He was already opening the door. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘As soon as I’ve called in on the women in the hostel. Thank you, my lady,’ he added belatedly. ‘You have been very helpful.’
Then he closed the door and, breaking into a sprint, headed off along the cloister.
He was not sure what he had expected to find, but Hawkenlye’s home for fallen women quite surprised him. For one thing, it was tidy and spotlessly clean; I am prejudiced, he told himself sternly, I believe squalor and filth to be the natural state of prostitutes rather than conditions brought about by abject poverty. For another thing, there was a decided air of happiness, of joy, about the hostel. He could hear soft female voices talking quietly and then someone laughed. He caught the gentle strains of a lullaby; one of the new mothers must be rocking her baby to sleep.
Standing just inside the door, he attracted the eye of a young, plump nun and raised his eyebrows in enquiry. She came gliding up to him across the polished flagstones. ‘Yes?’
‘I am Josse d’Acquin,’ he said. ‘May I speak to your — er, the women?’
‘It’ll be about that priest that’s upped and died,’ the young nun said sagely. ‘Because we wear the habit of obedience and love of God, I cannot but pray for him. But in truth, Sir Josse, I-’
She managed to swallow the remark she was about to make. Studying her flushed face and the way in which she had tightened her generous lips, as if to hold the words in by force, Josse guessed that it took quite an effort.
‘Father Micah visited the women yesterday, I am told,’ he said. ‘I would like to ask them what happened.’
‘Of course. Follow me.’
He did as he was bid. The nun took him through an area of the room where there were six beds, only three of which showed evidence of present occupancy. They then went through an archway into a second area where there were more beds and more space around them. ‘This,’ the nun said, ‘is where the mothers and babies are cared for.’
‘How many are here at present, Sister — er, I do not know your name.’
‘I am Sister Clare. We’ve three pregnant women, although one I believe to be in labour. It is her first confinement and she is very nervous’ — Sister Clare’s voice had dropped to a whisper — ‘so it may be merely anxiety that is making her think she feels her pains.’
‘Ah.’ He really could think of no fuller response.
‘And we have two newly delivered mothers,’ Sister Clare went on. ‘Come and meet them.’
There followed an extraordinary spell. Josse was introduced to Gemma, Bertha and Belle, all round and slow in advanced pregnancy, to Jehane, cradling a sleeping baby, and to Alisoun, calmly feeding a robust-looking infant as she talked. They were all eager to tell their visitor about Father Micah and to repeat the dreadful things he had said. Repeating them brought tears to the eyes of young Belle and she had to be led away and comforted by Sister Clare.
‘It’s her time,’ Alisoun confided to Josse. ‘She’s scared, see, and that foul-mouthed bastard of a priest didn’t help her.’
‘The man is dead,’ Josse reminded her quietly.
‘Good riddance,’ Alisoun flashed back. Her baby, apparently picking up her mother’s anger and disliking it, detached her perfect, pink mouth from the milky nipple and let out a wail of protest. Alisoun, love in her face and tenderness in her large, rough hands, replaced her nipple with infinite gentleness and the child resumed her suckling.
What am I doing here? Josse wondered. It is surely impossible that any of these women was abroad last night intent on waylaying Father Micah and breaking his neck. But, having made the effort to come to talk to them, it made sense to see it through.
‘Er — you were all here in the hostel last night?’ He felt a fool even as he asked.
Alisoun laughed. Jehane said, ‘Aye, that we were. We did wonder if Gemma here might chase after the priest and attempt to carry out what she suggested he do to himself, but she decided after all to stay here in the warm.’
He knew he shouldn’t, but he asked anyway. ‘And what was that suggestion?’
There was quite a lot more laughter and, as Gemma told him, he joined in. Turning to her, he said, still chuckling, ‘I believe that lets you out, Gemma. He certainly wasn’t killed like that.’
There was one thing he still had to ask. It was, he thought, trying to find the right words, even more tricky than asking if any of them had left the hostel last night.
‘You have — er, that is, do you receive visits from your — er, the babies’ fathers? Or other men?’
More laughter. Then Alisoun said, her expression deceptively innocent, ‘We wouldn’t mind, sir knight, only the nuns don’t take kindly to us keeping company in here.’ Dropping to a whisper, she added, ‘They’re trying to cure us of earning our bread on our backs, see, not encourage it.’
Again, he joined in the merriment. Then, as the laughter subsided, he said, ‘I am afraid, though, that I have to pursue this. Did any of you tell anyone on the outside about Father Micah’s visit? He was unforgivably rude, I know, and I just wondered if. .’
‘If one of us told some strong, handsome, honourable fellow who took it into his head to avenge the insults and the curses and attack the Father?’ Jehane finished for him. ‘Oh, no, sir knight. If any of us had a man of that quality, do you reckon we’d be in here?’
He looked at her face, oval, with a full-lipped mouth and hazel eyes. She must have been very pretty, he thought compassionately, before the hardships and the dangers of her profession ruined her. Now her hair was thin and straw-like, her skin bore the scars of the pox and the expression in her eyes was world-weary and cynical. Her words were, he was quite sure, the absolute truth.
‘No, Jehane,’ he said quietly. ‘No, I don’t suppose you would. I am sorry I had to ask.’
She gave him a smile that, despite everything, still managed to be very sweet. ‘It’s all right,’ she replied. ‘We understand.’
He found Brother Firmin in the Vale’s little shrine. He was with some other old monks and they were praying earnestly for the soul of Father Micah.
Unable to prevent the thought that, from all he had heard, the late priest had hardly been worthy of such fervour, Josse waited patiently outside in the cold for them to finish.
Brother Firmin was the last to leave. ‘Sir Josse!’ he said, his face creasing into a happy smile. ‘My, but it does me good to see you this sad morning!’ He took Josse’s arm affectionately. ‘You’re cold!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come with me and I will give you a mug of something to put that right and send some warmth through your bones.’
He led the way to the monks’ shelter where he set water on to the fire to heat, putting into it generous pinches of various powdered herbs. Then he set two coarse pottery mugs ready. When the water began to steam, a deliciously warming, sweet, spicy smell filled the room. Brother Firmin let the liquid boil gently for a short while, then he removed the vessel from the heat and poured the concoction into the mugs.
‘Here,’ Brother Firmin held out one of the mugs, ‘try this. Don’t ask me what it is, for I have no idea. Sister Tiphaine gives the herbs to me because she knows how I feel the cold. She is a good woman,’ he said emphatically, as if Josse had said she wasn’t, ‘for all that she keeps one foot in the pagan past.’ He tutted and shook his head. ‘Ah well, that is a matter between her and God.’ He sipped at his mug, smacking his lips in satisfaction. ‘And, by, she makes a good potion!’
Josse listened to the old monk rambling on for some time. Then, when he could get a word in, he said, ‘Brother Firmin, the Abbess said that you spoke to Father Micah yesterday and that he informed you he was going to make other visits. Do you remember to whom?’