Heart of Ice (3 page)

There were two more days of fun and games on the ice. Then overnight a thaw set in and the next morning the ice had begun to melt. The pond was declared strictly out of bounds and everyone went back to work.

     In the middle of the afternoon, Brothers Adrian and Micah were sent off along the path that ran alongside the pond to repair a large hole that had been opened up by the frost and which Brother Firmin had declared might be dangerous; ‘Some poor innocent soul,’ he suggested, ‘might come a-hopping and a-skipping along the track, all unsuspecting, and catch their foot in that great crack and, what with the water being so near, it could be very dangerous.’

     Adrian forbore to point out that even if this poor unsuspecting person did fall in the pond, then the mishap would be unlikely to prove fatal, the pond being only as deep as the length of a man’s forearm just there where the crack in the path snaked its way across the packed earth. Micah was about to remark that it was rare for visitors to the Vale to hop or skip but, catching sight of Brother Firmin’s careworn and concerned face, he changed his mind. ‘Of course, Brother,’ he said gently, ‘Adrian and I will see to it straight away. Don’t you worry; there won’t be any nasty accidents.’

     The two monks collected some tools and set off along the track, remarking to each other – softly, since they did not want to hurt his feelings – on Brother Firmin’s engaging little ways and his general resemblance to a fussy old mother hen. They found the crack in the path and were just rolling up their sleeves and spitting on their palms in preparation for beginning their excavating, digging and filling work when something in the water a few paces along the bank caught Micah’s eye.

     He hurried off to have a closer look. Then, as soon as he saw what it was, he paled and, in a voice that sounded as if there was a strong hand at his throat, said in a hoarse whisper, ‘Adrian, run for help. God help us all, but it looks as though Brother Firmin was right – there’s some poor soul face-down in our pond and I reckon he’s drowned!’

Two brothers raced back along the track with Brother Adrian, carrying a hurdle between them. With gentle hands, the four monks pulled and dragged at the sodden clothing until they managed to get a good enough grip to haul the body out of the pond. Even this short immersion turned their hands blue with cold; the waters of the pond had, after all, only lately thawed. The body was laid on the hurdle and, with one monk at each corner, they bore the dripping burden back to the settlement by the chapel. Brother Firmin was deeply distressed – ‘If only I had noticed that crack sooner! Oh, but it is all my fault!’ – and it was left to Brother Saul to take charge. ‘You four, take the corpse up to the infirmary,’ he said quietly, very aware of the dead body so close by, ‘and I’ll go on ahead and warn Sister Euphemia.’

     Shortly afterwards, Sister Euphemia was standing in a curtained recess at one end of the long infirmary, watching while two of her nursing nuns began carefully to remove the clothing from the corpse in preparation for washing it. Not a pauper, the infirmarer mused to herself, nor yet a rich man, if these garments are a guide; the cloak, tunic and hose are quite new but of poor quality. A young man, she thought, looking at the dead face, not yet twenty, I would guess, and no doubt just beginning to make his way in the world. God bless him, he’ll advance no further in
this
world.

     She was silently praying for the young man’s soul when Sister Caliste said softly, ‘He is ready for you, Sister.’

     The infirmarer stepped forward and, carefully turning back the spotlessly clean linen sheet with which the nursing nuns had covered the corpse, began her inspection. She worked quickly and thoroughly, barely speaking, and when she was finished she said, ‘Sister Caliste, be good enough to hurry and tell Brother Firmin that he can stop beating his breast; this death has come about through no fault of his, since it was not through tripping on any crack in the path that this young man fell in the pond.’ Sister Caliste bowed and hastened away. Then, turning to Sister Anne, the infirmarer added, ‘And you, Sister, must go and find the Abbess and ask her if she could spare me a moment.’ Sister Anne’s mouth had dropped open. ‘Quickly now!’

     With a bob of the head and a muttered ‘Yes, Sister,’ Anne too scurried off.

     Sister Euphemia stood alone by the dead man’s body. Perhaps I am mistaken and have been too hasty to remove the blame from Brother Firmin’s cracked path, she thought. Gently she pushed back the wet hair from the corpse’s forehead and looked again, studying the front of the head intently for some moments. No, she decided eventually, I am not mistaken.

     When, not long afterwards, the Abbess entered the infirmary and, escorted by Sister Caliste, made her way to the curtained recess, Sister Euphemia was quite ready for her. She made her reverence and then said with admirable brevity, ‘My lady, this young man has been slain by a blow to the top of his head, after which he either fell or was pushed into the pond. The death must be investigated and we must therefore seek help.’

     The Abbess stood quite still, listening to the infirmarer and studying her with expressionless eyes. As soon as Sister Euphemia finished speaking, the Abbess turned to look at the young man lying on the cot. Tenderly she put up a hand and touched her fingertips to the terrible blow on the top of his head. She said calmly, ‘Yes, Sister, indeed we must send for help.’

     Sister Euphemia opened her mouth to reply but then, as if the Abbess could no longer maintain her air of efficient indifference, she muttered passionately, ‘This was done with great force. See, Sister, how the bones of the skull have been crushed! What can he possibly have done to bring down such hatred upon himself? He is but young, and—’

     She did not complete her remark. Achieving detachment once more, she straightened up, lifted her head and said, ‘I shall send word to Gervase de Gifford down in Tonbridge.’

     ‘And—’ the infirmarer began. She stopped herself.

     But her superior had already read her mind. ‘Yes, Sister,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘I shall also send word to Sir Josse and ask, if he is not too busy, if he will kindly pay us a visit.’

