‘Sister, we are here with the purpose of discussing the difficulties which Sister Alba seems to be having in adapting to our community,’ Sister Euphemia reminded her. ‘This isn’t a bathhouse gossip session; we need to hear anything that may be relevant.’
With a martyred expression, as if to say, very well, but it’s not my choice to repeat this, Sister Edith said, ‘I heard Sister Alba speak to one of the — you know. One of those girls.’
‘One of the reformatory children?’ Sister Basilia asked. Reformatory children was the expression used for the babies of fallen women, abandoned by their mothers at birth when the women, despite the nuns’ entreaties, went back to the outside world. And their former manner of making a living.
‘Yes,’ Sister Edith agreed. ‘Sister Alba was actually rather hurtful. Admittedly, the child was playing her up rather, but then she’s only five. Anyway, she — Sister Alba — suggested that it was hardly worth her while to teach anything to the daughter of a whore — excuse me, but it was the word she used — when, in all likelihood, the girl would go the same way as her mother.’
‘No!’ Sister Basilia exclaimed. And Sister Euphemia was looking at Sister Edith with a new, more respectful expression, as if her horror at what Sister Alba had said to an innocent child had shown her in a new and better light.
‘In summary,’ Sister Edith concluded, when it seemed that nobody was going to comment further, ‘I have to say that I do not believe Sister Alba has any vocation for teaching.’
Sister Basilia looked worried. ‘No aptitude for nursing, nor for teaching,’ she said. ‘And I shall only endorse what you both have said when I relate my own experiences. Sister Alba, I’m afraid to say, does not like hard work. Or, at least, not the sort of hard work we perform in the refectory and the kitchens. She volunteered to work as cellarer — she said she knew all about provisioning, and would be very careful over selecting and locking away the wine — and when I said we already had a very capable cellarer in Sister Goodeth, and, in any case, it was not an office usually filled by a newcomer, she looked most upset.’
‘So what did she do?’ Sister Euphemia asked.
Sister Basilia smiled faintly. ‘I put her to pot scrubbing. But I don’t think she did very much, I think Sister Anne covered for her.’
‘Kind of Sister Anne,’ Sister Euphemia remarked.
‘Sister Anne is a follower, not a leader,’ Sister Basilia said gently. ‘She tends to give in before a stronger personality, and do what she’s told.’
Helewise, although listening intently, had been gazing into the distance. It was only when she refocused on the trio in front of her that she realised they were all looking at her.
‘Thank you, Sisters,’ she said. ‘You have all done your best with Sister Alba, and I do appreciate your efforts. I will now think on what you have reported, and decide what to do next.’
There was an awkward silence, during which Helewise noticed the three other nuns glance at each other.
‘Abbess, may we speak frankly?’ Sister Euphemia said.
Helewise suppressed a smile. ‘Of course.’ You usually do, she might have added.
‘We — you-’ The infirmarer cleared her throat and began again. ‘Abbess, what the three of us are thinking is that it’s not right, you having to be bothered with all this, not given everything else you have to do. Sister Basilia here was remembering that, before, when old Sister Mary was still alive, she was Mistress of Novices, but, what with us not having floods of new nuns any more, the office has sort of been absorbed by the rest of us. Particularly you. And we were wondering, why not appoint someone, and fill the office again?’
For an instant, Helewise wondered crossly if Euphemia had been talking to Queen Eleanor. But no, that was unworthy. And, anyway, they had a point.
‘Had you thought of a likely person?’ she asked, trying to sound encouraging and not as if she had just had to bite down on her irritation.
Again, the three nuns glanced at one another. Then Sister Basilia said, ‘We wondered about Sister Amphelisia.’
Sister Amphelisia. Sufficiently young to retain an empathy with postulants and novices, yet with enough years of convent life behind her to give her dignity and authority. At present, working with the learned and distant Sister Bernadine on maintaining and copying the Abbey’s small collection of holy manuscripts. And, as Helewise well knew, not particularly happy in her work.
Sister Amphelisia as Mistress of Novices?
Why not?
Helewise composed her reply before uttering it. ‘Sisters,’ she said eventually, ‘you have clearly given this matter careful and diligent thought, and I am grateful.’ She took a deep breath, observing that it still cost her a great effort to hand over authority to another, and concluding from it that she was far too full of pride. She would have to have a long and, no doubt, painful and humiliating session with Father Gilbert, who would doubtless impose heavy penance. For the good of her soul, naturally, and for the furtherance of her growth in the religious life.
Oh, dear.
Where was she?
‘I will speak to Sister Amphelisia,’ she said, standing up to let the Sisters know that the meeting was over.
Sisters Euphemia, Basilia and Edith bowed, then made their way out of Helewise’s room. She listened to their retreating footsteps as they set off along the cloister, waiting to see if they would make any audible comments about what had just happened.
They didn’t.
Adding the sin of curiosity — very well, nosiness — to the growing list to mutter into the merciless ear of Father Gilbert, Helewise wearily straightened her back and began to think out how best to raise the matter of her appointment with the potential new Mistress of Novices.
Chapter Three
The Abbess was emerging from the church in the middle of the following morning when a slight commotion from the gates alerted her to the fact that the Abbey had a visitor.
Sister Martha, who had flung down her pitchfork and gone hurrying across from the stables, was holding the head of a docile-looking horse while the porteress, Sister Ursel, was standing beside the cart which the horse was pulling. Both nuns were exclaiming loudly, and exchanging remarks with a strangely familiar-looking man sitting at the front of the cart and holding the reins.
Before Helewise had time to puzzle out who the man was, another figure leapt down from the back of the cart and, with Sister Ursel trotting along behind him trying to catch hold of his sleeve — ‘That’s the Abbess! You mustn’t go accosting her, she’s very busy!’ — made his way to Helewise.
‘Greetings to you, Abbess,’ he said with a sketchy bow. ‘Forgive my lack of ceremony, but Sir Josse lies in the cart, gravely sick with the fever, and we, that is, Sir Brice and me, we-’
But Helewise was already running towards the cart.
The man on the front — yes, of course, he was Sir Brice of Rotherbridge, Josse’s neighbouring landowner — jumped down as she hurried towards him, catching her as she stumbled. ‘Abbess, we need the skills of your infirmarer,’ he said quietly, his face close to hers.
‘What is the matter with him?’ she demanded, panting, heart in her mouth. Then, realising belatedly that she was hardly behaving in a dignified and abbess-like manner, she straightened up, pulled a little away from Sir Brice and said more calmly, ‘Sister Euphemia will attend to him as soon as she is able. Sir Brice, will you and-’ She glanced questioningly at the other man.
‘Will,’ Brice said.
‘Please will you carry Sir Josse into the infirmary?’ She pointed out the door. ‘Sister Martha, Sister Ursel, perhaps you could help. .?’
She stood back and watched as, with great care, Will and Brice edged Josse’s tall, sturdy body out of the cart, supporting him under each shoulder while Sister Martha, strongly-muscled herself, hurried to hold him under the hips. Sister Ursel took hold of his feet, and, moving with exaggerated care, the four of them set out towards the infirmary. Overtaking them, refusing to allow herself even a peep at Josse’s face, Helewise went to alert Sister Euphemia.