And soon, whether because of the Sisters’ prayers, the herbalist’s potion, the infirmarer’s devoted care, Josse’s own fortitude, or a combination of all four, the infection began to retreat.
Waking up one afternoon from a pleasant doze, Josse opened his eyes to see an unfamiliar face looming over him. A pair of bright eyes stared unblinkingly at him; fringed with spiky, dark lashes, they were the misty, slightly purplish blue of early bluebells. .
The girl whose pretty face they adorned was dressed in a simple gown of an indeterminate buff shade; her head was uncovered, and her thick dark hair sprang up in wild curls which, it appeared, had resisted the girl’s attempt to restrain them in a fillet.
Her youth — she could not have been more than about thirteen or fourteen — and her style of dress indicated that she was not one of the Sisters; even postulants at Hawkenlye wore black and covered their heads. And, Josse thought, amused, no postulant he had ever encountered had that amount of naughtiness and high spirits in her expression.
He said, ‘Who are you?’
The girl gasped. ‘Oh! You spoke!’
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘Did they tell you I was stricken dumb?’
‘No, of course not! They said you had been grievously wounded, and were only just beginning to recover, and that I must sit here and watch you, and, when you woke up, I must hurry and tell Sister Euphemia or one of her nuns, so I’d better do so.’
She leapt up from her half-crouch beside his bed, but, just in time, he shot out his left arm and caught a fold of her skirt. ‘Don’t hurry away,’ he said. ‘Stay and talk to me.’
‘No, I mustn’t!’ She looked horrified. ‘Sister Euphemia was adamant. The very instant he wakes, she said. Oh, please, she’ll have me shut up and put on bread and water for a week if I disobey!’
There was, he noticed, a sparkle in her eyes as she spoke; he had a swift impression of a girl who obeyed when she felt like it, but who was perfectly prepared to do exactly as she pleased when she didn’t, and hang the consequences.
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘off you go, then. But make sure you come back again.’ It would actually be no bad thing to see the infirmarer; his sudden lunge to catch at the girl’s gown, even though he had used his undamaged arm, had made him feel dizzy, and sent an angry shooting pain from his wound up into his shoulder.
‘I will!’ the girl was saying as she sped away. He heard her light voice calling as she ran, ‘Sister Euphemia! Oh, Sister, he’s awake, and he’s talking!’ before the infirmarer’s strict tones interrupted her with a carrying, ‘Hush, child!’
The girl was as good as her word. Some time later, when Josse had spent a painful time with Sister Euphemia, she came back. Josse’s wound, despite the infirmarer’s infinitely gentle touch, was still sending out red-hot waves of pain from the re-dressing; he no longer felt quite as much like cheery conversation as he had done earlier.
And the girl, bless her, seemed to notice. Crouching down beside him, she gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Did it hurt very much?’ she asked softly. Then, as if she knew he didn’t really want to talk, went on, ‘I fell out of a tree once and cut my shin open on a rock. You could see right down to the bone, it was horrid, dead white and sort of shiny. I used to cry out loud when it was time to change the dressing, and my mother gave me-’ She stopped suddenly, and a look of pain crossed the lively face. Leaning closer to Josse, she whispered, ‘My mother’s dead. She caught the sickness and she died.’
Josse reached out his left hand — awkwardly, since she was on his right side — and, after a moment’s hesitation, she took it. ‘It is terrible to lose your mother,’ he said quietly. ‘I am so sorry.’
She wiped tears from her eyes with her free hand. ‘My father’s dead, too,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t kind like my mother, but I’m sure he loved us in his way. Alba says he did, anyway.’ The girl looked suddenly glum, as if the mention of Alba, whoever she was, had depressed her.
‘Alba?’ Josse prompted.
‘My sister. My eldest sister, there’s Meriel as well. She’s sixteen — Meriel, I mean — she’s two years older than me. Alba’s much older than us. She’s a nun.’
‘I see,’ Josse said, although he wasn’t sure what he did see. ‘You still haven’t told me your name.’
‘Berthe,’ said the girl.
The pain in his arm, although lessening, was keeping up a steady throb. Thinking that a bit of a chat might take his mind off it, if he could summon the energy, Josse tried to think how he might encourage his enchanting companion to talk while he listened.
‘Berthe,’ he repeated. ‘Now, I can see that you’re not about to take the veil, and-’
‘Oh, I am,’ she interrupted, surprising him. ‘Not till I’m older, Alba says, but we’ve both got to, Meriel and me. Alba says we must, we’ve got no home, nowhere to live, now that Father is dead.’ She leaned closer and confided, ‘He didn’t own the farm, you see. It was all right for me and Meriel when he was alive, we looked after him and we didn’t mind, really, when he — well, we always had enough to eat and, as Father used to say, we had a roof over our heads and were warm and dry most of the time, which was more than many folks could say. We weren’t to complain, Father said, and when he heard me — I mean, we didn’t need to complain. He was quite right, I had disobeyed him, and it was his fatherly duty to — And then when Meriel met — I mean, there was — Anyway, we’re to be nuns, and there’s an end to it.’
She had, Josse thought, told him more by what she had left out than by what she had said. He had the strong impression that there were aspects of her young life that she had been ordered, under pain of some dreadful reprisal, to keep secret. Why else would there have been the abruptly cut-off remarks?
And why, when she had referred to the dead father several times, had there been no further mention of the mother?
Josse tried to plug the gaps and put the picture together. A tenant farmer, would-be master of his own few acres, making do but only just, head held high and woe betide anyone who pitied him. Heavy-handed in his punishments when his family complained, domineering, cowing a gentle wife to silence. Nothing put by, so that, when his daughters were suddenly orphaned, they were left both homeless and penniless.
And so they had come to Hawkenlye, where, without any consideration of whether or not they had a true vocation, they were all to be nuns.
This little thing, with her naughty eyes and her chatter, a nun?
Ah, but-
Josse had forgotten where he was. And, more importantly, which wise soul ruled this Abbey’s comings and goings. Abbess Helewise, he thought, with a rush of relief, would never admit a postulant because somebody else said she must. She, with her wise and perceptive eyes, would not force this child — Berthe — to take the veil unless Berthe was quite sure that God had called her, and that she wanted to answer His summons.
‘How do Alba and Meriel feel about being nuns?’ he asked.
‘Meriel doesn’t really show what she’s feeling, not at present, anyway, but Alba quite likes it,’ Berthe said. Ah yes, Josse remembered, Alba was already in Holy Orders. ‘Well, as much as Alba ever likes anything.’ A faint grin crossed Berthe’s face. ‘Alba says we are not put on this earth to enjoy ourselves, that we must work, and pray, and fight every moment to overcome original sin.’
‘And do you?’ Josse didn’t think it very likely.
‘I don’t really think I understand what original sin is,’ Berthe said, dropping her voice to a whisper, ‘but I’m quite sure Alba’s right, and we’ve got to be on our guard against it.’ The blue eyes stared intently at Josse. ‘Do you know?’ she asked, still in a whisper.