by Alys Clare
He knew exactly what she meant. He, too, remembered. He said, ‘No, Abbess. You don’t.’
Moving on, in his mind he saw again – although he tried not to – what he and the Abbess had once witnessed, not many miles from the place to which they were now heading. And, remembering, he understood her urgency. She was quite right; an isolated hut deep in the Wealden Forest was no place for a young girl all on her own.
He slowed down as they approached the clearing. For one thing, it wouldn’t be kind to surprise Meriel by crashing unexpectedly into the silent grove. For another – well, the forest somehow seemed to command a reverent pace; you never quite knew what you might surprise out of its hiding place. . . .
He stopped on the edge of the clearing. The Abbess was at his shoulder, and he thought she seemed to be holding her breath. Together they peered through the undergrowth into the open space beyond.
The least dilapidated of the ancient dwellings was clearly occupied. There was a small fire burning outside it, within a neatly built hearth of stones. Garments of some sort had been hung on some bushes; had Meriel been doing the washing? Surely not!
Adopting the Abbess’s tactic of holding her breath, the better to listen, he cocked an ear in the direction of the clearing.
Carrying quite clearly on the still evening air came the sound of voices.
A girl’s voice – Meriel’s? – speaking softly, a question in her tone.
And, answering, a different voice. Warm with love, it seemed to give reassurance in response to Meriel’s anxiety.
It was, quite unmistakably, a man’s voice.
Beside him, Josse felt the Abbess stiffen in outrage. ‘She’s got a man in there!’ she hissed. And, before Josse could stop her, she pushed her way through the last belt of undergrowth, strode across the glade to the hut and cried, ‘Meriel! Meriel, answer me, it’s the Abbess. What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
Trying to hurry after her, Josse tripped and almost fell. Recovering, his eyes ever on the tall, erect figure of the Abbess standing there alone, he stumbled on. But before he could reach her, do whatever he could to defend her, a figure shot out of the hut.
A figure as tall as the Abbess, much broader in the shoulder, and holding a sword.
With a last huge effort, Josse hurled himself forward. The man saw him coming, turning towards him and swiftly raising his sword to defend himself all in one easy, practised movement. But it was that trained eye and obedient body that saved Josse; the young man observed instantly that Josse was unarmed, and dropped his weapon. Instead of running into the sword, Josse found himself falling into the man’s outstretched arms.
The young stranger said, ‘Sir Josse d’Acquin, I greet you.’ And he dropped on one knee, bowing his head as if he were swearing fealty.
Panting, the stitch in his side feeling as if it were cutting him in two, Josse slumped to the ground. His eyes almost on a level with the young man’s, he said, ‘Forgive me for not standing to receive your greetings as I should. But I don’t think I can.’
With enormous relief, he lay back on the welcoming forest floor and closed his eyes.
But not for long.
He heard the Abbess call again, ‘Meriel! Are you all right, child? Meriel!’ And then, as he opened his eyes, he saw the girl emerge from the hut.
It was only then he noticed that both of them, Meriel and the young man, were not dressed. They had both wrapped themselves in covers of some sort, and they both looked as if they had just got out of bed.
Josse sat up. After a moment, his head stopped spinning and he said, ‘I believe, Abbess, that we intrude. Let us move away some distance, and perhaps Meriel and—?’
‘Jerome,’ said the young man, raising his head with dignity. ‘Jerome de Waelsham.’ Some achievement, Josse thought wryly, to maintain such presence when clad in nothing but a blanket.
‘Perhaps Meriel and Jerome will come to speak with us when they are ready?’ Josse went on.
Jerome glanced at Meriel, who nodded. She was wide-eyed with fear, and Josse noticed that the young man swiftly went to her side, putting a protective arm around her bare shoulders.
The Abbess, still fuming, began to say something. ‘Don’t you try to—’
Josse interrupted. ‘Come away, Abbess,’ he said quietly. ‘We are embarrassing them. They will talk to us when they are ready, I am sure of that.’
