A Dark Night Hidden (13 page)

During the afternoon Helewise received a visitor. Sister Ursel had announced that the Sheriff had arrived and wished to speak with her and Helewise, heart sinking, had prepared herself for a meeting with the odious and not very bright Sheriff Pelham.

But to her surprise it was a very different sort of a man who was shown into her room. He was smartly dressed, of a little above average height, slim and, she had to admit, handsome, with well-cut and smoothly dressed brown hair and light-green eyes. Bowing gracefully, he said, ‘I am grateful, my lady Abbess, that you have found the time to see me. I am Gervase de Gifford.’

Accepting his greeting with an inclination of her head, she said, ‘I understood that Harry Pelham held the office of Sheriff.’

‘He may have given that impression,’ Gervase de Gifford said easily. ‘The de Clares have use for such men, but it is a mistake to give a man more authority than that with which he is equipped to cope.’

Wondering whether that amounted to a yes or a no, Helewise said, ‘Won’t you sit? There is a stool beside the door there.’

He looked where she pointed. Apparently he took in instantly the fact that, once seated on the low stool, he would be at a considerably lower level than she, sitting on her throne-like chair. He said courteously, ‘Thank you, my lady, but I prefer to stand.’

‘As you wish. Now, you said you wished to speak to me?’

‘Yes, my lady. Concerning the dead priest, Father Micah. My lord, Richard FitzRoger de Clare, has asked me to discover what details are known of the death.’

‘Very few. I have despatched Sir Josse d’Acquin, who is a friend of the Abbey, to find out more.’

‘Sir Josse d’Acquin,’ de Gifford murmured. ‘Yes. The man is known to us.’

Wondering just who he meant by ‘us’, Helewise asked, ‘You are tasked with bringing to justice anybody who may be implicated in the Father’s death?’

‘I am.’ Gervase de Gifford gave her a smooth smile.

‘You may call again,’ she said, sounding grand even in her own ears, ‘and discuss the matter with Sir Josse, once he has returned.’

‘You think, my lady, that he will bring information?’

‘I know he will.’

She met de Gifford’s gaze calmly. She wanted to say, he will do better in his enquiries than some fashionably dressed servant of the grand family at Tonbridge Castle, but she held her peace.

‘You will tell Sir Josse that I called.’ In the mouth of de Gifford, it sounded more like an order than a request.

She said, ‘Yes.’

Then, taking the hint, he bowed again and left the room.

She was still thinking about Gervase de Gifford when Josse came to see her after Vespers. He instantly apologised for coming so late. ‘I was entertained too well up at Saxonbury,’ he confessed, ‘and I had to sleep it off.’

Disarmed by his frankness, she said, ‘Saxonbury?’

He told her that he had visited Father Gilbert and gone on to see someone calling himself the Lord of the High Weald because Father Micah was known to have been there the day before he was found dead. She listened intently as he described his conversation with the Lord.

‘It would seem,’ she observed, ‘that this Lord Saxonbury had good reason to ply you with strong drink. Do you think, Sir Josse, that he has something to hide?’

Josse scratched his chin. ‘I believe him to be a powerful man, with good reason for antagonism towards the Father. I do not see him as a murderer, although there are things about the Saxonbury household that strike me as odd.’

‘Such as?’

Now the chin scratching developed into a vigorous face rubbing. From behind his hands Josse said, ‘My lady, I cannot now recall. I know full well that there were matters concerning which I told myself to take note, but what they were I have no idea.’ As if to exonerate himself he added, ‘Tiny things, you know. The sort that make you say to yourself, now why does that seem important?’

‘The sort of things that are so elusive that they can all too easily vanish,’ she said sympathetically.

‘Especially after too many mugs of ale,’ he added dully.

‘Do not distress yourself, Sir Josse. Why not go to bed and have a good night’s sleep?’ she suggested. ‘Perhaps your memory will serve you better by morning.’

‘Good advice,’ he muttered. ‘And I am of no use to you, me or anyone else tonight.’

As he bade her goodnight she remembered that she had not told him about Gervase de Gifford. Ah well, tomorrow would do.

But the next day brought its own troubles. Helewise forgot all about Gervase de Gifford, and whatever it was that Josse had been trying to bring to mind concerning Saxonbury was driven out altogether.

