Whiter than the Lily

by Alys Clare

  ‘They are, my lady, although there is a rare strength in Audra, her mother, that I am sure will see them all through their grief. But there is much that I have to tell you.’

  Drawing up the stool that was kept behind the door for visitors, he sat carefully down – it was rather a small stool – and told the Abbess all that he had learned.

  ‘Adopted!’ she breathed when at last he had finished. ‘Well, I suppose it is not so rare an occurrence. Raelf and his first wife were desperate for a child and, presumably, found some fecund family with a baby to spare.’ She sighed. ‘It is a tragic irony, is it not, that Galiena should have come to us for treatment for the same complaint, in Raelf’s first wife, that led to the girl’s adoption?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, following her line of thought, ‘except that Galiena was not barren.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she began, ‘I just meant …’ But, apparently deciding that line of discussion was not worth the bother, she said instead, lowering her voice, ‘Sister Euphemia postulates the existence of a young lover, who was engaged to do Ambrose’s work for him.’

  ‘Does she?’ Josse raised his eyebrows. The infirmarer’s suggestion was uncomfortably close to suspicions he had entertained himself and, after a moment’s thought, he decided to share them with the Abbess.

  Getting up, he went to the door, opened it and looked outside, then closed it again. Then, stepping up to her table and leaning across it so that he could speak in a whisper, he said, ‘My lady, as I believe I told you, it was my neighbour, Brice of Rotherbridge, who took me to Ryemarsh.’

  ‘Yes, you did tell me. I thought I recognised the name and later I recalled from where. He, too, lost a young wife, did he not?’

  ‘Aye. When first I came to this region, his young wife Dillian had recently been killed by being thrown from a horse. They were involved, if you remember, in that business of the nun who died in the Vale.’

  ‘I remember,’ she said shortly. ‘So, Sir Josse, you were saying, this Brice introduced you to Ambrose and his wife?’

  ‘Aye. We dined at Rotherbridge and afterwards I was quite surprised when Brice said there were some friends he wanted me to meet. It was they who wanted to meet me, if I may say so without seeming to brag, because of my knowledge of Hawkenlye, but whatever the reason, I noticed that Brice was acting strangely.’

  ‘Strangely?’

  ‘Aye. He was tense, excited, as if he were expecting some thrilling event.’

  ‘And was he?’

  He wondered if she were being deliberately obtuse; for sure, she was not helping him to put his vague suspicions into words. ‘Well, I’m probably guilty of accusing the innocent – and one of them is dead, so I’m speaking ill of the dead as well – but I did think that Brice might be behaving like a young lad in love because he was going to see Galiena.’

  ‘I see.’ Her expression gave away nothing of what she was thinking. ‘And when they were together, what did you think then?’

  He shook his head. ‘I really don’t know. They seemed totally at ease with each other and, as far as I could tell, they spoke of everyday matters. Still, they might have been acting. After all, Ambrose was present, as well as me.’

  ‘I always thought,’ said the Abbess in a small voice, ‘that Galiena Ryemarsh was a woman quite capable of dissimulation.’

  ‘Did you?’ He was surprised at her words. ‘I can’t say that I did.’ But, as he spoke, he remembered – she had said something once before to the effect that men and women reacted differently to Galiena.

  Now she was looking down at her hands as if she did not want to meet his eyes. ‘I have sent Brother Saul and young Augustus over to Ryemarsh,’ she said, ‘to—’

  ‘Aye, I know,’ he interrupted. ‘I have been to see Ambrose and he told me.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I felt, my lady, that possibly you had some ulterior purpose in sending them?’

  ‘I did,’ she admitted. ‘Having had my discussion with Sister Euphemia, I wanted to see if they could discover what sort of a life went on at Ryemarsh.’

  ‘And whether anyone happened to notice the clandestine presence of a virile man such as Brice of Rotherbridge?’ he suggested.

