Whiter than the Lily (12 page)

‘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.’

‘Hm.’ He glared at her and she knew that he did not accept her explanation. She was not sure she blamed him. Then, holding up the bottle, he said, ‘Let the herbalist prove that her work is not the source of the poison. She made it, let her drink it.’

Sister Tiphaine held out her hand to take the bottle.

But Helewise stopped her.

Taking the bottle from Ambrose, she said quietly, ‘It is one thing for the remedy’s maker to have confidence in her work but I think you will agree, my lord, that for another to believe in its innocence is a greater test.’ Taking out the stopper as she spoke, she added, ‘I will drink it myself.’

Again, she sensed that someone behind her was protesting; this time she was sure it was Josse. He did more than make a verbal protest, however; she felt movement and then he was beside her and had taken a tight grip on the hand holding the bottle.

‘My lady, is this wise?’ he muttered. ‘I know what faith you have in your herbalist but could it not be just this once that she has – that there has been—’ He broke off.

She turned to him. She could see the anguish in his eyes and she wished she could say something to alleviate it. But in that moment she was Abbess of Hawkenlye and friendships – if friendship described what she and Josse shared – had to be put aside. ‘Sir Josse, please let go of my hand,’ she ordered.

He gave her one last despairing look that tore at her heart. Then he released her.

Before she had time to change her mind she put the bottle to her lips and took a large sip. She heard Sister Tiphaine gasp and mutter something – it sounded like, ‘Go easy! It is strong!’ – and then the very powerful taste of whatever it was with which she had just filled her mouth struck her so violently that every other sense temporarily shut down.

She swallowed hastily, feeling the burning sensation
that had begun on her tongue and the inside of her mouth now spread down her gullet. As the first heat subsided, she began to detect some of the elements making up the taste … garlic, clearly, and was it onion? Also caraway, wormwood, perhaps – anyway, something very spicy and bitter – and a fruity taste that she thought could be apple …

Swallowing again, she emptied her mouth. She was starting to salivate – with a flicker of dread she remembered the clear fluid that had poured from Galiena’s mouth – but perhaps it was only the result of having drunk something so strongly and hotly flavoured.

She hoped so. Dear God, she hoped so.

She glanced round at the circle of people watching her. Josse’s expression was too hard to bear and quickly she moved on to Sister Tiphaine, whose calm face seemed to say,
Do not worry. All is well
. Sister Euphemia, Helewise noted with an urge to giggle, had put out both arms as if preparing to catch her Abbess as she fell.

Lastly she turned her eyes to Ambrose. To her surprise, he no longer looked either angry or accusing; the expression on his lined old face looked like admiration.

Time passed. Then Sister Euphemia said tentatively, ‘How do you feel, my lady?’

‘I feel quite well, thank you,’ Helewise replied. She felt a burp rise and tried to suppress it. Clearing her throat, she said, ‘How long, Sister Tiphaine, would you estimate that a poison would take to work?’

‘Hard to say,’ Sister Tiphaine said gruffly. ‘Depends
what it is. Some take a while, some kill immediately. In most cases, there will be symptoms that develop straight away.’

‘As I say,’ Helewise remarked sweetly, ‘I feel quite well.’

‘No burning of the lips and mouth?’ Josse asked anxiously.

‘None.’ She smiled at him.

‘No nausea?’ Sister Euphemia demanded. ‘You don’t feel as how you want to be sick?’

‘Not at all.’

They waited some more.

Helewise, whose relief was making her feel quite silly, wanted to laugh. They’re all waiting to see if I collapse and die, she thought. They can’t do anything until either I do or I don’t.

Well, I’m not going to. I knew it would be safe and it was.

Straightening her back and squaring her shoulders, she turned to Ambrose. ‘It is possible that I may suffer some reaction later,’ she said somewhat frostily, ‘and if that is the case, I shall certainly tell you.’ No – that was absurd. ‘You will be informed,’ she amended. ‘But for now I think that we must begin to look elsewhere for the source of whatever it was that poisoned Galiena.’

Josse, weak with what he prayed was not a premature relief, watched the Abbess walk steadily away from the herbalist’s hut and back towards the Abbey buildings, Sister Euphemia at her side. She had announced that she must get on with the day’s duties and he had overheard her say quietly to Ambrose Ryemarsh that she had already sent word to Father Gilbert, who had promised to come over to Hawkenlye as soon as he could.

Aye, Josse thought. There was the poor girl’s burial to be arranged. He watched the old man who, straight-backed, was speaking to Sister Tiphaine. Was he, Josse wondered, apologising for having accused her of poisoning his wife? It was possible.

Then, as the herbalist, went back inside her little room and shut the door, Ambrose turned to him. ‘Forgive me, Josse, for not having greeted you before now,’ he said, giving Josse a quick bow. ‘My mind, I am afraid, was on other matters.’ He sighed. ‘I truly believed that we had the solution to this terrible misfortune, but it seems I was wrong.’

‘I think so too, sir,’ Josse said gently. ‘Of course, it is possible for anyone to make a mistake, but I am of
the firm opinion that Sister Tiphaine’s scrupulous care and impressive reputation suggest that she is the last person to accuse of accidentally poisoning someone who sought her help.’

He wondered even as he spoke at his choice of the word accidentally; who would deliberately poison a patient?

But, even as he wondered, a frightening possibility occurred to him. Sister Tiphaine would not; he was as sure of that as he was of the sun rising each morning. But someone else might have done. A man, for example, whose mistress had conceived an unplanned child whose existence threatened to turn a pleasant dalliance into something altogether more serious …

No. No. The idea followed on a suspicion that had already been developing in his mind but, all the same, surely it was just too far-fetched to be credible.

Shaking his head as if to clear the unpleasant thoughts from his mind, he realised that Ambrose was speaking to him. ‘I don’t hold you to blame, Josse, for recommending the Hawkenlye nuns,’ he said.

‘I am glad of it,’ Josse replied.

Ambrose gave a great sigh and then, eyeing Josse ruefully, said, ‘I should, I suppose, prepare myself to meet this priest who will bury my wife. What say you, Josse? Is he a good man?’

‘Aye.’

‘Hm.’ Ambrose did not look convinced. ‘As I said at our last meeting, I have no great respect for the clergy. It is to be hoped that this Father—?’

‘Father Gilbert,’ Josse supplied.

‘—that this Father Gilbert is the exception who will prove that my misgivings do not universally apply.’

‘He is a good man,’ Josse said. ‘He will have been genuinely sorry when told of your wife’s death and his prayers for her will be heartfelt.’

Ambrose studied him for a moment. Then: ‘Thank you, Josse. Your words comfort me.’

‘I am glad of it.’