful, then perhaps I am worrying needlessly, and they are no threat to her. But, oh, I am afraid for her!
On thing she could and must do, she decided, was to prevent any more harm. ‘Augustine, thank you,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘You have done very well. You have, in fact, achieved all that I asked of you. But now I have to give you an order which you may not like.’
‘Anything, Abbess,’ he said stoutly, bracing himself as if preparing for some risky, exacting task.
She hated to disappoint him.
‘You must return to the Vale, and you must stay there,’ she said firmly. ‘You must not reveal to Berthe that you followed her, and you must not follow her again. Whatever happens.’
His face had crumpled into a ferocious scowl. ‘But, Abbess—’
‘There are no buts here,’ she said with quiet finality. ‘You may go, Augustine.’
Obedience made him bow to her before he left. Observing the resigned set of his shoulders, she was quite sure he would do exactly as she had commanded.
Now, she thought, I must visit Sir Josse. I hope and pray that I shall find him rested and willing to accompany me on an excursion.
She crossed the courtyard and approached the infirmary. As she went inside, it occurred to her also to hope that Josse’s fever hadn’t affected his memory, and that he still remembered the way to the charcoal burners’ camp.
Chapter Sixteen
Having the Abbess visit him was, Josse thought, no rare occurrence. But to have her propose that they set out together into the forest, right this minute before it became too dark, and could he lead them to the charcoal burners’ camp, now that was unexpected.
‘Will you go with me?’ she repeated, face taut with anxiety.
‘Of course, Abbess.’
‘You are strong enough? It won’t be too much for you?’
He wasn’t entirely sure about that, but he was prepared to take the risk. ‘Aye, I’ll manage,’ he assured her. ‘Only—’
‘Only what?’
He had been about to
say, only we’d better be sure Sister Euphemia doesn’t spot us, but he decided against it. Whatever had prompted Helewise to make this urgent request was obviously of great importance to her, or she would not have asked him. Best not to distress her by suggesting that the infirmarer might not consider him up to it.
‘Nothing. I’ve been up and about today, and I’m feeling stronger every minute! A walk in the woods in the evening air will do me good. Er – is it still raining?’
Assuring him it wasn’t, she hurried off towards the door, pausing only to beckon to him to follow her out of the building.
It became easier, he discovered, once he got into his stride. To begin with, even the gentle slope out of the Abbey and into the forest had him panting, and it was difficult to conceal from the Abbess that he couldn’t catch his breath.
But then, as they followed the deer track in under the trees, he began to feel better. The air in the forest smelt wonderful after the day’s rain: he could almost taste it, and he was quite sure it was putting new heart in him.
And, after so long in the infirmary or, at best, penned within the walls of the Abbey, it felt marvellous to be out in the great, wide world again.
He realised presently that he had been so preoccupied with testing his legs and his endurance that he had hardly spared a thought for where they were going. Not that it was difficult to work it out. Stopping – he was in the lead – he turned to the Abbess and said softly, ‘Your plan worked, I take it? We’re on our way to wherever it is that Meriel has been hiding out?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered back. ‘Augustine says she’s quite all right. Looking very well, in fact.’
‘And camping in one of the old charcoal burners’ huts?’
‘Yes.’
He remembered somebody else doing that. He sent up a brief prayer that, this time, it wouldn’t end as it had done then.
He was about to move on when she stopped him by catching hold of his sleeve. ‘Sir Josse, we need to – That is, I fear for Meriel’s safety, as for that of any young girl in the forest alone. I’m sure I do not need to say any more.’
