Girl In A Red Tunic (3 page)

     Mother. Oh, dear God, it was so long since she had been addressed like that in the real, waking world! Squeezing his hands so hard that he winced, she said, ‘No, Leofgar, I am well.’ And, opening her arms to him, she hugged her son in an embrace that she did not want to end.

There was at first no opportunity for private talk and Helewise had to hold back her impatience. But her mind now raced even faster in its search for explanations. She urgently needed to know why it should be, by what miracle it had happened, that this son of hers should now appear in the flesh when, for the past two weeks or more, she had been dreaming of him. Hearing in her sleep his calls for her help, so real in her dreaming mind that, awake, she had been able to think of nothing else.

     The Hawkenlye community threw itself into a bustle of preparations to welcome this son of their Abbess. Helewise found a moment to slip away by herself into the Abbey church where she offered up a prayer of thanks. ‘This was not the help that I expected, Lord,’ she whispered, ‘but it is a far better answer to my prayers than I could possibly have wished for.’

     Putting aside for the moment any thoughts of just why her son should have chosen to seek out his mother after so many years, she gave herself up to gratitude that he had.

Helewise had known of her son’s marriage to Rohaise Edgar, the daughter of a friend of the knight to whom the young Leofgar had been page and then squire before, on maturity, taking up his inheritance from his late father. Leofgar was the elder of Helewise’s two sons and lived on the manor that had been Helewise’s marital home. His brother Dominic, sixteen months his junior, was a soldier in Outremer and had not seen either his family or his homeland for eight years.

     Leofgar and Rohaise had married when the groom was twenty-two and the bride just sixteen. Their child – a willowy little boy named Timus – had been born two years later; he was now aged fourteen months. These were the bare facts known to Helewise when, feeling as nervous as a girl, she allowed Leofgar to escort her from her room across to the refectory for the welcoming meal. As they took their seats at the head of the long table, Rohaise got up to greet Helewise. There was a strange expression on the girl’s face, Helewise noticed, and she was still ashen. Perhaps that was her normal colour, although the rich brunette hair neatly dressed beneath the small veil and the dark brown eyes – huge, and circled in grey as if the girl did not sleep – made this seem unlikely. The deep russet shade of her gown seemed to increase the pallor. Trying to put her concern out of her mind, Helewise responded to her daughter-in-law’s politely formal words and, putting both arms on the girl’s thin shoulders, raised her up from her deep bow of reverence.

     They sat down to eat and then, as Helewise had been secretly longing to do, she took her grandson on to her lap and began to make his acquaintance.

Quite early in the evening, Rohaise asked if she might take Timus to settle him for the night, adding that she would like to retire too, if that was acceptable. Assuring her that it was, Helewise gave orders for the girl and the baby to be shown to the guest accommodation that had been prepared for them.

     As if by tacit agreement, the members of the Hawkenlye community quietly faded away and Helewise and her son were left on their own. There was a half-full jug of mulled wine left over from the meal and Helewise, having summoned Sister Basilia to pick it up and bring two clean mugs, led Leofgar out of the refectory and along to her own little room. Silently thanking whichever nun had foreseen this event and placed a small brazier in the room, Helewise pulled out the visitors’ stool and set it before her table. Dismissing Sister Basilia, who bowed and tactfully retreated, closing the door behind her, Helewise poured wine into the two cups then, seating herself in her throne-like chair, said, ‘Now, Leofgar. Tell me why you are here.’

     Watching him intently, she saw his brief smile, there and gone in a flash. ‘What is it?’ she demanded.

     ‘Oh – this is so strange,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t seen you for years but you’re just the same. Anyone else’s mother might have asked other things in the first private moment with her son. How are you? How are things at the Old Manor and are you managing all right? Are you happy?’ Briefly his face clouded, then, with an effort, he grinned. ‘It’s only my beloved mother who goes straight to the point and demands to be told the purpose of my visit.’

     ‘It does not mean that I am not eager to ask all the other questions,’ she countered swiftly. ‘We learn here to be brief, son. It is simply that I have asked the crucial question first.’

     He nodded. ‘Yes. I see.’ Then, drawing a deep breath, ‘Rohaise is not herself and has not been so, in truth, since Timus was born. At first she was euphoric – she greatly feared giving birth and was overcome by her relief at having survived the delivery. But soon she changed. She is fearful all the time, she worries that she is not a good mother; she frets when Timus is out of her sight but is impatient with him when he is at her side. She does not sleep well and I feel that she is deeply unhappy, for she weeps constantly and finds no joy even in the brightest day. And we—’ He stopped. Then, with a quick glance at Helewise, he lowered his head and muttered, ‘She has turned away from me because she fears another pregnancy.’

     Helewise, shocked to her core that her direct question had received such a brutally frank answer, was momentarily speechless. Then, feeling the waves of need pouring out of her son and coming straight at her, she knew she must respond. Not ready to comment on what Leofgar had poured out, she said, ‘And the little boy, Timus? He is well?’

     ‘He—’ Leofgar hesitated. ‘Yes, for the most part. He—’ Again he stopped and when he finally spoke, Helewise was quite certain that what he said was not the first response that had come to his mind. ‘He’s overly timid at times and he clings.’

     ‘Clings?’

     ‘Yes.’ Leofgar shifted impatiently on the small stool. ‘He refuses to let go of my hand, or he’ll bury his face in his mother’s skirts.’

     ‘He’s little more than a baby,’ Helewise said gently.

     ‘I know! You asked me, so I’m telling you!’

     Nineteen years fell away and Helewise was in the parlour of the Old Manor, her former home, face to face with a furious, indignant six-year-old trying to evade a justified punishment for having kicked a sharp-edged stone at his little brother. She had demanded furiously why Dominic’s cheek was bleeding and Leofgar had said, because the stone hit him. When she had cried out, oh, how can you confess such a thing? he had replied with those exact words:
you asked me so I’m telling you
.