Very early in the morning, while it was still dark and as the Hawkenlye community was leaving the Abbey church after Prime, there came a loud beating at the gates and a deep male voice called out, ‘Hoa, Abbey! Help! Help!’

Sister Ursel rushed to climb up the short flight of steps to the spyhole in the wall beside the gates. As she opened it and peered out, Brothers Saul, Michael and Augustus sprinted to join her. ‘Who’s there?’ she cried. ‘What do you want of us?’

Helewise joined the gathering crowd of nuns and monks and they stood back respectfully to let her through. ‘Who is out there, Sister Ursel?’ she demanded.

‘It’s a man – he’s carrying someone – a woman, I think, she appears to be slight and quite small,’ Sister Ursel replied quietly. Then, raising her voice, she repeated, ‘What do you want?’

But the man merely said again, ‘Help!’

Helewise said, ‘Sister Ursel, let me look.’ As the porteress got out of the way, Helewise stepped up to the spyhole. Her instinct was to open the gates immediately; there had been a note of anguish in the man’s repeated cry that persuaded her his need was genuine. But as Abbess she was responsible for the safety of her community, and there were ruffians abroad in the night who might try to gain entry to the Abbey by subterfuge.

She stared down at the short, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man who stood outside. He raised his head and stared back. In the thin dawn light she saw the despair in his expression. She also saw that the front of his shirt was covered in blood. Judging by the way in which he carried the woman in his arms, it appeared to be hers.

Deciding, she stepped down from the spyhole. ‘Sister Ursel, open the gates,’ she ordered. ‘Brothers, stand by in case of any disturbance.’ She did not elaborate; meeting Brother Saul’s eyes, she knew she did not need to.

The gates opened and the man came straight in. He gasped out something – it might have been ‘Thank you’ – and Sister Euphemia took hold of his arm.

Her eyes on the limp figure that he carried, she said, ‘Come with me. I will look after her.’

Initially, the most difficult part of the infirmarer’s task was in getting the man to relinquish his hold on the woman. His broad arms supporting her seemed to have locked into position and his eyes were fixed on her white face; he ignored the presence of anyone else.

Sister Euphemia had commanded Sister Caliste to prepare a bed in one of the infirmary’s small curtained-off recesses. Having done so, Sister Caliste now stood ready, and the infirmarer noticed that the young nun, good nurse that she was, had set out a bowl of steaming water, wash cloths and bandaging materials. With the curtain drawn to keep curious eyes off the drama, all that now remained was for the man to lay the woman down and allow the nurses to do their job.

‘Please, won’t you put her down?’ Sister Euphemia asked the man in a gentle tone. He turned, looked at her blankly, then went back to gazing at the woman in his arms.

Suddenly Sister Calise spoke. ‘Sister, he doesn’t understand!’ she whispered. ‘May I try?’

‘Aye, do.’ The infirmarer’s tone was terse.

Sister Caliste stepped forward so that the man could see her. Then she mimed holding something and laying it down carefully on the clean white sheet of the prepared bed. She stared at him, nodding encouragingly and smiling, and after a moment an answering smile broke across his large face. With infinite tenderness, he laid the woman down on the bed.

‘At last!’ breathed the infirmarer. ‘Now, Sister, weave a little more of your magic and get him to stand back; I can’t work properly with him right at my elbow breathing down my neck like an exhausted ox!’

Sister Caliste reached for a little stool and placed it a few paces back from the bed, pointing to it and then to the man. Comprehending, he shuffled over and sat heavily down.

‘Now, Sister, your assistance if you please,’ the infirmarer commanded.

Sister Caliste went to join her at the bedside. Seeing at last the woman’s injuries, she gave out a small gasp.

Sister Euphemia glanced across at her. ‘Aye, it’s not pretty, is it? And, unless I’m very much mistaken, there’s more.’ Carefully raising the woman’s right shoulder as she spoke and pulling back the cloak in which she was wrapped, she stared down at the torn robe and the lacerated, bleeding, suppurating flesh beneath. ‘Aye. It is as I thought. She’s taken a beating.’

Sister Caliste said softly, ‘Which do we attend to first, Sister? Her back or her poor face?’

‘Her back. We’ll just give the wounds on her cheek and her forehead a lavender wash to clean them’ – instantly Sister Caliste put lavender into the bowl of hot water and, squeezing out a cloth, handed it to the infirmarer – ‘then we’ll do what we can to make her back less painful so that she can lie more comfortably.’