The young man shot him a grateful look, collected the garments from the bush and followed Meriel inside the hut. Josse took the Abbess’s arm – she was rigid with tension – and led her over to the far side of the clearing. They sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree.
‘They were lying together!’ she said with furious indignation.
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘That they were.’
She turned on him. ‘How can you be so calm?’ she demanded. ‘Two young people – she’s scarcely sixteen! – out here in the wilds, all self-control thrown to the winds, and she’s only just left the Abbey!’
‘Where she was not a nun,’ he reminded her, ‘so she has broken no vow of chastity.’
‘But – but—’ Helewise spluttered. Then, with an indignant, ‘Humph!’ she folded her arms and lapsed into wounded silence.
I have let her down, he thought ruefully. She expected my support in her condemnation, and I am unable to give it.
He saw them again in his mind’s eye, that handsome, loving pair. Saw how she looked to him for comfort, saw how he hastened to show her how much he cared. There was love, right enough, he thought. And, for the life of me, I can’t condemn it asa sin.
After a while, the young couple came out of the hut. They were fully dressed, Meriel in a simple golden-yellow gown and Jerome in hose and tunic. His hair, Josse noted absently, looked as if it had been cropped very short not long ago.
The pair stopped in front of the Abbess and Josse, who both rose to their feet. The Abbess – sounding once more in control of herself – said, ‘Meriel, will you please tell me – us – what is going on?’
Meriel took an audible breath, then said, ‘I had to run away, Abbess Helewise. I know how much trouble I must have caused, and please believe that I deeply regret it. You took us in, you didn’t let Alba turn you against us with her rantings and ravings, and I believe you intended to side with Berthe and me over whether or not we had to become nuns.’
‘Indeed I did!’ the Abbess exclaimed. ‘No girl or woman is ever put into the community against her will, Meriel.’
‘Yes. That’s what I thought.’
‘You should have come to me,’ the Abbess said kindly. ‘I was only waiting for you to ask for my help. I would have given it wholeheartedly.’
There were tears in Meriel’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Abbess. It’s just that – just that Berthe and I aren’t used to trusting people.’ Her voice broke. Instantly, Jerome hugged her to him, stroking her hair and speaking soft, soothing words into her ear.
‘But you trust Jerome, here,’ Josse put in. Meriel nodded, disentangling herself. ‘So, when you knew he had come to find you, it was best, you thought, to run away from the Abbey and put your faith in him.’
‘Please, she’s been through enough!’ the young man protested. ‘You don’t know—’
But Meriel said, ‘It’s all right, Jerome.’ Then, turning back to Helewise and Josse, she said simply, ‘I thought he was dead. When I found that I had been wrong, how could I not come here to be with him?’
‘You thought he was dead?’ the Abbess repeated. ‘But why—’ Then, light dawning in her face, she breathed, ‘That was why you were so grief-stricken! Nothing to do with your father’s death, or having to leave your home, or Alba threatening to make you be a nun.’ She looked from Meriel to Jerome, and back again. ‘You believed your lover was dead.’
‘Yes. And I wanted to die, too.’
She spoke with such honesty that Josse, for one, entirely believed her.
‘I know something of your story,’ the Abbess was saying. ‘I
have been to Sedgebeck, where Alba was briefly in the convent. I know, too, that she is no longer a nun. As I believe Berthe has reported to you, I shall have to ask Alba to leave Hawkenlye. As soon as arrangements can be made to find her a home, she will go.’
Meriel was shaking her head. ‘Abbess, you don’t know what you’re doing,’ she said. ‘Forgive me for being so blunt, but I must. Alba has – I fear that Alba may do untold harm, if she is free to pursue – if she is not controlled. She takes things upon herself that are not her responsibility, and she does not give up. Believe me!’
‘I am aware that she has assumed far too much control over you and Berthe,’ the Abbess said, ‘and, indeed, over your late mother. Berthe has revealed something of her background to Sir Josse and to me, and we sympathise deeply with what must have been a most difficult childhood.’
