Whiter than the Lily (34 page)

‘I rode home with Ambrose because – er, because—’ She found that she was at a loss to explain without either making Ambrose appear weak or herself sound self-important.

But Josse, bless him, said, ‘I think I understand. You helped him to face a home without her.’

And thankfully she whispered, ‘Yes.’

After a moment she said, ‘What happened?’

Josse replied, ‘We do not know the full story yet. Galiena refuses to tell us; she begged our indulgence but said it was only proper that she reveals it first to Ambrose.’

‘So you have had to contain your impatience,’ she murmured. ‘How very trying for you.’

He gave her a sharp glance. ‘Indeed, my lady.’

‘The dead girl whom we buried at Hawkenlye,’ Helewise asked softly, ‘do you know her true identity?’

‘Not so far,’ he whispered back. ‘Galiena implies that she may be able to tell us. You think of her grave, I imagine?’

‘I do. She is buried in our plot as Galiena Ryemarsh but clearly that is not who she was.’

‘Hm.’ He thought for a moment. ‘My lady, if it is necessary I will press the matter for you. It may be that it is overlooked in the excitement of Galiena’s return, but I know that it is important to you and I will help if I can.’

‘Thank you.’ She touched his arm lightly with her
fingers. And she thought, dear Josse. Dependable as ever.

When Galiena reappeared, it was obvious that she had taken great trouble over her appearance. Her clear skin shone with cleanliness and her hair had been washed and was still damp; as it dried, its white-blonde colour reappeared. There was a bruise on her forehead and her deep blue eyes seemed overlarge in her pale face. Before she had time to say more than a few words of greeting to the company, Isabella led her firmly over to the table and stood over her while she ate a plateful of food and drank some rich red wine.

Then, with Ambrose holding her hand, she went to sit beside him on one of the benches that Brice and Josse had drawn up before the great fireplace. Brice and Isabella sat on another, Josse and Helewise on the third.

As they settled themselves, Helewise studied the girl’s face. Yes, there was a strong resemblance to the woman who had taken her identity and ridden into Hawkenlye Abbey. But Galiena was lighter in build, shorter in stature and her face was finer-boned. She was also younger, by quite a few years, Helewise guessed. And she had a – how to describe it? An altogether
softer
quality, she decided. An air of kindness, of generosity, as if anyone approaching her would know instinctively that they had found a friend.

It was no wonder, Helewise thought, that she and the Hawkenlye nuns had formed such a very dissimilar impression of the woman they knew as Galiena
Ryemarsh from that which Josse had gained; the Hawkenlye nuns and Josse had unknowingly been talking about two different women.

At last Galiena was ready to speak. Looking first at Ambrose, she said, ‘My dearest, it is through the efforts of three very dear people that I am here returned to you, and I would first give them my heartfelt thanks.’ Standing, she bowed to Josse, to Brice and to Isabella, who in turn got up to return the courtesy. Then, looking at Helewise, she said, ‘My lady Abbess, you and I should have met some days ago, and I wish that it had been so, for many people would then have been spared pain, heartache and death.’ Death! Helewise thought. Well, there was the dead woman at Hawkenlye and also the poor young groom, Dickon, whose body Brother Saul and Brother Augustus had discovered.

Hoping very much that the death toll was not to be any greater, she said, ‘Galiena, I too wish that you had made your way in safety to Hawkenlye and found the help from my nuns that you had hoped for.’

Galiena’s eyes were firm on Helewise’s. ‘I shall come, my lady,’ she said. ‘If I may.’

‘Of course,’ Helewise said. ‘We shall look forward to it.’

‘Sweetheart, will you now proceed with your tale?’ Ambrose prompted gently.

And with an obedient nod she did so.

Some time later, in the soft darkness of the midsummer night, Helewise again walked in Galiena’s garden.
Ambrose had taken his wife off to bed some time ago; the young woman was clearly exhausted and had wanted nothing more, once her story was told, than to lie in her husband’s arms and seek the comfort of a long sleep. Isabella had been given a guest chamber next to Helewise’s, and she too had retired, as had Josse and Brice to their own chamber. The three of them had been almost as tired as Galiena and, despite the many things she burned to talk over with Josse, Helewise had seen that it would have been cruel to keep him from his rest.

The only wakeful person in the house, she had waited till all was quiet and then slipped outside. Now, walking alone in the soft, scented night, she went right back to the start of Galiena’s extraordinary story and went through it all over again …

She had had such high hopes of the Hawkenlye nuns. Had known, somehow, that they would be able to help her. And, oh, how she wanted to be helped! To give her beloved Ambrose a child was her dearest wish. And she wanted children too, for her own sake, she who had known such love in her childhood from those generous, big-hearted people who had taken her in and who, in all but the blood, were her true kin. A boy first, she hoped – and, with Ambrose’s permission, we will call him Raelf – and then a little girl. Two little girls. The first we will call after my beloved Isabella, closer to me than any sister, and the second, Audra for my mother
.

They set out for the Abbey as soon as they could. Dear Ambrose had not been able to ride with them, preoccupied
as he was with the business of the King’s ransom. But it did not matter because Josse d’Acquin offered to escort her part of the way, and young Dickon and Aebba would accompany her on the remainder of the road to Hawkenlye
.

She had never liked Aebba and did not welcome her company. She did not care for Aebba to be with her even when she was about her normal daily round and to have her there, a silent and oppressive presence, on this particular journey, with its precious and above all private purpose, was depressing. But Aebba had a claim on Galiena and Galiena did not feel that it was right to send her away
.

It happened only a few miles after they had passed New Winnowlands, where they had left Josse. The three of them, Galiena, Aebba and Dickon, were riding on a stretch of track that was shady and dark beneath overhanging trees. Dickon – poor Dickon! – was in the lead, Galiena behind him and Aebba in the rear
.

