The woman gave a sound of annoyance; hard, abrupt. Then: ‘They do not require intelligence of their nuns up at Hawkenlye, then.’ Helewise held her peace. ‘It’s obvious,’ the woman hurried on, eager now. ‘Leofgar has what Arthur ought to have. Leofgar has it all, Arthur has nothing. I am old now and I will not live much longer, yet I would see my son come into his inheritance before I die.’
‘Your son is illegitimate and has no legal claim on the Warins,’ Helewise stated flatly. ‘That is the law. It will not be changed to suit you.’
‘No legal claim, perhaps.’ The woman pretended not to have heard the rest of Helewise’s remark. ‘But he has a moral claim, do you not agree, Helewise? Your father-in-law used me cruelly and flung me away when he was finished with me, and my son and I have lived wretchedly ever since. Why should not Leofgar give some of what he has in such abundance to improve Arthur’s lot?’ When Helewise made no reply — she had no intention of doing so — the woman cried out, ‘I do not ask for much! But what I demand I will have, I swear to you, or else it will be the worst for Leofgar! You think he has suffered already? Well, you wait! If you do not give me what I want, you’ll learn very quickly the terrible things I can do when I’m really angry!’
The threat was awful. But Helewise’s own anger had burned up through her; leaping to her feet, towering over the woman, she shouted, ‘You will not succeed! You have sent a thief to my son’s house and tried to make it appear that my son killed him, and now you have taken me captive, but neither measure will avail you! I am not afraid of you — you will not succeed!’
The echo of her words rang out in the hut and, as they faded, there was silence. A horrible, creeping silence, as if the last word in the world had been spoken. Alarmed, wondering why she should suddenly feel such dread, Helewise stared down at the woman.
Who, with agonising slowness, drew back her dark shawl so that Helewise could at last see her face.
It was very white, as if she seldom ventured out, and thin, the cheekbones stark and sharp. Her wide mouth was tight and surrounded by small outward-radiating lines, deep-etched as if from constant pursing. It was a dead face, sucked dry of all joy and of all generous impulse. In it the only living things were her eyes.
Her eyes burned with fire.
And she was muttering under her breath, continuously, repetitively; it was a spell, and the terrible sense of malice in the hut was the result.
When at last she stopped and Helewise was released from her thrall, the woman spoke in her normal voice. ‘Know me now, do you? They told you I was a witch the first time you saw me, didn’t they?’ She laughed. ‘They were right.’
Helewise, transported back twenty-six years to her wedding day feast as easily as if she were flying on the besom in the corner, saw the woman as she once had been. And she said, with a calm that cost her dear, ‘Yes, I know you. Hello, Sirida.’
Chapter 19
Sirida’s black-eyed stare was horribly discomfiting and Helewise was desperate for her to speak and dispel the frightening tension. But, as if the woman knew this full well and wished to enjoy the power of the mood that she had created, she held her silence.
Finally it was Helewise who spoke. ‘If-’ But her mouth was too dry to make the words. She coughed, swallowed and tried again. ‘If by threatening me you seek to force my son to give you what you claim is your due, then, Sirida, you will not succeed.’ She hesitated, her resolve weakening; were Leofgar to receive some extravagant demand in return for his mother’s safe return he would, Helewise well knew, accede instantly; both her sons had been brought up to respect and honour her and Leofgar would not permit her to remain captive for a moment longer than necessary if it were in his power to buy her release. Whatever the cost.
But Sirida must not be allowed to know this …
So Helewise shifted her argument. ‘If what you say is true and Arthur is indeed the son of Benedict Warin-’
‘I speak true!’ Sirida hissed.
‘-then he is, as I said just now, illegitimate and has no claim on my family.’
Sirida studied her for some moments, dark eyes narrowed. Then, with a slow nod, she murmured, ‘We shall see. Oh, yes, we shall see.’ Then, as if long-pent venom were abruptly breaking out, she put her face close to Helewise’s and said, ‘You thought you were so fine, didn’t you, the day you wed Ivo Warin? They took you into their home and their heart, those two, father and son, and I was ordered from the house! I, who had borne Benedict a child and who, now that the saintly Blanche was dead, should have been invited to take my place at his side, in his bed and by his hearth as his lawful wife! It should have been I who danced at my wedding feast, and yet I was supplanted by a strip of a girl who was no better than I was!’
Sirida paused dramatically. Then, as Helewise had known she would, she said softly, ‘No better, Helewise, for I know what was under your beautiful scarlet tunic the day you wed Ivo. You had not waited for the Church’s blessing on your union, had you, any more than I did?’
Furious protests sprang to Helewise’s lips: you cannot compare your situation with mine! Ivo loved me, wanted from the first to make me his wife! It was love that made my son, not lust!
But she held back the passionate words.
For one thing, she wore the habit of a nun and she was Abbess of Hawkenlye; the dignity of her office forbad exchanging heated words with the likes of Sirida as if the pair of them were fishwives in the market. For another thing, could she truly claim that it had in fact been love and not lust that led to Leofgar’s conception? If her memory served her right, it was not easy to say where one left off and the other began.
Straightening her back, she summoned her dignity and said coolly, ‘I demand that you let me go from here. I must return at once to Hawkenlye and if you insist on keeping me from my duties there, you will be punished.’
‘Oh, I’ll be punished, will I?’ Sirida gave an unpleasant laugh. ‘Well, my lady Abbess, I reckon I’ll take that risk. I have not much time left to me on this earth and I am quite determined to see this affair that I have begun through to its finish. I’ll keep you safe here with me while Arthur seeks out your son and dictates the terms of your release.’
And with that, before Helewise could say another word Sirida spun round and walked swiftly out through the door, taking hold of Arthur’s arm and pulling him with her. Then the door was pushed shut and once more there came the sound of that heavy object being set against it.
Helewise strode furiously across the floor, once, twice, restraining only with difficulty the urge to shout aloud with frustration and anger. But had she not only a moment ago been reminding herself who she was? She was no longer the carefree child Helewise de Swansford, no longer the wild and lusty girl who had married Ivo Warin. Those identities were far behind her; she wore the habit of obedience and no more was she free to act as impulse dictated.
Slowly Helewise sank down on the bench. Quieting her breathing, using her will to impose calm on her tumultuous thoughts, she began to pray.
Josse and Gervase de Gifford arrived back in Tonbridge to be greeted by the dismal news that there was no sign of the Abbess nor of Arthur Fitzurse. One of the search parties was still out but all the others had returned and the men were scratching their heads and wondering where to look next.
Pacing up and down in de Gifford’s hall, Josse felt the frustration of inactivity; making up his mind, he announced to de Gifford that he would ride up to Hawkenlye and see whether any word or clue had arrived at the Abbey to explain where the Abbess had gone. It was a slim hope, he knew, but he did not know the Tonbridge area well enough to be of much help to the search parties and at least riding up to the Abbey was something.