‘Difficult!’ Jerome said incredulously. ‘Clearly, Abbess Helewise, you have not heard everything. She used to—’
‘Jerome,’ Meriel said gently. Looking at her with impatience that was quickly replaced by a smile, he stopped. ‘Abbess, Alba is not sane,’ Meriel continued. ‘Her unreasoning insistence on maintaining the good name of our family led to the death of my mother. Having seen off the person she saw as her rival in my father’s affections, Alba decided it was safe to leave us all alone, and she went away to become a nun, by which she meant she was going to be an Abbess. Great Lord, she’d have aimed for Pope, if they allowed women to hold the post! Then, when word reached her of Father’s death and – and of what Berthe and I were planning to do, she came rushing back to Medely purely to stop us! She even—’
‘No, Meriel,’ Jerome said warningly. ‘Not that. Not until we know.’
She nodded. ‘Very well. But, Abbess’ – she turned back to face Helewise and Josse – ‘she was ruthless. Berthe and I were about to leave when she arrived at the farm, and she locked us both in the cellar overnight to prevent us going! We were there for the rest of that day and all of the night, and Berthe is afraid of the dark.’ She shuddered. ‘Then, the next morning, she let us out and told us Jerome was dead. She even showed me—’ Another, more violent shudder shook her, and she left the sentence unfinished. ‘As she had no doubt predicted, I went to pieces. Then it was quite easy for her to bundle us both up – Berthe and me – and take us away. I don’t think there was as much as a squeak out of either of us, the entire way from Medely to Hawkenlye.’
‘And you managed to pick up their trail?’ Josse asked Jerome.
‘Yes. It was not difficult. And I had—’ He broke off. ‘People seemed readily to remember a wild-looking nun and two girls with tears in their eyes,’ he said instead. There was a great deal of bitterness in his tone.
Josse felt a stab of sympathy. ‘So, once you realised they were here at Hawkenlye to stay, you set about making a camp, then you sought out Meriel?’
‘Yes.’ He glanced at Meriel, his face full of joy. ‘Our reunion was – well, it was a relief to find her.’
‘I imagine it was.’ Josse swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘And you, Meriel, informed Berthe of Jerome’s miraculous reappearance, swore her to secrecy, then slipped away to join him?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I know it wasn’t very fair on Berthe, making her live a lie and pretend she didn’t know where I was. If I was safe, even. But, honestly, I don’t think she really minded. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d thought it would make her suffer.’
‘No,’ Josse agreed. ‘I don’t imagine you would. And we can assure you, the Abbess and I, that Berthe has not been suffering. On the contrary.’
‘I agree,’ the Abbess said.
Josse was just thinking thankfully that her attitude to the young couple seemed to be softening, when suddenly she stood up. Folding her hands away in the opposite sleeves, she had, he observed, adopted her disciplinarian stance.
‘Abbess, don’t—’ he began.
But she took absolutely no notice.
‘I understand, Jerome,’ she said severely, ‘that there are particular circumstances governing your actions, and I also understand that, probably, you felt you had no choice. But, nevertheless, it remains the case that, for whatever reason, you have taken a young girl away from her family and her home, brought her out into the wildwood to make camp with you where, as Sir Josse and I could not help but witness, you have – you are—’
‘I have been making love to her,’ Jerome supplied. ‘Abbess, I cannot deny it.’ He glanced at Meriel, who appeared to be suppressing laughter. ‘We have been making love, as often as we have been able.’
‘Jerome,’ Josse said warningly. ‘Please remember to whom you speak. She is Abbess of Hawkenlye, and you must show her respect.’
‘I am sorry, Abbess.’ He bowed to her. Josse thought he saw a swift look of surprise cross her face as he did so but before she could speak, he went on, ‘I meant no disrespect. You are, of course, quite right. It would be most immoral – and it would in all likelihood also indicate a taking of advantage – for a man to spirit a girl away into the wildwood, as you so poetically call it, and seduce her.’
The Abbess was looking increasingly disapproving. ‘But that is what you have just done!’ she said, exasperation sharpening her tone. ‘Can you not perceive the sin in your actions?’
