The Chatter of the Maidens (17 page)

She said, her voice muffled, ‘Father beat us if we lied. He beat us with a belt, and the buckle used to cut our shoulders.’

He stroked the thin back with his left hand. ‘Your father can no longer hurt you, Berthe. You don’t have to tell lies for him any more.’

‘Alba can hurt me,’ Berthe whispered.

‘Not all the time she’s imprisoned.’

Berthe raised her face and stared at him. ‘How long will that be?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘She certainly won’t be released until Abbess Helewise comes back.’

‘I like Abbess Helewise,’ Berthe remarked.

‘She likes you, too.’

‘Does she? How do you know?’

‘She told me.’

‘You’re friends, aren’t you? You and the Abbess?’

‘We are.’

She frowned. ‘I didn’t like it when she asked me about Alba. Before she went away, I mean. She asked if I knew the name of the place where Alba went to be a nun, and I couldn’t tell her because I don’t know.’

‘If you didn’t know, then you couldn’t possibly tell her,’ Josse said reasonably.

‘Yes, but you see, there were other things I
could
have told her but I didn’t,’ Berthe persisted. ‘And it’s not fair, when she’s been so kind to me.’ The girl was still half-lying on Josse’s bed; now she drew up her legs and settled against him, like a puppy curling up to its dam. ‘I wish she were here.’

Josse sensed the thought forming in her. He held his peace; if he were to suggest it, she might clam up. . . .

She said presently, ‘I suppose I could tell
you
. You’re her friend, you just said so, and so telling you would be almost as good. Wouldn’t it?’

This child is suffering from a heavy conscience, Josse thought. The urge to unburden herself is strong.

Hoping he was doing the right thing, he said, ‘Yes, Berthe. And whatever you tell me, I promise to pass on to Abbess Helewise, as soon as she gets back.’

Berthe gave a soft little sigh. Then: ‘My mother died a long time ago. I don’t know why Alba said we had to say she died when Father did, and I didn’t like saying it. Mother was loving and kind. Father wasn’t kind at all, and it didn’t seem right to pretend that they’d died together, because if Mother
had
died just recently, when Father did, then we’d really be grieving for her. I didn’t like people seeing I wasn’t sad, and thinking it meant I hadn’t loved my mother. Do you see what I mean?’

‘Very clearly.’ Josse gave her a hug. Then he asked, ‘Berthe, you just said you didn’t know
why
you had to pretend your mother had only just died. But, if you’re really clever, and puzzle at it terribly hard, do you think you could have a guess?’

Berthe though for a while. Then she said tentatively, ‘Perhaps it was because Alba knew we weren’t really unhappy over Father dying. So if people knew the truth – that it was really only Father who’d just died – they’d think there wasn’t any real excuse for her taking us away from our old home.’

Josse thought he understood. ‘She needed a convincing story to cover her action in getting you all away from the area,’ he said slowly. ‘And so she said it was the shock and the grief of losing both your father and your greatly-beloved mother.’

‘Mm,’ Berthe said. She was humming gently to herself, and he sensed that the confession had done her good. With a gentle push, he said, ‘Berthe, will you go and find a jar? The bluebells need to be put in water.’

‘All right,’ she said.

He watched idly as she went off towards the bench where jugs of water were kept. She approached Sister Beata, who bent down to listen, then pointed towards a shelf under the bench.

He was thinking hard. Yes. It was beginning to make sense. The father’s death would have made the girls homeless, but, without the false grief, there was no reason for the sisters to go so far away. The logical thing would surely have been for Alba to find some place locally for her sisters, then return to her Ely convent.

Josse was coming to the conclusion that arranging a new home for Meriel and Berthe had not been the reason behind Alba’s actions at all. What she had been desperate to do was to get herself or her sisters, or possibly all three of them, away from their old home.

A very long way away.

And
why
?

Suddenly he understood why Alba had been so agitated when Berthe was sent down to work with the pilgrims visiting the Holy Shrine in the Vale. She was terrified that somebody from their old home would arrive and recognise the girl.

Something else was tapping at the edge of his mind . . . something that had worried him before, the day Helewise had told him about the murdered pilgrim. . . .

It would not come into focus. Deliberately he thought about something else. Look at Berthe down there, stopping to let that old woman with the crippled foot smell the bluebells – enchanting, sweet-natured child she is. . . .

And into his mind flashed the word
Walsingham
.

Yes! Of course! The dead man had worn a badge from the Shrine of Our Lady at Walsingham.

Was it relevant? Had he stumbled on something really useful? He concentrated, trying to see a way through the strands of the mystery. The murdered man could surely be nothing more than he seemed, an honest pilgrim who had travelled to several holy places and, with the visit to Hawkenlye, was adding another to the list.

But they had said he spoke with a strange accent! Could that have been the accent of eastern England?

Oh, Josse thought in frustration, this is useless! Every time I think I have found an answer, two more questions arise from it to vex me!

Berthe had returned, and was placing the jar of bluebells carefully beside his bed. ‘There! I’ve put them close, so you’ll be able to smell the lovely scent.’

‘Thank you, Berthe.’

She answered his smile. ‘I have to go now, Sir Josse. But I’ll come back soon.’

‘Please do.’ He leaned forward as she bent to give the now-customary kiss on his cheek. ‘Goodbye.’

When she had gone, he made himself summarise what he had discovered.

Although Berthe’s mother had died some time before the death of the father, Alba had pretended that grief for
both recent deaths
had been her motive in taking the girls so far from what was known and familiar.

