She had told Sister Tiphaine what she suspected. Had asked — no, ordered — the herbalist to tell her the truth. Tiphaine had stared steadily at her out of those deep, mysterious eyes and said, ‘I have nothing to tell, my lady Abbess.’
Which, as Helewise was well aware, was ambiguous and could equally well mean, there is nothing to tell, or — surely more likely! — I have something to tell you but I am not going to.
It was Helewise’s duty, as Abbess of Hawkenlye, to care for the souls of her nuns. And, if Sister Tiphaine were concealing something, something for which she was willing to lie, then it was up to Helewise to get her to admit it, confess it and seek absolution.
‘But if it concerns Sir Josse!’ Helewise had pressed, voice an urgent whisper.
And Sister Tiphaine, face a blank, had said, ‘If what concerns Sir Josse?’
Now Josse had been in the herbalist’s company. There must have been a moment when she could have taken him aside and told him. .
But it seemed that she had not.
Which, Helewise reflected, slowly getting to her feet, probably meant that she had been wrong all along, that Sister Euphemia had been mistaken and that there was nothing to tell.
She had, she realised, come to the end of that particular road.
For now.
In the morning, the Prince came to see her. He apologised for having taken up so much of the Abbey’s valuable time and announced that he and his party were about to depart for London.
‘You still search for Galbertius Sidonius?’ she asked innocently.
‘We do,’ Prince John agreed. ‘I believe we have wasted our time in coming here to Hawkenlye; either that or your monks, my lady, are very adept at concealing things which they do not wish outsiders to know.’ The intelligent blue eyes regarded her steadily; it was an unnerving experience, but she hung on to her courage and stared back. After a moment, the Prince, with an almost imperceptible smile, murmured, ‘Ah, well.’
Then he said, ‘Dee has been gazing into that black ball of his, and he tells me there may be a sniff of the man up in the city. The Templars, apparently, may have a lead.’
Bless you, John Dee, she thought. ‘I wish you good luck,’ she said. ‘May you meet with success.’
He stared at her with ironic eyes. ‘Oh, my lady, how should I interpret that?’ he murmured.
‘However you wish,’ she replied primly. He was clever, she thought; too clever, really. It was proving difficult — more so that she had anticipated — to tread the delicate line between not telling or implying outright lies, and not giving away things that she must keep to herself.
He was still watching her. Feeling that if he went on staring quite so hard he would eventually see right into her heart and what it contained, she rose to her feet and said politely, ‘If you would reach London before dusk, it would be best for you not to tally, sire. I will accompany you to the gates, where I may wish your party God’s speed.’
Short of actually demanding what it was that she was not telling him — for which breach of manners he surely could have no excuse — there was nothing he could do but accept her courteous dismissal. They walked together across the cloisters and over to the gates, where the Prince’s men and the horses were waiting. Dee was already mounted; he bowed to Helewise and murmured a greeting.
What a true friend you have been, she thought, meeting his eyes and trying to transmit her gratitude. You are taking your Prince away not a moment too soon.
As if he had heard, Dee bowed his head once more and gave her a very sweet smile.
Josse and Yves came to join her, and they stood with the nuns as the royal party set off. When they were almost out of sight, Sister Martha gave a sigh and said, ‘Ah well, that’s that.’
Helewise hoped fervently that she was right.
As she had known he would, Josse asked to see her privately.
When they were alone in the safety of her room, he reached inside his tunic and handed her a small silver box. ‘This is what it has been kept in,’ he said, holding it out, ‘although you may of course prefer to make other arrangements.’
‘You hid it successfully last night, then.’
‘Aye.’ He smiled. ‘I buried it carefully round behind the latrines, where nobody in their right mind tarries long.’
‘Ah. Quite. And the Prince. .?’
‘Came down to the Vale early this morning. Said he wanted a last look at the Shrine, to say his prayers there and pray for the sick and the needy who come visiting.’
‘I see.’
‘No, I didn’t believe him, either.’ Josse laughed shortly.
‘He questioned you again?’
‘Aye. And the monks. To a man they gave the straightforward reply that they’d never heard of Galbertius Sidonius, and they spoke the truth. If Saul and Augustus — aye, and Erse, too — suspected there was more to the question, they had the sense not to say so.’
‘And you, Sir Josse?’
‘Oh, I lied through my teeth,’ he admitted easily. ‘Said I reckoned the fellow had never been here in the first place, and that I’d had no approaches by strangers bringing me long-lost family treasures. Promised I’d tell the Prince if anything came to light, too.’
‘I think,’ she said carefully after a moment’s thought, ‘that it might be wise to confess those lies to Father Gilbert, in due course. Bearing false witness is a sin, Sir Josse, even if done with the purest of intentions.’
‘Aye,’ he said, his face grave. ‘Aye, my lady. I will seek out the Father.’ With the ghost of a smile, he added, ‘But happen I’ll wait until Prince John has had time to get safely back to London.’
She bowed her agreement. It seemed the least she could do.
He was still holding the silver box. She held out her hand, and he placed the box in it. ‘Do you want to have one last look?’ she asked, about to see if she could work open the little fastening.
Josse came to stand beside her and said, ‘You push that tiny lever and a spring makes the lid pop open. No!’ — as she went to do so — ‘please, Abbess, don’t, not till I’ve gone.’
‘Very well, but why?’
He grinned sheepishly. ‘I might change my mind.’
Then, with uncharacteristic haste and the briefest of farewells, he hurried out through the door and was gone.
She sat quite still for some time. Then she sprang open the lid of the silver box and took out the Eye of Jerusalem.
Again, she felt the tremor in her hands, as if the stone were communicating with her. But stones are inert and do not behave like that, she told herself firmly. She put it back in its box and was about to fasten the box’s silver chain around her neck when she noticed that it was broken.
Of course. Galbertius Sidonius had done that when he wrenched the Eye in its case from the neck of the Lombard’s young servant. The box, the chain, even the jewel itself, carried death with them.
She knew then what she must do.
She waited until evening.
Then, after Compline, when the church was empty, she went forward to the simple altar and, praying as fervently as she knew how, fell on her knees and begged God’s help.
I cannot turn this jewel away, she pleaded silently, because poor Josse has entrusted it to me, and he has good reasons for doing so. Also, we must see whether it can in fact help us in our work, because it may have been your intent, Lord, to bring it to us for that very purpose.
She thought hard, then resumed.
But the Eye carries the taint of violence, and I am not happy for it to be used until it has been purged. Therefore, dear Lord, I leave it with you, here in your holy house, and I pray that you cleanse it and make it fit for the healing work to which we would try to put it.
That was all she wanted to say. She prayed on, and the familiar, comforting words restored and calmed her, as they always did. Then, making absolutely sure she was alone, she crept round behind the altar and located the hidden ledge beneath it where a wooden support was concealed under the plain linen covering. She put the Eye in its box on to the shelf, then let the cloth fall back into place.