‘It would seem,’ she observed, ‘that this Lord Saxonbury had good reason to ply you with strong drink. Do you think, Sir Josse, that he has something to hide?’
Josse scratched his chin. ‘I believe him to be a powerful man, with good reason for antagonism towards the Father. I do not see him as a murderer, although there are things about the Saxonbury household that strike me as odd.’
‘Such as?’
Now the chin scratching developed into a vigorous face rubbing. From behind his hands Josse said, ‘My lady, I cannot now recall. I know full well that there were matters concerning which I told myself to take note, but what they were I have no idea.’ As if to exonerate himself he added, ‘Tiny things, you know. The sort that make you say to yourself, now why does that seem important?’
‘The sort of things that are so elusive that they can all too easily vanish,’ she said sympathetically.
‘Especially after too many mugs of ale,’ he added dully.
‘Do not distress yourself, Sir Josse. Why not go to bed and have a good night’s sleep?’ she suggested. ‘Perhaps your memory will serve you better by morning.’
‘Good advice,’ he muttered. ‘And I am of no use to you, me or anyone else tonight.’
As he bade her goodnight she remembered that she had not told him about Gervase de Gifford. Ah well, tomorrow would do.
But the next day brought its own troubles. Helewise forgot all about Gervase de Gifford, and whatever it was that Josse had been trying to bring to mind concerning Saxonbury was driven out altogether.
Very early in the morning, while it was still dark and as the Hawkenlye community was leaving the Abbey church after Prime, there came a loud beating at the gates and a deep male voice called out, ‘Hoa, Abbey! Help! Help!’
Sister Ursel rushed to climb up the short flight of steps to the spyhole in the wall beside the gates. As she opened it and peered out, Brothers Saul, Michael and Augustus sprinted to join her. ‘Who’s there?’ she cried. ‘What do you want of us?’
Helewise joined the gathering crowd of nuns and monks and they stood back respectfully to let her through. ‘Who is out there, Sister Ursel?’ she demanded.
‘It’s a man — he’s carrying someone — a woman, I think, she appears to be slight and quite small,’ Sister Ursel replied quietly. Then, raising her voice, she repeated, ‘What do you want?’
But the man merely said again, ‘Help!’
Helewise said, ‘Sister Ursel, let me look.’ As the porteress got out of the way, Helewise stepped up to the spyhole. Her instinct was to open the gates immediately; there had been a note of anguish in the man’s repeated cry that persuaded her his need was genuine. But as Abbess she was responsible for the safety of her community, and there were ruffians abroad in the night who might try to gain entry to the Abbey by subterfuge.
She stared down at the short, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man who stood outside. He raised his head and stared back. In the thin dawn light she saw the despair in his expression. She also saw that the front of his shirt was covered in blood. Judging by the way in which he carried the woman in his arms, it appeared to be hers.
Deciding, she stepped down from the spyhole. ‘Sister Ursel, open the gates,’ she ordered. ‘Brothers, stand by in case of any disturbance.’ She did not elaborate; meeting Brother Saul’s eyes, she knew she did not need to.
The gates opened and the man came straight in. He gasped out something — it might have been ‘Thank you’ — and Sister Euphemia took hold of his arm.
Her eyes on the limp figure that he carried, she said, ‘Come with me. I will look after her.’
Initially, the most difficult part of the infirmarer’s task was in getting the man to relinquish his hold on the woman. His broad arms supporting her seemed to have locked into position and his eyes were fixed on her white face; he ignored the presence of anyone else.
Sister Euphemia had commanded Sister Caliste to prepare a bed in one of the infirmary’s small curtained-off recesses. Having done so, Sister Caliste now stood ready, and the infirmarer noticed that the young nun, good nurse that she was, had set out a bowl of steaming water, wash cloths and bandaging materials. With the curtain drawn to keep curious eyes off the drama, all that now remained was for the man to lay the woman down and allow the nurses to do their job.
‘Please, won’t you put her down?’ Sister Euphemia asked the man in a gentle tone. He turned, looked at her blankly, then went back to gazing at the woman in his arms.
Suddenly Sister Calise spoke. ‘Sister, he doesn’t understand!’ she whispered. ‘May I try?’
‘Aye, do.’ The infirmarer’s tone was terse.
Sister Caliste stepped forward so that the man could see her. Then she mimed holding something and laying it down carefully on the clean white sheet of the prepared bed. She stared at him, nodding encouragingly and smiling, and after a moment an answering smile broke across his large face. With infinite tenderness, he laid the woman down on the bed.
‘At last!’ breathed the infirmarer. ‘Now, Sister, weave a little more of your magic and get him to stand back; I can’t work properly with him right at my elbow breathing down my neck like an exhausted ox!’
Sister Caliste reached for a little stool and placed it a few paces back from the bed, pointing to it and then to the man. Comprehending, he shuffled over and sat heavily down.
‘Now, Sister, your assistance if you please,’ the infirmarer commanded.
Sister Caliste went to join her at the bedside. Seeing at last the woman’s injuries, she gave out a small gasp.
Sister Euphemia glanced across at her. ‘Aye, it’s not pretty, is it? And, unless I’m very much mistaken, there’s more.’ Carefully raising the woman’s right shoulder as she spoke and pulling back the cloak in which she was wrapped, she stared down at the torn robe and the lacerated, bleeding, suppurating flesh beneath. ‘Aye. It is as I thought. She’s taken a beating.’
Sister Caliste said softly, ‘Which do we attend to first, Sister? Her back or her poor face?’
‘Her back. We’ll just give the wounds on her cheek and her forehead a lavender wash to clean them’ — instantly Sister Caliste put lavender into the bowl of hot water and, squeezing out a cloth, handed it to the infirmarer — ‘then we’ll do what we can to make her back less painful so that she can lie more comfortably.’
The two of them worked in silence. They were very aware of the man sitting watching them; from time to time he let out soft, low sounds, like an animal in pain, but he did not interrupt them. He appeared to understand that they were doing their best and seemed content to let them get on with it. They turned the woman gently over on to her side and Sister Euphemia soaked the tattered remains of the robe to remove the thick crust of blood and pus sticking it to the flesh. As she peeled away the cloth, Sister Caliste began to cleanse the wounds. There were twenty-five of them, evenly spaced down the woman’s narrow back. Whoever had flogged her had done so with a practised hand.
Soon Sister Caliste had done all that she could. Some of the wounds were now bleeding cleanly but some had become badly infected and were surrounded by tight, bright-red skin that felt hot to the touch.
‘A poultice of dried herbs — fresh ingredients where we’ve got them, Sister — that’s what we need now,’ the infirmarer said. ‘Greater burdock leaves for the inflammation, wood avens root to control that bleeding and a good helping of feverfew and white willow for the pain.’
‘Wood avens?’
‘Herb Bennet.’
‘Ah, yes. Of course, Sister.’
‘Make up a hot, moist mash, spread it between two pieces of flannel and bring it here. We’ll fix it to her back and let the good, healing herbs draw out the poison and give her relief.’