For some strongly compelling reason, Alba had needed to remove herself and her sisters far from their home.

Alba was so terrified that someone from that home would come to Hawkenlye and recognise Berthe, working in the Vale, that she had been driven to that outrageous, violent reaction when thwarted.

A man who was known to have been to Walsingham had been murdered in the Vale.

And, although Berthe’s much-loved sister Meriel had gone missing, Berthe just didn’t seem too dreadfully anxious about it. . . .

Sister Euphemia appeared, carrying Josse’s midday meal. ‘She hasn’t tired you out, has she? Lovely lass she is, to be sure, but she
is
a bit of a talker.’ She put the trencher down on Josse’s lap.

‘She hasn’t tired me,’ Josse said. ‘I enjoy her chatter.’

‘Aye, she’s a breath of spring all right,’ the infirmarer agreed. ‘She has a gentle hand, too – she’s been helping me change the dressing on some of my less badly-afflicted patients, and they’ve all told me they prefer her touch to mine.’

‘I find that hard to believe, Sister,’ Josse said loyally.

‘Ah, it’s not the touch, Sir Josse, so much as the lively, pretty little face and the winning smile,’ Sister Euphemia said shrewdly. ‘Now, eat your meal while it’s hot!’

Josse went on thinking while he ate. But, try as he might, he could not tease out anything more from the assembled facts than what he had just concluded.

I have only half of the puzzle, he thought, reaching down to set the empty trencher on the floor and settling for the prescribed post-prandial nap. There will only be a chance of solving it when the other half is added.

And for that, he would have to wait until the Abbess returned.

 

Helewise returned to Hawkenlye in the evening of the first full day that Josse had spent out of bed.

He had awoken that morning with a strange certainty that today would be the day that the Abbess and her party came home, and he had been unshakeable in his determination to be sitting outside waiting when they rode through the gates. Not that the infirmarer had tried very hard to dissuade him; she could see for herself that lying fretting in bed would probably do him more harm than sitting outside in the sunshine.

After breakfast, he went – carefully – out through the infirmary door.

He was dismayed at how very slowly his strength was coming back. That alone made him face up to how ill he had been. Now that mental clarity was starting to return, he had been spending much time wondering how they were faring at New Winnowlands without him. Sister Euphemia had told him how Will and Sir Brice had brought him to Hawkenlye, and how they had stayed until reassured that he was out of danger; her words had moved him at the time to the ready tears of the invalid. Even now, when he was so much better, the thought of his manservant and his friend keeping vigil for him still had the power to touch him deeply.

Should he, he wondered as he walked slowly across to the cloister, send for Will? Have a talk with him, make sure all went well at home?

No, he decided finally. Will was quite used to managing without his master. In fact, Josse accepted ruefully, Will probably only ever made a show of consulting him out of kindness.

Ah, but it was good to be out in the fresh air again! He stood still for a moment, flinging out his arms in a wide stretch, but the sudden movement caught him unawares; as the dizziness swept through him, hastily he moved to the stone bench that ran along inside the cloister and sat down.

I am, he concluded, far from fully fit yet.

He tried not to dwell on it. Instead, settling himself comfortably so that he could keep an eye on the main gate, he ran through the additional small facts which he had managed to pick up from his conversations with Berthe.

They were mainly to do with her family. Alba, she said, was a
lot
older than her two younger sisters – which, Josse imagined, those at Hawkenlye who had seen all three would already have known – and the girls’ mother had been afraid of her.

‘She’s very like Father,’ Berthe had told him. ‘Like him to look at, and like him in her hot temper and her tendency to fly into rages and go bright red in the face.’

No wonder, Josse had thought, the poor, gentle mother had been afraid.

And, on another occasion: ‘Alba’s terribly proud, Sir Josse. She’s always on at me and Meriel about the good name of the family, which she drags into the argument whenever she wants to give us orders. Like not to laugh and shout in public, not to go out in less than perfectly clean and mended clothes, not to associate with this person because they’re beneath us, whatever
that
means.’

To that, Josse had been prompted to ask why the father and the mother hadn’t been the ones to discipline the younger girls. Berthe had replied, a remembered anger and hurt making her pretty face flush, ‘Father said we were like an army. He gave orders to Alba; she gave them to us. As for Mother’ – the girl’s expression softened – ‘she never interfered. It sometimes seemed as if she were another sister, kinder, more loving, who left the bossing about and the issuing of punishments to Alba. Who was, after all, far better suited to it.’

Once, Josse asked her whether Alba had left home to enter the convent before or after the mother had died.

‘Oh, after,’ Berthe replied.

‘I wonder whether your mother’s death prompted her to take the veil?’ Josse mused aloud.

‘Oh, no, I shouldn’t think so, she . . .’ But, with a perplexed frown, Berthe trailed off. Josse waited, and after a moment she said, ‘You know, it’s strange, but, now I come to think of it, I think you might be right.’ She was staring at him, her face intent as she tried to put a vague idea into words. ‘She was – Mother and Alba were – well, it was Alba, really. It always felt as if she was sort of
vying
with Mother for control. For who was head of the household after Father. But, of course, when Mother died, that left Alba with nobody to vie with.’

‘Didn’t that make her happy? After all, the way was then clear for her and your father to rule between them, which you imply was what they wanted?’

‘It
ought
to have made her happy.’ Berthe sounded puzzled. ‘But having nobody to fight with didn’t seem to suit her at all. I remember that, when she made up her mind to enter the cloister, she said something about having won her battle, so there was no need for her to stay at home.’ She shrugged. ‘I really have no idea what she meant.’