‘Oh,’ Helewise said lamely. Then, recovering: ‘Sir Josse, it may be that some new ailment has arisen in Ambrose since you last met, for it is certain that now he lies in the infirmary, weak in body and also, I fear, in mind.’
‘He has just lost his wife!’ Josse protested hotly.
‘Yes, I know, and I am more sorry for it than I can say, but he was failing before that.’ Trying to find a way to convince him, she said, ‘I was with him in the infirmary even as Galiena collapsed. He was vague, disorientated and, I thought, not really able to discern dreaming from wakefulness. Galiena had visited him earlier,’ she added, almost as an afterthought. ‘Or so he claimed. It was apparently while the nuns were at Vespers, leaving the lay sisters in charge. He said that she had been massaging his hands.’
‘He’ll be sleeping now,’ Sister Tiphaine said calmly. ‘I sent over some of my strongest sedative. He’ll have some respite from his grief till he wakes.’
Thinking, not without dread, of what she would say to Ambrose in the morning, Helewise said firmly, ‘And we all should sleep soon, too, as soon as Compline is over. Sir Josse, will you join us for the last office of the day? Under the circumstances, I think it would do you good.’
With a nod of acceptance, he followed her out of the herbalist’s room and she heard the steady tread of Sister Tiphaine’s feet falling in behind him.
Helewise surprised herself by sleeping soundly and, as far as she remembered, dreamlessly. But as she left the Abbey church after Prime, she knew that she could no longer postpone a visit to Ambrose. He might still be sleeping — the coward in her prayed that he was — but all the same she ought to go and check.
Sister Euphemia, greeting her at the door of the infirmary, knew without being told why she had come. ‘He sleeps still,’ she reported. ‘That was a strong draught that Sister Tiphaine selected for him.’
‘Send me word immediately he wakes,’ Helewise said. ‘I wish to be here to answer his questions.’
The infirmarer looked at her shrewdly. ‘You think, my lady, that he will seek to lay blame on us?’
‘His wife is dead,’ Helewise replied neutrally. ‘She came to us for help and she died. I do not believe that blame can fairly be laid on us, but he is grieving and grief makes for irrational accusations.’ Her thoughts already running to one such accusation, Helewise gave the infirmarer a brief nod and turned to leave.
Then she returned to the church and knelt before the altar lost in one of the most fervent prayers she had offered up in a long time. If what she feared indeed came to pass, she had greater need of God’s guarding presence at her side than she had ever had.
She was back in her room when Sister Caliste came to find her. With a deep bow, she said, ‘My lady, the lord Ambrose is awake and is asking for you.’
‘Thank you, Sister.’ Helewise got to her feet. ‘Please go and tell him that I am on my way.’
She waited until the young nun had gone, spent a few moments in prayer and then followed her.
Ambrose was out of bed and fully clothed. He wore a long tunic of chestnut brown over what looked like clean linen; he seemed to have had the presence of mind to prepare very carefully for his meeting with her and had, apparently, even had a shave.
He walked towards her up the central aisle of the infirmary and, after a courteous but brief greeting, said, ‘My lady Abbess, I would talk privately with you. Let us step outside away from the ears of others’ — he glanced over his shoulder at the many occupied cots, some of whose occupants were watching the scene with open-mouthed curiosity — ‘and find a quiet corner where we shall not be interrupted.’
She found herself being steered out of the infirmary and into the sunshine. Regaining control — this indeed was a different man from the enfeebled day-dreamer of yesterday! — she said firmly, ‘Follow me. There is a bench we can use in the shade of the wall over there.’
She led him to the corner where the end of the stable block overhung the herb garden. There was nobody about; Sister Martha could be heard working in the stables and there was no sign of the herbalist. She indicated that Ambrose should sit and then settled herself beside him.
She was tempted to break the lengthening silence with words of condolence but something made her refrain. Strangely — and surely mistakenly — she was receiving the impression that this was turning into a battle of wills. Well, if that were so, she could keep her peace longer than he could.
Eventually he said, ‘My lady Abbess, my wife came here on the recommendation of Sir Josse d’Acquin to ask your help in her efforts to conceive my child. Now she is dead, it seems by poison. What have you to say?’
Helewise had not expected such thinly disguised animosity. She took a steadying breath and then said, ‘Galiena asked for our help, as you say. She saw my infirmarer, Sister Euphemia, who offered both to talk to her and to examine her to see if any physical problem could be detected. This Galiena utterly refused. Sister Euphemia then consulted my herbalist, Sister Tiphaine, and they decided that the only thing they could do, not knowing of any specific problem, was to prepare a couple of general remedies that are believed to aid conception. I cannot tell you the details of these, but-’
‘Galiena took these herbals?’ he demanded.
‘I think not,’ she replied calmly, trying to ignore her racing heart. ‘One was not quite ready and the other, which had already been given to her, seems not to have been drunk from.’
But his expression suggested that he did not believe her. ‘My wife was most eager to conceive,’ he said coldly. ‘I think that, given a remedy that promised to help her in that desire, she could not have resisted the urge to take a dose of it immediately.’ There was a pause then: ‘I will see it,’ he announced.
Bowing her head, Helewise said, ‘It is back in Sister Tiphaine’s room. Please, come with me.’
They stood up and walked the short distance to the herbalist’s hut. Opening the door, Helewise pointed to the workbench, which was empty except for two small bottles.
‘This one’ — she pointed — ‘was not given to Galiena. This one’ — she picked up the other bottle and handed it to Ambrose — ‘was briefly in her possession.’
Aware of movement behind her, she half-turned. Sister Tiphaine stood in the doorway. Behind her was Sister Euphemia and, at the rear, the tall, broad figure of Josse. Wondering how they had known she was there but, at the same time, hugely grateful for their presence, she turned back to Ambrose.
Intent on the moment, he gave no indication that he had noticed the trio standing behind her. He was holding the first remedy in one hand, staring intently at the stopper. ‘Has this been opened?’ he demanded.
‘I do not know,’ Helewise replied. ‘Sister Tiphaine? Can you tell?’
Sister Tiphaine took the bottle from Ambrose. Looking at the top, she said, ‘I can’t say that it has or has not been opened. It might have been.’ Then she held the bottle up to the light; the glass was dim and cloudy but by holding it so that the sun shone on it she was able to see the level of the contents. ‘Nothing’s been taken out of it. Or, if it has, only the smallest amount.’
‘Enough to poison my wife,’ Ambrose said.
There was a cry of protest, quickly stifled; Helewise thought it came from Sister Euphemia, since Sister Tiphaine, expressionless beside her Abbess, appeared to have been turned to stone.
‘The remedy is not poisonous,’ Helewise said gently. ‘My lord, I understand your need to discover the cause of your wife’s tragic death but I would beg you not to make hasty or false accusations.’
‘You agree she died of poison?’ he demanded, turning pain-filled eyes on her.
‘I — it seems likely,’ Helewise said.
‘Then what else, pray tell me, can it have been?’ he shouted.
‘I do not know.’ She was fighting to keep calm. ‘Galiena said she was going to have a walk in the forest so it is possible she picked and ate something — a mushroom, some berries, perhaps — that proved lethal.’