by Alys Clare
She waited, uncertain whether or not he would want her to intervene. But in the end she was glad she did not for, from the front rank of the household staff, an elderly man stepped forward and said gently, ‘We are glad to have you home, my lord. We too mourn her and it is good that you are here with the folk who loved her best.’
It was perhaps over-familiar, but Helewise realised that the little speech was just right. Raising his head, Ambrose gave the old man a sketchy smile and said simply, ‘Thank you, Julian.’ Then, turning to Helewise, he said, ‘My lady, may I present Julian, who is the head of my household staff. Julian, this is Abbess Helewise of Hawkenlye. Please give orders for the best guest chamber to be prepared.’
Then, squaring his shoulders in a gesture that went straight to Helewise’s heart, he went into his hall.
In the morning following their arrival, visitors were announced. Helewise, who had been outside strolling in Galiena’s garden, heard the call go up from the courtyard and soon afterwards there came the sounds of a group of horsemen. It is none of my business, she told herself, and resumed her quiet walking. Later Ambrose sought her out and said, with a wry expression, ‘My lady, you have just missed the Queen’s couriers.’
‘Indeed?’ Momentarily having forgotten about King Richard’s humiliating captivity and the huge ransom demand – which she guessed must be the sole preoccupation of the court and its members just now, if not indeed that of the entire country – she wondered what message Queen Eleanor should wish to send to Ambrose Ryemarsh. ‘All goes well with the Queen, I trust,’ she said.
‘I believe so.’ Ambrose paused and then said delicately, ‘I have sent a certain sum already towards the King’s ransom and I am engaged in raising more. The Queen has sent me a letter expressing her thanks for my generosity.’
Still the odd smile remained on his face. Curious, Helewise said, ‘Why, my lord Ambrose, does that amuse you?’
Ambrose’s smile widened. ‘They tell me, my lady, that you are personally acquainted with the Queen?’
‘I have that honour and pleasure, yes,’ Helewise said, a little stiffly.
‘Oh, I share your high opinion of the lady,’ Ambrose assured her. ‘I think, however, that you too will understand why I smile when you read her note.’
He handed to Helewise a roll of parchment bearing the Queen’s distinctive handwriting. Swiftly scanning the note – it was not long – Helewise did indeed smile. The Queen, so clever in her use of words, managed in five short lines to convey her gratitude, her admiration for the speed with which Ambrose had rushed to contribute to the appeal and her heartfelt delight that this was to be but the first of his donations. ‘With the continuing generosity of his most loyal subjects such as you,’ she finished, ‘it surely cannot be long before my precious son our King is once more free.’
‘Had you in fact promised her that you would send more?’ Helewise asked, returning the parchment to Ambrose.
‘Not exactly,’ he replied. ‘Our beloved Queen, it appears, is adept at reading between the lines.’
Helewise studied him. The Queen’s message had come at a good time, she thought, for it gave Ambrose both a pleasant distraction and also reminded him that he had an important job to do. Giving him a brief bow, she said, ‘With such a summons, my lord, you had better get on with your task.’
Returning her bow, he turned and hurried away back to the house, leaving her to reflect on the implications of having discovered quite how high her host rode in Plantagenet favour …
They had finished supper – a light but delicious meal taken at a small table in a cosy corner of the great hall – when, once again, there came the sound of horsemen. Julian appeared from the doorway leading through to the kitchens and, at a nod from Ambrose, went out to see who had arrived.
There was some excited talk, a cry, then nothing.
Ambrose, listening intently, shot to his feet. There was an expression of strain on his face that made it appear that he was suffering in some way.
Helewise, suddenly anxious for him, said calmingly, ‘Ambrose, I am sure it is nothing; will you not sit and finish your meal?’
But he did not appear to hear. Moving slowly, as if sleepwalking, he walked across the hall to the wide doorway. It was a mild evening and the sky was still light, so the door had been propped open to let a soft and sweet-smelling breeze flow through the house.
She got up and followed him.
Standing beside him at the top of the steps leading up from the courtyard, she saw that three horses were being received by the Ryemarsh stable lads. Dismounting from the horses were three – no, four – people.
