Heart of Ice

by Alys Clare

  I have begun on a course of action that will bring Josse face to face with something that will change his life, she thought miserably. I have done this for a very good reason and, when he finds out, he will understand that I had to do everything within my power to save the lives of the sick who have come here for help.

  He may well understand, the thought continued. But will he ever forgive me?

  And I have sent Sister Tiphaine into danger, she went on remorselessly, determined to face up to the full horror of her actions. She went into the forest – or so I conclude, for she has not been seen in the Abbey all day – and she has not come back.

  Oh, supposing something had happened to her! Supposing night had come upon her when she was alone out there, lost in that terrible place, and even now she was lying injured, with wolves circling and those strange forest people threatening her with death for having trespassed in their lands!

  Sister Tiphaine is in no danger from the forest people, the sensible part of Helewise’s mind told her firmly. She has regular contact with them and knows their ways better than you do; she will be fully aware what she can and cannot do out in the forest and she is probably tucked up quite safely somewhere. The only reason for her continuing absence is probably that she has not yet fulfilled her mission.

  It was a comforting thought but Helewise soon came up with something else to worry about.

  Her mission. Yes, Sister Tiphaine’s mission.

  And, unfortunately for Helewise, that brought her straight back to Josse.

  She lay awake, restless and very anxious, for what remained of the night.

  In the morning Josse made it his first task to seek out Sister Ursel.

  ‘The young woman who came here looking for Nicol Romley,’ he began, after greeting her and exchanging a few remarks about the weather, which was still cold and clear.

  ‘Sabin de Retz,’ Sister Ursel said promptly.

  ‘Aye. Sister’ – he paused, wondering how to phrase his question without giving offence – ‘Sister, when she asked after him, obviously the name was familiar to you and you knew to whom she referred, but—’

  ‘I didn’t tell her he was dead, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Sister Ursel interrupted, not looking the least offended. ‘I knew what his name was, of course – you can’t keep a thing like that a secret in a community such as Hawkenlye – and I recognised it when she spoke it. But it wasn’t my place to break the news to the poor lass, Sir Josse, especially not when she’d just asked to speak to you. I knew you’d be able to tell her far more about the whole sorry business than I could,’ she added confidently.

  I don’t know that I could have done, Josse thought ruefully. ‘I see,’ he said.

  ‘Anyway,’ Sister Ursel concluded, ‘standing by the gate is no place to receive bad news, eh, Sir Josse?’

  Smiling, pleased with himself for having so accurately guessed what Sister Ursel would say, he agreed that it was not. He left the porteress with strict instructions to inform him the instant Sabin de Retz returned – if she returned – and was just trying to decide whether now was the moment to speak to the Abbess and demand to know what was the matter with her – apart from a murder on her doorstep and a ward full of desperately sick people, he thought ruefully – when someone called out his name.

  Turning, he saw Brother Augustus running towards him.

  ‘Good morning, Gussie,’ Josse greeted him. A sudden chill caught at him; was Augustus racing to bring bad news? ‘How is Brother Firmin?’

  Augustus stopped, panting, and said, ‘He is still holding out, Sir Josse. I have been praying since I awoke and they tell me Brother Firmin is praying too.’

  ‘When – if the moment comes, Gus,’ Josse said gently, ‘then surely he will soon be with God in heaven.’

  Augustus looked faintly surprised that Josse might even be thinking anything to the contrary. Then, with a shake of his head as if to drive out that thought and proceed to another, he said, ‘It’s not about him that I’ve come looking for you. It’s about the young woman.’

  ‘Sabin de Retz?’ As if there could be any other young woman.

  ‘Aye.’ Augustus sounded impatient, as if he too thought the interjection unnecessary. ‘Sir Josse, when I wasn’t praying for Brother Firmin I’ve been thinking about where she might be. Like we were saying yesterday, it’s unlikely anyone’s taken her in, what with the sickness and that, and I’d guess you found no trace of her in Tonbridge for the same reason.’

  ‘You guess right,’ Josse agreed.

