Whiter than the Lily

by Alys Clare

  ‘Eh? What’s that?’

  She raised her eyes to meet his. For an instant, her sad expression broke into a smile as, apparently for the first time, she looked at him properly. She said, ‘Sir Josse! Whatever has happened to your face?’

  ‘I fell asleep in the sun,’ he said shortly.

  Trying, not very successfully, to suppress a laugh, she said kindly, ‘It looks very sore. We must see what Sister Euphemia can provide to alleviate the discomfort. I am sorry, I interrupted you.’

  ‘You were saying that Galiena did not announce that Ambrose would be coming to join her here.’

  ‘That’s right. No, she did not.’

  ‘She told nobody?’

  The Abbess looked thoughtful. ‘She did not tell me. I cannot swear that she did not mention it to any other sister but I do not think so, for word would surely have reached me.’

  ‘Hm.’ It was his turn to frown, which, he discovered, creased the flesh on his burned forehead and hurt quite a lot. ‘Well, maybe she was too busy with her own concerns and simply forgot.’

  ‘She was certainly preoccupied,’ the Abbess agreed. ‘And, I think, rather embarrassed at the whole procedure of coming here to be treated for her barrenness. As Sister Euphemia pointed out to me, all very understandable.’

  Josse wondered if now was the moment to ask the question that he had been wanting to ask ever since the Abbess had told him the news. Studying her, he thought it was as good a time as any. He said quietly, ‘My lady, how did Galiena die?’

  She stared at him. Then: ‘We do not know. Sister Euphemia is even now studying the – er, the body.’

  ‘Was the girl unwell?’ he persisted. ‘Was there any obvious wound, such as might have been made had she fallen, for example?’

  ‘She was not unwell,’ the Abbess said tonelessly. ‘She was anxious, distressed even, but not, I think, unwell. As to a wound—’ She shrugged. ‘Nothing obvious at first glance. No blood on her garments, no twisted limb or bump on the head. Just the swelling of her poor face and the one episode of vomiting, or whatever it was.’

  ‘Vomiting?’

  She shook her head impatiently. ‘Not exactly that. She opened her mouth and liquid came out. Watery liquid.’

  ‘I see.’ It was a silly remark, as he definitely did not see. Not with any certainty, at least, although a horrible suspicion was dawning. Hoping that he was doing the right thing and not making a bad matter worse, he said, ‘My lady, can it be, do you think, that Galiena was poisoned?’

  The Abbess stared at him in silence for a moment. Then she said, ‘It is what I have been dreading. I pray that it is not so, but …’ She left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘But what else could it be?’ he murmured.

  ‘Sister Euphemia has promised to report to me as soon as she has finished,’ the Abbess said. ‘I fear, Sir Josse, that all we can do is wait.’

  They did not have to wait long. But it was not the infirmarer herself who came to find them but Sister Caliste, one of the Abbey’s youngest fully professed nuns and a competent and compassionate nurse. She approached, made a graceful obeisance to her superior and greeted Josse with a wide smile. Although she did not speak to him, he read clearly in her expression that she was glad to see him again.

  ‘Sister Euphemia asks me to say that she is ready for you now, my lady,’ Sister Caliste said to the Abbess. ‘If you both would like to follow me, I will take you to her.’

  Josse and the Abbess walked in silence behind the young nun through the cloister and across the courtyard to the infirmary. There Sister Caliste led them along to the left and into a small room leading off the main chamber. In it there was a single, raised cot on which now lay a body covered with a clean white sheet.

  Realising that the body was probably naked beneath the linen, Josse stood back. But the Abbess, turning to him, said, ‘Please, Sir Josse, come in with me if you will. Your experienced eyes have helped us before and, in truth, this is no time for delicacy.’

  Sister Euphemia, overhearing, said, ‘Come on in, Sir Josse. The poor lass is decently covered and all I need to show you is her face.’

  The Abbess stepped across to stand over the cot and Josse took his place beside her. Sister Caliste remained just inside the door, which she had quietly closed behind her.

  Without preamble, the infirmarer said, ‘I reckon she was poisoned. There was fluid in her mouth, although I cannot say what it was, and her face had swelled up, especially the lips. I’ve seen similar symptoms in cases of poison.’

