The Chatter of the Maidens (23 page)

Helewise and Josse had stayed longer than they had planned out in the forest; Jerome’s revelation had been so startling – and, Helewise reflected, so moving – that it had given rise to a great deal of talk.

By the time she and Josse were back at the Abbey, dusk was well advanced. She was worried about Josse; he had been walking more and more slowly for the past half mile, and she was very afraid that the excursion had exhausted him. Not that he complained. She was very relieved when, back inside the calm, restful atmosphere of the infirmary, she was able to thank him, wish him good night, and hand him over to Sister Euphemia’s care.

Even had she been ready to discuss with him the implications of what they had just discovered, she reflected as she crossed over to the Abbey church, he was far too weary.

And I, she thought as she knelt to pray in the empty church, need first to talk to God.

Which, for the spell of peaceful silence that endured until the nuns entered the church for Compline, was exactly what she did.

In the morning, Helewise rose with her day’s tasks clearly outlined in her mind. There was much for her to do and, she had always found, setting about a busy day with a well-defined plan of campaign was of great benefit in terms of efficiency.

Between Prime and breakfast she remained in the Abbey church, in private prayer. There were many matters over which she needed God’s help, but uppermost of her concerns was what to do about Alba.

What should I do, dear Lord? she asked, eyes fixed on the simple wooden cross on the altar. She begs to stay here, in this community, but for the sake of everyone else here, how can I let her?

But if I send her away, where is she to go? I cannot simply turn her loose, for, if Meriel and that passionate young husband of hers are to be believed, she will seek them out. Even if I cannot make myself accept what Meriel said about Alba doing them actual harm, I do see that her interference could be very unwelcome. New marriages need privacy, while the couple become accustomed to one another. To the state of wedlock itself. It would not aid the progress of either adaptation to have a bossy and quick-tempered elder sister hanging around.

Helewise closed her eyes, trying to empty her mind, trying to listen to whatever guidance might be sent to her.

Trying, if she were honest with herself, to face up to the insistent little voice in her head that said, you
should
believe Meriel.

She pictured Meriel’s face, transformed by her happiness from the haggard pallor of misery into radiant loveliness. And Jerome’s words, as he interrupted something Meriel was about to say, kept echoing in her ears:
No, Meriel. Not until we know
.

What had the girl been about to say? Whatever it had been, it was to do with Alba, clearly; for just afterwards Meriel had said of her,
she was ruthless
.

Oh, dear Lord, did it mean what Helewise was so dreadfully afraid it meant?

I must not start suspecting that, she told herself firmly. I have no proof and, in Christian charity, I must prevent myself believing the worst purely for the excitement of the sensation, like some superstitious peasant listening to an ancient legend of ghouls and monsters for love of the fear-induced thrill down the spine.

She prayed aloud for some moments, repeating the familiar words until she felt calmer.

By the time she rose from her knees to leave the church and go over to the refectory, she had convinced herself that she was right to ignore Meriel’s warning, and that the best thing she could do for Alba was to send out word that the Abbess of Hawkenlye needed a place in some good household – the further away, the better – for a young woman who had lately been living in the Abbey. It was something she had done many times before, usually with success; Hawkenlye had an excellent reputation, and when its Abbess asked for a situation for somebody, her request rarely went unanswered.

Next on Helewise’s list of tasks was to visit Josse. To her relief, she found him quite well; he was up and about, helping a man recovering from a fever to take his first steps outside. Having settled his patient on a bench, Josse came over to the Abbess, and they moved out of earshot.

She told him what she had decided to do about Alba.

Frowning, he said, ‘Are you quite sure, Abbess?’

‘Sure of what?’ She felt herself stiffen; her tone, she realised, had not been exactly friendly.

Josse’s frown had deepened. ‘Sure that you will not be sending something into this distant household you envisage that they will wish you had kept well away,’ he said bluntly.

Some
thing
, she noted. Not even some
one
. ‘You have decided to judge and condemn Alba all by yourself, have you?’ she demanded, anger rising. ‘When you do not know her? When, but for one brief visit, you have not even
met
her?’

