Perhaps the Eye should really have been placed on the altar. But then, she thought, the good Lord knows quite well where it is.
Feeling that her steps were suddenly lighter, she bowed before the cross, murmured one final prayer, and walked away.
In the morning, Josse came to find her and said that he and Yves were about to leave. Yves was eager to return home to Acquin, and Josse wanted him to put up at New Winnowlands at least for a night before he did so.
‘I wish you both a good journey,’ she said, ‘Yves in particular, since he has the farther to go.’
‘He’ll be all right,’ Josse said. ‘I may even decide to go over to Acquin with him. It’s time I paid my family another visit.’
‘Will you stay in France for Christmas?’ she asked.
He hesitated, then said, ‘Perhaps. But there is another visit I now wish to make. Yves and I have been speaking at great length about my father, and about my mother, too. Summoning my mother’s memory has made me realise that I should have made some effort to maintain contact with her kinfolk. After all, they are only at Lewes, which is not all that far from here.’
‘Lewes,’ she repeated. ‘A pleasant town.
‘Is it? I can scarcely remember. Well, I dare say I shall be seeing it again for myself, before long.’
‘Don’t forget us here at Hawkenlye in all this travelling around,’ she said. ‘We are always pleased to see you.’ Watching him, the comforting solidity of him, the honest face that expressed his total dependability, she thought that ‘pleased’ was perhaps understating the case.
‘I won’t forget,’ he said quietly. Then, as if he were suddenly finding this parting rather hard, he lunged forward, took her hand and kissed it, instantly seeming ashamed of his courteous action. He said quickly, ‘Thank you, Abbess Helewise. From the bottom of my heart,’ and hurried away.
She knew perfectly well the cause of his deep gratitude; she hoped, in that moment, that it was justified and that she had taken the right decision.
She was not entirely sure. .
She gave him a while to collect his belongings and order the horses. Then, wishing to say goodbye to him and to Yves and to wish them God’s speed, she went out to the gates.
They were on the point of leaving. Yves, seeing her, came over to her and thanked her for her hospitality. ‘Keep us in your prayers, my lady,’ he said. Then, looking intently at her, he added, ‘I am glad to have met you at last. Now I-’
But whatever he had been about to say was brushed aside by a call from Josse. ‘Come on, Yves, don’t be all day or we’ll be too late for Ella to cook up a decent dinner.’
Yves gave Helewise a last glance. Then he smiled at her and, turning, mounted his horse.
Josse looked down at her but, other than a muttered, ‘Farewell, Abbess Helewise,’ said no more.
There was, she reflected, little more to say.
She called out her goodbyes to them both, and stood waving until the two brothers were out of sight. Then, feeling suddenly downcast, she went back to her room.
Postscript
Helewise had taken her time over deciding how to go about using the Eye of Jerusalem. The stone still gave out its strange emanations when she picked it up but, after its night under the altar, she no longer felt on it the dark shadow of brutal death.
But, as the end of October approached and the wet weather changed to bitter cold, the Abbey, the Vale and the infirmary steadily began to fill with people praying to be spared from sickness, praying for those already sick, and, naturally, with the sick themselves. It was just the time — if, indeed, the time were ever to come — to present Sister Euphemia and her nursing nuns with what might turn out to be a powerful ally.
The Eye lived up to its reputation. It lowered fevers. Or, of course, it might have been Sister Euphemia’s endless efforts, her patience and skill. Sister Euphemia, that was, guided by and acting for God.
Helewise was still very aware that a Prince had been — probably still was — going to considerable pains to track down the stone. She therefore urged caution in its use and the infirmarer and her nuns, too busy for questions, merely nodded and got on with their work. Observing them, she was gratified — and hardly surprised — to see that, overworked and tired as they were, still they obeyed her instructions faithfully; not even the merest glimpse of the Eye was permitted to the patients.
But for the gifts it bestowed — seemed to bestow, she reminded herself, still determined to retain at least a degree of scepticism — it might not have been there.
On the last day of October, All Saints’ Eve, Helewise went to seek out Sister Tiphaine. The infirmarer was asking for the next brew of the herbalist’s patent cough mixture and Helewise, at that moment having nothing better to do, had offered to go and fetch it.
Sister Tiphaine was nowhere to be found.
Someone said they’d heard her remark that she had to go out to gather ingredients for her concoction. The somebody — it was Sister Anne, endlessly interested in the doings of others but never very astute — also reported that Sister Tiphaine had said she might be some time.
Two things struck Helewise.
One was that Sister Tiphaine should not have left the Abbey without asking her Abbess’s permission.
The other was that the herbalist would indeed be a long time, if she really had set out to gather fresh ingredients. Because it was October — almost November — and nothing was growing.
February to the end of October, thought Helewise. Nine months.
And she thought she knew exactly where Sister Tiphaine had gone.
What should she do? Follow the herbalist out into the forest? But she had absolutely no idea where she had gone, if, indeed, she was in the forest at all.
And I still may be wrong in my suspicions, she thought, chewing at her thumbnail in her anxiety. Sister Tiphaine may know nothing whatsoever of the forest folk and those with whom they associate. She might be doing exactly what she said she was doing, collecting ingredients for the cough remedy. And what a fool I should look, if I go out searching for her, find her going peacefully about her duties and can find no excuse for having hunted her down except that she should not have left the Abbey without my permission.
Which, given the urgency with which Sister Euphemia requires that medicine, would be a little over-fussy of me.
I cannot solve this one, she decided. I have pressed Tiphaine as much as I can, and she stares blank eyed and declares she has nothing to say. I must leave this matter, I think, to her own conscience. If indeed she bears a secret and has been withholding something that I, her Abbess, have a right to be told, then it may weigh upon her so that, in time, she will confess it.
A thought struck her. Sister Tiphaine might well have done just that. And Father Gilbert, her confessor, would certainly not report it to the Abbess.
Helewise had come, she realised, to a stone wall.
She made her way to the church. In the peace of its cool interior, the light of the autumn day was already beginning to fade. She knelt in front of the altar and put the matter into God’s hands.
Then she prayed, ‘Of thy mercy, dear Lord, look after Sister Tiphaine. If she is abroad in the forest, guide her footsteps so that she may go about her business — whatever it is — watched over by Thee and, in her own good time, return safely to us.
‘And if what I suspect is right, please, Lord, look after Joanna as well.’