  ‘This fluid you speak of,’ Josse said. ‘What was it like? Was there undigested matter in it?’

  ‘I looked carefully, but found nothing,’ Sister Euphemia replied.

  ‘Strange,’ Josse mused.

  ‘Strange?’ the Abbess queried.

  ‘Aye, my lady.’ Josse glanced across the cot at the infirmarer, who gave a brief nod as if to say, you explain. ‘Often when somebody takes poison, the substance causes vomiting as soon as it reaches the stomach. The vomit then can be seen to contain whatever the poison was and also some of whatever else was in the stomach, such as—’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Sir Josse,’ the Abbess interrupted, ‘I understand.’

  ‘But this is not the case here,’ Josse finished.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ the infirmarer agreed. ‘Just that clear, colourless fluid.’

  ‘Could she recently have taken a drink of water?’ the Abbess suggested. ‘In her distress, she might simply have spat it out.’

  Again Josse met Sister Euphemia’s eyes. He was quite sure she thought it as unlikely as he did, although both of them were too polite to say so. ‘It’s possible, my lady,’ the infirmarer said.

  ‘But not probable,’ the Abbess said with a faint smile. ‘I can tell by your tone, Sister.’

  The three of them stood in silence around the still figure beneath the sheet. Then Josse said tentatively, ‘You mentioned swelling, Sister Euphemia. Might I be allowed to look?’

  He wondered even as he spoke whether the two nuns would disapprove of his request but, with a quick gesture, Sister Euphemia twitched back the sheet and said, ‘Of course, Sir Josse. Maybe you’ll see something I missed.’

  She folded the sheet across the dead girl’s shoulders, exposing only her face, neck and a little of her chest. And Josse stared down at Galiena Ryemarsh.

  His heart turned over with pity at what the poison had done to her. She was still beautiful – the perfect oval of her face and the pleasing symmetry of her bone structure were unchanged. And the abundant, pale blonde hair that he remembered so well had been dressed slightly differently – perhaps by one of the nuns who had helped lay her out? – and now the two thick braids were entwined across the top of the girl’s head like a coronet.

  Almost unaware of what he did, Josse stretched out a hand and gently touched them. The infirmarer said softly, ‘Her hair was disarrayed. Sister Caliste combed it out and plaited it for her, then arranged it as you see.’

  Josse turned to Sister Caliste. ‘You did well, Sister,’ he said softly. ‘I am sure she would have approved.’

  But even the most perfect hairstyle in the world could not have distracted the attention for long from the dead girl’s mouth. The rosy lips were deathly pale now but, even worse, they were grossly swollen. Around them the white skin bore the residue of a pinkish rash. The lower part of Galiena’s face was almost unrecognisable.

  With a deep sigh Josse said, ‘I have seen enough, Sister.’ More than enough, he thought bitterly, for now I shall remember Galiena in death and not as she was in life. He turned away from the cot.

  The Abbess murmured something to the infirmarer, who leaned down and carefully replaced the mercifully concealing sheet over the dead girl’s ruined face.

  Then the infirmarer said, ‘My lady, Sir Josse, there is one more thing.’

  The Abbess and Josse turned to face her. ‘Yes?’ the Abbess asked.

  Looking straight at her superior, Sister Euphemia
said quietly, ‘The lass was pregnant. Three or four months gone.’

  In the first unbelieving moment, Josse looked at the Abbess. Her face expressionless, she said, ‘But Galiena came here because she could not conceive. She cannot have known that already she bore Ambrose’s child.’ His own emotions dangerously near to the surface, he watched as the Abbess’s face slowly crumpled in distress. ‘Oh,’ she cried softly, ‘oh, and now the poor girl is dead!’

  The infirmarer was staring down at Galiena. ‘Aye,’ she breathed, ‘aye. It is a bad day.’ She glanced at the Abbess. ‘But as to her not knowing, it may well be that she remained ignorant of her condition. With a first pregnancy, many women do not realise until they are some months along and—’

  She was interrupted by the sound of hurrying feet outside and by a sudden gasp from Sister Caliste. Still standing just in front of the little room’s door, she had been pushed forward by somebody roughly opening it.