  ‘Well, there’s one sort of place where they never turn people away even if the whole county falls ill,’ Augustus pressed on eagerly. Then, when Josse didn’t instantly reply, he cried, ‘Places like Hawkenlye! Religious foundations!’

  God’s boots, but the lad was right! ‘Well done, Gussie,’ Josse said, clapping him enthusiastically on the shoulder. ‘Even now she could be joining the community at their prayers in . . .’ He realised he had no idea where the nearest religious house was. ‘Er, where might she be, d’you think, Gus?’

  Augustus smiled. ‘There’s West Abbey,’ he began, ‘that’s north of here and they’re Benedictine nuns, only the place burned down a few years ago and I don’t know if they’ve rebuilt their guest quarters. There’s the canons down at Otham, but they’re in the middle of plans to move their foundation somewhere more suitable and I doubt they’ve much accommodation for guests either. There’s St Martin’s at Battle and then there’s . . .’

  But Josse had remembered something. A year ago, when word had first come of King Richard’s capture and imprisonment, Queen Eleanor, beside herself with anxiety, had sent two trusted abbots out to Speyer to see the king and report back to her. One abbot came from . . . where was it? Boxley, aye, that was it, and wasn’t Boxley up near Rochester? The other envoy was the abbot of Pont Robert, or Robertsbridge, as the people called it. And Robertsbridge was only some fifteen miles south of Hawkenlye.

  ‘Robertsbridge!’ he cried.

  Augustus shot him a glance. ‘I was just going to say Robertsbridge.’

  ‘What do we know of the place?’ Josse demanded eagerly.

  Augustus had a think and then said, ‘It’s run by the White Monks and they’re farmers and foresters. The Abbey’s tucked away in the forest, like all Cistercian houses, because the monks aren’t allowed near towns.’

  ‘Would they accommodate a young woman like Sabin de Retz?’

  Augustus shrugged. ‘I can’t say for certain, but the Cistercians are known for their charity and their care of the poor.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound as if Sabin is poor,’ Josse said, half to himself, thinking of the grey mare and the fur-lined gloves.

  ‘Maybe the old White Monks wouldn’t be above letting her stay anyway but rattling the poor box under her nose,’ Augustus said shrewdly.

  Josse grinned. ‘Very possibly,’ he agreed. ‘Is it a good road to Robertsbridge, Gus?’

  ‘Reckon so, Sir Josse. It’s the Hastings road nearly all the way.’ Returning Josse’s smile, he said, ‘Want me to ask leave to go with you?’

  ‘Aye, do that, lad. I’ll go and tap on the Abbess Helewise’s door and explain where we’re going.’

  He found the Abbess sitting behind her table. She seemed to have plenty to do, judging by the rolls of parchment spread out in front of her and the stylus in its horn of ink, but Josse had the distinct impression that, immediately before he went in, she had been staring into space. The look of anxiety on her face barely diminished as she greeted him.

  ‘Sister Beata is dead,’ she said.

  It had been expected, Josse well knew, but nevertheless the news hit him like a fist in the stomach. ‘I am sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘She was a loving and a lovable woman.’

  ‘She was,’ the Abbess agreed. Raising dull eyes briefly to meet his before she looked away again, she said, ‘What is it, Sir Josse? As you see, I am busy.’

  What is the matter with her? he wondered yet again. The d
eath of Sister Beata was hard to accept, aye, but normally under such circumstances the Abbess would surely have derived comfort from talking over her grief and pain with Josse. And here she was, hinting that the sooner he said what he had to say and got himself out of her presence, the better she would like it.

  Coolly he said, ‘Brother Augustus has come up with the bright suggestion that Sabin de Retz is probably lodging in a religious house. He and I are off down to Robertsbridge, it being the nearest one to us, to see if we can find her.’

  ‘I see,’ the Abbess said neutrally.

  He waited, but it did not appear that she was going to say any more. ‘I’ll come and find you when we return.’ He realised he had sounded curt but just at that moment he didn’t care.

  He spun round and strode out of the room, closing the door rather forcefully behind him. He thought he heard her cry out his name but when he paused to see if she would call again, there was nothing but silence.

