‘It’s Nesta. She’s with the nuns in Polsloe.’
For a moment, de Wolfe’s bruised brain thought that, like his wife, his mistress had also taken the veil, until the memory of Dame Madge and her special art came to him. Now the words were tumbling out of Thomas, as he explained what had happened, carefully leaving out any hint of the fatherhood of the child.
‘Some fool came into the Bush blathering a rumour that you were dead — that’s what did the damage, in the fragile state that she was in,’ he concluded.
John felt as if the whole of this day was a bad dream — or a nightmare.
His head ached, he had flashing lights in his left eye and he could feel blood still oozing out through the rough bandages on his side. To be faced now with the news that his mistress had narrowly been saved from throwing herself into the river, before possibly miscarrying his child, was almost too much to be taken in. He stood in the yard, dazed by the overload of events. Gwyn, himself shaken by this news of a woman for whom he had such affection, rested a fatherly hand on John’s shoulder.
‘I’ll ride to Polsloe this minute, to see how matters stand. You must get some rest — and have that wound attended to.’
John abruptly threw off his confusion. ‘We’ll go together, Gwyn. And thank you, Thomas, for your aid to the poor woman. You’re a good man and I’ll not forget it!’ The clerk gaped at these unheard-of words of thanks from his dour master, but was warmed inside by their sincerity.
With Mary and Thomas staring anxiously after them, the two men left to reclaim their horses from across the lane, John having Odin saddled up this time. Half an hour later, they were at the door of the little priory outside the city. Someone must have seen them walking across from the gate, for by the time they reached the door in the West Range, Dame Madge herself was waiting there to greet them. Her tall, hunched frame was draped in her usual black habit, but over it she wore a white linen apron, which ominously had a few spots of blood upon it.
The nun’s gaunt face displayed the suspicion of a smile as she noticed John’s eyes stray to the apron. ‘No, that’s from another woman in childbed, Sir John. Come with me.’
She stepped outside and walked along a gravel path to the left, aiming for the kitchen and the South Range beyond. ‘This is where we have our infirmary now. Your friend is there.’ She used the word carefully, with no hint in her voice of disapproval.
‘So what happened? And how is she faring?’ queried John, almost afraid to ask, in case the answer was devastating.
‘She has lost the babe, may God bless it. I fear she is not at all well, both in body and mind. There was a great issue of blood when she miscarried, which has weakened her.’
‘But she will recover?’ demanded John, his legs feeling weak as he anticipated the answer.
The dame pursed her lips. ‘As long as no puerperal fever or white-leg sets in, she should survive. The loss of blood is the main problem. But I am concerned for her state of mind. She seems to have little will to improve herself.’ She looked askance at the coroner. ‘All she does is ask for you!’
They had reached the door into the infirmary and entered a short corridor off which were several small cells. Farther along, the corridor opened into a larger room from which came the murmur of a number of voices.
‘She’s in here — you can see her only for a brief moment,’ commanded the formidable nun, standing at the door of the first little cubicle. Stepping inside, John saw that the only furnishings were a low bed, a stool and a large crucifix on the wall. Beneath that was the heart-shaped face of Nesta, deathly pale against the red hair that flowed over the pillow.
Her eyes were closed, but when he spoke her name they opened and the most radiant smile he had ever seen in his life spread across her face, like the sun rising on a clear morning.
‘John! You are alive — or are we both in heaven?’
‘If heaven be Polsloe, then yes, we are both dead — but together!’
John bent to smooth a hand over her high forehead and gently kiss her cheek. Even the nun, aware of his wife somewhere under the same roof, could not resist a benign smile — and Gwyn was unashamedly delighted.
‘The babe has gone, John. It must have been God’s will,’ murmured Nesta. Privately, Dame Madge was not so sure. She saw too many infants failing to survive to believe that the Almighty wished to lose any more. After a few short minutes, she firmly expelled John and his henchman from the room.
‘The girl is very weak. She needs quiet and sustenance to build back the blood she lost,’ she said as John reluctantly left, with a promise to visit as often as he could. As the door closed, the nun looked down at the large stain that darkened his tunic.
‘Speaking of lost blood, what have you done to yourself, Crowner?’
Though John falsely protested the wound’s triviality, Gwyn joined her in pushing the reluctant warrior across the corridor into another small chamber, where basins of water, cloths and shelves of salves proclaimed its function. In minutes he was placed on a stool, his tunic stripped off and the top of his breeches turned down to expose the blood-soaked dressing that had been put on earlier that morning.
With much tut-tutting, the dame called down the corridor for another elderly nun and between them they uncovered his wound and cleaned it up. Then, with a needle and thread, she pulled the edges of the slash together with three neat stitches, John gritting his teeth as the bodkin pushed through his tender flesh. Covered with salve and neatly bandaged with a long strip of linen wound around his waist, he felt infinitely more comfortable.
‘In more ways than one, I owe this priory a great deal for the help I have received,’ he said gratefully to the infirmarian.
‘It is our duty to use what gifts God gave us for the good of all,’ replied Dame Madge.
‘You will find me not ungenerous after all this,’ murmured de Wolfe, but the indefatigable nun had an answer for everything.
‘You are a good man, as men go, Sir John. But your best gift to God would be to conduct your personal affairs as honourably as you do your public duties!’
With Gwyn trying to suppress a grin behind him, the chastened coroner left the treatment chamber. As he stepped into the passageway, he saw a figure at the far end and stopped dead. For a long moment he locked eyes with his wife, her square face holding an inscrutable expression. She wore a plain black robe and a white head-rail, almost identical with that of the nuns, and was carrying a tray.
John started towards her, but Dame Madge’s strong hand restrained him. A second later, Matilda swiftly turned her back on him and vanished into the larger room.
‘Does she still refuse to see me?’ he demanded, almost plaintively.
The tall nun steered him towards the outside door.
‘In the circumstances, could you think otherwise?’ she asked reasonably.
De Wolfe rode back to the city in a chastened mood. His wife still refused to acknowledge him, his mistress was desperately sick in both body and mind, and he had just lost his child. He had a sore head, a stinging wound in his side and a problem in the forest that seemed elusive and insoluble. Life was none too great today, and Gwyn, sensing his black mood, wisely kept silent during the short journey.
Passing through East Gate, they turned up Castle Hill at the top of which John glowered at the sentry as he entered Rougemont. Throwing Odin’s reins at the man, he slid from the saddle with a grimace of pain from the pull of his new stitches and loped off across the inner ward towards the keep. As he had half expected, the sheriff had not yet returned from his manor in Tiverton, and John returned to the gatehouse, where Gwyn was sitting in the guard room with a jar of ale.
‘Go home to St Sidwell’s and see your wife, she’ll have forgotten what you look like,’ John said gruffly. ‘And I thank you once more for your faithful service. I just might not have got from against that tree if you’d not persisted in looking for me!’ Like Thomas, Gwyn was unused to any thanks from de Wolfe and scratched his crotch vigorously to cover his embarrassment.