by Alys Clare
She kept her eyes on him. ‘No,’ she said, with a small smile. ‘If I were to do so, then you too would be in danger.’
De Gifford gave a snort of disbelief. ‘You surely do not think that this man will go on killing until everyone to whom you could possibly have unburdened yourself is dead!’ he exclaimed.
‘No, I do not think that,’ Sabin agreed. ‘He knows, I believe, that we are aware that we should never speak of what we know. It was, as I said, only the wine that led to Grandfather revealing the secret to Nicol.’
Something had dawned on Josse. ‘The killer went to Troyes to murder you and your grandfather,’ he said slowly. ‘He followed you there from your home, wherever that is, where you came by the secret. Why did you go to Troyes? Why select that town in particular as a hiding place?’
‘We had a good excuse to go there,’ Sabin said, ‘for there is a wider choice of wares available there than anywhere else in northern France and there were, as I have explained, particular ingredients – particular purchases that we wished to make. Our – the person whom we serve accepted that we must make the journey but we knew that, for her own good reasons, she would tell nobody else where we were bound. We hoped that the killer would not find out our destination and I do not see how he could have done; it is likely that he had a simple stroke of luck and spoke to someone who had seen us on the road. From then, I imagine it was quite easy to follow our trail; the combination of an old, blind man on a fat bay and a woman on a grey is not a common one.’
Josse was working hard, trying to store away the fragments of information which, despite her clear intention to the contrary, Sabin was unwittingly giving away. He heard de Gifford ask her a question – something about what work she and her grandfather did – and he heard Sabin politely refuse to tell him.
Josse, however, thought that he already knew.
Sabin had given him other clues, too, including one small fact that nagged away at him because it chimed with something that he had picked up recently; a piece of court gossip, he had thought, although now, faced with the enigma of Sabin de Retz, he was beginning to wonder.
De Gifford was suggesting that they return to their respective dwellings. ‘We can gain nothing from standing out here in the cold,’ he said, ‘and I have decided upon a course of action.’
‘What is it?’ Sabin asked.
‘Aye?’ Josse spoke at the same time.
De Gifford looked from one to the other. ‘It is, in a way, a variation of the plan that the lady proposed.’ He gave a small bow in Sabin’s direction. ‘I suggest that you and your grandfather move into my own house, where I have servants to care for you and where I can arrange an armed guard to protect you. Having ensured your safety and my staff’s silence, I will then spread false word that you are still lodging at the tavern and wait—’
‘Wait for him to set fire to that too?’ Josse broke in, angry at the way in which de Gifford appeared to be disregarding the safety of the tavern and everyone within it. ‘That will please Goody Anne!’
‘I will protect the tavern,’ de Gifford said calmly. ‘This man, whoever he is, will not find it an easy matter to approach the Tonbridge inn and fire it; not with my men waiting for him.’
‘Hm.’ Josse was far from convinced. He was about to offer his own services when he remembered that he already had a mission up at Hawkenlye. The thought prompted the realisation that he had already been gone far too long; the endless water-carrying would be that much more arduous for the monks and lay brothers without him. ‘I must be away,’ he said. Meeting de Gifford’s eyes, he added, ‘You will keep me informed if—?’
‘I will,’ de Gifford assured him.
He and Sabin mounted their horses and Josse collected Horace and did the same. Then they rode back towards the town, Josse saying farewell as they passed de Gifford’s house – where the sheriff was going to lodge Sabin before riding on to fetch her grandfather and her few possessions from the tavern – and heading on up towards Castle Hill and Hawkenlye.
De Gifford’s plan, such as it was, seemed to Josse to be full of flaws, not the least of which was that it was hardly fair to put Goody Anne’s tavern – her livelihood – at such risk in the slim hope of the killer turning up there to murder two people who were not even within.
There had to be something better.
Reaching the summit of the hill, Josse went over what he had deduced about Sabin de Retz and her grandfather. He would seek out the Abbess, he decided; he would put the facts before her and then the two of them would put their heads together, as they had done so many times in the past, and see if they couldn’t come up with something that would help them guess what secret the old man and the young woman were keeping, why it was so dangerous, the identity of the killer and the place where he was hiding out.
It was a tall order and, he thought with a rueful smile, a virtually impossible task. But then he and the Abbess had achieved the impossible before.
And, besides, he could not think of anything he wanted to do more than to sit with her in her little room, talking, puzzling, watching the intelligent grey eyes and the light that entered her face when she thought she had found a possible solution.
I’ll present myself for water duty for the rest of the morning, he told himself, then I’ll go and seek her out.
With that happy prospect in mind, he put his heels to Horace’s sides and, on flat ground now, cantered off along the track that led to the Abbey.
Part Four
The Last Battle
Chapter 18
The sickness came upon her so swiftly that she barely had time to realise how unwell she felt before she slipped into a feverish sleep that was more like unconsciousness.
She had been feeling a deep ache in all her bones when she went to bed the previous night but, exhausted by her role in the first spells of nursing duty under the new roster system, had ascribed the discomfort to fatigue. Rising in the morning, it had taken her longer than usual to perform the tasks that daily repetition over the years had made all but automatic; for one frightening moment, she had forgotten how to pin her veil.