One was Brice of Rotherbridge, standing beside a woman whom Helewise did not know and who was dressed in a man’s tunic and hose. She wore a wide-brimmed hat pushed back from her face. Another was Josse, and he was supporting the slim frame of a young girl. She too wore man’s clothing and the garments were too big for her. Her face was concealed by the deep hood of a light travelling cloak.
Ambrose was trembling.
Helewise put a hand on his arm and said softly, ‘Ambrose, I am sure that—’
But he shook her off.
He ran down the steps and, to her amazement, threw his arms around the girl in the cloak who, at his approach, stepped away from Josse’s supporting arms and threw herself at Ambrose. There came the sounds of muffled sobs, but Helewise did not know from whom.
Amazed, shocked, she did not know what was happening. Josse must have read her confusion in her face for, hastening across the yard and bounding up the steps, he said, with a huge smile, ‘My lady, we have found her! We have brought her home to him and, other than a weakness which will pass as soon as she begins to eat again, she is fine! Quite unhurt!’
Not daring to believe the sudden hope that flared up in her, Helewise whispered, ‘Who is it?’
And Josse said, ‘It’s Galiena.’
They took her inside and the woman with Brice – presented to Helewise as somebody called Isabella de Burghay – led her away to be washed and dressed in her own clothes. The maids of Galiena’s own household all offered their help but Galiena seemed to prefer Isabella. Judging by the brief impression that she received as the girl was helped across the hall, still in her hooded cloak, Helewise thought that this Isabella must have been important to Galiena in the first moments after whatever ordeal she had been through. For the time being, the younger girl appeared to depend on the woman.
Well, thought Helewise, it is good that she has someone she can turn to.
Ambrose, both bemused and at the same time so happy that he kept throwing his arms around them all, ordered fresh food and drink. Then, while they waited for Galiena to reappear, he pressed them all to eat and drink.
Helewise sought out Josse. ‘You too are unharmed, my friend?’ she asked quietly.
‘Aye.’ He gave her a grin. ‘What joy to find you here, my lady Abbess, the one person with whom I wished to share this triumph! I had envisaged having to wait to give you the good news until I reached Hawkenlye, but here you are!’
‘I rode home with Ambrose because – er, because—’ She found that she was at a loss to explain without either making Ambrose appear weak or herself sound self-important.
But Josse, bless him, said, ‘I think I understand. You helped him to face a home without her.’
And thankfully she whispered, ‘Yes.’
After a moment she said, ‘What happened?’
Josse replied, ‘We do not know the full story yet. Galiena refuses to tell us; she begged our indulgence but said it was only proper that she reveals it first to Ambrose.’
‘So you have had to contain your impatience,’ she murmured. ‘How very trying for you.’
He gave her a sharp glance. ‘Indeed, my lady.’
‘The dead girl whom we buried at Hawkenlye,’ Helewise asked softly, ‘do you know her true identity?’
‘Not so far,’ he whispered back. ‘Galiena implies that she may be able to t
ell us. You think of her grave, I imagine?’
‘I do. She is buried in our plot as Galiena Ryemarsh but clearly that is not who she was.’
‘Hm.’ He thought for a moment. ‘My lady, if it is necessary I will press the matter for you. It may be that it is overlooked in the excitement of Galiena’s return, but I know that it is important to you and I will help if I can.’
‘Thank you.’ She touched his arm lightly with her fingers. And she thought, dear Josse. Dependable as ever.
When Galiena reappeared, it was obvious that she had taken great trouble over her appearance. Her clear skin shone with cleanliness and her hair had been washed and was still damp; as it dried, its white-blonde colour reappeared. There was a bruise on her forehead and her deep blue eyes seemed overlarge in her pale face. Before she had time to say more than a few words of greeting to the company, Isabella led her firmly over to the table and stood over her while she ate a plateful of food and drank some rich red wine.
Then, with Ambrose holding her hand, she went to sit beside him on one of the benches that Brice and Josse had drawn up before the great fireplace. Brice and Isabella sat on another, Josse and Helewise on the third.
