The Joys of My Life

by Alys Clare

  For several moments, Helewise and her companions simply sat on their horses and stared. Then she turned to Sister Caliste and Brother Saul and said, ‘I could go on watching this amazing scene, but evening approaches and we must find lodgings. Come, let’s try down there.’ She pointed towards a narrow street between rows of close-packed houses.

  They had not gone far before a man and a woman stepped out in front of Helewise, who was riding at the front of the little procession. She drew up Honey and said warily, ‘What is it? Can I help you?’

  The man had swept off his cap and was making her a clumsy bow. ‘No, Sister, it’s me as wants to help you,’ he said. Glancing over his shoulder, he lowered his voice and said, ‘I shouldn’t go down this street. Down at the bottom, there’s . . . er . . . I mean, it’s not suitable, not for you.’

  The woman with him elbowed him out of the way and said, ‘What he means, Sister, is that down there’s where the brothels are. If you and your companions want a nice, safe place to stay, there’s a convent down that road.’ She pointed across the square. ‘Further out, there’s the shanty town where most of the workmen put up, but the convent’s not as far down as that so you’ll be quite all right.’ She beamed.

  ‘Thank you,’ Helewise said, privately wondering why people always imagined that those who wore the habit of religion had to be preserved from the rough side of life. ‘We shall follow your advice.’

  The three of them turned their horses and set off back up the street, across the square in front of the cathedral and down the road opposite. Presently they came to a stout stone house set slightly back from its neighbours with iron gates leading into a small courtyard and what appeared to be stabling beyond an arch on one side of the main building.

  A nun came out through the open door of the house, saw them and with a smile unlocked the gates. ‘Abbess Helewise?’ she enquired.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please dismount and come in. I will send for someone to care for your horses. They have had a long ride, as indeed have you.’

  For one bright moment Helewise thought Josse must be here and had notified the convent that she was on her way, but no, that was impossible, for he would surely have stayed on at Oléron for another day at least and could not have overtaken her.

  A nun in a white veil had come hurrying to take the horses and now Helewise walked beside the sister who had admitted them, Brother Saul and Sister Caliste behind them. ‘Queen Eleanor’s messenger arrived yesterday evening,’ the nun explained.

  ‘He must have ridden hard to arrive a day before us!’ Helewise exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, indeed. They keep horses ready all along the roads between the main towns, you know. A man can ride very fast if he has a constant supply of fresh horses.’ Turning, the nun took in Caliste and Saul, as dusty and travel-stained as Helewise. ‘Your lay brother may lodge with the male convent servants,’ she said, ‘and your nun may attend you.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister . . . ?’

  ‘I am Sister Marie-Agnès,’ the nun replied. ‘When you have refreshed yourself, I am ordered to take you to our Mother Superior, who has already made enquiries concerning your mission.’

  As Sister Marie-Agnès led the way to a clean but unadorned guest room, Helewise reflected on the extraordinary qualities of the queen. She was not far short of eighty years old but still she kept a watchful eye on all that was important to her. Amid every other concern – including her grief – she had thought to prepare the way for Helewise.

  It looked, Helewise thought hopefully as she sank down on to the narrow bed and watched Sister Caliste set about unpacking their bags, as if this business might be quite simply and speedily concluded. Then they could all go back to Hawkenlye – she swung her legs round and lay stretched out on the hard straw mattress – and what a relief that would be.

  Over the next two days, Helewise threw herself into her mission. The convent’s mother superior – an elderly nun with an aristocratic bearing who was called Mother Marie-Raphael – accompanied her out each morning and together they sought out men of every calling from master mason to muleteer. Their task was not easy, for it meant enticing men away from this vitally important job to another, lesser one, and in a foreign land. Had it not been for the queen’s letters bearing her seal, Helewise realized that even with the formidable Mother Marie-Raphael beside her she would have got precisely nowhere.

  On the evening of the second day, she sat in the convent parlour with Mother Marie-Raphael going through the many names and notes that she had scribbled down on scraps of parchment. ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘that we are doing well. The master mason has studied Queen Eleanor’s design and has undertaken to begin on plans for the new chapel straight away, and he has said he will come to Hawkenlye as soon as he can. In the morning, I am to see a carpenter who knows of a team turned off here because at present there is no work for them. The men to whom I have spoken have all promised to spread the word and anyone interested in coming to England will seek me out here.’

  Mother Marie-Raphael nodded. ‘It is because it is for the queen.’

  Helewise picked up her meaning. ‘Yes. Even outside her own land of Aquitaine, she is much loved.’

  The old nun made an eloquent gesture of contempt. ‘Boundaries are not important for one such as she.’

  Helewise was not sure the queen would entirely have agreed. ‘The workforce who build the great cathedrals seem to be a law unto themselves,’ Helewise said, ‘with no strong allegiance to any except their own kind.’

  ‘Yes, that is quite true. They give their devotion, their sweat and blood to those who inspire them. And –’ she smiled wryly – ‘to those who can pay. Now, Helewise, I shall send for food and wine, for you and I have been on our feet since early this morning and we have earned a little respite.’