Five men in rough cloaks, their fair hair long and plaited, jumped out on to the track. Four leapt on them, the fifth – who had a woman riding pillion behind him – sat on his horse watching. Dickon was dragged to the ground; Galiena was grabbed by two men who rushed up on either side of her. Spinning round, she screamed to Aebba to help her
.

But Aebba just sat there
.

Dickon was on his feet, wrestling with the man who had thrown him down, and he managed to cripple his assailant with a knee to the man’s groin
.

‘Yes, Dickon!’ Galiena had yelled, wildly struggling
with the two men holding her arms. They had pulled her from her horse and she kicked out hard, trying to catch them on their shins. Dickon, hearing her cry, spun round to look at her
.

He shouted back, encouraging her – ‘Aye, that’s right, my lady, fight dirty! That’s the way! A heel in the bollocks if you can, then—’

But then the fifth man, who appeared to be the leader of the band, rushed at him, a club in his upraised right arm. He brought it crashing down on the back of Dickon’s head. And Dickon neither fought nor cried out any more
.

They wrapped him in some sacking and rolled him in a ditch. They made an attempt to cover him with leaves and branches, but it was not a proper burial. And nobody said prayers for him except Galiena, who said the words silently, for God’s ears alone, as the tears flowed down her face
.

In her grief and her shock, they thought to overcome her easily. But as Aebba curtly ordered her to control herself, because there was a long way to go, something in Galiena woke up again. Waiting her moment, she stood drooping until the chance came
.

Then, grabbing an unguarded moment, she leapt back into the saddle and, shouting ‘Help! Help!’ at the top of her voice in case some blessed traveller should be within earshot, she raced away. They were after her instantly and, half-turning, she grasped her riding whip and launched a savage, cutting slice at the face of the man nearest to her. As he cried out in pain, the man behind her kicked his horse and came up on her other side, so she
slashed at him too. Then she set spurs to her mare’s sides and flew off up the track
.

But the two men she had attacked were not badly hurt and there were still three more men and Aebba. Galiena’s resistance did not last long; the men’s horses rode down her gallant mare and soon they were upon her. They took her down from the mare and, as she stood held fast in their firm grip, the woman got down from the fifth man’s horse and swung up into Galiena’s saddle. Then, after a quick exchange with the leader, she and Aebba rode off up the track, westwards towards Hawkenlye
.

Galiena was still wondering why the woman was dressed in garments that should have been hanging in Galiena’s own bedchamber when the two women disappeared around a bend in the road
.

Now the men took no chances. Her hands were bound behind her back and, to stop her shouting again for help, they stuffed a cloth in her mouth and tied it in place with a length of cord. Then they put a heavy cloak around her and pulled its hood over her head, securing it with more cord until she was trussed so tight that she could hardly move. Then they slung her across the saddlebow of the leader of the band
.

Throughout the endless journey to Saltwych, she bounced helpless before him, the cloth in her mouth making it hard to breathe and the hot cloak making the sweat pour off her. They must have passed along secret, hidden byways, for she heard no sounds of any other horses and the only voices she heard during her long ordeal were those of her captors
.

Her pride kept her going. She would not give them the
satisfaction of hearing her muffled sobs. Biting on the gag, she kept her resolve. And she survived
.

They got to Saltwych in the night. Hands on her hips and her shoulders dragged her down from the horse and the cloak was untied and taken off her. In her silk gown, soaked with her own sweat, she stood shivering in the cool air. With her hands still tied behind her and the gag in her mouth, she was taken into the long hall. Past the animals, restless at being disturbed from sleep, past the gawping people who stared at her, bound and captive, until she stood before a blond man in a throne and a man with silver eyes who sat beside him
.

The man in the throne wore a circlet around his brows. He said, ‘I am Aelle. You know what I am and what you are to me, for you were told long ago. But you seem to have forgotten us, your blood kin, and we sent Aebba to remind you.’

She could not speak and refused to try. With an impatient curse, Aelle ordered one of her guards to remove the cloth. Her mouth horribly dry, she tried to form words. The silver-eyed man got up, poured water in a cup and, coming to her side, held it to her lips, tipping it carefully so that she could drink without choking
.

She drank her fill and then said, ‘Thank you.’

He gave her a grave bow and returned to his seat
.

‘Well?’ Aelle’s tone was curt
.

Sipping at the drink had given her precious thinking time. Now she said, ‘I know that I am the daughter of the last chieftain and that you, Aelle, are my brother. I know that our father wished to end our long isolation but that you, as soon as he was dead, took our people
straight back to the old ways. You sent me away because you feared I would take after our father and, as I grew up, would persuade the people that our father was right and you were wrong.’

Aelle said, ‘You have been well schooled in your own history.’

‘She taught me well,’ Galiena flashed back. Aelle knew whom she meant by ‘she’
.

‘And she also told you of the obligations that you owe to your blood kin? How, in return for our having placed you in a position of wealth and influence, you must support us and advance our status via your son?’

‘I have no son!’ she shouted, using anger to disguise the torment. ‘And the wealth that my husband owns is his to disperse as he sees fit!’

‘He disperses it now to bring back the king they call Lionheart!’ Aelle said with icy fury. ‘His wealth that should be yours and your kin’s to share will instead fill the coffers of some foreign duke while we slowly starve!’

‘Ah, now I see!’ She gave a harsh laugh as she understood. ‘I see why you had to do all this, why I have been brought here now to face your threats and insults. Because Ambrose chooses to answer the King’s appeal and you don’t like it! Well, it has all been for nothing because I will not help you!’

There was a short silence; she could almost hear the collective intake of breath of the people nervously listening all around them
.