  All four of them turned to see who had come in.

  It was Aebba. Her icy eyes fixed to the sheeted figure on the cot, she said, her low voice almost a growl, ‘Is it true? She’s dead, then?’

  It was the Abbess who spoke. ‘I am afraid that she is.’

  Josse was watching Aebba. His first impression of her at that meeting at Ryemarsh was that she was a cold and distant woman, uninvolved with those around her. But now her pale face worked as the extremity of her emotion flooded briefly through her.

  Puzzled, Josse thought, aye, but different people show their grief in different ways, and I should not judge her when the poor woman’s probably in shock. I am wrong. I must be!

  Because in that first unguarded reaction to the dreadful confirmation of the rumour of Galiena’s death, the sentiment that Josse thought he had read in her face was not distress but fury.

  7

  Helewise, who had almost regained control over herself after the infirmarer’s poignant revelation, watched Josse staring at Aebba. He looked, she thought, as if something were surprising him. Had he, like her, formed an impression of Galiena’s maidservant as an unemotional, even cold woman? If so, no doubt he was taken aback by her dramatic reaction to her young mistress’s death.

  For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Sister Euphemia said kindly, ‘Would you like to see her one last time?’

  Wordlessly Aebba nodded.

  The infirmarer drew back the sheet again and Aebba stared silently down on Galiena. She stood perfectly still for some time, her face once more an unmoving mask. Then, still without a word, she turned and walked quickly out of the room.

  Helewise felt that it was high time she began to act more like the Abbess of Hawkenlye and less like a grieving mourner. After all, she told herself firmly, she had hardly known Galiena and, although the girl’s death was undoubtedly a tragedy for her poor husband, it was not one that affected Helewise personally. She said in what she hoped was her usual tone, ‘Sister Euphemia, would you now please prepare the body for burial? Sister Caliste can assist you. In the morning I will send word to Father Gilbert that he will be needed.’ Then she nodded briefly to the two nuns and made her way out into the infirmary. Reaching the outer door, she was aware that Josse had followed her.

  Once they were in the relative seclusion of the cloister, he spoke. His face still looking worried, he said, ‘My lady, this is a strange business, is it not? Can we truly believe that Galiena did not know herself to be pregnant?’

  She turned to him. ‘What else can we believe?’ she asked simply.

  He frowned, winced, then said, ‘I suppose you are right. Certainly, when I met her at her husband’s manor she seemed genuinely thrilled at the thought that Hawkenlye might be the answer to her prayers. I would bet a king’s ransom’ – he broke off with a wry grin – ‘I mean, I would bet much money that she had no idea then that what she so desperately wanted had already happened.’

  ‘Well then, why do you look so doubtful?’ She recalled, looking at him now, that she had meant to organise some remedy for his sunburned face; everything else that had happened had driven it out of her head.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. There is something here that I don’t understand.’

  ‘What?’ she demanded.

  He grinned again. ‘My lady, do not be so fierce with a man in pain!’

  She touched his sleeve briefly. ‘I am sorry, Sir Josse. Sister Euphemia is busy, as we both know, but come along with me to Sister Tiphaine, who, I am quite sure, will have some soothing balm for your face.’

  The herbalist’s little room smelled of lavender and rosemary. As Helewise and Josse entered, she was making something with rose water and the heady fragrance was gradually permeating the air, blending with the background scent so that unconsciously Helewise found herself breathing in deeply, as if to absorb more of the sweet perfume into her body.

  ‘My lady Abbess,’ Sister Tiphaine greeted her, bowing somewhat stiffly. ‘Sir Josse.’ She gave him a wide smile, then immediately reached up a practised hand to a large jar halfway along a shelf behind her. ‘I can guess why you have come to see me,’ she said as she opened the jar. ‘Dab this on your face. It will ease the discomfort and help the skin to mend itself.’

  Helewise watched as Josse sniffed at the jar and then gingerly patted a small amount of the contents on his left cheek. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Lavender, mostly,’ the herbalist replied. ‘Plus a few of my special magic ingredients.’

  Helewise was not certain but she thought she saw Sister Tiphaine give Josse a quick wink.

  ‘You have heard the news, Sister?’ she enquired.

