Whiter than the Lily (10 page)

Was he right? Dear Lord, he prayed that he was not.

But, either way, it seemed likely that joining Galiena
and her husband at Hawkenlye promised to answer a few questions.

He did not hurry on his ride to the Abbey. The day had started warm and, as the sun rose higher in the sky, warm became hot and then very hot. In the early afternoon, he found a patch of deep shade in a place where willows grew along a stream bank and, unsaddling Horace, he tethered the horse by the water and threw himself down on the cool grass. Ella had packed bread, a thick slice of her own cured ham, a honey tartlet, a couple of juicy, sweet apples and a flask of ale and, when he had rested for a while, Josse rediscovered his appetite and ate the food hungrily. The ale slipped down almost without his noticing. Then, meaning only to close his eyes for a short time, he fell deeply asleep.

He was woken by a burning sensation in his face. Sitting up with a start, he realised he had been asleep for so long that the sun had moved round and was now shining down full on his head and shoulders. From the feel of his cheeks under his exploratory hands, it looked as if he had given himself a fine case of sunburn.

He knelt by the stream and repeatedly splashed cold water on his face, which gave temporary relief. Horace watched him with mild curiosity. Turning to the horse, Josse said ruefully, ‘Well, I can’t kneel here with my backside in the air for the remainder of the day. We’d better be on our way to Hawkenlye, old Horace, and pray as we go that the infirmarer has a cure for a flaming, scarlet face.’

* * *

He rode in through the gates of Hawkenlye to tragedy.

The infirmary door was open and, amid the strange hush that seemed to have descended on the Abbey, there came the dreadful sounds of sobbing: deep, harsh, broken, painful sobs that, if he were any judge, were being emitted by a man. Some poor soul has lost a loved one, he thought. Child, wife, mother. Ah well, it was sad but unfortunately not uncommon; even the skills of the nursing nuns could not save everybody. Josse dismounted and led Horace across to the stables, where Sister Martha came out to meet him.

In the clear golden light of the westering sun, he could see that her strong old face was creased with distress.

Reaching out absently to take the horse’s reins, she responded briefly to Josse’s courteous greeting and then, even as he began to frame the question ‘What has happened?’ she shook her head and led Horace off inside the stable block.

A sudden terrible fear took hold of Josse. Feeling as if cold fingers had reached inside his chest and were slowly and relentlessly squeezing his heart, he turned and raced for the infirmary.

Bursting inside, he stood on the threshold, trying to look everywhere at once. Where would they have laid her? Would she still be here, or had they taken her to the Abbey church? Oh, dear God, he wept silently, and I never said goodbye to her! Never told her that I –

But just at that moment the hangings around a curtained-off recess at the far end of the infirmary moved slightly, parting as a tall figure passed between
them. And walking towards him, her hands held out to him and her face white, came the Abbess.

For an instant his relief was so powerful that he almost embraced her.

No, he told himself firmly. Not that. Never that.

Instead he took hold of her outstretched hands – they were icy cold, even in the heat – and said quietly, ‘My lady Abbess, good evening. What has happened here?’

‘She’s dead!’ the Abbess said, her voice unsteady. ‘And he – oh, Josse, it breaks my heart to see his pain!’

She was allowing her cool air of authority to slip and he flattered himself that it was perhaps because he, whom he hoped she looked on as an old and trusted friend, had arrived and was in effect offering her a shoulder to lean on. It had, after all, happened before.

But, knowing her as he did, he was aware that she rarely allowed her emotions to break through in front of her nuns. He said very softly, ‘My lady, why not step outside with me into the shade of the cloister where, in privacy, you can tell me who has died and why everyone seems so distressed?’

His words brought her instantly to herself. Grabbing her hands back, she tucked them away in the opposite sleeves of her habit, straightened her back, composed her face and said distantly, ‘Yes. Follow me, please, Sir Josse.’

Suppressing a smile at her suddenly steely tone, meekly he fell in behind her.