  She got up to summon a servant but just at that moment there was a tap on the door and Sister Marie-Agnès came into the parlour. ‘Please, ma mère, there’s someone outside asking for Abbess Helewise.’

  Mother Marie-Raphael frowned. ‘It may be the carpenter, although we did say tomorrow.’

  ‘He’s not a carpenter; he’s a man of quality, even if he is very tired and extremely dirty,’ Sister Marie-Agnès said. ‘He’s got a young monk with him.’

  Helewise was on her feet. Her heart was singing but she managed to maintain a calm expression. ‘It sounds as if they are Sir Josse d’Acquin and Brother Augustus, who accompanied me to the Île d’Oléron,’ she said. ‘There was a matter that they had to see to before coming on here to Chartres.’

  Mother Marie-Raphael smiled. ‘I was informed that this knight would join you here. I am relieved that he has arrived. Bring him in,’ she said, turning to Sister Marie-Agnès.

  Bobbing a curtsy, the nun hurried away down the passage, to return shortly afterwards with Josse striding behind her. Helewise looked at him; he was, as Sister Marie-Agnès had said, filthy, his face, hands and garments stained with dust and sweat. In that quick glance she also detected that he was deeply worried.

  ‘Sir Josse,’ she said, ‘it is good to see you.’ Turning to Mother Marie-Raphael, she made the introductions.

  ‘The lay brother who arrived with Abbess Helewise is lodging with the convent servants,’ the old nun said, studying Josse intently. ‘There is accommodation there fit for one of your rank, Sir Josse, if you will accept it.’

  ‘Aye, I will, and I thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Go and refresh yourself,’ Mother Marie-Raphael said in a tone that brooked no argument, ‘and then return to us here.’

  Helewise could not protest, much as she longed to speak to Josse alone. She would have to wait to find out what fearful discovery had put that look on his face; she just hoped the wait would not be too long.

  They found their time for a private talk early the following morning when, as soon as the morning office had been said and breakfast eaten, Josse asked Helewise to show him around the cathedral site. It was some time before the
carpenter was due to present himself and they set off immediately.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ she hissed as they walked. ‘Something awful has happened – I can tell just by looking at you.’

  He hesitated and she sensed conflict in him. ‘I know that whatever the queen sent you to do was highly confidential,’ she whispered, ‘but if it’s so bad, can’t you tell me so that perhaps I can help?’

  He gave a rueful smile. ‘It is terrible and I don’t think you can help, my lady.’ He glanced at her. ‘Nevertheless, I shall tell you, for the matter is not over and it is dangerous. I would not have the risks increased out of ignorance.’

  She did not entirely follow, but the important thing was that he was going to confide in her. ‘Go on, then,’ she urged. ‘What did the queen ask you to do and what did you find out?’

  He told her.

  It was all that she could do to keep up her steady pace, so deep was the shock. ‘The king was there?’ she said.

  ‘Hush!’ He glanced around but there was nobody close enough to have heard. ‘Aye. Looks as if he was.’

  ‘And you think some unspeakable crime was committed in that tower?’

  He looked down. ‘Er . . . aye.’

  Suddenly she knew without a doubt that he was keeping something back. ‘Can you not tell me?’

  ‘It is only a suspicion,’ he said quickly. ‘I dare not even reveal what I fear to you, my lady, until I know for certain.’

  She was frowning in puzzlement. ‘But why have you come here, Sir Josse? If your purpose is to investigate this dreadful matter to its conclusion, then should you not be on the trail of this man de Loup?’ She spoke the name so softly that it was more like mouthing the words.

  They had come to a stop in the square and stood together staring up at the workmen swarming on and around the cathedral. ‘I am on his trail,’ Josse said quietly. ‘The trail leads here.’

  Josse escorted the abbess back to the convent, where, she told him, she was to meet a carpenter who might agree to go to Hawkenlye, and then he wandered off around the cathedral wondering how he was to find de Loup. Ask, he thought. And what will be my reason for seeking him? He frowned; with an evil man such as de Loup, it seemed best to prepare very carefully. It would not be wise to say he had come from Oléron, for that would instantly arouse the man’s suspicion. I’ll say I’ve brought word from Châlus, Josse decided, that his friend Ambrois de Quercy’s dying. Unable to come up with anything better, he asked directions and set off for the workmen’s quarters. If Philippe de Loup’s ‘special contribution’ was in fact innocent and simply involved a commission for a window or a statue, then that was a good place to start.

  The temporary village that housed the huge workforce was sited a short distance beyond the last of the town dwellings and consisted of a variety of structures, some stoutly made and some flimsy. Most of the men were absent, but Josse heard women’s voices and, following the sound, came to a wash house where three girls and two older women were busy doing laundry.

  Greeting them, he said, ‘I am looking for a man named Philippe de Loup. Do any of you know of him?’

  The girls stared back blank-faced, but one of the women glanced nervously at her companion and said, ‘I’ve heard the name, sir.’

  And you don’t much care for it, Josse thought, watching the woman. ‘I am told he is making a contribution to the new cathedral,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Has he hired a craftsman?’

