The Chatter of the Maidens (25 page)

‘Jerome followed them!’ she exclaimed. ‘Jerome and somebody else, somebody more experienced?’

Bastian’s frown lifted; for an instant Helewise thought he appeared relieved. ‘You are perceptive, Abbess,’ he said smoothly. It was only later that she realised he had not actually answered her question. ‘And I see that you have met young Jerome. He is well, I hope?’

‘He’s married,’ she said before she could stop herself. ‘He and Meriel are man and wife.’

‘I know.’ Bastian gave her a calm smile. ‘They were wed before they left Medely.’

‘
What
?’ But it was not the moment to ask that; recalling what they had been discussing, she said, ‘Jerome must have found the burned body in the cottage, and realised that Alba had to get away from the farm before anyone else came across it, in case she was suspected of being involved.’ She paused. ‘I do not believe Jerome knows the truth,’ she said slowly. ‘He and Meriel may have their suspicions, but I believe they have no proof.’

‘I believe you are right,’ Bastian put in quietly.

But she barely heard. ‘He – Jerome – would surely have hurried to the farm. But before he had time to prevent her, Alba had swept up her sisters and fled – Jerome would have found nothing but an empty house. Since Alba must have known that Meriel wouldn’t go with her otherwise, she told her that Jerome had died in the cottage.’
She even showed me
. ‘Oh, God,’ she murmured. ‘Alba made Meriel
look
. And how convincing she must have been in persuading the girl that the poor, dead youth was Jerome!’

Bastian was looking at her sorrowfully. ‘Alba was convincing because she believed he
was
Jerome. It was her intention to murder Jerome, and she thought she had done so.’

‘But
why
?’

Bastian gave a deep sigh. ‘It is all to do with the person that Alba is,’ he said, ‘or, perhaps, the person that her life has made her.’ His eyes on Helewise’s, he asked, ‘Will you hear the tale?’

And, late though it was, surreal though it seemed to be sitting here with a stranger in the silent, candlelit dimness of her room, she nodded.

‘Alba,’ he began, ‘is considerably older than her sisters, as you will have observed. This meant that, when Meriel and Berthe were born, Alba developed a rivalry with their mother, Adela, over who had the greater responsibility for them and, indeed, for their father. Alba had been used to caring solely for Wilfrid, and he allowed a far greater intimacy to develop between the two of them than he ought to have done. But he was a weak man. An autocrat within his own four walls, but without the moral strength to recognise a developing wrong and correct it.’

‘You speak of the two of them, Alba and Wilfrid,’ Helewise put in. ‘What of Adela?’

‘Adela was not Alba’s mother. In his young manhood, Wilfrid took a village whore to his bed and impregnated her. She died giving birth to the child, and my predecessors – that is, those who had overseen events made sure that the baby was placed where she belonged, with her father. Wilfrid was faced with the baby, Alba, and he had no choice but to accept his responsibilities. Village gossip being what it is, Alba grew up in no doubt about the identity of her mother, who was, indeed, a loose-living, indolent soul with few, if any, saving graces.’

‘Only God can know that,’ Helewise put in gently. ‘We receive many prostitutes here, Bastian, and their profession does not necessarily remove them from God’s love and favour.’

‘I know, Abbess. I accept your reprimand.’ He bowed his head briefly. It was hardly a reprimand, she thought. He went on, ‘And in any case, I am only repeating what others said, which I should not do.’

She had, she realised, interrupted the flow of his story. ‘Please, continue,’ she said.

‘Thank you. Alba, the child of a whore, began early in her life her attempt not only to better herself, but also to raise up the family into which, on her father’s side, she had been born. He was, as I have said, a weak man, and it was easier for him to go along with Alba’s high-flying aspirations than to argue her out of them. Indeed, he probably enjoyed her flattery and her insistence that only the best would do for
them
. There was an adequate living on the farm and Alba, for all her faults, was a good manager. She was apparently horrified when Wilfrid announced he was going to marry Adela, who, decent and loving woman that she was, came from very humble stock.’

‘Then, when Meriel and Berthe were born, Alba would have sensed that she was being thrust into the background, and doubled her efforts to make herself and her family shine,’ Helewise said thoughtfully. ‘Because she saw them as
hers
, any achievement of theirs reflected back on to her.’

‘Precisely. With Wilfrid’s support, Alba became bossy, then dogmatic, and finally domineering to the point of tyranny. She instigated a system of punishments, and even Adela sometimes suffered, although never as much as the girls. Wilfrid, one gathers, was vastly amused at the sight of his middle child being penned up outside with the hounds because she had forgotten to feed them, and by the howls of little Berthe shut in the cellar for answering Alba back.’

‘Meriel said Berthe is afraid of the dark,’ Helewise said pityingly.

‘Is it any wonder, when Alba worked on that childish fear to increase Berthe’s suffering? It was a dreadful life, Abbess, and, although Wilfrid was perhaps even more to blame, he is dead and gone. Alba, on the other hand, is very much alive.’

But Helewise was following another thought. ‘Meriel, too, said that Alba was instrumental in Adela’s death,’ she said. ‘Is that truly so?’

