‘Did she?’ Sister Euphemia looked doubtful. ‘Can’t say as I saw her, but then we’re rushed off our feet today. And it could have been while most of us were over in the church just now for Vespers.’
‘His hands certainly feel as if they have received some sort of treatment,’ Helewise said. The infirmarer took up one of the old man’s hands and ran a finger over its back, nodding her agreement as she did so. ‘But it need not necessarily have been Galiena who administered it,’ Helewise concluded.
‘My lady, I couldn’t say.’ The infirmarer looked flustered. ‘He’s not well, that’s for sure.’
‘What is the matter with him?’
‘He’s an old man and his mind’s wandering,’ Sister Euphemia said baldly. ‘In addition he’s short of breath, virtually blind and very sleepy.’ She shook her head. ‘If that young wife of his is serious about conceiving his child, then all I can say is she’d be well advised to hurry up about it.’
‘You think …’ Helewise hesitated. Then, in a barely audible whisper, ‘You think he may be dying?’
‘He doesn’t look any too perky, my lady. But it’s always possible that-’
Whatever possibility the infirmarer had in mind was to remain unexpressed. For, interrupting her even as she spoke, there came a terrifying sound from the main body of the infirmary behind them.
It was not a moment for protocol. A nurse before she was a nun, Sister Euphemia responded to the dreadful choking noise by pushing past her superior and setting off at a dash between the curtains and into the infirmary.
Helewise, a pace behind, saw a horrible sight.
Galiena had come bursting into the infirmary and had sunk to her knees on the floor. Her heavy veil was awry — her hair, Helewise noticed distractedly, was beautifuclass="underline" palest blonde and twined into two thick plaits — and she had torn at the neck of her silk gown, exposing the white flesh of her chest and her rounded upper breasts.
There was a look of extreme terror on her pale face. Her lips were swollen and, as Helewise stared in fascinated horror, a red rash seemed to spread across the girl’s throat.
Galiena, it was quite obvious, could not breathe. The rasping, choking noises as she tried to take air into her lungs were quieter now, even as the girl’s panic increased. She leaned forward briefly and some liquid came out of her mouth and dribbled on to the floor.
Eyes wide, she stared up at Sister Euphemia, Helewise and the circle of nursing nuns who now stood around her. Sister Euphemia held out her hands to the girl and said something — it might have been an encouragement to sit up straight, so as to let the breath flow more readily into her poor body — but Galiena did not appear to hear.
Then her whole frame convulsed once, twice. She slipped over sideways against Sister Euphemia, who was kneeling down and trying to support her, and then she was still.
After a few moments of absolute silence — the infirmary’s patients were too shocked to move, let alone speak — Sister Euphemia said very quietly, ‘I’m afraid she’s dead.’
6
At New Winnowlands, Josse was engaged in the same sort of task that had been absorbing the Abbess of Hawkenlye. A quarter of his annual income. He had heard the phrase bandied about, had said it himself, but, until this moment when he was actually facing what it meant in the harsh light of day, he had not quite appreciated just what it was going to entail.
Josse was not a wealthy man and his modest estate of New Winnowlands, although well managed and reasonably profitable, was not going to make him one. But he was and always had been a true King’s man and, if asked, would have said he’d willingly give all that he had to release Richard from his dishonourable, humiliating captivity and bring him safely home again. However, now that he was having to turn words into action and come up with the money, he was discovering that his feelings were not quite as wholehearted as he had believed them to be. A niggling little thought kept saying, well, the King’s got himself into this mess so why should his loyal people have to pay so heavily to get him out of it? Is it really right that we shoulder the burden in this way?
He sat for some time, a deep frown on his rugged face, allowing rein to this traitorous thought. Then, with a sigh, he picked up his quill and laboriously began to write out figures; writing was not a skill that came readily to him, any more than reading was, which made the task even more unwelcome. But his innermost sentiments would have to remain secret. After all, it was not a question of giving only if you felt you would like to. However you looked at the matter, Josse concluded, paying up was horribly inevitable. There was no point in moaning so he had better get on with it.
When at last he had finished, he felt that he deserved a reward and the first thing that sprang to mind was a visit to Hawkenlye. He had a ready-made excuse — not that he truly felt he needed one — in that he had recommended the nuns’ care and skill to Ambrose and Galiena Ryemarsh. And, indeed, he had proposed that they renew their pleasant new acquaintance over at Hawkenlye, hadn’t he? The young woman would be there now, he thought, and probably the old husband would have ridden over to join her. Deciding that he would like to see the business through to whatever conclusion it might reach, Josse summoned Ella and asked her to prepare a small pack for him as he was planning a few days’ absence from home.
With a brief nod, she turned and put her foot on the first of the short flight of steps leading up to Josse’s sleeping chamber. Then, almost as an afterthought, she said, ‘Give my respects to the Abbess, sir.’
Josse, wondering how and when he had come to be so predictable, got up and went to tell Will to fetch Horace from the paddock.
It occurred to him as he set off that Brice of Rotherbridge might like to join the party at Hawkenlye, especially since Brice appeared to be a good friend of the Ryemarshes and to have their interests at heart; had it not after all been he who had introduced Josse to Ambrose and his young wife as one who knew Hawkenlye and its good works? It was only a short detour to Brice’s manor and so Josse turned Horace’s head and set off to find his neighbour.
Brice was not at home. His stable lad, Ossie, said that the master had set out at first light two days ago and that he was not expected home before nightfall of that day at the earliest. ‘Like as not ’e won’t be back afore tomorrow, ’e said,’ Ossie added. In response to Josse’s enquiry about where Brice had gone, Ossie shrugged. ‘’E didn’t say.’
Wondering why Brice’s journey to some undisclosed destination should seem sinister, Josse nodded to the lad, set off down the track and told himself not to be fanciful. But against his will he saw again Brice’s air of tense expectancy when they sat in Ambrose Ryemarsh’s hall. Saw in his mind’s eye the suppressed excitement in Brice’s handsome face. And, although he tried to stop himself, Josse recalled what he had thought then.
Was he right? Dear Lord, he prayed that he was not.
But, either way, it seemed likely that joining Galiena and her husband at Hawkenlye promised to answer a few questions.
He did not hurry on his ride to the Abbey. The day had started warm and, as the sun rose higher in the sky, warm became hot and then very hot. In the early afternoon, he found a patch of deep shade in a place where willows grew along a stream bank and, unsaddling Horace, he tethered the horse by the water and threw himself down on the cool grass. Ella had packed bread, a thick slice of her own cured ham, a honey tartlet, a couple of juicy, sweet apples and a flask of ale and, when he had rested for a while, Josse rediscovered his appetite and ate the food hungrily. The ale slipped down almost without his noticing. Then, meaning only to close his eyes for a short time, he fell deeply asleep.
He was woken by a burning sensation in his face. Sitting up with a start, he realised he had been asleep for so long that the sun had moved round and was now shining down full on his head and shoulders. From the feel of his cheeks under his exploratory hands, it looked as if he had given himself a fine case of sunburn.