As they settled themselves, Helewise studied the girl’s face. Yes, there was a strong resemblance to the woman who had taken her identity and ridden into Hawkenlye Abbey. But Galiena was lighter in build, shorter in stature and her face was finer-boned. She was also younger, by quite a few years, Helewise guessed. And she had a – how to describe it? An altogether softer quality, she decided. An air of kindness, of generosity, as if anyone approaching her would know instinctively that they had found a friend.
It was no wonder, Helewise thought, that she and the Hawkenlye nuns had formed such a very dissimilar impression of the woman they knew as Galiena Ryemarsh from that which Josse had gained; the Hawkenlye nuns and Josse had unknowingly been talking about two different women.
At last Galiena was ready to speak. Looking first at Ambrose, she said, ‘My dearest, it is through the efforts of three very dear people that I am here returned to you, and I would first give them my heartfelt thanks.’ Standing, she bowed to Josse, to Brice and to Isabella, who in turn got up to return the courtesy. Then, looking at Helewise, she said, ‘My lady Abbess, you and I should have met some days ago, and I wish that it had been so, for many people would then have been spared pain, heartache and death.’ Death! Helewise thought. Well, there was the dead woman at Hawkenlye and also the poor young groom, Dickon, whose body Brother Saul and Brother Augustus had discovered.
Hoping very much that the death toll was not to be any greater, she said, ‘Galiena, I too wish that you had made your way in safety to Hawkenlye and found the help from my nuns that you had hoped for.’
Galiena’s eyes were firm on Helewise’s. ‘I shall come, my lady,’ she said. ‘If I may.’
‘Of course,’ Helewise said. ‘We shall look forward to it.’
‘Sweetheart, will you now proceed with your tale?’ Ambrose prompted gently.
And with an obedient nod she did so.
Some time later, in the soft darkness of the midsummer night, Helewise again walked in Galiena’s garden. Ambrose had taken his wife off to bed some time ago; the young woman was clearly exhausted and had wanted nothing more, once her story was told, than to lie in her husband’s arms and seek the comfort of a long sleep. Isabella had been given a guest chamber next to Helewise’s, and she too had retired, as had Josse and Brice to their own chamber. The three of them had been almost as tired as Galiena and, despite the many things she burned to talk over with Josse, Helewise had seen that it would have been cruel to keep him from his rest.
The only wakeful person in the house, she had waited till all was quiet and then slipped outside. Now, walking alone in the soft, scented night, she went right back to the start of Galiena’s extraordinary story and went through it all over again …
She had had such high hopes of the Hawkenlye nuns. Had known, somehow, that they would be able to help her. And, oh, how she wanted to be helped! To give her beloved Ambrose a child was her dearest wish. And she wanted children too, for her own sake, she who had known such love in her childhood from those generous, big-hearted people who had taken her in and who, in all but the blood, were her true kin. A boy first, she hoped – and, with Ambrose’s permission, we will call him Raelf – and then a little girl. Two little girls. The first we will call after my beloved Isabella, closer to me than any sister, and the second, Audra for my mother.
They set out for the Abbey as soon as they could. Dear Ambrose had not been able to ride with them, preoccupied as he was with the business of the King’s ransom. But it did not matter because Josse d’Acquin offered to escort her part of the way, and young Dickon and Aebba would accompany her on the remainder of the road to Hawkenlye.
She had never liked Aebba and did not welcome her company. She did not care for Aebba to be with her even when she was about her normal daily round and to have her there, a silent and oppressive presence, on this particular journey, with its precious and above all private purpose, was depressing. But Aebba had a claim on Galiena and Galiena did not feel that it was right to send her away.
It happened only a few miles after they had passed New Winnowlands, where they had left Josse. The three of them, Galiena, Aebba and Dickon, were riding on a stretch of track that was shady and dark beneath overhanging trees. Dickon – poor Dickon! – was in the lead, Galiena behind him and Aebba in the rear.