  She looked shamefaced. ‘I should not be suspecting such a thing, I suppose, but somehow we have to account for her pregnancy. I am sure that she knew she carried a child,’ she said with sudden vehemence. ‘She was, as we all keep saying, a skilled herbalist and an intelligent woman. And we must not forget that she utterly refused to have a physical examination.’ There was a short pause. Then she went on more quietly, ‘I hope by sending Saul and Augustus off on this enquiry – and it is with this that I justify my actions to myself – to discover who could possibly have wanted her dead.’

  Her words reminded him of Sister Tiphaine’s potion. ‘My lady, I quite forgot to ask, and I deeply apologise. You are well?’ He peered anxiously at her. ‘You have suffered no ill effects from the remedy?’

  She laughed, quickly suppressing it. ‘Sir Josse, I am fine,’ she assured him. ‘As I was quite sure I would be.’

  ‘It was a rash act,’ he grumbled.

  ‘I disagree,’ she replied, and he thought her tone was slightly frosty.

  ‘But—’ he began. Then he made himself stop. He did not want to argue with her. Anyway, she was Abbess here. He reminded himself that she was not accountable to him. ‘I am sorry,’ he said again.

  And, more kindly now, she replied, ‘You are forgiven.’

  ‘So,’ he said after a slightly awkward pause, ‘we wait for Saul and Gussie to report on what they may find at Ryemarsh.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  He moved away from her table and resumed his seat on the stool. ‘There is one final thing to tell you of my visit to Readingbrooke,’ he said. Strange, he thought, how the very thought of what he was about to say sent a faint shiver of dread through him.

  ‘What is it?’ She was staring at him curiously. ‘Sir Josse, you look quite worried! Whatever is it that you would tell me?’

  ‘Oh – my lady, I can’t say why it affects me so, but they told me the place where Galiena originally came from.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s some small settlement over to the east of the Marsh and it’s called Deadfall.’

  ‘Deadfall?’

  The name, he observed, did not seem to hold any fears for her. ‘Aye.’

  ‘And for some reason this disturbs you?’

  ‘Aye. The trouble is, I can’t understand why.’ He frowned deeply. ‘I have puzzled at it constantly and I know that, at some time, somebody told me something about the place. Something terrible.’

  Her tone brisk, she said, ‘You have kin in Lewes, have you not?’ He nodded. ‘And I believe you told me that you spent some of your childhood there?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Could it be that you heard tell of Deadfall then? Since the name appears to frighten you, perhaps somebody told a tale by the fireside on a winter’s night, a tale of ghosts and demons?’

  He began to smile at her somewhat simplistic explanation but then, out of the shadows of the past, suddenly he remembered.

  Had she not been an Abbess, he might have kissed her for having jogged his memory.

  ‘My lady, how clever!’ he exclaimed. ‘But it was not exactly as you suggest.’

  ‘It was only a flippant guess,’ she muttered.

  ‘It was my aunt’s maid,’ he said, hardly hearing her. ‘Or, in fact, the maid’s young man. He’d been at sea and he had stories of all sorts of places. He told of Breton kings and drowned cities, of Welsh dragons and wizards who could tell the future, of heroes battling for the hand of beautiful maidens. He told of raids on England’s east coast and of the ancient people who were here before the Romans came. He came from one of the ports on the edge of the Great Marsh and he knew of the old, deserted salt workings there. He’d picked up some colourful local tales, some of which I think, with hindsight, were based on much older legends. There was one abou
t a Roman soldier—’ He broke off. ‘But no. It is Deadfall in which we are interested.’

  ‘Well?’ She was, understandably, beginning to sound impatient.

  But still he was reticent. He’d been a child back then and the sailor’s over-graphic tale had turned his stomach. No wonder he had reacted to the mention of the name; he’d lost his dinner the last time he heard it.

  The Abbess was waiting.

  He drew a breath and said, ‘There was a pirate captain, so the story went, who caught a king unawares, slaughtered him, stuck his head on a pole and raped his daughter. Excuse me, my lady.’

  ‘It’s all right, Sir Josse, I asked you for the tale. Go on.’

  ‘Well, the king’s people gave him a fitting farewell, in a long ship buried in the sands of the foreshore, but that was not enough. They set a trap for the pirate and, when he sprang it, they found him and took him away.’