  He hurried on to the stables, where he found that Augustus had prepared the horses and, wrapped warmly in his cloak, was already mounted on the Abbey cob. Trying to put the Abbess out of his mind, Josse got up on to Horace’s broad back and led the way out through the gate and away south-eastwards.

  Helewise sat, miserable and alone, in her room. She knew she must get up and set about the preparations for Sister Beata’s interment but she had no heart for the task. She knew too how the death of one of their own was going to affect an Abbey full of people already stretched beyond the limit and that somehow she must find the words to rally the community, remind them that God’s purpose is often unclear and exhort them to go on giving of their very best without expecting any immediate reward.

  She had little heart for that, either.

  Sickness, misery, death and grief. Am I, she cried in silent agony, expected to be immune from distress? Sister Beata is dead, Sister Judith is very ill and Brother Firmin is at death’s door, and there is no time for me to lament, to weep, to ask God why this pestilence has come to us.

  And above all that – as if it were not enough – she was expecting at any moment to receive word that Sister Tiphaine had returned. Trying to control her turbulent, panicky thoughts, Helewise realised that she did not know which of the two possible outcomes she was hoping for: that Tiphaine would return without Joanna, thereby losing any chance the Abbey nursing nuns might have had of employing the Eye of Jerusalem; or that the herbalist would bring Joanna back with her and that Helewise would have to find a way of breaking the news to Josse, when he got back, that the woman he had loved and lost was within the Abbey precincts.

  Neither outcome, Helewise’s miserable thoughts concluded, would happen if Tiphaine were lost or hurt within the mighty forest . . .

  Not expecting any great measure of success, she pulled a parchment towards her, picked up her stylus and listlessly set herself to work.

  Chapter 13

  Josse and Brother Augustus made swift time on the journey down to Robertsbridge. The road was indeed good and there were relatively few places where potholes and cracks meant slowing down to pick a careful path.

  Augustus must have asked directions – perhaps he already knew the way, for before coming to Hawkenlye his young life had been spent travelling on England’s roads – and as they approached the place he was able to lead Josse along increasingly narrow paths and tracks until, deep in the forest and with the gentle slope of a hill behind it, they came to Robertsbridge Abbey.

  Josse was not sure what he had been expecting; in the back of his mind he had had a vague picture of a smaller and more isolated Hawkenlye. As soon as the settlement known as Robertsbridge Abbey came into view, however, he realised that his mental image was quite wrong: Robertsbridge was nothing like Hawkenlye and, had it not been for the rough wooden cross affixed to one of the larger buildings, it could, from a distance, have been mistaken for a primitive peasant hamlet.

  As they rode closer, Josse could make out a plan. The monks had hacked away trees, shrubs and undergrowth from the edges of what appeared to have been a pre-existing open space in deep woodland. Judging from the position of the sun, the monks had utilised the low hill for protection from the easterly winds, for the settlement was built to the west of it. Their foundation consisted of a wide central cloister surrounded by cells on the west side and gardens on the east, the latter tucked under the lee of the hill and exposed to the south to gain maximum sunshine. The communal buildings were small and built of roughly shaped wooden planks infilled with wattle and daub. A stream winding round the base of the hill had been diverted so that little channels ran through the vegetable and herb gardens; presumably the site had been selected because of proximity to the stream.

  To the right of the monks’ buildings and some two hundred paces along a track leading into the forest, Josse could just make out the outlines of another small group of dwellings; probably stables, farm buildings and workshops. They would be invisible from the abbey, he realised, once the trees and bushes were in leaf.

  Perhaps that was the idea.

  A low wooden fence with a gate, at present standing open, surrounded the monks’ buildings; the fence would not have deterred a determined intruder and Josse guessed that it was probably intended to keep out livestock or the wild animals of the forest.

  He led the way through the open gate. All was still and quiet – the monks must either be at prayer or out somewhere supervising the work on their lands – but nevertheless he felt quite sure that he was being watched.

  He and Augustus drew rein just inside the gate and Josse called out, ‘Halloa the Abbey! We have come from Hawkenlye and would have speech with you!’