  Again the woman looked at her companion, who shrugged. ‘I don’t know the details, sir,’ she said eventually, ‘but I did hear it said that he’s getting Paul de Fleury to do a statue for him.’

  ‘Paul de Fleury?’

  ‘He’s a mason, sir. He lodges down there – the house right at the end.’ The woman pointed along a muddy path between two huddled rows of dwellings. ‘He’s not there now. He’ll be up at the cathedral.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Josse turned and set off back towards the city, but, once out of sight of the wash house, he doubled back and circled round until he reckoned he was at the end of the path that the woman had indicated. The end house was a neat little dwelling and he tapped on the low door. There was no reply. He peered in through the tiny unglazed window and made out a bare room scantily furnished. A single cup and plate sat on a small table; de Fleury, it appeared, lived there alone. Also on the table were a sheet of precious vellum, a quill pen and a pot of ink.

  He returned to the cathedral and asked several men but, although some of them recognized the name, nobody could tell him where de Fleury was. ‘I’m told he is to carry out a commission for Philippe de Loup,’ Josse said to one man.

  The man sniffed, hawked and spat. ‘Well, nobody else was going to.’

  De Loup’s evil reputation, it seemed, had spread far and wide.

  First thing the next morning, Josse sought out Abbess Helewise, to tell her about Paul de Fleury and explain that he was hoping, by setting off so early, to catch him before he left for work. She was clearly preoccupied with her lists of carpenters and masons but still she looked at him and, with anxiety in her eyes, told him to take care.

  At that hour, few people were about and it was strange to see the cathedral deserted save for the circling pigeons. Something seemed to have alarmed them and suddenly they flew up in a great cloud, leaving a sole carrion crow, which came to land by a huge gap in the wall and strutted away inside.

  Josse hurried on. Striding through the workmen’s village, he was increasingly optimistic that he would find Paul de Fleury at home, for in most of the dwellings he heard and smelled the signs that the artisans were eating breakfast. He reached de Fleury’s door and confidently put up his hand to rap smartly on its warped panels. To his surprise, it opened.

  There was nobody inside. The cup and plate were in a different position – clearly they had been used since yesterday – and the piece of vellum was rolled up and tied with cord. Without understanding what prompted him, Josse picked it up and slid it inside his tunic. He was filled with a sense of foreboding and, pausing only to look into the tiny back room, where there was a low cot and a heavy cloak hanging on a nail, he left the house and ran back to the cathedral.

  He knew as he sprinted across the square that something was wrong. The cathedral site was not deserted now; dozens of people were milling around, most of them talking earnestly in raised voices to whoever would listen. Someone pulled at Josse’s sleeve and a man’s spotty face pushed up close to his. The man was saying something about evil curses and heretics who would stop at nothing to interrupt the Lord’s work, but Josse shrugged him off and ran on inside the shell of the new cathedral.

  In the middle of the nave, several black-clad priests huddled over something on the floor. Josse noticed vaguely that a pattern of some sort had been marked out; it seemed to be formed of concentric rings. He stepped carefully around the marker pegs and approached the kneeling priests. Two of them looked up as they heard his footsteps and then he could see what they had been concealing.

  At the central point of the pattern, a man lay sprawled on the floor. He lay on his back and his wide-open eyes stared up at the wooden falsework scaffolding directly above, from which he must have fallen. He wore a tunic and hose that were stained greyish-white with powdered stone and, on top of them, a heavy leather apron. He had light brown hair, which was now spread around his head like a halo. It was stained dark with blood.

  ‘He’s dead,’ one of the priests said. He muttered a prayer, made the sign of the cross over the body and, leaning down, gently closed the man’s eyes.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Josse demanded.

  The priest turned a mild face to him. ‘See for yourself,’ he invited. ‘He’s stone-cold and there is no heartbeat.’

  Josse put a hand to the man’s cheek. It was chill to the touch. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘We don’t yet know,’ the priest said. ‘He was found only a short while ago – the first workmen on the site noticed a trio of crows hopping around here in the
nave and then they saw what had attracted them.’ He shuddered. ‘Fortunately, the men drove them off before they did any damage.’

  ‘He was a stonemason,’ Josse said, studying the dead man. ‘His clothes are covered in stone dust.’ He looked up. ‘We should send for the master masons. They all know their own men.’

  The priest hurried to obey and soon returned with three men dressed, like the dead man, in dusty tunics and leather aprons. They stared down at the corpse and one said, ‘Aye, I know him.’ He gave a heavy sigh and added something that sounded like, ‘Might have known.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Josse asked.

  The master mason met his eyes. ‘Paul de Fleury.’

  Seven

  Others came hurrying to join the group around the dead man and Josse, who had seen and heard enough, melted away through the crowd. They would find out where Paul de Fleury lived, he thought, search his house and belongings for some clue as to who had employed him and what work he had been doing that had necessitated the fatal climb up to the beam high above the nave. Josse had found the house already; the only thing within of any possible relevance was now inside his tunic. He knew who had engaged de Fleury and he strongly suspected that the fall had been no accident. He needed to inspect the nave very carefully, preferably by himself, but that was quite impossible for now. He would just have to wait.