She led the way across to the courtyard off which
opened her own private room and to a far corner of the encircling cloister where, in the shade, there was a stone bench set into the wall. Indicating that he should sit – he did, but then, seeing she was not going to join him on the bench, immediately stood up again – she said, ‘A young woman has been with us. Sister Euphemia and Sister Tiphaine have been trying to help her; she wishes to conceive and they have made concoctions to help her.’

‘Aye, I—’ I know and I sent her here, he was about to say. But the Abbess seemed neither to hear nor acknowledge that he had spoken.

‘Her elderly husband came to join her. But—’ Her voice broke. She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘But she’s dead. Just now. She came into the infirmary gasping for breath and Sister Euphemia tried to help her, but it was too late and she died.’

Josse did not know how he managed not to put his arms round her. But it would not have been right, or at least he thought not. She was clearly struggling for control and he would not help her in her efforts by offering kindness. She was in shock, he thought, and probably the best thing for her was to maintain her air of cool authoritative competence.

Whatever the cost.

He said tentatively, ‘And it is her husband whom I heard weeping?’

‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I was with him when Galiena stumbled in through the door. He’s in the infirmary and Sister Euphemia has him under her care.’

‘He is sick?’ But he had seemed perfectly all right that day Josse had visited him at home. Well, other than being old and almost blind, but neither condition, surely, was one for which the infirmarer could come up with a cure.

‘Yes,’ the Abbess was saying. ‘He – his mind has been wandering and he is very sleepy. Sister Euphemia said—’ She broke off, distress clear on her face.

‘She said what?’ he prompted gently.

‘Oh – she didn’t think he looked very strong and she said that if Galiena really wanted to have his child she ought not to delay. But it’s too late now.’

He knew she was in danger of drowning in emotion. And, recalling the beautiful, lively and affectionate young woman he met that day at Ryemarsh, he could not blame her. But they would achieve nothing if they gave in and sat there howling out their grief. He took a steadying breath and then said in a businesslike manner, ‘My lady, I should say straight away that I know of Ambrose and Galiena Ryemarsh. My neighbour, Brice of Rotherbridge, took me to their manor to make their acquaintance. Brice knows, of course, of my contacts with Hawkenlye Abbey and felt that I was the person to answer Ambrose’s questions as to whether the sisters here might be able to help Galiena in her wish to bear her husband a child. We spoke together and I urged him to bring his wife here to you. Indeed, I had the pleasure of escorting Galiena and her companions as far as New Winnowlands, from where they came on to Hawkenlye. Ambrose could not set out straight away but was to join Galiena in a few days’ time.’

‘Which, as you see, he did.’ The Abbess frowned. Watching closely, Josse thought that he might have achieved his purpose of turning her mind away from her distress. But then she added, almost under her breath, ‘It was strange, then, as indeed I thought at the time, that Galiena did not forewarn us that her husband would be arriving.’

‘Eh? What’s that?’

She raised her eyes to meet his. For an instant, her sad expression broke into a smile as, apparently for the first time, she looked at him properly. She said, ‘Sir Josse! Whatever has happened to your face?’

‘I fell asleep in the sun,’ he said shortly.

Trying, not very successfully, to suppress a laugh, she said kindly, ‘It looks very sore. We must see what Sister Euphemia can provide to alleviate the discomfort. I am sorry, I interrupted you.’

‘You were saying that Galiena did not announce that Ambrose would be coming to join her here.’

‘That’s right. No, she did not.’

‘She told nobody?’

The Abbess looked thoughtful. ‘She did not tell
me
. I cannot swear that she did not mention it to any other sister but I do not think so, for word would surely have reached me.’

‘Hm.’ It was his turn to frown, which, he discovered, creased the flesh on his burned forehead and hurt quite a lot. ‘Well, maybe she was too busy with her own concerns and simply forgot.’

‘She was certainly preoccupied,’ the Abbess agreed. ‘And, I think, rather embarrassed at the whole procedure
of coming here to be treated for her barrenness. As Sister Euphemia pointed out to me, all very understandable.’

