Heart of Ice

by Alys Clare

  ‘No,’ Josse agreed. But, he thought, if the woman thought she had spotted her pursuer, then surely the last thing she would do was to mount her mare and leave the safety of the Abbey.

  It was a mystery. No, he corrected himself, it was another mystery.

  He gave Sister Ursel a smile. ‘Thank you, Sister, for your detailed report,’ he said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, ‘I don’t suppose this young woman said who she was and exactly what it was she wanted help with?’

  ‘Well, it’s odd, what with her being so secretive and that, but she did,’ Sister Ursel replied. ‘Perhaps she thought it was safe, what with me being a nun.’

  ‘And you have the sort of face that people trust, Sister,’ Josse said, lavish with his praise in the excited anticipation of having a couple of questions adequately answered at last. ‘Well?’

  ‘Her name,’ Sister Ursel said, frowning with concentration, ‘was Sabin de Retz.’ She spoke the name with care. ‘She came here looking for the same person you’ve been enquiring after.’

  ‘And who,’ Josse said, strongly suspecting but hardly daring to hope his suspicion was right, ‘might that be?’

  ‘Why, the young man that was slain in our Vale!’ Sister Ursel exclaimed. ‘She’s come here searching for Nicol Romley!’

  Chapter 11

  Josse had to wait until late in the day to speak to the Abbess concerning the visit of Sabin de Retz and her puzzling mission; the Abbess spent most of the afternoon and evening down in the Vale, where Josse did not think it appropriate to disturb her. It was not until the community were leaving the Abbey church after Compline that Josse finally caught up with the Abbess.

  She looked exhausted.

  It suddenly occurred to Josse that surely there were better things he could do to take from her some of the huge burden she was carrying than to race off chasing a mysterious stranger hunting for a dead man. But swiftly he changed his mind: Nicol Romley had been suffering from the foreign pestilence, even though it had not been the cause of his death. Therefore anything connected with him might be important in the crucial work of containing the outbreak of the disease.

  He fell into step beside the Abbess as she walked slowly back to her room. ‘What news from the Vale?’ he asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Little that you would wish to hear, Sir Josse. The old man brought in by his daughter fails before our eyes, despite her devotion. She refuses to leave his side and tends him herself.’ The Abbess frowned. ‘I cannot understand why she shows no sign of the sickness, for, according to Sister Euphemia, she breathes in his very air and her hands are soaked in his blood.’

  ‘I too have wondered at the apparent invulnerability of some people to the pestilence,’ Josse agreed. ‘I’m told that some members of the Hastings maidservant’s family did not suffer so much as a headache, whereas others of the household sickened and died within a matter of days. My lady, do you think—’

  ‘Sir Josse,’ the Abbess interrupted, ‘I am sorry, but I am too tired to think.’

  ‘Of course you are!’ He was instantly solicitous. ‘May I fetch a restorative for you? Some wine?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Briefly she touched his arm. ‘I have one or two matters to attend to and then I shall go to my bed.’

  Josse, appreciating that he ought not to detain her, quickly told her about Sabin de Retz. ‘I’ve worked out,’ he said, concluding an admirably succinct version of the tale, ‘that probably the only person who could have told the young woman that Nicol Romley was coming here was the lad’s master, Adam Morton.’

  ‘You reason well, Sir Josse, as usual,’ the Abbess put in.

  ‘I thank you, my lady, although in truth the link was not difficult to make. So you see, I need to return to Newenden and speak to Adam Morton again to see if he can tell me anything more about Sabin de Retz and why she wanted to find Nicol Romley.’

  ‘Back on the road, then, first thing tomorrow?’ she suggested. ‘Sir Josse, it is many miles that you’ve covered these past days.’

  ‘Aye, but sometimes in times of trouble it’s easier on those who have a definite job to do.’

  ‘Easier than waiting and watching helplessly while they die?’ she said bitterly. ‘Oh, yes, Sir Josse, you are the lucky one, for indeed it is.’

  There was a short and, on Josse’s part, uncomfortable silence.

  Then she put out her hand to touch his and said, ‘Forgive me, old friend.’

  ‘Nothing to forgive,’ he muttered gruffly.