Gervase de Gifford sent a message back to the Abbess that he would be at Hawkenlye first thing in the morning. The monk who had ridden off to New Winnowlands to find Sir Josse d’Acquin did not return that evening, which was no cause for alarm since he would undoubtedly have been pressed to come in, warm himself by Sir Josse’s fireside, refresh himself with a good, hot meal and a jug of ale and stay overnight. Expecting just such a turn of events, the Abbess had given the brother – it was young Augustus – permission not to return until morning. She only hoped, as she left the Abbey church after the final office of the day, that he would bring Sir Josse with him  . . .

Sister Euphemia was still in the infirmary. She had dismissed the other nuns who earlier had worked on the body with her and now she and the dead man were alone in the privacy of the recess. Beyond the curtains she could hear the sounds of the long infirmary ward settling for the night: there was one of the nuns helping an old man suffering from a hacking cough to pass water before he slept; there was the soft voice of Sister Caliste soothing a fractious child with griping pains in his belly. That sudden shrill cry, swiftly curtailed, was the newborn baby at the far end of the infirmary demanding to be fed and having her demand met. These were the normal sounds that were part of Sister Euphemia’s everyday life; she heard them, registered them and dismissed them.

     There was something far more alarming right under her eyes.

     She went over the body again. It was too soon to share her anxiety for, if she were wrong, then she would have caused a worrying stir all for nothing. And she must be wrong, surely she must! Sister Euphemia found she was praying in quiet desperation, the same words over and over again:
Dear merciful Lord, please let it not be so!

     Think again, she told herself firmly. Reconsider. Go over every inch again.

     There was the wound on the top of the head; it looked to Sister Euphemia as if the young man had been struck from directly in front and above. Either his attacker had been a very tall man or else the victim had been on his knees when he was hit. That was the more likely, she decided, for the young man himself was not particularly short and so, to inflict a wound in such a place, the attacker would have had to be a giant of a man. She put her hand to the wound in the skull. Its position was what had prompted her to send the message to Brother Firmin: it was just not possible for someone to trip and fall in such a way that they struck the
top
of their head on the hard ground, unless perhaps they were a professional tumbler. Sister Euphemia smiled wryly at the unlikelihood of this poor young man having been
that
.

     And in any case she could almost trace the outline of the weapon that had made that fearful hollow in the young man’s skull – she was no longer smiling – and the shape was almost certainly that of a club, or perhaps a stout stick or staff with a bulbous, rounded end. No; she had been right to inform Brother Firmin that he was not to blame. At least he, she reflected, with his conscience eased, is probably having a good night’s sleep  . . .

     She continued her examination of the body. The condition of the skin suggested that the man had been in the water for a few days, although the flesh was still quite firm and there was no sign of decay yet. This, Euphemia reasoned, was no doubt because the water had been so cold; indeed, so cold that it had been ice until this morning. She had observed before that cold temperatures seemed to arrest the decay of both plant and animal matter – including human flesh – and it occurred to her that, until this poor dead body warmed up, it would remain virtually in the same condition in which it first went into the water.

     The dead man’s eyes had been closed – presumably by one of the monks who pulled him out of the pond – and now Sister Euphemia gently raised one of the eyelids. He’d had light eyes, this young lad; soft blue-grey. Now in death they were bloodshot and the surrounding tissues were red and inflamed. The infirmarer closed the eye again and, putting a hand on the jaw, pressed down firmly and opened the mouth. The roof of the mouth appeared to be covered in small transparent blisters  . . .

     Then there was nothing else but to look again at what had so alarmed her.

     Sister Euphemia closed the mouth and picked up the tallow lamp that stood on a small shelf above the cot where the body lay. Holding it just above the bare shoulders, she bent down for a closer look. Was she seeing things? Was it a product of her tired eyes and the dim light, or were there really spots on the young man’s face, chest and abdomen?

     Instinctively the infirmarer put her hand over her mouth although, since she had been in close proximity to the body for some time, the gesture was futile; she would long ago have breathed in whatever noxious humours it might be emitting and it was far too late to worry about that now. But her nursing instincts were automatic and, she was very afraid, she had good reason to be wary of this particular body.

     She stared at the spots. They were flat and did not appear to contain fluid. In some places they had flared up and joined together into large blotches. On the shoulders there was a sort of – Sister Euphemia searched for the word – a sort of
scaly
look to the skin. She touched one of the roughened patches with a fingernail and a tiny piece of skin flaked off. Swiftly she wiped her hand with a piece of linen soaked in lavender oil, carefully cleaning under the nail with which she had scraped the skin, and the familiar smell of the oil – so clean, so heartening and refreshing – calmed her.

     After a moment she returned to her inspection. Placing her hands on the body’s right hip, she tensed the muscles in her strong arms and pushed the corpse away from her until it was lying on its side. For all that the nuns had thoroughly washed the dead man, there was still a faint reminder of the stench; undressing him, they had found a nasty surprise when it came to pulling off his hose and the long under chemise, for he had soiled himself. Copiously; his poor stomach, Sister Euphemia thought compassionately, must have been in a frightful turmoil. She studied the buttocks and the area around the anus, as if the dead man were a baby and she was checking for the rash that comes when an infant is left too long unwashed. The man’s skin was red and sore-looking; whatever had caused the flux in his bowels, the condition had been present for some time.

     The infirmarer wiped her hands again and then gently laid the body flat once more, drawing up the sheet and covering the dead man from his head to his toes. She felt, despite herself and her professionalism, an attachment to this young man, unreasonable since she had no idea who he was and had no reason to mourn him. Except, she said to herself, the fact that he was young, quite handsome and just starting out in adult life, and someone has chosen to halt him in his tracks with that savage blow.