‘And you, Sir Josse?’
‘Oh, I lied through my teeth,’ he admitted easily. ‘Said I reckoned the fellow had never been here in the first place, and that I’d had no approaches by strangers bringing me long-lost family treasures. Promised I’d tell the Prince if anything came to light, too.’
‘I think,’ she said carefully after a moment’s thought, ‘that it might be wise to confess those lies to Father Gilbert, in due course. Bearing false witness is a sin, Sir Josse, even if done with the purest of intentions.’
‘Aye,’ he said, his face grave. ‘Aye, my lady. I will seek out the Father.’ With the ghost of a smile, he added, ‘But happen I’ll wait until Prince John has had time to get safely back to London.’
She bowed her agreement. It seemed the least she could do.
He was still holding the silver box. She held out her hand, and he placed the box in it. ‘Do you want to have one last look?’ she asked, about to see if she could work open the little fastening.
Josse came to stand beside her and said, ‘You push that tiny lever and a spring makes the lid pop open. No!’ – as she went to do so – ‘please, Abbess, don’t, not till I’ve gone.’
‘Very well, but why?’
He grinned sheepishly. ‘I might change my mind.’
Then, with uncharacteristic haste and the briefest of farewells, he hurried out through the door and was gone.
She sat quite still for some time. Then she sprang open the lid of the silver box and took out the Eye of Jerusalem.
Again, she felt the tremor in her hands, as if the stone were communicating with her. But stones are inert and do not behave like that, she told herself firmly. She put it back in its box and was about to fasten the box’s silver chain around her neck when she noticed that it was broken.
Of course. Galbertius Sidonius had done that when he wrenched the Eye in its case from the neck of the Lombard’s young servant. The box, the chain, even the jewel itself, carried death with them.
She knew then what she must do.
She waited until evening.
Then, after Compline, when the church was empty, she went forward to the simple altar and, praying as fervently as she knew how, fell on her knees and begged God’s help.
I cannot turn this jewel away, she pleaded silently, because poor Josse has entrusted it to me, and he has good reasons for doing so. Also, we must see whether it can in fact help us in our work, because it may have been your intent, Lord, to bring it to us for that very purpose.
She thought hard, then resumed.
But the Eye carries the taint of violence, and I am not happy for it to be used until it has been purged. Therefore, dear Lord, I leave it with you, here in your holy house, and I pray that you cleanse it and make it fit for the healing work to which we would try to put it.
That was all she wanted to say. She prayed on, and the familiar, comforting words restored and calmed her, as they always did. Then, making absolutely sure she was alone, she crept round behind the altar and located the hidden ledge beneath it where a wooden support was concealed under the plain linen covering. She put the Eye in its box on to the shelf, then let the cloth fall back into place.
Perhaps the Eye should really have been placed
on
the altar. But then, she thought, the good Lord knows quite well where it is.
Feeling that her steps were suddenly lighter, she bowed before the cross, murmured one final prayer, and walked away.
In the morning, Josse came to find her and said that he and Yves were about to leave. Yves was eager to return home to Acquin, and Josse wanted him to put up at New Winnowlands at least for a night before he did so.
‘I wish you both a good journey,’ she said, ‘Yves in particular, since he has the farther to go.’
‘He’ll be all right,’ Josse said. ‘I may even decide to go over to Acquin with him. It’s time I paid my family another visit.’
‘Will you stay in France for Christmas?’ she asked.
He hesitated, then said, ‘Perhaps. But there is another visit I now wish to make. Yves and I have been speaking at great length about my father, and about my mother, too. Summoning my mother’s memory has made me realise that I should have made some effort to maintain contact with her kinfolk. After all, they are only at Lewes, which is not all that far from here.’
‘Lewes,’ she repeated. ‘A pleasant town.
‘Is it? I can scarcely remember. Well, I dare say I shall be seeing it again for myself, before long.’
‘Don’t forget us here at Hawkenlye in all this travelling around,’ she said. ‘We are always pleased to see you.’ Watching him, the comforting solidity of him, the honest face that expressed his total dependability, she thought that ‘pleased’ was perhaps understating the case.