  They walked on, both deep in their own thoughts. At the door to her room she turned and said, ‘Sir Josse, may I ask a favour of you?’

  ‘Anything!’ he cried. ‘Whatever you like!’

  She managed a brief smile. ‘It is nothing that great,’ she said. ‘It is merely to ask if you would take Brother Augustus with you tomorrow.’

  ‘Young Gussie? Of course; nothing would give me more pleasure than to have his company on the road.’

  She made a face. ‘He is not himself, Sir Josse, for he is sorely grieved over Brother Firmin. Firmin has been like a beloved grandfather to Augustus and the boy will not accept that he is dying.’

  ‘It is true, then?’ Josse pictured the kind old face and he felt like weeping. ‘There is no hope for Brother Firmin?’

  ‘There is always hope,’ she said swiftly, ‘but Brother Firmin moves further along the road that takes him away from us with each hour that passes. He barely speaks and indeed he sleeps most of the time, waking only to drink some of his precious holy water.’

  ‘It has saved many lives before,’ Josse said stoutly. ‘Let us pray that the miracle will happen for dear old Firmin.’

  ‘Amen,’ the Abbess said fervently. Then, with a courageous lift of her chin that went straight to Josse’s heart, she bade him goodnight and disappeared into her room.

  Josse and Brother Augustus were on the road early the next morning. Augustus did indeed seem very downcast and it was not long before he let out all his pain and grief to Josse.

  ‘I keep asking if I can nurse him,’ he said, close to tears, ‘but they won’t let me and I feel so guilty not being beside him. It’s just the infirmarer and her nursing nuns that are allowed into that temporary ward they’ve made in the Vale and they tell me I must obey their orders and keep away from him. But, Sir Josse, I can’t bear it, I want him to know how much I love him and that I’d do anything to make him well again!’

  Bearing in mind what the Abbess had told him, Josse chose his words carefully; it seemed kinder to prepare Augustus for the worst than to give him any false hopes.

  ‘Gus,’ he began, ‘for one thing, you’re a lay brother and you have to obey those in authority over you; you’ve no choice. So you mustn’t feel guilty that you can’t be with Brother Firmin.’

  ‘I keep him supplied with holy water from the spring,’ Augustus butted in, ‘at least I can do that for him.’

  ‘Brother Firmin would no doubt say that’s the best service you could render him,’ Josse said. Then, gently: ‘Gussie, you say that you’d do anything to keep him alive, but it’s not for us to choose the time of a man’s death.’

  ‘It’s up to God, aye, I know, and Brother Firmin’s an old man; so they all keep telling me,’ Augustus said wearily. ‘If he could only have a little bit longer, Sir Josse! Just a little while!’

  How many times, Josse wondered sadly, had that cry gone up at the bedside of a beloved person on the point of death! But then he thought – and the thought brought a sort of comfort – well, aren’t those people the lucky ones, to die knowing they are loved and will be sorely missed?

  He was about to say as much to Augustus when the young man spoke. ‘I’ve promised God I’ll take my vows and become a monk if he lets Brother Firmin live,’ he said.

  Josse’s first thought was, oh, no, Gus! In the years that he had known the lad, he had always considered that Augustus had more to offer the world outside the Abbey than within it and he would never have been surprised,
on returning to Hawkenlye, to be told that Augustus had put aside his lay brother’s robe and gone.

  ‘I am not sure, Gussie,’ he said carefully, ‘that God really wants monks who enter the religious life as part of a bargain. Are you quite sure it’s what you want? What’s right for you and for God?’

  There was a long silence. Then Augustus said miserably, ‘No, Sir Josse. I’m not sure at all.’

  ‘Speak to God, then,’ Josse said. ‘Tell him of your doubts.’

  ‘But if I withdraw my offer then Brother Firmin will die!’ wailed Augustus.

  ‘He may well die anyway,’ Josse said. ‘But whether he lives or dies, I do not believe it will have anything to do with your offer, Gus. I don’t think God works that way.’

  Augustus turned reddened eyes to look at him. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ Josse said firmly. ‘Tell you what, Gus – we’ll ride along without talking for a while and you have a bit of a prayer. Tell God how you’re feeling, how much you want to save Brother Firmin but how you’re not sure that offering to become a monk is the right thing for you after all.’