She managed to get through Prime and, later, Tierce, although she was almost sure she had briefly slept during the latter and added to her prayers a hurried request that nobody had noticed her lapse. The idea of eating revolted her; she did not even feel up to going near the refectory in case some odour of food should waft out, at which she was quite sure she would have vomited.
Then it was time to return to the Vale infirmary for the next spell of duty. Her head ached violently, with a sharp-edged pain behind the eyes that seemed to be sawing off the top of her skull. She felt hot, had begun to sweat and then was suddenly cold, shivering as the clammy dampness held her like an icy shroud. Her skin felt tender to the touch; even the pressure of her garments hurt.
They were discussing the importance of making sure that recovering patients ate, even if, as often happened, this meant that whoever was nursing the patient had to sit beside them and spoon the thin but nourishing soup into their mouths.
Soup. Mouth.
Her own mouth filled with water and, making a dash for the door, she ran along the outer wall of the ward and, rounding a corner, threw up on to the frosty grass. When she had finished – her body convulsed into several acutely painful, dry retches after her stomach had emptied itself – she felt so weak that her legs would not hold her up. Her back against the wall of the Vale infirmary, she slumped down to the ground.
Where, she was not sure how long afterwards, they found her.
She was in bed at the very end of the long ward where she was meant to be caring for others. Somebody had removed her habit and she wore just her high-necked undergown. Her head was bare – she put up a shaky hand to feel her short hair – and she seemed to be lying on a thick lump of folded linen . . . Yes. She had seen that done for others. It was in order that, when the flux of the bowels began, the soiled linen could be removed and replaced without disturbing the
patient and remaking the whole bed.
I have the sickness, then, she thought.
Tears filled her eyes and she felt their course down her hot face.
So much that I wanted still to do with my life. So many things not yet said that need to be said. So many . . .
Her mind slipped away. Losing the thought, she lapsed into unconsciousness.
In the forest, Joanna woke from a compelling dream. The details were already fading as she struggled up from the depths of sleep but she was left with a most vivid impression that somebody had been talking to her, taking her to task: a voice had sounded inside her head, telling her something – no, reminding her of something of which she was already aware – and, if she concentrated hard, she felt she could almost hear it again.
Because of your actions two men died and your spirit carries the burden. The adjustment involves recompense . . . in order to balance what has happened to you, you must save the lives of two people who are dying.
She closed her eyes and instantly the bright day at Nime’s fountain appeared in her mind. She allowed herself the luxury of staying with the vision for a few precious, strengthening moments, then she opened her eyes and banished it back to the deep recesses of her mind.
She got down from the sleeping platform – it was early yet and Meggie was still fast asleep – and quietly crossed the floor of her hut and opened the door. It was cold and still outside. March weather, she thought absently. Hard and frosty, with new life beginning but too deep down, as yet, for most eyes to see the signs.
She strolled around the carefully tended clearing in front of the hut. Her mind was bursting, teeming with possibilities; she stilled her thoughts as she had been trained to do and, standing quite still under the oak tree that marked the northern boundary of her patch of earth, closed her eyes and listened.
After some time – she had no idea how long she had stood there, although the rising sun was making long shadows in the clearing by the time they had finished with her – she returned to herself.
It was strange, she mused as, back in the hut, she set about making up the fire and preparing food and drink for Meggie’s and her breakfast. Strange because she had thought, when they told her she was to be a healer and then straight away taught her how disorder in the mind produces sickness in the body, that she was to continue to learn the sort of healing that was done at Folle-Pensée. Indeed, since she had been back in the Great Forest she had gone on thinking deeply about everything she had been told; if – or, she had thought, probably when – the call came, she wanted to be sure she was ready.
But now she had to face up to the possibility that she had been sent back here to the Hawkenlye Forest for a very different reason. She could no longer see it as mere accident that her return coincided with a major outbreak of a fatal disease. Neither could she ignore – much as she wanted to – that it was not only herself but Meggie too who carried the powerful blood of an ancient line of healers in her veins.
They – she and her daughter – could do so much good.
And that was without this jewel of Josse’s that they’d told her about . . .
‘What should we do, little Meggie?’ she asked her daughter, busy stuffing a quarter of an apple into her mouth. Meggie chewed on the apple for a moment, then gave Joanna a dazzling smile and said, ‘Bink.’
‘Drink, please,’ Joanna corrected automatically, blowing on the contents of Meggie’s cup in case it was still too hot.
I know what we must do, Joanna thought, watching her precious child finish her drink, burp and then scratch her bottom. They have taught me, they have told me who I am and explained that Meggie has our people’s great power in her ancestry on both sides. But, when Lora and Tiphaine came to ask for my help, I refused it.
Yet again she went over her justification. The night’s potent dream seemed to have changed her in some way; she could no longer fool herself that the refusal had stemmed primarily out of fear for Meggie’s safety, for there would be no danger of infection if the child went no nearer than the forest fringes to do whatever it was they wanted her to.
