One morning, curiosity overcoming her, Helewise stopped by Peg’s bench and looked down over the girl’s shoulder to see what she was reading. It was an ancient and, to Helewise, almost incomprehensible manuscript on tree lore.
* * *
When Peg’s year as a postulant was up, she renewed her request to take her vows and be admitted to the community. Helewise, still dubious, could find no valid reason to refuse; in the midsummer, when Peg was fifteen, the girl took the veil and became the youngest novice that Hawkenlye Abbey had ever had.
When Helewise was preparing her for her first vows, Peg had said, ‘Abbess, may I be known by another name?’
Initially surprised, Helewise quickly understood. Or thought she did. ‘Yes, Peg. Sister Peg, I do see, is not the most harmonious of epithets, is it?’
Peg smiled. ‘No. But it’s not that. My foster parents chose according to their own lights, and I have never complained. It’s-’ She stopped. Then asked, ‘Need I give a reason, Abbess?’
Helewise, who reflected that she was usually prepared to accept unquestioningly what every other new nun chose to call herself, saw no justice in making an exception now. ‘No, Peg. I suppose not. What name do you wish us to call you?’
Peg said, ‘Caliste.’
* * *
Sister Caliste had spent the past year as a willing and obedient novice. In much the same way, Helewise thought, as she had probably spent her early years as a dutiful chicken-tending peasant child. What troubled the Abbess was that, just as the life of a peasant could have utilised only a fraction of Caliste’s potential — only a fraction, apparently, of her soul — the same could be said of her life as a novice nun.
There is no complaint I can make against her! Helewise repeatedly told herself. She is always punctual, always diligent, always does her best to please. Never complains — which was more than could be said for many of the sisters — even when the most arduous tasks are laid on those straight young shoulders.
Why, then, did the Abbess feel so uneasy about Caliste?
* * *
Helewise rose from her knees, suppressing a groan of pain; she had been praying for an hour, foregoing the midday meal in the hope that offering her hunger to God might please Him, as a fair return for beseeching His help.
Quietly closing the great west door behind her, Helewise left the church.
Oh, but I do not feel any easier! she thought miserably as she crossed the cloister and made for the privacy of her room. I still cannot decide what to do, although that indecision itself makes me feel that the girl’s final vows must be postponed, at least until this present and deeply unsettling business has been-
‘Abbess?’ called a voice.
Helewise turned. Sister Ursel was hurrying towards her, a broad smile on her face.
Helewise, crushing the thought that a long conversation with the porteress was the last thing she wanted just then, arranged her own features into a corresponding smile and said, ‘Sister Ursel. What can I do for you?’
‘Abbess, you’ve got a visitor!’ Sister Ursel said. ‘Sister Martha’s just seeing to his horse, and he’s having a bit of a natter with her, but then he says he’d like to come to see you, if that’s all right? Only I said I thought it would be.’
Helewise waited patiently for her to finish. Then said, ‘And who, Sister Ursel, is “he”?’
‘Oh, didn’t I say?’ Sister Ursel chuckled. ‘No, I didn’t, did I? It’s just that I was so pleased to see him again, looking exactly the same, for all it must be two years since he came to see us, and…’
‘Sister Ursel?’ Helewise interrupted gently.
‘That Josse, Abbess!’ Sister Ursel exclaimed. ‘That Sir Josse d’Acquin, I should say. Come over from his grand new house, he has, to pay his respects!’
* * *
As she sat in her room waiting for Josse to finish his gossiping with Sister Martha and come to join her, Helewise reflected on what a wonderful piece of chance it was, for Josse to turn up just now. Why, it might be heaven sent, it was so perfect! An outsider, but a friend nevertheless, whom she knew to be sensible and trustworthy, arriving at the very moment that she had need of a wise and sympathetic ear!
As she heard Josse’s heavy tread outside, she saw, in a flash of insight, that heaven sent was precisely what he was; her hour-long, desperate prayers had been heard after all.
* * *
The Abbess Helewise looked well, Josse thought, sitting down on the same insubstantial stool he remembered from two years ago; had nobody suggested to her, in all that time, that the larger of her male visitors might be easier in a chair? She had the same calm expression, same clear grey eyes, same wide mouth.
But, knowing her as he did, for all that — for all that she might appear well — there was something on her mind. There had to be! Because, as he rambled on and on about his new house, about this plan and that, about Will and Ella and their respective skills in looking after him, he suspected quite soon that she wasn’t really listening.
‘Oh, really?’ she said, and, ‘Lovely!’ and, ‘How very pleasant.’ When he said, feeling slightly mean, ‘There’s a terrible smell in the main hall, I think it’s probably been used by wild boar,’ and she answered, ‘Oh, how nice,’ then he knew she wasn’t listening.
He leaned forward, noticing, from a closer vantage point, the fine lines of anxiety between her brows. ‘Abbess Helewise,’ he said gently, ‘that wasn’t the right answer.’ Briefly he confessed to what he had just done, and, her pale cheeks flushing slightly, the Abbess apologised. Waving away her discomfiture, he said, ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?’
Her eyes flew to his. ‘Nothing! I’m worrying about nothing, I’m quite sure. And, anyway, I shouldn’t be unburdening my concern on to you, why, you’ve only just arrived!’
‘Ah.’ He bided his time.
After several moments, she said, ‘It’s Sister Caliste. A young novice.’
‘Ah,’ he said again.
She sighed. He perceived in her the struggle between her natural reticence and her need for the relief of talking. Eventually — as he had hoped it would — the need to talk won.
‘Yes.’ Another sigh. ‘You see, my strong instinct is to put off the first of her final vows, and I can give no good reason for it.’
‘Must you explain your decision?’ he asked.
‘Officially, perhaps not.’ She smiled briefly. ‘But Caliste is a sensitive and intelligent girl, and I feel I owe her an explanation.’
There was a reflective silence in the little room. Then Josse said, ‘You and I, Abbess Helewise, have shared our worries before, to both our own and others’ benefit.’ He hesitated. Should he go on, even bearing in mind all that they had endured together in the past?
Yes, he decided. He should.
He said gently, ‘Why don’t you tell me about her?’
After a slight pause, Helewise did so.
* * *
Listening, Josse thought, I think she’s quite right, for what it’s worth. Another year as a novice will give both girl and the Abbey some much needed extra time.
‘… you see, Sir Josse,’ the Abbess was saying, ‘and, what with her odd behaviour since the time of the murder, well, it’s just the final straw.’
Realising he had missed something — something rather important — Josse said sharply, ‘Murder, Abbess?’
She murmured something; it sounded like, ‘Now who’s not listening,’ then proceeded to tell him the few slim facts about the death of Hamm Robinson all over again.
‘I bring you bad luck,’ Josse observed when she had finished. ‘The last time I was here, it was because of a murder. Now here I am again, and, heralding my return, someone else is slain.’
‘People have been killed in the intervening years,’ the Abbess said. ‘Much as it pains me to say so, we live in violent times, Sir Josse. When men are hungry, when they act recklessly and fear retribution, such things lead all too easily to the swift blow, delivered too hard.’