  ‘But how can we pray?’ Augustus looked worried. ‘We’re not in church.’

  Josse gave a shout of laughter. ‘Sorry, lad, but I couldn’t help it,’ he said; Augustus was looking horrified. ‘You don’t have to be in church to pray, Gus. If you’re sincere, which you are, and if you put your heart into your prayers, which I know you will, then I reckon God can hear you wherever you are.’

  Augustus eyed him doubtfully for a few moments. Then he closed his eyes and Josse heard him muttering under his breath. Resigning himself to a long period of silence, Josse clicked his tongue to Horace and steered the big horse in front of Augustus, mounted on the Abbey cob; it would not help the poor lad if his horse decided to wander off the track and into danger while Gus had his eyes shut, and the cob was more likely to keep to the path with Horace leading the way.

  Quite a long time later, with Augustus still praying, they rode into Newenden.

  Josse had been noticing that whenever they passed through any inhabited areas, from villages and hamlets down to lonely farms or solitary hovels, those who dwelt there dashed inside and slammed their doors. This road, he told himself, is the route of the pestilence: it went from Hastings to Newenden and from Newenden to Hawkenlye. No wonder the people barricade themselves in against passers-by; they are terrified of infection.

  Newenden was deserted. Augustus, open-eyed now and looking considerably more cheerful, remarked on the lack of people.

  Josse told him why the place was empty.

  ‘Oh, aye, of course.’ The boy nodded. ‘Will this apothecary we’ve come to see open up and talk to us?’

  Josse had been wondering the same thing. ‘I hope so,’ he grunted.

  He rode along the street to the apothecary’s house. Dismounting, he handed Horace’s reins to Augustus and banged on Adam Morton’s door.

  There was no answer and so he banged again, more loudly, this time calling out, ‘Master Morton, I would speak with you! It is Josse d’Acquin and I have ridden from Hawkenlye Abbey.’

  Even as he spoke the words he realised his mistake: Adam Morton would no longer be the only man in Newenden to know there was pestilence at Hawkenlye, even though he had probably been the first.

  But then there was a sound from the other side of the oak door and Adam Morton’s voice reached Josse, muffled but audible. ‘What do you want now?’ he demanded. ‘I will no longer open this door to you, Sir Josse, so it’s no use your thumping on it; you’ll only serve to put dents in it.’

  ‘I understand,’ Josse shouted back. ‘I do not ask admittance, Master Morton; only information.’ It was embarrassing, holding a conversation at such a volume that the whole street could hear; it was also, given the delicacy of the question to which he had come to seek an answer, potentially dangerous.

  Perhaps Adam Morton’s good sense got the better of him; there was a long pause, then he said, ‘Go along to the wall that divides my herb garden from the street. Mount your horse and you will be able to see over it; I shall go into my garden and stand on my bench.’

  Josse did as he was told. Augustus, watching, raised his eyebrows and Josse made a grimace. ‘Better than nothing,’ he remarked.

  Presently there came sounds of a bench being dragged across the ground and then Adam Morton’s face appeared over the top of the wall. He held a piece of spotless white linen up to his nose and mouth and Josse caught the scent of lavender oil. ‘Don’t you come too close!’ he warned Josse, ‘and you, lad’ – he waved a finger at Augustus – ‘you stay over there! Now,’ he said, turning back to Josse, ‘what is this information you want?’ He added something under his breath, something to the effect of as if I didn’t know.

  ‘I believe that you sent someone to Hawkenlye Abbey,’ Josse said, speaking as quietly as the distance between him and Adam Morton allowed. ‘A young woman named Sabin de Retz, who came to you looking for news of Nicol Romley.’

  The apothecary gave a weary sigh. ‘Yes, I did,’ he admitted.

  ‘You did not think to tell her that he was dead?’ Josse hissed.

  ‘Ah, but when she came to see me I did not know!’ Adam Morton protested.

  Stunned, Josse said, ‘But—’ Then: ‘So you mean she visited you before I came here with Gervase de Gifford? Yet you didn’t think to tell me she was also looking for Nicol?’