And as for the other reason – could she bear to see Josse again? Could he bear to see her? Perhaps she could explain Meggie away as the child of another forest woman, temporarily in her care?
No. Unless Josse had suddenly lost the use of his eyes, that would never work.
The tumult of her thoughts had risen to a crescendo. Through them a voice spoke, a familiar, beloved voice which now occupied the very centre of Joanna and all that she was. Even as she sensed him enter her mind, already she was clutching at the claw that he had given her. He said, quietly but with utter authority, Do what you must do, for all other considerations are subordinate to that.
After that, there was no need to think about it any more.
Josse had been frustrated the evening before in his desire to discuss with the Abbess the whole matter of Sabin de Retz and the mysterious, lethal secret that threatened both the young woman’s life and that of her grandfather. Returning to Hawkenlye from Tonbridge, Josse had sought her out in her little room, only to be told that she was taking a turn at nursing down in the Vale. His informant – it was Sister Basilia – noticed his frown.
‘She’ll be all right,’ she said bracingly. ‘And, having got so many volunteers, she’s not going to leave it to everyone else and not join in the nursing duties herself, is she?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Of course she wasn’t; she knew as well as he did that it was always a sound decision to lead by example. But, sound or not, the fact remained that she had put herself in the danger zone.
‘She’ll be back up here later,’ Sister Basilia said as she hurried away. Everyone, he thought glumly, was in a hurry these days. ‘You’ll be able to see her then!’
He had waited, but she did not return. He gave up soon after Compline; he must have missed her, he guessed, and no doubt, not knowing he wanted to talk to her, she had gone early to bed.
Ah, well. He would just have to restrain his impatience until morning.
But the morning made its own demands on him. Returning to the Vale for water duties, he discovered that Brother Augustus had taken a bad fall inside the shrine, slipping on the steep stone steps that led down to the spring in its rocky basin. Gus had not broken any bones, Sister Caliste had announced after examining him, but he was already coming out in an enormous bruise that extended from the small of his back, right across his left buttock and down as far as the back of his left knee. He was very sore and stiff, shaking from the shock and the pain.
Relieved of water-carrying, Gus was sent to Sister Tiphaine to learn how to put together the ingredients for her convalescents’ remedy. Standing at her workbench finely chopping dried leaves and plant stems was about all he was good for that day.
Meanwhile Brother Erse, the carpenter, had set about building a wooden handrail to run the length of the shrine steps. The constant carriage of water up them had made them sopping wet and the stone was as slippery as ice. Seeing him struggling with a large piece of timber, Josse offered his help. For the rest of the morning the two worked together within the shrine and by the time the community was summoned to Sext, the new rail was almost finished.
The Abbess would be in the Vale infirmary after the office; Josse was aware that her hours of duty were from Sext to Vespers. Well, he would keep an eye out for her and if he failed to get a chance to speak to her, he would be waiting outside the Vale infirmary when she finished her duties in the evening.
With a sigh he went back to smoothing down the new handrail.
Sister Tiphaine was deeply worried and her heart was heavy. She was privy to a confidence and she knew that one did not break faith lightly. But her co-conspirator was out of her reach and it was up to her to make the decision.
She stayed on in the Abbey church after Sext, praying for guidance. Then she left the church and slipped round to her little hut, but she had forgotten about Brother Augustus, diligently chopping dried
herbs and managing to give her a cheery grin despite the considerable pain he must be suffering; Tiphaine had seen the bruises, having rubbed in the first application of salve for the poor lad.
She needed a place where she could be alone, for she had to speak to the other, older powers that she still held in almost the same awe as the new God; leaving Gus to his chopping, she hurried away down the path, out through the front gate and up the faint track that led to the forest.
She did not go far. She did not need to, for even from eight or ten paces away she felt the force of the forest reach out to her. She stopped, stood quite still and silently voiced her problem.
In time, the answer came.
It was the same one that she thought she had heard in the Abbey church. Her mind quite made up, she hastened back to the Abbey, crossed it and left by the rear gate. In the Vale, she quickly located Sister Caliste and, with a peremptory tug at her sleeve, took her outside to where they could speak privately.
Sister Caliste’s bleak expression and red-rimmed eyes mirrored the anxiety and misery that Tiphaine felt; indeed, that everyone felt who knew.
‘Any change?’ Tiphaine asked gruffly. Sister Caliste shook her head. ‘Sister, there is something we could do. Must do, in fact; it may be the only hope.’
‘What is it?’ Sister Caliste asked wearily. ‘We have tried everything, Tiphaine; we may just have to accept that there are some of them whom we just cannot save.’
‘We must not give up yet!’ Tiphaine said urgently. ‘Listen.’
Briefly she told Sister Caliste about Joanna. And about Meggie; Sister Caliste’s eyes widened at the mention of Joanna’s daughter, and Tiphaine, who believed the child’s paternity to be a well-guarded secret known among the Abbey community to only herself and the Abbess, could imagine Caliste’s surprise. But there was no time for that now. She hurried on to explain about the Eye of Jerusalem and the prophetic words of the strange man who had said there would come a female of Josse’s line whose hand would wield the stone with the greatest force of all time.