     But that was then, she thought, a variety of emotions coursing powerfully through her. And this is now.

     She said carefully, ‘What help do you ask of us?’

     She could plainly see the relief in his face; it was as if, she thought, he had expected to be ordered to give more explanation and was very glad that this was not the case.

     ‘We who live out in the world hear tell of the Hawkenlye nuns and monks and always the tales are good,’ he said quietly. ‘I am proud that my own mother heads the community and I am happy each time I hear your name spoken.’

     His eyes met hers and she inclined her head, acknowledging his compliment. ‘I am fortunate in my hardworking and devoted nuns and in my monks who selflessly tend those who come to take the cure here,’ she said. ‘If indeed we have achieved a sound reputation, then it is to them that the credit is due.’

     ‘You’re the chief, though,’ he observed.

     ‘I know, but—’ No. It was not the moment to go into that. ‘So, you believe from what you hear of us that we can help you?’

     ‘You must,’ he muttered, ‘you’re my only hope.’

     She was horrified at his desolate tone. ‘You forget God,’ she said quietly. ‘Have you not asked God’s help?’

     ‘I have. I’ve done what our priest tells me to do and I’ve prayed till I can pray no more, and when no help comes he just says it’s because my faith is insufficient and if I really believed God can do it, I could raise your table here without moving a hair.’

     ‘Oh, dear.’ Yes, Helewise thought, I’ve heard that argument many times before. She tried to suppress the reaction that it had scarcely been either appropriate or helpful in her son’s case.

     He was gazing intently at her table as if he were indeed trying to move it by faith alone. With a smile she said, ‘Give it up, Leofgar. I don’t believe a caring God concerns himself with jumping tables and I’m quite sure he is more interested in all the other ways in which we demonstrate our love for him.’

     Leofgar returned her smile. ‘I wasn’t trying to move it, I was just thinking that I recognised it.’

     ‘You do,’ she said shortly. ‘It used to stand in the long hall at the Old Manor and it had been in your father’s family for generations. By rights I suppose it should be yours but actually I’m rather attached to it myself.’

     ‘You keep it, Mother, I don’t want it!’

     He spoke fervently, and she wondered why. ‘Do you not care for it?’

     He grinned. ‘Too many memories of being taught my lessons. That priest who used to come to instruct Dominic and me had a habit of rapping our knuckles with a stick.’

     ‘No doubt you deserved it.’ Helewise had vivid memories of just what a task the poor priest had had to engage Leofgar and Dominic’s attention, especially on bright days when their hounds used to sit outside the door and howl for their young masters to come out and take them hunting.

     Leofgar had got to his feet and was peering closely at one corner of the big table. With a smile, he pointed and she could see two initials faintly carved, an L and a D. Funny, she thought, I’ve sat staring at this table all these years and never noticed that my naughty sons marked it  ...

     But these happy reminiscences were dangerous, for her at least, and in any case, presumably nothing to do with the reason why her son had sought her out. ‘About Rohaise,’ she said gently, and instantly the smile left Leofgar’s face. ‘Would you like our infirmarer to talk to her? Sister Euphemia is wise and very experienced, but she is also kind and loving. She may be able to help.’

     Leofgar looked as if he thought that was a forlorn hope. ‘Thank you, Mother,’ he said politely, if not very enthusiastically, ‘that would be good. Maybe Rohaise would open her heart to someone whose opinion she respected.’

     Which suggests, Helewise thought but did not say, that she has neither opened her heart to nor respects you, her husband. And that, she discovered, hurt. She put out her hand and took his. ‘Sister Euphemia knows a great deal about women and their babies,’ she said encouragingly. ‘She was a midwife before she was a nun and I often think that she shows her most skilful and devoted face to sickly infants and troubled young mothers. Whatever ails your Rohaise, if anyone has ever experienced anything similar and can offer help, then it is Sister Euphemia.’

     Leofgar said quickly, ‘Timus is not sickly, he’s—’ But yet again he did not continue; whatever he feared might be wrong with his son, clearly he was not ready to share it with his mother.

     We are getting nowhere with this discussion, Helewise thought. It is time to conclude our talk and make a decision, before Leofgar’s distress becomes more than he can cope with.

     ‘It is late,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Let us find our way to our beds and seek the comfort of sleep.’ She placed her hands on her son’s head and added softly, ‘I shall pray for you and for Rohaise, that the night brings you rest and the morning, hope. God bless you, son, and keep you safe.’

     Briefly Leofgar closed his eyes to receive her blessing. Then, opening them, he said suddenly, ‘Mother, why did you faint when you saw it was me? You said you’re not sick, so was it just the surprise?’

     She laughed. ‘Son, I very rarely faint and certainly do not do so when faced with a surprise, even one as extraordinary as seeing my son after so long. No, it wasn’t that.’

     ‘What was it, then?’

     She looked into his wide grey eyes and almost seemed to see in them a reflection of her own. ‘In fact it really was no surprise.’ She made herself give a light laugh, as if to suggest that she did not speak seriously. ‘You see, son, I have been dreaming. When you arrived, I was on my way back here with our priest, with whom I had just had a long and helpful talk during which I described those dreams in some detail.’

     She paused, trying to make sense of something illogical. He said, ‘Go on, Mother. Describe them to me, too.’

     ‘Oh. Yes, very well. I kept seeing the same scene and it has been affecting me so much that during the day I have not been capable of keeping my mind where it belongs, on my work and on my prayers. That’s why I talked it over in such depth with Father Gilbert, because I realised I was wasting God’s time all the while I was closed to his voice.’