Josse wondered if now was the moment to ask the question that he had been wanting to ask ever since the Abbess had told him the news. Studying her, he thought it was as good a time as any. He said quietly, ‘My lady, how did Galiena die?’

She stared at him. Then: ‘We do not know. Sister Euphemia is even now studying the – er, the body.’

‘Was the girl unwell?’ he persisted. ‘Was there any obvious wound, such as might have been made had she fallen, for example?’

‘She was not unwell,’ the Abbess said tonelessly. ‘She was anxious, distressed even, but not, I think, unwell. As to a wound—’ She shrugged. ‘Nothing obvious at first glance. No blood on her garments, no twisted limb or bump on the head. Just the swelling of her poor face and the one episode of vomiting, or whatever it was.’

‘Vomiting?’

She shook her head impatiently. ‘Not exactly that. She opened her mouth and liquid came out. Watery liquid.’

‘I see.’ It was a silly remark, as he definitely did
not
see. Not with any certainty, at least, although a horrible suspicion was dawning. Hoping that he was doing the right thing and not making a bad matter worse, he said, ‘My lady, can it be, do you think, that Galiena was poisoned?’

The Abbess stared at him in silence for a moment.
Then she said, ‘It is what I have been dreading. I pray that it is not so, but …’ She left the sentence unfinished.

‘But what else could it be?’ he murmured.

‘Sister Euphemia has promised to report to me as soon as she has finished,’ the Abbess said. ‘I fear, Sir Josse, that all we can do is wait.’

They did not have to wait long. But it was not the infirmarer herself who came to find them but Sister Caliste, one of the Abbey’s youngest fully professed nuns and a competent and compassionate nurse. She approached, made a graceful obeisance to her superior and greeted Josse with a wide smile. Although she did not speak to him, he read clearly in her expression that she was glad to see him again.

‘Sister Euphemia asks me to say that she is ready for you now, my lady,’ Sister Caliste said to the Abbess. ‘If you both would like to follow me, I will take you to her.’

Josse and the Abbess walked in silence behind the young nun through the cloister and across the courtyard to the infirmary. There Sister Caliste led them along to the left and into a small room leading off the main chamber. In it there was a single, raised cot on which now lay a body covered with a clean white sheet.

Realising that the body was probably naked beneath the linen, Josse stood back. But the Abbess, turning to him, said, ‘Please, Sir Josse, come in with me if you will. Your experienced eyes have helped
us before and, in truth, this is no time for delicacy.’

Sister Euphemia, overhearing, said, ‘Come on in, Sir Josse. The poor lass is decently covered and all I need to show you is her face.’

The Abbess stepped across to stand over the cot and Josse took his place beside her. Sister Caliste remained just inside the door, which she had quietly closed behind her.

Without preamble, the infirmarer said, ‘I reckon she was poisoned. There was fluid in her mouth, although I cannot say what it was, and her face had swelled up, especially the lips. I’ve seen similar symptoms in cases of poison.’

‘This fluid you speak of,’ Josse said. ‘What was it like? Was there undigested matter in it?’

‘I looked carefully, but found nothing,’ Sister Euphemia replied.

‘Strange,’ Josse mused.

‘Strange?’ the Abbess queried.

‘Aye, my lady.’ Josse glanced across the cot at the infirmarer, who gave a brief nod as if to say, you explain. ‘Often when somebody takes poison, the substance causes vomiting as soon as it reaches the stomach. The vomit then can be seen to contain whatever the poison was and also some of whatever else was in the stomach, such as—’

‘Yes, thank you, Sir Josse,’ the Abbess interrupted, ‘I understand.’

‘But this is not the case here,’ Josse finished.

‘No, it’s not,’ the infirmarer agreed. ‘Just that clear, colourless fluid.’

‘Could she recently have taken a drink of water?’ the Abbess suggested. ‘In her distress, she might simply have spat it out.’

Again Josse met Sister Euphemia’s eyes. He was quite sure she thought it as unlikely as he did, although both of them were too polite to say so. ‘It’s possible, my lady,’ the infirmarer said.