Jerome smiled at her. Then he took hold of Meriel’s hand, raising it for the Abbess and Josse to see. ‘No sin has taken place, Abbess.’ His face was ecstatic. Pointing to the brand-new, shiny gold band on her finger, he looked at the tousled young woman beside him and said, ‘Meriel is my wife.’
Chapter Seventeen
Helewise and Josse had stayed longer than they had planned out in the forest; Jerome’s revelation had been so startling – and, Helewise reflected, so moving – that it had given rise to a great deal of talk.
By the time she and Josse were back at the Abbey, dusk was well advanced. She was worried about Josse; he had been walking more and more slowly for the past half mile, and she was very afraid that the excursion had exhausted him. Not that he complained. She was very relieved when, back inside the calm, restful atmosphere of the infirmary, she was able to thank him, wish him good night, and hand him over to Sister Euphemia’s care.
Even had she been ready to discuss with him the implications of what they had just discovered, she reflected as she crossed over to the Abbey church, he was far too weary.
And I, she thought as she knelt to pray in the empty church, need first to talk to God.
Which, for the spell of peaceful silence that endured until the nuns entered the church for Compline, was exactly what she did.
In the morning, Helewise rose with her day’s tasks clearly outlined in her mind. There was much for her to do and, she had always found, setting about a busy day with a well-defined plan of campaign was of great benefit in terms of efficiency.
Between Prime and breakfast she remained in the Abbey church, in private prayer. There were many matters over which she needed God’s help, but uppermost of her concerns was what to do about Alba.
What should I do, dear Lord? she asked, eyes fixed on the simple wooden cross on the altar. She begs to stay here, in this community, but for the sake of everyone else here, how can I let her?
But if I send her away, where is she to go? I cannot simply turn her loose, for, if Meriel and that passionate young husband of hers are to be believed, she will seek them out. Even if I cannot make myself accept what Meriel said about Alba doing them actual harm, I do see that her interference could be very unwelcome. New marriages need privacy, while the couple become accustomed to one another. To the state of wedlock itself. It would not aid the progress of either adaptation to have a bossy and quick-tempered elder sister hanging around.
Helewise closed her eyes, trying to empty her mind, trying to listen to whatever guidance might be sent to her.
Trying, if she were honest with herself, to face up to the insistent little voice in her head that said, you should believe Meriel.
She pictured Meriel’s face, transformed by her happiness from the haggard pallor of misery into radiant loveliness. And Jerome’s words, as he interrupted something Meriel was about to say, kept echoing in her ears: No, Meriel. Not until we know.
What had the girl been about to say? Whatever it had been, it was to do with Alba, clearly; for just afterwards Meriel had said of her, she was ruthless.
Oh, dear Lord, did it mean what Helewise was so dreadfully afraid it meant?
I must not start suspecting that, she told herself firmly. I have no proof and, in Christian charity, I must prevent myself believing the worst purely for the excitement of the sensation, like some superstitious peasant listening to an ancient legend of ghouls and monsters for love of the fear-induced thrill down the spine.
She prayed aloud for some moments, repeating the familiar words until she felt calmer.
By the time she rose from her knees to leave the church and go over to the refectory, she had convinced herself that she was right to ignore Meriel’s warning, and that the best thing she could do for Alba was to send out word that the Abbess of Hawkenlye needed a place in some good household – the further away, the better – for a young woman who had lately been living in the Abbey. It was something she had done many times before, usually with success; Hawkenlye had an excellent reputation, and when its Abbess asked for a situation for somebody, her request rarely went unanswered.
Next on Helewise’s list of tasks was to visit Josse. To her relief, she found him quite well; he was up and about, helping a man recovering from a fever to take his first steps outside. Having settled his patient on a bench, Josse came over to the Abbess, and they moved out of earshot.
She told him what she had decided to do about Alba.
Frowning, he said, ‘Are you quite sure, Abbess?’
‘Sure of what?’ She felt herself stiffen; her tone, she realised, had not been exactly friendly.
Josse’s frown had deepened. ‘Sure that you will not be sending something into this distant household you envisage that they will wish you had kept well away,’ he said bluntly.