‘I won’t forget,’ he said quietly. Then, as if he were suddenly finding this parting rather hard, he lunged forward, took her hand and kissed it, instantly seeming ashamed of his courteous action. He said quickly, ‘Thank you, Abbess Helewise. From the bottom of my heart,’ and hurried away.
She knew perfectly well the cause of his deep gratitude; she hoped, in that moment, that it was justified and that she had taken the right decision.
She was not entirely sure . . .
She gave him a while to collect his belongings and order the horses. Then, wishing to say goodbye to him and to Yves and to wish them God’s speed, she went out to the gates.
They were on the point of leaving. Yves, seeing her, came over to her and thanked her for her hospitality. ‘Keep us in your prayers, my lady,’ he said. Then, looking intently at her, he added, ‘I am glad to have met you at last. Now I––’
But whatever he had been about to say was brushed aside by a call from Josse. ‘Come on, Yves, don’t be all day or we’ll be too late for Ella to cook up a decent dinner.’
Yves gave Helewise a last glance. Then he smiled at her and, turning, mounted his horse.
Josse looked down at her but, other than a muttered, ‘Farewell, Abbess Helewise,’ said no more.
There was, she reflected, little more to say.
She called out her goodbyes to them both, and stood waving until the two brothers were out of sight. Then, feeling suddenly downcast, she went back to her room.
Postscript
All Saints’ Day 1192
Helewise had taken her time over deciding how to go about using the Eye of Jerusalem. The stone still gave out its strange emanations when she picked it up but, after its night under the altar, she no longer felt on it the dark shadow of brutal death.
But, as the end of October approached and the wet weather changed to bitter cold, the Abbey, the Vale and the infirmary steadily began to fill with people praying to be spared from sickness, praying for those already sick, and, naturally, with the sick themselves. It was just the time – if, indeed, the time were ever to come – to present Sister Euphemia and her nursing nuns with what might turn out to be a powerful ally.
The Eye lived up to its reputation. It lowered fevers. Or, of course, it might have been Sister Euphemia’s endless efforts, her patience and skill. Sister Euphemia, that was, guided by and acting for God.
Helewise was still very aware that a Prince had been – probably still was – going to considerable pains to track down the stone. She therefore urged caution in its use and the infirmarer and her nuns, too busy for questions, merely nodded and got on with their work. Observing them, she was gratified – and hardly surprised – to see that, overworked and tired as they were, still they obeyed her instructions faithfully; not even the merest glimpse of the Eye was permitted to the patients.
But for the gifts it bestowed –
seemed
to bestow, she reminded herself, still determined to retain at least a degree of scepticism – it might not have been there.
On the last day of October, All Saints’ Eve, Helewise went to seek out Sister Tiphaine. The infirmarer was asking for the next brew of the herbalist’s patent cough mixture and Helewise, at that moment having nothing better to do, had offered to go and fetch it.
Sister Tiphaine was nowhere to be found.
Someone said they’d heard her remark that she had to go out to gather ingredients for her concoction. The somebody – it was Sister Anne, endlessly interested in the doings of others but never very astute – also reported that Sister Tiphaine had said she might be some time.
Two things struck Helewise.
One was that Sister Tiphaine should not have left the Abbey without asking her Abbess’s permission.
The other was that the herbalist would indeed be a long time, if she really had set out to gather fresh ingredients. Because it was October – almost November – and nothing was growing.
February to the end of October, thought Helewise. Nine months.
And she thought she knew exactly where Sister Tiphaine had gone.
What should she do? Follow the herbalist out into the forest? But she had absolutely no idea where she had gone, if, indeed, she was in the forest at all.
And I still may be wrong in my suspicions, she thought, chewing at her thumbnail in her anxiety. Sister Tiphaine may know nothing whatsoever of the forest folk and those with whom they associate. She might be doing exactly what she said she was doing, collecting ingredients for the cough remedy. And what a fool I should look, if I go out searching for her, find her going peacefully about her duties and can find no excuse for having hunted her down except that she should not have left the Abbey without my permission.