  Sister Tiphaine turned to her, all signs of merriment now gone from her face. ‘I have, my lady. And I grieve for the young woman, for all that I cannot say I warmed to her.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ Josse sounded amazed. ‘But she was a delightful young woman, kind and gentle as well as beautiful!’

  Helewise exchanged a glance with the herbalist, who cocked an ironic eyebrow. ‘Perhaps, Sir Josse,’ she said, ‘Galiena was someone who was perceived differently by men and by women, so that your experience of her was necessarily other than Sister Tiphaine’s and mine.’ It was, she thought, a mild enough comment, in view of the fact that she definitely leaned more towards agreeing with Sister Tiphaine than with Josse. Although it distressed her to think ill of one so recently and so agonisingly dead, her honesty made her accept that she, too, had not warmed to Galiena.

  Josse clearly was still not happy. ‘But you must agree that she was a good wife and clearly devoted to Ambrose, even though he was so much older than she was!’ he protested.

  ‘I had not the advantage of observing them together,’ Helewise said. ‘Ambrose Ryemarsh arrived only late this morning and at that time Galiena was—’ Oh, dear! This was going to be awkward, given that Josse was already seeing mysteries and puzzles where there were none! ‘At that time we did not actually know where Galiena was.’

  ‘She had gone missing.’ Josse was nodding infuriatingly, as if to say, there! I told you there was something odd about all this!

  ‘Not missing exactly,’ Helewise protested. ‘She had set her heart on returning home this morning, only one of the remedies that Sister Tiphaine was preparing for her was not ready.’ The herbalist nodded in confirmation. ‘Galiena went for a walk in the forest,’ Helewise finished.

  ‘The girl was angry,’ Sister Tiphaine said. ‘She wanted to leave, just as you said, my lady, and she was right put out when I told her she couldn’t, not unless she was prepared to risk spoiling the second remedy. She only agreed to wait – and it was a grudging agreement, let me tell you – when I said that some of the mixture’s potency would be lost if it were to be disturbed too soon.’

  ‘So she went off for a walk to fill in the time,’ Helewise concluded. ‘Quite natural, would you not say, Sir Josse?’

  ‘Aye, I might,’ he agreed. ‘Except that, from what you say, Galiena was planning to hurry back home even as her husband was travelling ov
er here to join her! How do we explain that?’

  Helewise frowned. ‘You are quite right, Sir Josse,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I have wondered all along why Galiena did not warn us that Ambrose would be joining her. What possible reason can she have had for her reticence?’

  ‘He’s an old man, feeble, all but blind, prone to wandering in his mind,’ the herbalist said. ‘Or so I hear. Maybe the young lady wished to return home before he set out so as to save him the stress of the journey.’

  ‘That seems likely, and—’ Helewise began.

  But Josse interrupted. ‘I am sorry, my lady, but I do not understand this talk of Ambrose as a doddering dotard!’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s old, aye, and doesn’t see too well, I grant you that, but there’s nothing wrong with his mind and I would say that he is stronger than many men considerably younger than himself. To say that Galiena wished to spare him the journey here cannot be right! Why, when I last saw him, he was eagerly anticipating it and it was only that he had matters at home to attend to that prevented him riding out with Galiena.’

  ‘Oh,’ Helewise said lamely. Then, recovering: ‘Sir Josse, it may be that some new ailment has arisen in Ambrose since you last met, for it is certain that now he lies in the infirmary, weak in body and also, I fear, in mind.’

  ‘He has just lost his wife!’ Josse protested hotly.

  ‘Yes, I know, and I am more sorry for it than I can say, but he was failing before that.’ Trying to find a way to convince him, she said, ‘I was with him in the infirmary even as Galiena collapsed. He was vague, disorientated and, I thought, not really able to discern dreaming from wakefulness. Galiena had visited him earlier,’ she added, almost as an afterthought. ‘Or so he claimed. It was apparently while the nuns were at Vespers, leaving the lay sisters in charge. He said that she had been massaging his hands.’

  ‘He’ll be sleeping now,’ Sister Tiphaine said calmly. ‘I sent over some of my strongest sedative. He’ll have some respite from his grief till he wakes.’