by Alys Clare
‘For fear of spreading the affliction,’ he murmured.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Two of the nursing sisters have already volunteered to work with Sister Euphemia in the temporary infirmary that she has set up in the Vale. She has undertaken to ask when she needs more help.’
I said when, she realised. Not if.
Josse must have noticed too. ‘There will be more sick and dying making their way to us, my lady?’ he asked gruffly.
‘I fear so.’ Rather than allow either of them to dwell on that terrifying prospect, she hurried on. ‘That is why I must make this request of you, my friend. May we have your permission to remove the Eye of Jerusalem from its hiding place and use it?’
His expression would have made her laugh had the circumstances been less deadly. ‘The Eye?’ he echoed. ‘Oh, no, my lady Abbess! I gave it to you in the earnest hope of never having to catch sight of it again, for I fear it and would have no dealings with it!’
‘People are dying, Josse,’ she said quietly. ‘May we not even try to use this – this thing that has found its way to us?’
‘You may!’ he shouted, driven to discourtesy by the strong emotion. ‘You and your nuns may do whatever you like with it, only do not ask me to use it!’
‘I do not do so,’ she said, in the same soft tone. ‘I propose to give it to Sister Euphemia and see what she can make of it, and then to Sister Tiphaine, to see if she might be able to use it to make a febrifuge.’
Josse was already contrite. ‘My lady, I apologise for my rudeness,’ he said, ‘but you may recall why it is that I fear the Eye?’
‘Oh, yes I do,’ she agreed. ‘You shun it because you were told that it would be used by one of your female descendants, someome who would possess strange power, and you would not put this burden upon the girl children of your brothers.’
‘The progeny of my brothers are the only descendants that I have!’ Josse said. ‘The little girls are but children, my lady; I cannot make them take on this dreadful burden!’
‘No, of course not.’ She tried to soothe him, but it was difficult to sound adequately sincere when her mind was so preoccupied with another thought . . . Pulling her mind away from that thought – not without effort, for it was something that had nagged at her and intrigued her for eighteen months or more – she said, ‘Sir Josse, what I ask is simply that you allow my nuns the opportunity to work with the Eye and see whether it can come to our aid in our desperate need. You told me that the Eye will only put out its powers for its rightful owner’ – oh, how can I speak in this way, she cried silently, I who have put my trust and my life into God’s hands and have no use for superstition! – ‘and my hope is that, if you lend it to us willingly and in good faith, then perhaps the question of rightful ownership may be overcome.’
‘You can have the wretched stone!’ Josse cried.
No, we can’t, Helewise said silently, for it is an heirloom of your family, my friend; it belongs to the women of your blood. But she did not speak her thought to him; for the moment at least, it remained a matter for her alone.
Instead she said, ‘Thank you, Sir Josse. I will take the Eye to Sister Euphemia and we shall see what happens.’
The infirmarer had been summoned from her patients inside the temporary infirmary and now she stood in the Vale with Helewise and Josse. In a brief, late-morning burst of February sun, she took the jewel from Helewise’s hand and held it up to the light.
The Eye was a large, round sapphire about the size of a man’s thumbnail. At some time in its past it had been set in a thick gold coin, whose centre had been softened in order that it could be moulded so as to hold the jewel securely. The coin and its precious stone hung on a heavy gold chain.
The Eye, or so they said, had the power to protect and defend its rightful owner. Dipped in a mug offered by a stranger, it could detect the presence of poison. Dipped in a draught of clear, cool water, its force entered the liquid and produced a medicine that stemmed bleeding and lowered fever.
And, according to its own history, it was a thousand years old . . .
‘Aye, I remember this pretty thing,’ Sister Euphemia said after a moment. ‘I have seen it before and indeed I have used it before.’ She looked at Helewise. ‘We had some success, my lady, did we not?’
Helewise had never managed to make up her mind whether those particular patients had recovered because of the jewel or because of the infirmarer’s nursing skill and God’s help. But now, she thought, was not the time to say so. ‘Indeed we did,’ she agreed readily.
