Talk to the one whose younger sister was plagued by the attentions of Walter Payne. Talk to the one who would do anything to preserve the girl’s virginity. Talk to someone with real cause to fear Walter Payne.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Wymarc.’
Exhausted, dishevelled, unshaven and half asleep, Wymarc was slumped in a chair in his parlour. His wife flitted around him like a demented butterfly, anxious not to upset him yet eager to say something which might comfort him and relieve her own mind. She did not yet understand the enormity of what had happened in an upstairs room.
A tragedy which had crushed her husband’s spirit and reduced him to an inert mass was still making her twitch violently and grasp feverishly at non-existent solutions to their plight.
‘The doctor may have made a mistake,’ she said nervously. ‘It was late when he arrived. Baldwin was weary and overwrought. His diagnosis was wrong. It has to be wrong. Helene would never do such a thing. It is unthinkable. Helene was a good girl. We brought her up with true Christian precepts. She could not do this to herself.’
A Shockwave made her whole body shake. ‘Or to us. Helene would never hurt us. She loved us. She had to love us. We were her family.
Helene was part of a loving family.’ Her voice trailed to a whisper.
‘These things do not happen in … Loving families.’
There was a long pause as she gathered her strength for a second burst of self-delusion. Wymarc was motionless. When there was a loud banging on the door, he did not even blink. A servant answered the door and the visitor was admitted.
Arnulf the Chaplain darted across to her at once.
‘I came as soon as I got your summons!’ he said.
‘We prayed that you would.’
‘Tell me everything. Can this hideous news be true?’
‘Ask my husband,’ she said, indicating Wymarc. ‘He spoke with the doctor. He knows the details.’
Arnulf had not even noticed Wymarc when he first arrived in the room. He now went over to the crumpled figure and saw the deep distress he was suffering. The chaplain put out a gentle hand to touch his bowed head.
‘It is Arnulf,’ he said softly. ‘You sent for me, my lord. And I have come. I am here for you.’
Wymarc slowly raised his head and looked at him with no sign of recognition. It was a full minute before he realised that it was the chaplain who was standing in front of him. A sudden fit of anguish coursed through Wymarc and he flung himself on his knees, gibbering pathetically and clutching desperately at Arnulf.
‘Help us!’ he implored. ‘In the name of God, help us!’
Chapter Eleven
Rumour swept through the castle like wildfire. What first reached the privileged ears of the sheriff was soon in the mouths of his underlings. Hardly a soldier or servant in the place had not picked up and passed on the sensational gossip. Even the guests caught wind of it. The story took on new shape and force each time it was told. A paucity of facts did not hamper its narrators in any way. It merely permitted greater invention. Endlessly embellished, the tale was soon vaulting over the high walls of the fortress into Oxford itself to be used as common coinage in the market before being dispersed breathlessly throughout the whole community.
It was Gervase Bret who gave the sad tidings to Brother Columbanus.
Shaken to the marrow, the monk crossed himself by reflex and offered up a silent prayer. The shining face was now a wrinkled map of concern.
‘This is dreadful intelligence!’ he wailed.
‘It has shocked everyone, Brother Columbanus.’
‘How certain are you of the facts?’
‘I had them from Arnulf the Chaplain,’ said Gervase. ‘He was sent for by the family because he knows the girl so well.’ He winced slightly before correcting himself. ‘Did know her.’
‘What age would this Helene be?’
‘But fourteen.’
‘God in heaven! A child! A mere child!’
‘Her life over before it had really started.’
‘By choice, Gervase,’ mourned the other. ‘Her life is over by choice.
That is the tragedy here. The girl chose to do this terrible thing. With a whole bright future stretching out in front of her, Helene went down this irrevocable path. Why?’
‘She did not see her future as altogether bright,’ said Gervase sadly.
‘If the rumours are to be believed, she had some cause for pessimism.’
‘What was it?’
‘She may have been with child.’
Columbanus goggled. ‘Spare her that, please!’ he gasped. ‘To take her own life is a black enough sin in itself. Do not let us hear that she also committed infanticide. The very thought unseats my brain, Gervase. To kill an innocent babe in the womb? Helene would have to be deranged to do that.’
‘Or driven to despair.’
‘Did the chaplain confirm this gruesome detail?’
‘He confided simply that suicide was confirmed,’ said Gervase. ‘The rest I have gathered from a dozen or more tongues and less credence can be placed in it. What is beyond dispute is that, some time yesterday, my lord Wymarc’s sister ended her days on this earth.’
‘With a virulent poison, you say?’
‘That is what I was told.’
Brother Columbanus took refuge once more in prayer. He had been returning to the church of St George’s-in-the-Castle when he was intercepted by Gervase. If anyone had to break such heart-rending news to him, he was glad that it had been his young friend. With a careful use of words, Gervase had softened the impact of his report.
Elsewhere in the town, the storytellers were doing the very opposite, garnishing the bare facts with spicy details to give them more flavour and pungency.
The monk reached into his memory for guidance.
‘I call to mind the words of St Augustine of Hippo,’ he said. ‘He rightly argues that Christians have no authority to commit suicide in any circumstances.’
‘I know, Brother Columbanus. I have read De Civitate Dei. ’
‘An inspiring text. Inscribed upon my soul.’
‘Canon Hubert often quoted it to us.’
‘Were he here now, he would doubtless remind us of St Augustine’s argument that it is significant that nowhere in any of the sacred canonical books can be found any injunction or permission to commit suicide either to attain immortality or to avoid or escape any evil.’ His eyebrows soared. ‘The sixth commandment is clear: “Thou shalt not kill.” We must not kill another person but, equally, we are forbidden to kill ourselves. That is God’s law.’ He gave a shudder. ‘And if the murder of an unborn child is involved here …’
‘We are not certain of that,’ Gervase reminded him, ‘and it might be safer not to speculate until we have more facts.’
‘Quite so.’
‘The poor girl deserves our utmost compassion.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Columbanus. ‘But if our worst fears are realised, we must not shrink from censuring Helene. Sin is sin and it must be proclaimed as such. Suicide is a brazen act of blasphemy.’
‘My sympathy goes out to my lord Wymarc and his wife.’
‘Is Arnulf with them now?’
‘Yes, Brother Columbanus.’
‘He is a sound man.’
‘And a good friend to Helene.’
‘He will be as shocked by this as her family,’ said the monk sorrowfully. ‘But he will cope with this awful blow. Arnulf is an ordained priest. Trained to bear the weight of other people’s grief and help them through their tribulation.’ And no tribulation could be worse than this.’ He nodded confidently. ‘Arnulf will know what to do.’
The house was in turmoil. When Arnulf arrived, that turmoil seemed to converge on him from all directions until he felt like an axle at the centre of a wheel that was spinning helplessly out of control. It took him over an hour to slow down the wheel and to impose a degree of calm on the abode. Wymarc made the chief claim on his attention, shifting between a morbid fear and a whining self-pity, hoping that somehow the chaplain could exonerate him from any blame whatsoever.