The service ended, and Helewise stood back as the monks escorted the pilgrims out of the shrine and into the lean-to shelter adjoining it. The able-bodied visitors stood at the back; the infirm were helped to sit down on roughly made wooden benches that the lay brothers had placed ready in a semicircle. Then Brother Firmin gave out small, earthenware cups of the precious healing water.
Helewise studied Brother Firmin’s lined old face. As he raised each cup to a pilgrim’s lips, it seemed that a light shone from him. The strength of his faith, she thought, is an example to us all.
She had been so entranced by the simple service and the giving of the waters that she had all but forgotten why she had gone to the shrine. Forcing her mind back to her anxieties, she looked around for Berthe.
And, after a while, saw her. She was crouched on the beaten earth floor of the pilgrims’ rest house, whose wide doors had been thrown back to air it after the night. She was playing with two small children, whose laughter was bringing a smile to the faces of quite a few of those who heard it. Beside her, the crossed legs and sandalled feet of another figure could just be seen.
Helewise went over to the rest house. The other person was Brother Augustine; as Helewise went inside, both he and Berthe got to their feet and bowed to her.
She returned their greetings. Then she said, ‘How lovely to hear the children laughing! It must have been a good game.’
Brother Augustine grinned. ‘It was, Abbess.’ He glanced at Berthe, who was blushing furiously. ‘But — er. . ’
Helewise guessed at the cause of the confusion. ‘But a little vulgar, dare I suggest?’
Both young people nodded. The children, overawed at having the Abbess of Hawkenlye herself visit them, sat on the ground with their mouths open, staring up at her.
‘Please do not let me interrupt,’ Helewise went on. ‘Augustine, may I borrow Berthe for a few moments?’
‘Of course, Abbess.’
She beckoned to Berthe to follow her, and led her a little way along the path leading on down the Vale. When she was sure they were far enough away not to be overheard, she stopped. It was still raining, although not very hard, so she indicated to Berthe that they should stand beneath the shelter of a chestnut tree.
She studied the girl. There was, she decided, a definite look of apprehension in the young face.
‘Berthe, I have come to tell you what I have discovered during my travels,’ Helewise began. ‘I found the convent where Alba was; it is called Sedgebeck. But I am afraid I must tell you that Alba was excused from her vows and she left the community. Her behaviour was-’ Oh, dear, was there a diplomatic way of telling the poor girl? ‘She was not suited to convent life,’ she said. Then, before Berthe could press her for more, she hurried on, ‘Then I went to Medely, and I was given directions to your farm. It is, as presumably you are well aware, now quite deserted.’
Berthe was watching her closely. ‘Yes, Abbess. We understood that there was not to be a new tenant. The land, you see, is not very good.’
‘No, indeed.’ Helewise paused, thinking hard. Berthe had, she realised, just given her an opening. . ‘No, we noticed that yours was the only farm in the immediate vicinity. The only dwelling, in fact, for some miles around. My, but you were isolated out there, weren’t you, you and your family?’
Berthe’s eyes were fixed on hers. Was there a hint of fear? Did the girl know why Helewise was saying all this about being so alone?
Slowly Berthe nodded. ‘Yes, Abbess. It was isolated. The village, as you saw for yourself, was some distance away. And there were no other inhabited dwellings nearby.’
Very neat, Helewise thought. No other inhabited dwellings. Which tells me nothing for sure, but which suggests that Berthe knew there was a cottage in the woods, but also knew it to be empty.
Should I press her further? Helewise wondered. Why not? At the least, Berthe’s reaction might reveal whether or not she was aware that her empty dwelling had become a dead man’s pyre.
‘You were aware, of course,’ she said, trying to keep her tone casual, ‘of the old cottage deep in the woods? I dare say that it was uninhabited when you lived at the farm.’
Berthe was nodding. ‘Yes, I know it. A very old couple used to live there — I can just remember them from when I was small. Sometimes Mother and I used to call on them. Mother would take them something — some eggs, or something from the vegetable plot — and once the old man made a garland of wild flowers and crowned me with it.’ A soft smile of reminiscence briefly lit her face. ‘But they died,’ she finished. ‘A long time ago.’
‘And nobody took over the cottage?’
‘No. It was tumbling down around them even when the old folks were there. When they died, it was too far gone for anyone to bother. We used to use it as a camp, when we could escape from Alba’s vigilance, and, later on, Meriel-’
But she must have realised that she was about to say something she shouldn’t. She shut her mouth abruptly, turning away from Helewise and staring out towards the lake that filled the bottom of the Vale.
‘Meriel?’ Helewise prompted. ‘What about her?’
Berthe spun round to face her. ‘Abbess Helewise, I can’t!’ she cried. ‘You mustn’t ask me, because if you really press me for an answer, I’ll have to lie to you, and I don’t want to do that. But I can’t break my promise!’
She was sobbing now, violent, convulsive sobs that made her whole body shake. Helewise put her arms round the thin shoulders, and for a few moments Berthe leant against her. ‘I know, Berthe, I know,’ she murmured soothingly. ‘You must understand that I do not pry from mere curiosity — I am trying to help you.’
‘I know you are!’ Berthe cried. ‘But I-’
‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ Helewise interrupted. ‘You can’t break a promise, even though you may well feel it would be better if you did. Yes? Am I right?’
Berthe broke away from her and looked up into her eyes. She did not speak, but slowly she nodded.
‘Poor child,’ Helewise said gently. And, although she did not further dismay Berthe by saying so aloud, she feared that things would have to get quite a lot worse before they got better.
Especially if she could convince herself that she would be justified in implementing a certain course of action she had just thought of. .
‘Come along, let’s get you back to work,’ she said bracingly, giving Berthe a little shake and brushing the tears from her cheeks. ‘There, that’s better. You hardly look as if you’ve been crying — I don’t expect anyone will notice. Not those happy little children, anyway!’
Berthe managed a watery smile. ‘No, they won’t,’ she agreed. ‘But Gussie will.’
Gussie? Ah, yes, Brother Augustine’s nickname was Gus, Helewise recalled. And that had been softened by this sweet-natured girl to Gussie. ‘Will he?’ She was hardly surprised; Augustine, she had perceived, missed very little. ‘Well, I’m sure he won’t tease you about it.’
‘No, he won’t. He’s very considerate, actually.’ Berthe was looking a lot more cheerful, probably, Helewise thought, at the prospect of imminently being with ‘Gussie’ again. ‘He doesn’t tease me at all. He’s very kind to me.’
Was that, Helewise wondered, because the lad had seen what was in that cottage in the woods? And, having seen, was concerned and sorry for this young girl, who must surely be somehow caught up in the wretched business?
Good for Augustine, if so, she thought. To have realised Berthe’s need, and to turn himself into a kind and supportive friend, was Christian indeed.
Was it likely Augustine had spoken to Berthe about the journey to East Anglia? More particularly, about the visit to her old home? Instinct told Helewise that it wasn’t; the boy was responsible and obedient, and surely would have held his peace unless specifically told that he might break it. Nevertheless. .