‘I do not believe,’ she said carefully, ‘that you were febrile.’
‘Well, then, the only other explanation is that my late wife’s serving woman, who was then attending to my food and drink, had drugged me,’ he said lightly.
Helewise was uncertain whether he spoke in jest. ‘Why should she do that?’ she asked.
And, with a shrug and an unreadable look in his face, he answered, ‘You tell me.’
There seemed little more to say. In the silence that followed she studied him. Ambrose’s face wore clear signs of his grief, but behind them she sensed that the man was returning to himself. ‘Ambrose, would you like to go home?’ she asked gently. ‘I will ride there with you, if it is that you dread returning to an empty house. I will stay for a time, if it would help.’
Ambrose looked down at his hands; he was flipping a stone from one to the other, catching it deftly each time. Then, raising a hand to rub at his nearsighted, slightly watering eyes, he said, ‘It is a kind thought, my lady, and it is true that I long to go home. But-’
She waited, but he did not go on. So she said, ‘You are welcome to stay with us here as long as you wish. Many folk do, when they lose the person they love best in the world. Sometimes by staying here, where they perceive themselves to be watched over by God who loves them, they believe they have found a heavenly replacement for the one they have lost.’ Thinking of one monk in particular — Brother Erse, the carpenter — she added, ‘Some even hear the call of God and decide to spend the rest of their lives in His service as monks or nuns.’
Ambrose was looking at her, an intelligent interest in his eyes. It struck her that he was a powerful man and, despite his years, still a handsome one; Galiena, she thought, had been a young woman with a mature and a discerning eye.
He was asking her a question: ‘Was it that way for you, my lady? You spoke just now of your sons; did you lose your husband and seek solace with the Lord?’
It was a very long time since anyone had asked Helewise that. Pausing to gather her thoughts, she said, ‘Not exactly. Ivo and I–I loved my husband dearly, Ambrose, and grieved when I lost him. But-’ Should she say what was in her heart? She had never done so before, not in this matter, but somehow she felt it was not only right but also actually quite important to do so now, with this sympathetic and generous-hearted man beside her.
‘I had grown used to a position of authority in my marriage,’ she said quietly. ‘My husband was a man of some influence and he delegated many of his concerns to me.’
‘A man is lucky indeed if he has an accomplished and educated wife,’ Ambrose observed.
She shot him a grateful glance for the implied compliment. ‘When I was widowed, the options were few and little to my liking,’ she went on. ‘I had not thought to take the veil, for I had no desire for the limited life that I believed would be my lot behind convent walls. But then I heard of Hawkenlye Abbey, and I learned about the principles upon which it was founded, and I thought that it was where I wanted to be. I was admitted to the congregation, I grew to love the place, I learned the meaning of a truly satisfying day’s work.’ She smiled suddenly, a wide, happy smile that seemed to well up straight from the joy in her heart. ‘I discovered that God had had a plan for me all along,’ she finished, ‘and ever since I have done my utmost to follow it.’
‘With no small success,’ he remarked, and she smiled again at his lightly ironic tone.
‘I never expected this,’ she said softly. ‘To become abbess.’
‘No. I understand that.’ Then: ‘You are not the first to speak in this manner to me. But I do not wish to become a monk, my lady. Although I am grateful for the kind thought behind the suggestion.’
‘I did not in truth believe that you would see your future with us,’ she agreed. ‘That was, in fact, what I was leading up to. I wanted to say that I do not think, Ambrose, that you are destined for this life; I think you are, and must remain, a man of and in the world.’
He sighed heavily. ‘I cannot but agree, since what prompts me to go home is the thought of the promise I made to our sovereign lady, Queen Eleanor, concerning the King’s ransom. I have already given what I could immediately give, but I must do more. We must all work without cease until we obtain his release.’
Helewise, who did not quite share his fervour, nevertheless was not surprised to hear him express it. ‘Then will we ride to Ryemarsh together, you and I?’ she asked. ‘Your wife’s serving woman appears to have left us, but up behind the Abbey stables there is a forlorn and forgotten lad named Arthus who is homesick and longing to be of service to you again. Shall we ask him to ride back with us?’
Ambrose studied her. ‘You are subtle, my lady, so to remind me of my obligations,’ he murmured.
‘I meant no reproof,’ she said quickly.
‘I did not detect one,’ he replied. Then, with a surprisingly boyish grin, ‘And had I done, it probably would have been justified.’
In the sudden closeness between them, she ventured to say something that she might otherwise have kept back. Putting aside the vague dislike that she had felt for Galiena, she reminded herself that it was Ambrose whom she now must comfort. She reached out to touch his arm lightly and said, ‘The house will be empty without her, Ambrose, but you will learn to deal with your loss, of that I am certain, for you are a strong man.’
He put a hand on hers and gave it a squeeze. ‘I am grateful for your confidence, my lady, for I confess that mine is at a low ebb. She — she-’ But whatever image of his wife he held in his heart was too much for him and without warning he began to weep.
‘She was so young, too young to die!’ he sobbed. ‘And still we do not know how it happened! That in itself would be a comfort, of sorts, and yet the matter appears insoluble.’
She took his hand in both of hers. ‘It may be that we shall never know,’ she said gently. ‘If that is the case, you will have to find a way to accept it.’
‘I know.’ He wiped his eyes with his free hand and took a deep breath. ‘I know. I shall try, my lady.’
They went on sitting there on the bank, side by side, hand in hand. Helewise, open to the message that all her senses seemed to be sending her, was thinking that, if it transpired that Galiena had indeed been killed by another’s hand, then there was one person who Helewise was quite certain was innocent.
Josse, she remembered, had wondered if Ambrose, the cuckolded husband, might have poisoned his young wife. Josse had been suspicious because Ambrose had failed to mention the objection that Raelf had made to the possible explanation that Galiena had accidentally poisoned herself by eating berries or fungi in the forest, yet the girl’s husband must have known as well as her father of her skill with herbs and plants.
Well, Josse was an astute man but in this case he was wrong. Helewise knew that Ambrose Ryemarsh had not killed his wife; he had not been himself at the time of Galiena’s death, which would explain why he had not challenged the poisonous berry theory, and his sadness was genuine, she was quite sure of it. So, thank the kind Lord, was his ignorance that she had been pregnant.
Tomorrow, she thought, we shall set out for Ryemarsh and Ambrose will take the first steps in resuming his life at home. I will help him if I can, and I will ask God in His mercy to support him as he learns to live without her.
With a sort of peace descending on her which she prayed that Ambrose felt too, she stared out at the setting sun’s reflections in the quiet water.
20
The silver-eyed man led an unprotesting Josse out of the rock chamber and along to the outbuildings behind the long hall. When they came to the middle of the three round huts, the one in which Josse had noticed a workbench and some tools, the man opened the door and beckoned to Josse to go inside, relieving him of his sword as he passed.