Which, given the urgency with which Sister Euphemia requires that medicine, would be a little over-fussy of me.
I cannot solve this one, she decided. I have pressed Tiphaine as much as I can, and she stares blank eyed and declares she has nothing to say. I must leave this matter, I think, to her own conscience. If indeed she bears a secret and has been withholding something that I, her Abbess, have a right to be told, then it may weigh upon her so that, in time, she will confess it.
A thought struck her. Sister Tiphaine might well have done just that. And Father Gilbert, her confessor, would certainly not report it to the Abbess.
Helewise had come, she realised, to a stone wall.
She made her way to the church. In the peace of its cool interior, the light of the autumn day was already beginning to fade. She knelt in front of the altar and put the matter into God’s hands.
Then she prayed, ‘Of thy mercy, dear Lord, look after Sister Tiphaine. If she is abroad in the forest, guide her footsteps so that she may go about her business – whatever it is – watched over by Thee and, in her own good time, return safely to us.
‘And if what I suspect is right, please, Lord, look after Joanna as well.’
Then she pressed her face into her palms and, in the calm silence, thought, there! I have handed my burden over to more capable hands.
As the relief washed through her, for the first time in weeks she felt the serenity begin to come back.
In a hut out in the wild heart of the Great Forest, two women sat either side of a fire burning in the small room’s central hearth.
One was ancient. Or so it seemed, judging by the long fall of white hair. But her face was unlined, and her grey eyes were clear and bright. And, when she moved, it was with the supple grace of a young woman. Lora, venerated elder of the forest people, had probably forgotten herself just how old she was, but she had seen more seasons turn than most folk; it was merely that she carried her years lightly.
The other was younger. She had deep, mysterious eyes that held secrets and were the windows to an intelligent mind full of potions and remedies. She was the herbalist of Hawkenkye Abbey.
‘You should go back,’ Lora said, breaking a silence that had lasted for some time. ‘You will be missed.’
‘It is not important.’
‘It is,’ Lora insisted. ‘Your absence will create questions.’
‘I have already given my reason for being out.’ Tiphaine pointed to a little basket made of woven willow that stood by the door. It held a collection of freshly dug roots.
‘What use have you for those?’ Lora queried.
‘None. But nobody within knows that they have no medicinal qualities.’
Lora smiled. Then her face straightened and she said, ‘You should not deceive the Abbess woman. I hear well of her.’
‘Aye, she’s fine,’ Tiphaine agreed.
But she went on sitting where she was.
Presently there came another groan from the platform up to the right of where the two elders sat. Lora got up and climbed the short ladder that led to it. Above, lying in a tangle of bedding, violently twisting her naked, sweating body and flinging back the heavy fur rug that covered her, lay a young woman.
She was heavily pregnant, and in the process of giving birth.
Lora clambered on to the platform and settled beside her. Taking one of the outflung hands in both of her own, she said, ‘Hold on, my lass. Clench on to me, and I will help you through the pain.’
Joanna de Courtenay, trying to cling on to her courage, gave up and let out a great cry. As the contraction rose to its peak, she clenched her hand on to Lora’s. So fierce was the grip of her strong fingers that Lora winced.
After what seemed to both of them a minor eternity, Joanna relaxed and fell back against her pillows. Panting, she said through dry lips, ‘They come closer together now.’
‘Aye,’ Lora said calmly. ‘Not long now, lassie.’
Tiphaine’s veiled and wimpled face appeared at the top of the ladder. She smiled at Joanna.
‘You’re still here, Sister,’ Joanna said.
‘Aye.’
Joanna glanced out through the little window to the right of the bed. ‘It’s getting dark. You should go back to Hawkenlye.’
‘That’s what I told her,’ Lora agreed.
‘Presently,’ Tiphaine said. Crawling on to the platform, she said, ‘I would see the child born. I have brought medicines which may come in useful.’