  ‘I don’t see why I should have told you,’ the apothecary said somewhat stiffly. ‘And obviously she came before your first visit; I should hardly have sent such a lovely young woman chasing after a man I knew to be dead.’

  ‘Yet you knew he was sick,’ Josse reminded him.

  ‘He might have recovered!’

  Aye, Josse thought, that he might, had not some unknown hand struck the poor young man down.

  And, as that thought brought him right back to the reason for this visit, he said, ‘Did Sabin de Retz tell you why she needed to see Nicol?’

  Adam Morton appeared to be thinking. Then he said, ‘She said she had come from France. She met Nicol in Troyes and something happened there that she would not tell me. I gathered from her manner that it was something that had frightened her, for she went quite pale when she spoke of it. There had been danger and she had escaped. She knew Nicol was bound for Boulogne, where he would take ship for Hastings and then travel back here to Newenden, and she followed him. She told me that she must see him, that it was a matter of life and death.’

  ‘And so you sent her after him to Hawkenlye,’ Josse said, half to himself. ‘Yet it was not until yesterday that she came to the Abbey looking for him. I was not there,’ he explained to the apothecary, ‘and when I returned, there was no sign of her.’

  ‘Yes, she appeared furtive when she was here,’ Morton agreed.

  ‘With good reason, perhaps,’ Josse suggested.

  ‘Maybe, maybe.’

  ‘I am wondering,’ Josse said, ‘why it took Sabin de Retz the best part of a week to travel from Newenden to Hawkenlye.’

  The apothecary reached up to smooth the long white hair beneath the spotless cap. He looked away, first across his herb garden and then beyond Josse to the road. Then, almost disinterestedly, he said, ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ Josse muttered ironically. Then, as an earlier thought returned to him, he said, ‘I should still like to know why you did not tell me on either of my previous visits that you had sent Sabin de Retz to Hawkenlye.’

  ‘I am an apothecary,’ Morton snapped. ‘In my profession there are many secrets and a man grows used to speaking only when he must.’

  There seemed, Josse thought, no suitable reply to that. ‘Is the young woman staying here in the town?’ he asked.

  ‘I do not think so,’ Adam Morton replied. ‘She was mounted on a grey mare and the horse looked as if it had been ridden hard.’

  ‘She went from Hastings to Newenden, then on to Hawkenlye,’ Josse said slowly, thinki
ng aloud, ‘and, given the present climate of fear, she’d have found precious little in the way of hospitality for a traveller in between the three locations. So,’ he looked up and met the apothecary’s eyes, ‘where is she?’

  The apothecary gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Again, Sir Josse . . .’

  ‘You have no idea,’ Josse finished for him. ‘Thank you for your time, Master Morton.’ He turned Horace and, with a nod to Augustus, set off back down the street.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Adam Morton called after them.

  Josse spun round in the saddle. ‘We’re going to look for her!’

  Somebody else had left Hawkenlye Abbey even earlier that morning, slipping out secretively before it was light and when the majority of the community were still asleep. Sister Tiphaine had wrapped herself in her thick cloak, exchanged her sandals for the stout sabots she used for gardening and set off into the forest.

  She had not enjoyed the previous day’s conversation with the Abbess at all. While it was true that she had contacts with the forest people – far stronger and more regular contacts than Tiphaine hoped anyone at Hawkenlye was aware – she also had an overriding duty to the Abbey and its Abbess. It had been hard – and strangely painful – to stand mutely listening to the Abbess’s speculations concerning the outcome of the brief liaison between Sir Josse and Joanna and make no comment. But then the secret was not Tiphaine’s to tell . . .

  Of course, the Abbess had been absolutely right. Joanna had born a child to Sir Josse, and a girl child at that. In addition, given what Tiphaine knew about Joanna – and the child – it was highly likely that both mother and daughter had power in their very blood, although since little Meggie was only fifteen months old, nobody would yet have put her to the test.

  A magical jewel, Tiphaine thought as she strode along the faint forest tracks, which were so familiar to her that she barely needed to look where she was going. What might such a precious and powerful thing do in the hand of Joanna or her child! Why, lives could be saved, even that of the old fusspot Firmin, who always looked askance at Tiphaine as if searching for her horns and tail!