Heart of Ice (21 page)

     She smiled at him. ‘Ah, there’s the kind soul that you are, Sir Josse. I always say so. It’s never a surprise to
me
that so many folks come here after you, wanting some of your precious time!’

     ‘Has someone been here today asking for me?’ It sounded like it.

     ‘Oh, yes!’ She paused and then, amending the affirmation, added, ‘Well, not asking for you exactly, although you came to mind the moment she said why she was here.’

     ‘I see.’ He was not at all sure that he did.

     But Sister Ursel was hurrying ahead with her tale. ‘It was – oh, let me see, was it after Sext or after Nones? Nones, I’m sure of it; it wasn’t all that long ago. Anyway, I was returning to my post at the gate – one of the lay brothers relieves me when I go into church for the Offices, Sir Josse, although of course not always the same one, and then he, whoever he is, returns to his duties when I get back.’ She stopped. ‘Where was I?’

     ‘Returning to the gate after Nones,’ he prompted.

     ‘Aye, aye, that’s right. There was someone waiting with the lay brother – it was young Brother Paul; you probably don’t know him, he’s new, see – and Paul had told them to wait till I got back from church. He didn’t really know the usual form so really he did the right thing, telling her to wait for me.’

     ‘The visitor was a woman?’

     ‘Aye, a young woman, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three. Pretty as a picture.’

     For a moment Josse’s heart leapt.

     ‘She was fair,’ the porteress continued, dashing his hopes, for the woman he had in mind was dark, ‘with neatly braided hair under a close-fitting cap. She had blue eyes and a worried expression and her garments were good quality, not cheap. Nice gloves, fur-lined at the wrist – squirrel, I think – and she wore a deeply hooded cloak which she only drew back when she was safe inside the gate. It’s my belief’ – Sister Ursel dropped her voice and leaned close to Josse – ‘that she was afraid. That she knew someone was after her and didn’t want to be identified.’

     Josse reflected that Sister Ursel, for all her verbosity, had a sharp pair of eyes. ‘And this young woman was asking for me?’

     ‘Not by name. She said she had been given to understand that people came here to the Abbey with all sorts of problems and difficulties that get sorted out for them here and she hoped someone might do the same for her, and so of course
I
thought that you, Sir Josse, might be able to help her.’

     ‘Is she still here?’ Josse asked urgently; he had the sudden irrational but very strong feeling that this mystery woman, whoever she was, could be important  . . .

     ‘No, she’s gone,’ Sister Ursel said. ‘I told her to warm herself in my little room while I tried to find you; I keep a bit of a fire in there, Sir Josse, and the Abbess Helewise turns a blind eye because it’s cold as the tomb in the winter. Anyway, she accepted right gladly and I left her warming her cold hands. I looked for you in the Vale and I was gone longer that I intended because, what with them working so hard to keep the healthy away from the sick, it wasn’t easy finding someone to ask whether you were about. When I got back here she’d gone. I went to the Abbess’s room to see if she knew where you were so I could tell you about the woman, but she wasn’t there. Still, you’re here now and I’ve told you!’ Sister Ursel beamed her relief.

     ‘Was the young woman riding or walking?’ Josse asked; if the latter, then, provided he guessed right as to in which direction the young woman had set off, he might be able to fetch Horace and catch her up.

     But: ‘She was riding, on a pretty grey mare,’ Sister Ursel said. ‘Tied her up to the post there.’ She nodded to a small pile of horse droppings.

     ‘I see.’ Josse frowned. ‘You say that the young woman seemed afraid, Sister; is it possible, do you think, that while she waited in your little room, something happened that made her feel threatened?’

     ‘Like whoever’s following her turning up outside on the road?’ Sister Ursel said. ‘I can’t say, Sir Josse. I didn’t see anybody, but then,’ she added shrewdly, ‘a man who sets himself to trail someone isn’t going to make a song and a dance about it, is he?’

     ‘No,’ Josse agreed. But, he thought, if the woman thought she had spotted her pursuer, then surely the last thing she would do was to mount her mare and leave the safety of the Abbey.

     It was a mystery. No, he corrected himself, it was
another
mystery.

     He gave Sister Ursel a smile. ‘Thank you, Sister, for your detailed report,’ he said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, ‘I don’t suppose this young woman said who she was and exactly what it was she wanted help with?’

     ‘Well, it’s odd, what with her being so secretive and that, but she did,’ Sister Ursel replied. ‘Perhaps she thought it was safe, what with me being a nun.’

     ‘And you have the sort of face that people trust, Sister,’ Josse said, lavish with his praise in the excited anticipation of having a couple of questions adequately answered at last. ‘Well?’

     ‘Her name,’ Sister Ursel said, frowning with concentration, ‘was Sabin de Retz.’ She spoke the name with care. ‘She came here looking for the same person you’ve been enquiring after.’

     ‘And who,’ Josse said, strongly suspecting but hardly daring to hope his suspicion was right, ‘might that be?’

     ‘Why, the young man that was slain in our Vale!’ Sister Ursel exclaimed. ‘She’s come here searching for Nicol Romley!’

Chapter 11

Josse had to wait until late in the day to speak to the Abbess concerning the visit of Sabin de Retz and her puzzling mission; the Abbess spent most of the afternoon and evening down in the Vale, where Josse did not think it appropriate to disturb her. It was not until the community were leaving the Abbey church after Compline that Josse finally caught up with the Abbess.

     She looked exhausted.

     It suddenly occurred to Josse that surely there were better things he could do to take from her some of the huge burden she was carrying than to race off chasing a mysterious stranger hunting for a dead man. But swiftly he changed his mind: Nicol Romley had been suffering from the foreign pestilence, even though it had not been the cause of his death. Therefore anything connected with him might be important in the crucial work of containing the outbreak of the disease.