‘I am going by what you have told me!’ he cried, angry in his turn. ‘And, indeed, by what Meriel said.’

The little flame of doubt flared again in Helewise’s mind. Meriel . . .
she was ruthless
 . . . Swiftly she doused it. ‘Meriel was distraught,’ she said firmly. ‘And also in a highly charged emotional state. I do not feel we should place too much credence on what she said.’

Josse was nodding knowingly, fuelling Helewise’s anger. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Aye, I see.’

‘What?’ She had an uncomfortable feeling she knew what was coming.

‘Abbess, you still can’t get over those two in the woods, can you?’

‘I—’ she began.

But he did not let her interrupt. ‘They really discomforted you, didn’t they, when they emerged from their lovers’ bed and stood before you? And even though you know they are man and wife and perfectly entitled, even in the Church’s eyes, to share a bed, you haven’t forgiven them. Have you?’

His face wore an expression she had never seen before. Confused, she said, ‘Of course I have!’

But even to herself she did not sound convincing.

And Josse, with a muttered, ‘Abbess Helewise, I never took you for a
prude
,’ turned his back and walked away.

Shaken, she went through the office of Tierce struggling to keep her mind on her prayers.

Then, with difficulty dragging together the ragged remnants of her fine plan for the day, she announced to her senior nuns that she wished to work alone and was only to be disturbed in dire need. Then she went to her room and firmly closed the door.

Having solved the problem of Alba – I
have
, she insisted to herself – she pushed her recent preoccupations to the back of her mind and surveyed everything else awaiting her attention. Oh, but it was depressing! The new system of delegating tasks to her deputies was working, after a fashion, but both the senior nuns and Helewise herself were finding it difficult to adapt to new ways after so long in the old ones.

But Helewise, she reminded herself, had promised Queen Eleanor that she would do her best to employ the system that Eleanor had outlined. It was early days yet. And the Abbess had been away from Hawkenlye, throwing everything out of kilter. . . .

Resignedly she reached for the heavy accounts ledger, now kept by Sister Emanuel, and began going through the neat entries. When she had worked her way through three weeks of Hawkenlye’s material comings and goings, there would be the reports of her deputies to consider. Then it would probably be time for Sext, and then the midday meal.

All in all, Helewise reflected, the day was going to be well advanced before she got round to the next item on her list, which was telling Berthe that she knew about Meriel and Jerome.

She had a vague sense that she ought to do that sooner rather than later, but dismissed it as a temptation she should ignore – she would far rather have sought out Berthe than ploughed her way on through the ledger. With a sigh, she bent her head and got on with her work.

In the end, it was late afternoon before Helewise finally went to look for Berthe.

She went first down into the Vale but, as it turned out, she could have saved herself the trouble. Berthe, Brother Firmin informed her, had gone to see Sir Josse up in the infirmary.

Oh, Helewise thought. Walking slowly back up to the Abbey, she felt a rush of shame. I shouted at Josse this morning, she reminded herself. For saying something that I didn’t like. But which, I have to admit, was perfectly true.

I must apologise. Tell him he was right.

As she approached the infirmary, she caught sight of Josse and Berthe sitting outside. They were laughing.

Wondering if Josse had already told Berthe of the visit to Meriel, Helewise quickened her steps. He should not have done that, she thought crossly, it was up to me to tell her. . . .

Josse looked up and greeted her with his usual smile. ‘Good afternoon, Abbess,’ he said. ‘Berthe and I were playing at riddles.’

Sorry!
she said silently to him. What was it about her today, she wondered, that she insisted on misjudging her old friend?

‘Sir Josse, I have come to steal your young companion away, I am afraid,’ she said. She met his eyes. Would he guess what she was going to do? ‘I have a fancy for a stroll in the forest,’ she went on, keeping her gaze on his as she improvised, ‘and I wondered if Berthe would like to come with me?’

He gave a faint nod of understanding. ‘A good idea, Abbess. Berthe?’ He turned to the girl.

‘I would love to walk with you, Abbess Helewise.’ Berthe had shot to her feet. ‘Now?’

