Abbess Helewise had looked up as the nun spoke. Now, as Josse stood before her, she sat perfectly still, studying him. Her face, framed in starched white beneath the black veil, was strong-featured, with well-marked eyebrows, large grey eyes, and a wide mouth which looked as if it smiled readily.
But she was not smiling now.
If he hadn’t known it was impossible, he’d almost have said she was waiting for him; there was no suprise in the calm face, no expression of enquiry in the eyes.
‘Josse d’Acquin,’ she said, presumably repeating what her nun had said. ‘And what, Josse d’Acquin, do you wish of us?’
He presented his papers and allowed them to speak for him. If Abbess Helewise was as impressed by the royal seal as her porteress, she gave no indication, but, opening up the letter which it secured, read right through it.
Then, folding it and smoothing it with a surprisingly square and strong-looking hand — somehow Josse had imagined nuns’ hands to be invariably pale and long, more suitable to prayer than to cracking walnuts — she looked up at him.
And said, ‘I had imagined someone like you would arrive, sooner or later. You wish, I have no doubt, that I tell you what I know of Gunnora of Winnowlands?’
‘I do, madam.’ Was that the right form of address for an abbess? If it wasn’t, she didn’t seem to mind.
Her face, tense with some inner strain, suddenly relaxed, and for an instant she almost smiled. ‘Please, my lord knight, sit. May I offer you refreshment?’ She reached for a small brass bell. ‘It is’ — now the smile was unmistakable — ‘a long way from the court of King Richard.’
‘I have not come direct from there.’ He returned the smile, pulling up the indicated chair and seating himself. ‘But, aye, refreshment would be welcome.’ Another of Josse’s soldierly habits was never to refuse food or drink when it was offered, on the grounds that you never knew when it was going to be offered again.
Abbess Helewise rang her bell, and asked the nun who responded to bring ale and bread. When these had been served — the bread was warm and unexpectedly delicious, and there was a sliver of some strong cheese with it which Josse guessed was goat — the Abbess began to speak.
‘Gunnora had been with us a little under a year,’ she said, ‘and I cannot say that her admission to our community was entirely a success. She appeared to be devout, spoke with fervour, at our first meeting, of the certainty of her vocation. But-’ The dark eyebrows drew together. ‘But something was lacking. Something did not ring true.’ She glanced at Josse, and, again, there was the faint smile. ‘You will no doubt ask me to elaborate, and I fear I cannot. Except to say that, in general, Gunnora had the wrong character for convent life. She said the right things, but they did not come from the heart. As a consequence, she did not really fit in with us, and, knowing this, naturally, she was not happy.’ Instantly correcting herself, she said, ‘Did not appear to be happy, rather, for she confided neither in me nor, as far as I know, in any of her sisters.’
‘I see.’ He tried to absorb the rapid thumbnail sketch of the dead nun, and failed. He was having a problem of adjustment: until this moment, she had been just that, a dead nun. Now, suddenly, she was a person. Not a very happy person. ‘Did she have any particular friends?’ he asked, more for something to say than any real desire to know. Was it relevant if she did have?
‘No.’ Abbess Helewise didn’t hesitate. ‘Well, not, that is, until-’
She was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed almost instantly by the arrival of a plump nun of about fifty. ‘Abbess Helewise, I’m so sorry to barge in on you, but — oh. Sorry.’
Blushing a hot, embarrassed red, the nun backed out of the room.
‘May I present my infirmarer, Sister Euphemia,’ the Abbess said calmly. ‘Euphemia, come back in. This is Josse d’Acquin.’ Josse stood up and bowed. ‘He has come from the Plantagenet court. He wishes to hear what we may be able to tell him of poor Gunnora.’
‘He does?’ The infirmarer’s eyes rounded ‘Why?’
Abbess Helewise glanced at Josse, as if to say, shall I tell her or will you? Receiving no response, she said, ‘Because, Euphemia, King Richard has doubly a need to understand what lies behind her murder. For one thing, she was of our community here at Hawkenlye, and his mother the Queen Eleanor has close contacts with our house. For another, it was in order to perpetrate the good and clement reputation of our new sovereign that a number of prisoners were released from jail, one of whom, it seems likely, committed this outrage on our sister.’
Josse could not recall either reason having been expressed in the papers from Richard’s court. His opinion of Abbess Helewise rose.
The infirmarer was looking increasingly distressed. ‘Abbess, it’s about the poor lass that I need to speak to you! Only…’ She looked pointedly at Josse.
‘I’ll wait outside,’ he said.
‘No,’ Abbess Helewise said, in a tone that suggested she was used to people doing what she said. ‘Whatever Euphemia has to say, I shall only have to repeat to you. You had better hear it from her own lips. Euphemia?’
Josse felt sorry for the infirmarer, who had clearly neither expected nor wanted an audience of more than the Abbess. ‘It’s not easy,’ she hedged.
‘I am sure it is not.’ The Abbess was relentless. ‘Please, try.’
‘I know I shouldn’t have done it,’ the infirmarer burst out, ‘and it’s been on my conscience ever since. I can bear it no longer, truly I can’t, believe me! I’ve just got to tell someone. I’ll confess and do penance, I don’t mind, it’ll be such a relief. Whatever I’m told to do, I’ll do it, with a good grace, no matter how harsh it is!’
‘Quite,’ the Abbess said when the infirmarer at last paused for breath. ‘Now, what shouldn’t you have done?’
‘Shouldn’t have gone looking at her, examining her. Only I meant well, really I did, and anyway, I let my curiosity get the better of me.’
‘How?’ asked the Abbess patiently. ‘I think you had better explain, Euphemia. You speak of Gunnora?’
‘Of course! I said, didn’t I? I was laying her out — oh! Terrible it was, that great wound in her poor throat, made me fair weep, I can tell you.’
‘You did well,’ the Abbess said, more warmly. ‘It cannot have been a pleasant task.’
‘That it wasn’t! Anyway, when I’d tidied her up at the top end, I thought I ought to-’ she paused delicately.
‘Go on, Euphemia,’ the Abbess said. ‘Our visitor is aware, I’m sure, of the other outrage perpetrated on our late sister. You were saying, you went on to wash the cuts and abrasions caused by the rape, and-’
‘That’s just it! There wasn’t any rape!’ interrupted the infirmarer.
‘What?’ The Abbess and Josse spoke the word together. ‘There must have been,’ the Abbess went on, ‘the thighs and the groin were drenched in blood.’
‘You must be mistaken,’ Josse said gently. ‘It’s quite understandable, Sister Euphemia, after all, it must have been an appalling job.’
‘I’m not mistaken.’ Euphemia spoke with dignity. ‘Sir, I may not know much, but I do know the female genitalia. I was a midwife, afore I entered the cloister, and I’ve seen more vaginas than you’ve had hot suppers. Oh!’ Belatedly remembering where she was, she blushed again, a hand to her mouth. ‘Forgive me, Abbess Helewise,’ she muttered from behind it, ‘I didn’t mean to sound coarse.’
‘I am sure you didn’t,’ Abbess Helewise said graciously. ‘Continue. You were explaining to us your familiarity with the private parts of the female anatomy.’
‘Yes, that I was. Well, see, the hymen was still there. In full, like.’ Euphemia paused, but nobody spoke. ‘She was virgo intacta when she died, Abbess. Nobody’d raped her, not then, not ever.’