The two of them worked in silence. They were very aware of the man sitting watching them; from time to time he let out soft, low sounds, like an animal in pain, but he did not interrupt them. He appeared to understand that they were doing their best and seemed content to let them get on with it. They turned the woman gently over on to her side and Sister Euphemia soaked the tattered remains of the robe to remove the thick crust of blood and pus sticking it to the flesh. As she peeled away the cloth, Sister Caliste began to cleanse the wounds. There were twenty-five of them, evenly spaced down the woman’s narrow back. Whoever had flogged her had done so with a practised hand.

Soon Sister Caliste had done all that she could. Some of the wounds were now bleeding cleanly but some had become badly infected and were surrounded by tight, bright-red skin that felt hot to the touch.

‘A poultice of dried herbs – fresh ingredients where we’ve got them, Sister – that’s what we need now,’ the infirmarer said. ‘Greater burdock leaves for the inflammation, wood avens root to control that bleeding and a good helping of feverfew and white willow for the pain.’

‘Wood avens?’

‘Herb Bennet.’

‘Ah, yes. Of course, Sister.’

‘Make up a hot, moist mash, spread it between two pieces of flannel and bring it here. We’ll fix it to her back and let the good, healing herbs draw out the poison and give her relief.’

As Sister Caliste hurried to obey, she heard the soft, steady and infinitely comforting sound of the infirmarer’s prayers.

When the poultice was in place, the two nuns laid the woman carefully on to her back. ‘She’ll drain better like that,’ the infirmarer said. ‘It may hurt her more than lying on her belly or her side, but we don’t want that poison pooling inside her wounds.’ Then she pushed back the thick, curly brown hair from the woman’s face and she and Sister Caliste studied the wounds to the forehead and the cheek.

Now that it had been bathed, the cut on the right cheek was revealed to be not very serious. Sister Euphemia cut a square of flannel, soaked it in lavender oil and pressed it to the wound. ‘We’ll need to check it regularly,’ she said, ‘but I do not believe it will leave a scar. Not like this foul thing.’

Then the two of them stood staring down at what had been done to the woman’s brow. Into the pale, smooth skin, someone had burned a mark. It was quite hard to tell, because of the swelling and infection affecting the whole of the forehead, but it looked as if it were meant to be a letter. Just the one letter.

‘What is it?’ Sister Caliste whispered.

‘I don’t know.’ Sister Euphemia frowned. ‘An A? Or an H? Perhaps even a B, for the right-hand side has a sort of curve.’

‘But why?’

Sister Euphemia turned to look at her, compassion and a world-weary cynicism in her expression. ‘I’ve seen the letter A branded on a woman before now,’ she said. ‘It was in my noviciate. There was this nobleman, a proud man he was, ambitious for his son, for whom he’d arranged a splendid marriage. Trouble was, the lad didn’t love his cold, grand wife and he took up with one of his father’s serving maids. When the father found out, he cast the lass out. But before he did so, he had her branded with an A.’

‘A?’

Now the infirmarer’s glance was pitying. ‘Adulteress. Isn’t that just typical? The lad was as guilty as the lassie, yet she was punished and thrown out to starve while he escaped unhurt.’

‘He lost his love,’ Sister Caliste pointed out.

‘Aye, aye.’ Sister Euphemia sighed heavily. ‘I suppose he did.’ Then, shaking herself out of her thoughts and her memories, she said, ‘Another poultice, please, Sister Caliste. This time moisten it particularly well with lavender oil. I have remarked that it helps to lessen scarring, and this poor soul won’t want that great mark on her brow for the rest of her life.’

Her hands already busy, Sister Caliste felt her heart lift. ‘You think, then, Sister, that she will live?’

‘Course she will!’ Sister Euphemia exclaimed robustly. ‘Nasty wounds, I grant you, but not enough to take her life. Not now she’s here and in our care.’

Happy for the first time since she had entered the infirmary, Sister Caliste turned her head in the direction of the man on the stool. He was still staring intently at the two nuns, his expression as anxious and grief-stricken as ever.

‘I think, then,’ Sister Caliste said quietly, ‘that we had better find a way of telling
him
the good news.’