  For a moment nothing happened; Josse thought he caught a snatch of whispered conversation but decided that it was probably his imagination, stimulated by the susurration of the wind in the bare branches of the trees. Then out of a long, low building to the left, roofed with thatch and totally unadorned, a man appeared. He was clad in a simple white habit of coarse wool tied at the waist with a length of rope.

  He walked over to Josse, staring up at him out of bright, round eyes that reminded Josse of those of an inquisitive bird. He said, ‘I am Stephen. What do you wish to speak to me about?’ As Josse hesitated, he added, ‘Please, dismount, and your companion too.’ The shiny brown eyes turned to Augustus and Stephen gave the lad a nod of greeting.

  ‘I am Josse d’Acquin,’ Josse said, sliding down from Horace’s back, ‘and this is Brother Augustus of Hawkenlye.’

  ‘Good day to you both,’ Stephen said. Then, with a sudden radiant smile, ‘Welcome! I will see to your horses and then we shall take food and drink together; simple fare, I fear, but what we have you may freely share.’

  Waving away Josse’s thanks, Stephen took the horses’ reins and led the animals in the direction of the track branching off towards the buildings in the forest; he called out, ‘Bruno! Come and take these horses and tend to them!’ A boyish figure dressed in brown appeared from behind the church where, to judge by the way he was brushing earth from his hands, he had been engaged in some gardening task. He gave Stephen a reverential bow, then took the horses and hastened off with them down the track, making a quiet sound in his throat that sounded remarkably like a horse’s soft whinny.

  Stephen gazed after him, shaking his head. ‘Poor Bruno is short of wits,’ he said very softly, although the lad was too far away by now to have heard even a voice speaking at normal pitch. ‘He is dumb and cannot talk to his fellow man, but God has compensated by bestowing upon the boy the ability to communicate with animals and, if it does not sound too strange, with plants.’

  ‘Plants?’ Josse and Augustus said together.

  Stephen smiled. ‘Aye. Bruno’s vegetables, herbs and flowers put those grown by the rest of us to shame. He treats his plants as if they were little creatures and we cannot but conclude that it is the boy’s very breath that encourages such extraordinary growth.’ Shaking his head at the vagaries of the natural world, Ste
phen led the way into the long, low building from which he had earlier emerged.

  Josse saw that it was a very rudimentary refectory. The long tables were of plain wood and the benches either side of them so narrow that being seated on them must have been like sitting on top of a fence rail. The candlesticks were simply made, and of undecorated iron. Stephen had called out as he entered the room and in response another white-robed monk now appeared bearing a wooden tray on which were a pottery flagon, two tankards and some hunks of what looked like rather coarse bread.

  ‘Small beer is our usual beverage,’ Stephen said, filling the tankards. ‘And I fear the bread may be dry to your taste for we do not use animal fat.’

  Josse, who had taken a mouthful of bread and was now trying to summon sufficient saliva to chew it, had to agree, but good manners made him say, as soon as the bread was under control, ‘We are grateful for your hospitality, Stephen, and the victuals are most welcome.’

  Stephen nodded in satisfaction. He watched Josse and Augustus eat and drink and, when they had finished, he said, ‘You have ridden some distance to speak to us here. Now that you are refreshed, will you explain why?’

  Josse had been rehearsing what he would say; monks and nuns were not, in his experience, people to waste time with unnecessary words and so he tried to be brief. ‘A young woman came asking for help at Hawkenlye Abbey,’ he said. ‘Her name is Sabin de Retz and she was in fact looking for a friend. She came to Hawkenlye because she had been told he had gone there. We – Augustus and I – rode to Newenden, the town where the young man, Nicol Romley, lived, and we discovered that Sabin had also been there asking for him. It was there that she was told he had gone to Hawkenlye.’

  Josse had the distinct sense that he was making the explanation more complicated than it need be and was fleetingly surprised to see that Stephen was nodding his understanding. ‘Did she not speak to you at the Abbey?’ he asked.

  ‘No, for I was not there,’ Josse replied, ‘and, indeed, since she had not heard of me, she could not have asked for me by name. She did not find Nicol Romley either,’ he added. ‘In fact, Nicol is dead.’