  ‘And?’

  He swallowed. ‘They told him that they were a people who always avenged a wrong done to one of their own. Then they flayed him alive and impaled him on a pole at low tide. He did not die until several hours later, when the sea at high tide finally covered his face.’

  ‘A triple death,’ she murmured.

  He wondered what she meant. ‘What did you say, my lady?’

  ‘Oh – nothing. And this event took place at Deadfall?’

  ‘Aye.’ One more thing suddenly came to mind. ‘The king that the pirate murdered was a Saxon.’

  And, with a nod, the memory of the ancient tales and legends told to her long ago by her grandfather filling her mind, she said, ‘Yes. I thought he might have been.’

  11

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that I should go there.’

  ‘To Deadfall.’ She wanted to be sure that she understood. ‘Even though the very name holds dread for you?’ That it really did was clear to her; he had appeared to be genuinely affected by the tale he told her. It was often the way, she thought; as children, we are very ready to be frightened out of our wits and sometimes the things that scared us then still hold power over us when we have grown up, despite our adult comprehension and rationalisation.

  ‘Aye.’ He sighed and, she reflected, did not look any too eager for his mission.

  ‘Would you like someone to accompany you?’ she asked. ‘You have ridden out with Brother Saul and Brother Augustus before now and I am sure that either would be more than willing to go with you again.’

  He gave her a sketchy smile. ‘A kind offer, my lady, but I feel I should conquer my demons on my own. The good brothers rode with me when there was a possibility that we went into danger, but I cannot see that there is any peril in visiting Galiena’s original home to inform her blood kin of her death.’

  As he spoke the words blood kin, she felt a frisson of fear run down her back. But why? It was just a phrase and, for someone like Galiena who had been adopted, an accurate and surely innocent one? ‘I hope that they will be grateful for your trouble,’ she said, the mundane remark helping to put that strange moment behind her. ‘Your reminding them of the daughter they gave up may not be tactful, Sir Josse.’

  ‘Aye, I know.’ He met her eyes, and the expression in his was candid. ‘But, as you and I both realise, my lady, my purpose is not simply to tell them that she is dead.’

  She smiled. ‘I cannot make any accusations, since I am as guilty as you, having sent Saul and Augustus on a similar mission to Ryemarsh. If there is truly a need to excuse our actions, then it is that by our subterfuge we hope to discover why Galiena died.’

  ‘And who killed her,’ he added.

  His face, she noticed, had darkened angrily. ‘Sir Josse?’ she said enquiringly. ‘You have a theory as to who that might be?’

  Approaching her table once again, he said quietly, ‘Aye, but it is for your ears only, my lady, since, if I am wide of the mark, I shall be accusing the very last person on whom suspicion should fall.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, the evidence is slight, and that’s probably an exaggeration, but it is this. When I was with Galiena’s parents – her adoptive parents, that is, Raelf and Audra de Readingbrooke – I mentioned that we had thought it possible Galiena had gathered berries or mushrooms in the forest and that eating one or the other had poisoned her. But instantly Raelf refuted the suggestion because, apart from the fact that it is not the season for berries and too warm and dry for fungi, Galiena was a skilled herbalist and would never have made such a mistake.’

  She nodded. ‘As we ought to have thought out for ourselves and – oh!’ Suddenly she understood. ‘You are saying that Ambrose, who on his own admission has good reason to know of his wife’s skills, should also have remarked upon that?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And the fact that he did not makes you wonder if he welcomed these putative berries and such like as a convenient scapegoat for the poison that he himself administered to her, and— Oh, no, Sir Josse! I cannot accept that!’

  He did not speak, merely stood watching her. And, as her instinctive protests – Ambrose loved her! He was grief-stricken when he knew she was dead! – slowly faded, she wondered if he could be right.

  ‘Why would he want her dead?’ she whispered.

  ‘She was carrying another man’s child,’ he replied.

  ‘But Ambrose did not know! Why, he arranged for her to come here to be treated so that she could become pregnant! He even consulted you first to see if you thought we could help!’