     He fell into step beside the Abbess as she walked slowly back to her room. ‘What news from the Vale?’ he asked.

     She shrugged. ‘Little that you would wish to hear, Sir Josse. The old man brought in by his daughter fails before our eyes, despite her devotion. She refuses to leave his side and tends him herself.’ The Abbess frowned. ‘I cannot understand why she shows no sign of the sickness, for, according to Sister Euphemia, she breathes in his very air and her hands are soaked in his blood.’

     ‘I too have wondered at the apparent invulnerability of some people to the pestilence,’ Josse agreed. ‘I’m told that some members of the Hastings maidservant’s family did not suffer so much as a headache, whereas others of the household sickened and died within a matter of days. My lady, do you think—’

     ‘Sir Josse,’ the Abbess interrupted, ‘I am sorry, but I am too tired to think.’

     ‘Of course you are!’ He was instantly solicitous. ‘May I fetch a restorative for you? Some wine?’

     ‘No, thank you.’ Briefly she touched his arm. ‘I have one or two matters to attend to and then I shall go to my bed.’

     Josse, appreciating that he ought not to detain her, quickly told her about Sabin de Retz. ‘I’ve worked out,’ he said, concluding an admirably succinct version of the tale, ‘that probably the only person who could have told the young woman that Nicol Romley was coming here was the lad’s master, Adam Morton.’

     ‘You reason well, Sir Josse, as usual,’ the Abbess put in.

     ‘I thank you, my lady, although in truth the link was not difficult to make. So you see, I need to return to Newenden and speak to Adam Morton again to see if he can tell me anything more about Sabin de Retz and why she wanted to find Nicol Romley.’

     ‘Back on the road, then, first thing tomorrow?’ she suggested. ‘Sir Josse, it is many miles that you’ve covered these past days.’

     ‘Aye, but sometimes in times of trouble it’s easier on those who have a definite job to do.’

     ‘Easier than waiting and watching helplessly while they die?’ she said bitterly. ‘Oh, yes, Sir Josse, you are the lucky one, for indeed it is.’

     There was a short and, on Josse’s part, uncomfortable silence.

     Then she put out her hand to touch his and said, ‘Forgive me, old friend.’

     ‘Nothing to forgive,’ he muttered gruffly.

     They walked on, both deep in their own thoughts. At the door to her room she turned and said, ‘Sir Josse, may I ask a favour of you?’

     ‘Anything!’ he cried. ‘Whatever you like!’

     She managed a brief smile. ‘It is nothing
that
great,’ she said. ‘It is merely to ask if you would take Brother Augustus with you tomorrow.’

     ‘Young Gussie? Of course; nothing would give me more pleasure than to have his company on the road.’

     She made a face. ‘He is not himself, Sir Josse, for he is sorely grieved over Brother Firmin. Firmin has been like a beloved grandfather to Augustus and the boy will not accept that he is dying.’

     ‘It is true, then?’ Josse pictured the kind old face and he felt like weeping. ‘There is no hope for Brother Firmin?’

     ‘There is always hope,’ she said swiftly, ‘but Brother Firmin moves further along the road that takes him away from us with each hour that passes. He barely speaks and indeed he sleeps most of the time, waking only to drink some of his precious holy water.’

     ‘It has saved many lives before,’ Josse said stoutly. ‘Let us pray that the miracle will happen for dear old Firmin.’

     ‘Amen,’ the Abbess said fervently. Then, with a courageous lift of her chin that went straight to Josse’s heart, she bade him goodnight and disappeared into her room.

Josse and Brother Augustus were on the road early the next morning. Augustus did indeed seem very downcast and it was not long before he let out all his pain and grief to Josse.

     ‘I keep asking if I can nurse him,’ he said, close to tears, ‘but they won’t let me and I feel so
guilty
not being beside him. It’s just the infirmarer and her nursing nuns that are allowed into that temporary ward they’ve made in the Vale and they tell me I must obey their orders and keep away from him. But, Sir Josse, I can’t bear it, I want him to know how much I love him and that I’d do anything to make him well again!’

     Bearing in mind what the Abbess had told him, Josse chose his words carefully; it seemed kinder to prepare Augustus for the worst than to give him any false hopes.

     ‘Gus,’ he began, ‘for one thing, you’re a lay brother and you have to obey those in authority over you; you’ve no choice. So you mustn’t feel guilty that you can’t be with Brother Firmin.’

     ‘I keep him supplied with holy water from the spring,’ Augustus butted in, ‘at least I can do that for him.’

     ‘Brother Firmin would no doubt say that’s the best service you could render him,’ Josse said. Then, gently: ‘Gussie, you say that you’d do anything to keep him alive, but it’s not for us to choose the time of a man’s death.’

     ‘It’s up to God, aye, I know, and Brother Firmin’s an old man; so they all keep telling me,’ Augustus said wearily. ‘If he could only have a little bit longer, Sir Josse! Just a little while!’

     How many times, Josse wondered sadly, had that cry gone up at the bedside of a beloved person on the point of death! But then he thought – and the thought brought a sort of comfort – well, aren’t those people the lucky ones, to die knowing they are loved and will be sorely missed?

     He was about to say as much to Augustus when the young man spoke. ‘I’ve promised God I’ll take my vows and become a monk if he lets Brother Firmin live,’ he said.

     Josse’s first thought was, oh,
no
, Gus! In the years that he had known the lad, he had always considered that Augustus had more to offer the world outside the Abbey than within it and he would never have been surprised, on returning to Hawkenlye, to be told that Augustus had put aside his lay brother’s robe and gone.