‘I’d give much to have a remedy that lowered fevers and brought a halt to bleeding,’ Sister Euphemia murmured, half to herself, ‘for most of our patients are delirious and burn as if with hell fire and not a few have begun to show ruptures and cracks in their skin, so that a constant and painful seepage of blood is added to their woes.’
‘How many lie sick at present, Sister?’ Helewise made herself ask, conquering her revulsion and trying to replace it with pity.
‘There’s the two merchants – one, the elder man, is close to death and will not last the day, but the other begins to recover. There’s the woman who brought in the dead child; she takes a little water and all may be well with her. There’s dear old Firmin, bravely trying not to complain but beside himself with fever most of the time.’ Glancing at Helewise, she added quietly, ‘And there’s the five who arrived just before you came down here, plus their three relatives who are making their way to us.’
‘Are all the victims from Newenden?’ Josse asked quietly.
Sister Euphemia turned to him. ‘The merchants had called in at the town,’ she said. ‘They sold a bunch of basil leaves to the woman with the dead baby. Today’s arrivals come from a village to the east of Tonbridge.’
‘It lies between Newenden and Hawkenlye?’ Josse asked in a pressing whisper.
‘Aye, it does,’ the infirmarer agreed.
Josse let out a gusty sigh of relief. ‘Then let us hope and pray that our two merchants came straight from that village to Hawkenlye,’ he said. ‘If they paid a visit to Tonbridge first, then . . .’
He did not finish his sentence, for which Helewise was very grateful; she did not even want to think about what would happen if the pestilence broke out in the narrow, dirty and crowded streets of the town.
She sensed Josse’s sudden restlessness. ‘I shall ride down to see Gervase de Gifford,’ he announced abruptly. ‘I must report to him of my discoveries concerning the young man who died here,’ he added, explaining himself to the infirmarer, ‘and in addition I shall be able to gain up-to-date news as to whether – well, I’ll see how things are down there,’ he finished lamely.
Helewise caught at his sleeve as he made to leave. ‘Be careful,’ she said, although she could not have said quite why.
‘I will,’ he promised. Then, with a smile, he hurried away.
Sister Euphemia sent for the herbalist, and for most of the afternoon they busied themselves preparing what they hoped would be a miracle cure for the sickness. Sister Tiphaine fetched several flasks of the precious healing water from the natural spring that bubbled up out of the sandstone rocks in the Vale; the very water whose discovery had led to the foundation of the Abbey. Sister Euphemia carefully washed the sapphire in its coin in a pot of warmed water, scrubbing off as best she could the grime of centuries. Then she and the infirmarer, heads together as they muttered quietly to each other, set about dipping the Eye into the flasks of spring water.
‘How long should we give it, d’you think?’ Sister Euphemia asked.
The herbalist shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say. If it’s magic, then a brief moment ought to suffice. If there’s some element in the stone that’s leaching out into the water, then we ought to leave it for quite a lot longer.’
When they thought and hoped that the jewel had had enough time to do its work, Sister Euphemia tucked it away inside her scapular and took the first flask of water into the shelter. Sister Tiphaine went with
her but the infirmarer stopped her at the door. ‘Best not,’ she said shortly. The herbalist nodded her understanding.
Of the nine people who were given the new medicine – the group who were making their way to the Abbey had yet to arrive – five were very sick. The dying merchant was beyond making any attempt at swallowing and so Sister Beata, who was nursing him, contented herself with using the water to bathe the suffering and delirious man’s hot face. The woman who had brought in her dead child – and who had appeared to be recovering – had taken a sudden turn for the worse; the rash on her skin had begun to take on the appearance of fine scales, which were falling off to leave a weeping, bloody mess. She too was no longer sufficiently aware to take in fluid and instead Sister Caliste gently bathed the lesions in her skin.
Two of the five who had arrived that morning – an elderly man and his middle-aged son – were also close to death and neither of them managed more than a mouthful of water.
Brother Firmin was slipping in and out of consciousness. On being told by Sister Euphemia that she had brought him some of the holy water and would he like a drink, he had given her a beautiful smile and said he’d try a sip, but that he’d really prefer to leave the blessed remedy for others.