  ‘I know,’ said Josse. ‘Moreover—’

  She felt tension in him, as if he wanted to tell her something but was reluctant. ‘What?’

  Not meeting her eyes, he said, ‘Something Ambrose said. When he was confiding in me about her – er, her problem, he said, my lassie goes on bleeding.’ Raising his head, he muttered, ‘I remember particularly because the phrase struck me as moving. And now—’ He broke off.

  She stared at him. ‘You are saying that all that was an act? That he deliberately spoke to you in the intimate way that he did to persuade you that what he said was the truth? That he planned the whole sequence of events with the deliberate purpose of deceiving us?’

  Josse shrugged.

  ‘And all the while he planned to kill her for her infidelity?’

  After a short pause he said, ‘It is possible.’

  And she had to admit that he was right.

  He announced that he would set out for Deadfall that afternoon. He did not expect to reach his destination that day but, as he said, it was ideal weather for sleeping out under the stars and he looked forward to doing so. Helewise, watching him, wondered if the decision was so as to ensure that he reached Deadfall in the bright light of morning rather than late at night. Well, if the very name of the place truly held dread for him, then he was, she decided stoutly, brave to go there at all, never mind by night.

  She came to the gates to see him on his way and, as she had done so many times before, wished him God’s speed and safe return.

  Watching Horace’s dust slowly circling in the warm, still air, she had the sudden rebellious thought: I should be the one to ride out! The girl died here, in the Abbey over which I have charge. It should be I who informs the relatives and who uses my eyes and my wits to discover the truth. But yet I stay here, and I send others to act for me.

  For a wild moment she thought of calling out, Wait, Sir Josse! Wait while I have the golden mare saddled, because I’m coming with you!

  But time passed, and she did not.

  When the dust had settled and there remained no sign to tell of Josse’s passing, she turned and walked slowly back to her room.

  In the late afternoon, Sister Ursel tapped on the door to tell her that Brother Saul and Brother Augustus had returned. They had ridden hard, she reported, and were washing off the dust and sweat of their journey before presenting themselves to their Abbess.

  ‘They have indeed ridden hard!’ Helewise exclaimed, ‘for they have been to Ryemarsh, carried out the
ir mission there, presumably, and returned, all in little over a day!’

  She did not say so to Sister Ursel – who had been known to speculate quite wildly enough without anyone actually encouraging her to do so – but it occurred straight away to Helewise that Saul and Augustus must have something important to tell her to have made such haste to come back to Hawkenlye …

  She dismissed the porteress and then sat with outward serenity while she waited. Inside, however, her mind seethed with questions and possibilities. Disciplining her thoughts was difficult but not, she discovered, impossible; by the time the two brothers arrived – both wearing clean robes and with wet hair – her outward poise was reflected by inner silence.

  She accepted their reverences with a brief inclination of her head and then said calmly, ‘What did you find at Ryemarsh?’

  Saul and Augustus exchanged a glance and then Saul said, ‘We rode up at dusk, my lady. We feared we were too late to seek admission and were planning to find a sheltered spot to camp out till morning but there was a manservant out in the courtyard doing me locking-up round and he heard us.’

  ‘Suspicious sort, he was,’ Augustus put in. ‘Picked up a pitchfork when he caught sight of us and brandished it in our direction while he challenged us.’

  ‘He did,’ Saul agreed, ‘but he calmed down when we told him who we were.’

  ‘By then he’d caught sight of the habit we wear,’ Augustus put in. ‘He reckoned he’d less to fear from his visitors than he’d thought.’

  Helewise smiled. Augustus was probably right; the habit of religion did tend to disarm people. ‘Then he invited you inside?’ she prompted.

  ‘Aye,’ Saul said. ‘We said we were from the Abbey with news from their master, the lord Ambrose, and that it was bad tidings.’ He exchanged a look with Augustus and went on, ‘It was strange, my lady, because the old servant and the woman who was in the kitchen both seemed very worried even before we told them about the poor young lady.’

  ‘I see.’ She would, she decided, return to that remark in a moment. First she asked, ‘How did they react to the news of Galiena’s death?’