‘Now,’ said Helewise.

They fell into step, walking out through the Abbey’s main gates and off towards the fringes of the forest.

‘If we go
that
way,’ Berthe said after a moment, pointing along a path that circled the trees and that led in a completely different direction from the charcoal burners’ camp, ‘we shall stay in the sunshine.’

‘Indeed.’ Helewise was thinking. Taking Berthe’s arm and turning her firmly in the opposite direction, she said, ‘But that is not the way I wish to go.’

Holding the girl as she was, she felt the sudden tension. They walked in silence for a while, then Helewise said gently, ‘Berthe, as you have doubtless guessed, we are not merely going for a pleasant stroll.’

‘Aren’t we?’ Berthe sounded desolate.

‘Child, do not despair!’ Helewise gave her hand a squeeze. ‘You have borne a heavy burden these many days, and you have borne it long enough.’

‘But I can’t tell you! I can’t!’ Berthe was sobbing.

‘Berthe, there is no need for you to break a confidence, since I already know what you are trying so hard to keep from me.’ Helewise gave the girl a little shake. ‘Sir Josse and I came out here to find Meriel yesterday.’

‘You can’t have done! You didn’t know where they – where she was! Nobody did but me!’

Feeling distinctly sheepish, Helewise said, ‘I must confess that I asked Augustine to follow you. He told me where you had gone, and whom you met there.’

Berthe’s face had darkened. ‘Augustine?’

‘Yes.’

The girl said, with a catch in her voice, ‘I thought he was my friend.’

‘He
is
!’ Helewise insisted urgently. ‘Berthe, he realised that matters could not go on as they stood, purely
because
he is your friend! You are not a natural liar, child, and it was not right for you to be forced to go on bearing another’s secret.’

‘I didn’t mind! Meriel’s my sister, I’d do
anything
for her!’

‘Even lie to Sir Josse?’ Helewise asked shrewdly. ‘How did that feel, Berthe, to pretend to someone as fond of you as he is that you had no idea where Meriel was, pretend that you were worried sick about her?’

Berthe’s resistance collapsed. ‘I couldn’t lie to him,’ she said softly.

Helewise threw her arms round the slumped shoulders. ‘I’m very sorry, Berthe. This – setting Augustine to follow you and reveal your secret to me – was entirely my plan.’

Berthe disengaged herself and stared up into Helewise’s face. ‘But then you’re tougher than him,’ she said quietly.

‘I—’ Helewise found she couldn’t go on. What, indeed, was there to say?

‘Come on, then,’ Berthe said, leading the way off along the track. Stopping again and turning round, she added, ‘That is, if you really want to pay them a visit, and this wasn’t just a way of getting me on my own for a private talk?’

Such cynicism! Helewise thought. And the child still so young. ‘Indeed I do wish to visit Meriel and Jerome,’ she assured Berthe. ‘And in your company, too. Much has been going on that has been damaging to you both, and I wish to set matters right.’

Berthe did not reply. But the look she gave Helewise over her shoulder rather suggested she doubted whether setting these particular matters right was within any one person’s power.

Even if that person was the Abbess of Hawkenlye.

Berthe was still in the lead when they came to the clearing.

‘Meriel!’ she called out. ‘Jerome! It’s me, Berthe, and I’ve got the Abbess with me!’

There was no answer.

Berthe turned round to Helewise. ‘They’re probably off checking the snares,’ she said confidently. ‘Jerome’s getting very good at snaring; he got a hare the other day and Meriel cooked it beautifully! Meriel!’ she called again, more loudly. ‘Where are you?’

But Helewise had walked over to the little hearth. No fire burned; none was laid ready. She put her hand to one of the pieces of turf that had been neatly cut and placed where the fire had been, gently moving it aside to feel beneath.

Cold.

Hearing Berthe’s calls echo from the edge of the trees, she straightened up and went across to the shelter which Meriel and Jerome had been using.

It was empty.

Other than the edges of the scar left by the recent fire, the glade and the charcoal burners’ camp looked deserted. Looked, moreover, as if nobody had been there for weeks. Months.