His sip was minuscule. Then he slumped back on to his pillow.
Down in Tonbridge, Josse sought out Gervase de Gifford and told him what he had found out in Newenden and in Hastings. De Gifford’s interest was aroused at the idea of a man making his way in secret into England for some unknown and clandestine purpose and, with the air of someone thinking out loud, he expounded on the subject.
‘They say the King was to be freed early this month,’ he mused, ‘and I reckon someone, somewhere, will know the truth of that. But, sooner or later, we’ll have our Richard back home again. He’ll have some sort of a new crowning ceremony, no doubt about that, if only to take away the taint of captivity.’
‘Such a ceremony would also serve to remind anyone who might be tempted to forget that Richard is still God’s anointed and our king,’ Josse put in.
‘Yes indeed,’ de Gifford agreed.
‘How will the King’s party travel home, think you?’ Josse asked.
‘They will be coming from Mainz,’ de Gifford replied, ‘so they’ll probably come by boat up the Rhine into the Scheldt estuary and take ship for England at Antwerp. If I were the King,’ he added, ‘I wouldn’t set sail without a strongly armed escort fleet.’
‘You fear the French?’
‘I do. King Philip and John Lackland are as thick as thieves and Philip would not be above sending his ships to intercept our King’s passage back to England. Should the King fall into Philip’s hands, I fear that it would not be a question of merely a year or two spent in captivity.’
‘You think it would come to that?’ Josse asked, although in his heart he knew that de Gifford’s comment was no exaggeration. ‘King Philip and our Richard’s own brother in league to keep him prisoner?’
‘I have heard tell,’ de Gifford said quietly, ‘that the negotiations for the King’s release were brought to a standstill last month because John and Philip outbid his mother’s offer.’
‘I heard that too,’ Josse said glumly. He did not add that his first reaction had not been a prayer for the King’s safe release but a sudden and very urgent hope that England would not be in for yet another tax demand to augment the ransom. ‘My guess,’ he continued, turning from that thought, ‘is that John and Philip would give much to have Richard remain a prisoner until they can consolidate the gains they’ve made together in Richard’s French territories.’
‘Yes, that would make sense,’ de Gifford agreed. Then, as if suddenly recalling what had begun the discussion, he went on, ‘But what any of that has to do with the matter in hand, I cannot begin to guess.’
‘If, indeed, it has anything to do with it,’ Josse added.
‘And yet,’ de Gifford said softly, ‘I wonder . . . A spy sent by John or Philip to discover how the land lies here in England? To set about rallying opposition to Richard with a view to setting John on the throne in his place?’
‘One man, to do all that?’ Josse asked wryly. ‘Gervase, I think that is more a task for an army.’
‘Armies do not make good spies,’ de Gifford murmured. Then, with a small frown as if he were working something out which, at present, he chose not to share with Josse, he fell silent.
But there were, Josse realised, more urgent things to speak about. With apprehension making his heart beat faster, he asked de Gifford if anyone in Tonbridge had fallen sick of a strange illness.
By the time all those in the community not engaged in vital and life-saving work assembled for Vespers, the sicker of the two merchants, the elderly man and the woman were dead. The three reported as being on their way had arrived; one of their number, a strong young woman, had pushed a handcart on which lay her father, who had apparently been lucid when he was carried out of his home but was now very sick. The father had been clutching a crippled boy who was almost at death’s door.
Each of the sick had, in one form or another, been given some of the water that had been treated with the Eye of Jerusalem; not one was showing any improvement.
Helewise sat in her room late into the night. Compline was long over and, down in the Vale, Josse had returned from Tonbridge and, presumably, had settled down for the night. One bright spot in the day had been the welcome news, relayed to her by Brother Augustus soon after Josse had got back, that nobody in Tonbridge was sick of a mysterious foreign pestilence.
Josse, Helewise thought. Oh, Josse. What shall I do for the best?
She knew what she ought to do, for her first – indeed, her only – duty was to fulfil her role as Abbess of Hawkenlye and care as best she could for those who came to her in need. That meant doing all she could to cure the sick, which, in turn, meant using each and every tool put into her hands for that purpose.