Five men in rough cloaks, their fair hair long and plaited, jumped out on to the track. Four leapt on them, the fifth – who had a woman riding pillion behind him – sat on his horse watching. Dickon was dragged to the ground; Galiena was grabbed by two men who rushed up on either side of her. Spinning round, she screamed to Aebba to help her.
But Aebba just sat there.
Dickon was on his feet, wrestling with the man who had thrown him down, and he managed to cripple his assailant with a knee to the man’s groin.
‘Yes, Dickon!’ Galiena had yelled, wildly struggling with the two men holding her arms. They had pulled her from her horse and she kicked out hard, trying to catch them on their shins. Dickon, hearing her cry, spun round to look at her.
He shouted back, encouraging her – ‘Aye, that’s right, my lady, fight dirty! That’s the way! A heel in the bollocks if you can, then—’
But then the fifth man, who appeared to be the leader of the band, rushed at him, a club in his upraised right arm. He brought it crashing down on the back of Dickon’s head. And Dickon neither fought nor cried out any more.
They wrapped him in some sacking and rolled him in a ditch. They made an attempt to cover him with leaves and branches, but it was not a proper burial. And nobody said prayers for him except Galiena, who said the words silently, for God’s ears alone, as the tears flowed down her face.
In her grief and her shock, they thought to overcome her easily. But as Aebba curtly ordered her to control herself, because there was a long way to go, something in Galiena woke up again. Waiting her moment, she stood drooping until the chance came.
Then, grabbing an unguarded moment, she leapt back into the saddle and, shouting ‘Help! Help!’ at the top of her voice in case some blessed traveller should be within earshot, she raced away. They were after her instantly and, half-turning, she grasped her riding whip and launched a savage, cutting slice at the face of the man nearest to her. As he cried out in pain, the man behind her kicked his horse and came up on her other side, so she slashed at him too. Then she set spurs to her mare’s sides and flew off up the track.
But the two men she had attacked were not badly hurt and there were still three more men and Aebba. Galiena’s resistance did not last long; the men’s horses rode down her gallant mare and soon they were upon her. They took her down from the mare and, as she stood held fast in their firm grip, the woman got down from the fifth man’s horse and swung up into Galiena’s saddle. Then, after a quick exchange with the leader
, she and Aebba rode off up the track, westwards towards Hawkenlye.
Galiena was still wondering why the woman was dressed in garments that should have been hanging in Galiena’s own bedchamber when the two women disappeared around a bend in the road.
Now the men took no chances. Her hands were bound behind her back and, to stop her shouting again for help, they stuffed a cloth in her mouth and tied it in place with a length of cord. Then they put a heavy cloak around her and pulled its hood over her head, securing it with more cord until she was trussed so tight that she could hardly move. Then they slung her across the saddlebow of the leader of the band.
Throughout the endless journey to Saltwych, she bounced helpless before him, the cloth in her mouth making it hard to breathe and the hot cloak making the sweat pour off her. They must have passed along secret, hidden byways, for she heard no sounds of any other horses and the only voices she heard during her long ordeal were those of her captors.
Her pride kept her going. She would not give them the satisfaction of hearing her muffled sobs. Biting on the gag, she kept her resolve. And she survived.
They got to Saltwych in the night. Hands on her hips and her shoulders dragged her down from the horse and the cloak was untied and taken off her. In her silk gown, soaked with her own sweat, she stood shivering in the cool air. With her hands still tied behind her and the gag in her mouth, she was taken into the long hall. Past the animals, restless at being disturbed from sleep, past the gawping people who stared at her, bound and captive, until she stood before a blond man in a throne and a man with silver eyes who sat beside him.
The man in the throne wore a circlet around his brows. He said, ‘I am Aelle. You know what I am and what you are to me, for you were told long ago. But you seem to have forgotten us, your blood kin, and we sent Aebba to remind you.’
She could not speak and refused to try. With an impatient curse, Aelle ordered one of her guards to remove the cloth. Her mouth horribly dry, she tried to form words. The silver-eyed man got up, poured water in a cup and, coming to her side, held it to her lips, tipping it carefully so that she could drink without choking.