‘It is.’ Bastian’s face was grave. ‘The girls used to use the old tumbledown cottage as a sort of play house, and, I suspect, as a refuge. Alba rarely went there – whenever the girls and their mother were out of the farmhouse, she used to bask in being in sole charge. One day, Adela took the girls to the old cottage for the day, and they were having such fun that Adela forgot the time. She rushed home to start on Wilfrid’s dinner – he used to be violent if his meals were late – and all would have been well except that Alba told him. She said something like, what a shame we have to have this stew again! Had Adela not been so late home, she would have had time to prepare something fresh! Wilfrid ordered his wife to cook something else, but she had nothing to cook. She was going to slip out, run all the way down to the village and try to beg something from kindly people there, but Alba said slyly that it surely wasn’t fit for a wife of Wilfrid’s to be seen
begging
. Wilfrid agreed and told Adela instead to go and dig up some vegetables from their own plot. He wouldn’t let her back inside until he was satisfied she’d got enough to feed them all. It was raining, and dark, and cold, and Adela took a chill. Weakened by it, she succumbed to the ague.’

‘They were
monstrous
, Alba and her father!’ Helewise cried. ‘Especially Alba!’

‘Monstrous?’ Bastian seemed to reflect. ‘Yes, perhaps. But we have to look at it from Alba’s viewpoint, Abbess. Unwanted at birth, thrust on to a father who didn’t want her either, then, as soon as she began to make some progress in her life, the father ousts her by taking a wife and begetting two enchanting little girls. Whose mother, incidentally, adored them both and worshipped the very ground they walked on. Whereas Alba’s mother was a reviled, hapless woman who had died at her birth.’

‘I do see what you mean,’ Helewise acknowledged. ‘But her distressing background cannot be allowed to condone her behaviour.’

‘I did not intend to suggest that it should,’ he said. ‘But what happened to her when she was young can perhaps explain why she grew up as she did.’

‘She murdered a young man.’ Helewise felt the horror begin again. ‘Whom she believed to be Jerome. Did she know they were married, he and Meriel?’

‘No. Nobody knew except Berthe. She knew about Jerome from the start, and was sworn to secrecy. But the poor child inadvertently let the secret out to Alba that Meriel and Jerome were in love. They all knew Alba would make a fuss, both because she couldn’t bear to lose control over any of her family, and also because, although she had never met Jerome, she had heard that he was an orphan, brought up by distant kin and very much a poor relation.’

‘What did they do?’

‘Jerome had a constant companion; another orphan brought up in the same place. He was a splendid youth, by the name of Felix, and he suggested that, to put Alba off the scent, they pretend that
he
was Jerome and Jerome was Felix. The idea was that Felix would be pointed out to Alba as if he were Jerome, and he would lead her off on a wild goose chase and give Jerome and Meriel a chance to slip away and be married.’

‘But didn’t they realise the risk they were taking?’

Sadly Bastian shook his head. ‘I do not think that anybody believed Alba capable of actual murder,’ he said. ‘She has deteriorated far further into her own private world than any of us suspected.’

‘So, believing this poor Felix to be Jerome, she followed him to the cottage, and—’

‘The cottage was Meriel and Jerome’s trysting place,’ Bastian said.

‘Yes. I see. So she followed Felix there, and presumably believed he was waiting for Meriel. Then—’

‘Alba knew Meriel wouldn’t disturb them.’ Once more, he interrupted. ‘She’d seen Meriel and Berthe set out. Although Alba didn’t know it, they were on their way to meet Jerome, for Meriel to marry him.’

Helewise was picturing the deserted cottage. In her mind’s eye, a young man sat there, alone. Perhaps he was smiling, both at the sheer fun of fooling Alba and because, through his suggestion, he was giving his great friend this precious time to be united with his Meriel.

Then through the underbrush came Alba, some heavy weapon in her hands . . . she swung it up high, then brought it crashing down on Felix’s unsuspecting head. And, while he was out cold, she manoeuvred the body until she could tether the hands to that hard, firm stake.

And then. . . .

No. It was too dreadful to contemplate.

Pushing her fists against her eyes to blot out the images of flame and smoke, Helewise gave a low moan.

From across the room, Bastian spoke.

‘I regret that I have had to burden you with this terrible tale.’ There was deep compassion in his voice. ‘But it was, as I am sure you appreciate, necessary.’ He paused. ‘Necessary,’ he went on quietly, ‘in order that you understand what a danger Alba is. To her sisters, and even more to those who threaten her by taking her sisters from her.’

She thought he had finished. She lifted up her head and looked at him. Meeting her eyes, he gave a brief, almost apologetic glance. ‘Felix was very special to me,’ he said quietly. ‘As is Jerome. Felix was born to my late sister, and Jerome is the son of my younger brother, who died when Jerome was a child.’ For a split second, she saw a flash of fury in his face, but he controlled it.

Then he said neutrally, ‘Alba has murdered one of my nephews. I do not intend to let her have the other.’

 

 

The Abbess arrived to see Josse very early the next morning. He was up and dressed, and perched on a bench pulled up at the foot of his bed. Moving along to make room, he beckoned for her to sit down beside him.

He could see immediately that she was deeply troubled; instinctively he put out his hand to her, and she grasped it, giving it a brief and intense squeeze before letting go.

She said, ‘Josse, I don’t know what to do. Meriel and Jerome have vanished – they have abandoned their camp and disappeared without trace. And there is a pilgrim in the Vale who says he has proof that Alba murdered the man we found in the burnt-out cottage. There was a witness. A child.’

Oh, Lord, he thought. Faced with the two calamities, his first thought was to attempt to quieten her very obvious anxiety over Meriel. ‘Do not worry too much for the girl,’ he said. ‘For Meriel, I mean. Abbess, I was very impressed with young Jerome. Truly, I do not believe he would do anything to risk her safety. She is quite clearly far too precious to him for him to do that.’