She had resigned herself to ordering the employment of the Eye of Jerusalem and, she had to admit, she had been bitterly disappointed when it had not worked. Not only for the poor victims and for Sisters Euphemia and Tiphaine, but also for herself; because she knew that, if the first attempt failed, then there was something else that, dislike it as she may, she was duty-bound to try.
Even if in so doing she was forced into an action that would have a potentially devastating effect upon someone who was very dear to her . . .
Now, in the night-time quiet of the Abbey, she made herself face up to what she knew she had to do.
Part Two
The Secret Weapon
Chapter 7
The iron-hard cold of February was not the best time to resume the exacting life of a forest dweller. As she trod the long road back to the hut in the Great Wealden Forest, strong legs tirelessly pacing out the miles, Joanna was filled with a mixture of excited pleasure at the prospect of her return to the place where she had made her home and dread of what she might find there.
Dread, too, of how she would cope with being on her own again when, for the best part of a year, she had lived in the powerful embrace of her adopted people. They had taught her, tested her, taught her some more and made her face up to who and what she was; even now, far away in both distance and time from those experiences, they still had a strange force that reached out to her, so that an echoing shiver of atavistic terror ran down her spine.
Her people had also given her their love and that gift, in a life that had largely been loveless, was what had empowered Joanna and endowed her with the strength to achieve almost all that had been demanded of her. She had a long way to go – it had been impressed upon her with belittling regularity just how little she knew and how much there was still to learn – but, as the day dawned whose evening would, with the Great Ones’ blessing, see her back in her forest hut, she reflected back over the extraordinary twelve months that she had been away and knew in her heart that she had at least made a good start.
She had left the Haw
kenlye Forest the previous March, almost a year ago, setting out on the road alone but for the baby Meggie, secure in the snug sling that Joanna wore across her chest. Joanna had been initiated into the life of her people in the February prior to her departure on her travels but the Great Ones had known – even as she had known herself – that there remained a barrier to full acceptance. She had killed two people and, although both acts were done in defence of innocents who would otherwise themselves have been slain and had therefore been no crime in the eyes of her people, nevertheless death had resulted. ‘You have taken life,’ she had been told, ‘and these acts must be assimilated into the great web that is the life of the tribe.’ It was as if, these violent acts having happened, somehow accommodation must be made for them. After an initial month of contemplation and meditation in a cave hidden away deep within the forest, Joanna had been sent on her way, off along the ancient and secret tracks that led into the north-west.
To Mona’s Isle.
Her fear and apprehension at what awaited her there might, had she been alone, have slowed her pace to a crawl; might even have made her turn round and run away to hide in some lonely place where they would never find her. But she had not been alone. She had endured solitude during the month in the cave; the main reason that she could find the optimism and courage to keep going on the road to Mona’s Isle was because the small person whose absence then had all but beaten her to her knees was with her again. Meggie, four months old, brown-eyed and with the first silky curls forming on her round little head, sat in the sling that Joanna carried across her chest and beamed up at her mother with a toothless smile that never lost its power to go straight to Joanna’s heart.
Those smiles, Joanna well knew, were probably more often the product of wind than any conscious response to mother love, but it made no difference whatsoever.
So they had covered the miles together and Joanna sang aloud as she marched. She had never doubted that she would find her way; although she had not known it at the time, there were long periods of her childhood that had been preparing her for this new life. The lessons that she had unconsciously absorbed from Mag Hobson, the beloved woman who had cared for her, now provided the necessary knowledge to get her safely to her destination. She found that she knew how to locate the tracks that were hidden from the casual eye but quite obvious to those who knew where – or perhaps how – to look. She knew how to maintain direction when there was no sun by day and no stars by night to guide her and it became second nature to keep a part of her awareness concentrated on making sure that the wind stayed on the appropriate side of her face. The prevailing wind that February of her long march north-westwards had been in the east: as long as it blew on her right ear, she knew she was moving roughly north. She had memorised the markers that would confirm that she was on the right track and, confidence growing, she had hastened on her way.
