As Sister Caliste hurried to obey, she heard the soft, steady and infinitely comforting sound of the infirmarer’s prayers.
When the poultice was in place, the two nuns laid the woman carefully on to her back. ‘She’ll drain better like that,’ the infirmarer said. ‘It may hurt her more than lying on her belly or her side, but we don’t want that poison pooling inside her wounds.’ Then she pushed back the thick, curly brown hair from the woman’s face and she and Sister Caliste studied the wounds to the forehead and the cheek.
Now that it had been bathed, the cut on the right cheek was revealed to be not very serious. Sister Euphemia cut a square of flannel, soaked it in lavender oil and pressed it to the wound. ‘We’ll need to check it regularly,’ she said, ‘but I do not believe it will leave a scar. Not like this foul thing.’
Then the two of them stood staring down at what had been done to the woman’s brow. Into the pale, smooth skin, someone had burned a mark. It was quite hard to tell, because of the swelling and infection affecting the whole of the forehead, but it looked as if it were meant to be a letter. Just the one letter.
‘What is it?’ Sister Caliste whispered.
‘I don’t know.’ Sister Euphemia frowned. ‘An A? Or an H? Perhaps even a B, for the right-hand side has a sort of curve.’
‘But why?’
Sister Euphemia turned to look at her, compassion and a world-weary cynicism in her expression. ‘I’ve seen the letter A branded on a woman before now,’ she said. ‘It was in my noviciate. There was this nobleman, a proud man he was, ambitious for his son, for whom he’d arranged a splendid marriage. Trouble was, the lad didn’t love his cold, grand wife and he took up with one of his father’s serving maids. When the father found out, he cast the lass out. But before he did so, he had her branded with an A.’
‘A?’
Now the infirmarer’s glance was pitying. ‘Adulteress. Isn’t that just typical? The lad was as guilty as the lassie, yet she was punished and thrown out to starve while he escaped unhurt.’
‘He lost his love,’ Sister Caliste pointed out.
‘Aye, aye.’ Sister Euphemia sighed heavily. ‘I suppose he did.’ Then, shaking herself out of her thoughts and her memories, she said, ‘Another poultice, please, Sister Caliste. This time moisten it particularly well with lavender oil. I have remarked that it helps to lessen scarring, and this poor soul won’t want that great mark on her brow for the rest of her life.’
Her hands already busy, Sister Caliste felt her heart lift. ‘You think, then, Sister, that she will live?’
‘Course she will!’ Sister Euphemia exclaimed robustly. ‘Nasty wounds, I grant you, but not enough to take her life. Not now she’s here and in our care.’
Happy for the first time since she had entered the infirmary, Sister Caliste turned her head in the direction of the man on the stool. He was still staring intently at the two nuns, his expression as anxious and grief-stricken as ever.
‘I think, then,’ Sister Caliste said quietly, ‘that we had better find a way of telling him the good news.’
Some time later, Helewise received the expected visit from the infirmarer. Sister Euphemia told her quickly and economically what had been done to the woman, how they had cared for her and that she would live. After expressing her relief and her appreciation of the infirmarer’s skills — which Sister Euphemia dismissed with a toss of her head and the firm insistence that Sister Caliste had done as much if not more — Helewise asked, ‘And what of the man who brought her here? Is he injured too?’
Sister Euphemia frowned. ‘Do you know, my lady, we never thought to ask? I will put that right, soon as I’m back in the infirmary. Trouble is,’ she added, ‘he doesn’t understand us. He’s maybe a deaf mute. He only said those few words, didn’t he, when he came a-knocking at the gates?’
‘Yes. Does he not respond when spoken to?’
‘No. He sort of fixes you with those agonised brown eyes, as if he knows you’re talking to him but can’t hear.’
‘Or can’t understand. Perhaps he is a foreigner and does not speak our tongue.’
Sister Euphemia was nodding. ‘Aye, that’s likely. Anyway, deaf or foreign, Sister Caliste and I reckon he’s slow of understanding. A bit soft in the head.’
‘I see.’
‘Nothing wrong with his heart, however. He loves that woman like his own child. Never takes his eyes off her.’
‘Perhaps she is his own child.’
The infirmarer considered for a moment. Then: ‘He’d have had to be a mighty young father, if so. I reckon she’s thirty, maybe a little older, and he’s only ten years or so more. Ah well, I’ll get Sister Caliste on to it.’
Helewise was puzzled. ‘In what way?’
The infirmarer smiled fondly. ‘It was a good day for the Abbey when that little one decided she was called to join us,’ she said. ‘As well as being a devoted and efficient nurse, a kind ear to those in trouble and a tireless worker, Sister Caliste has a talent for acting. She’s been miming questions and requests to our poor softhead, and, bless him, he understands her. I’ll be making my way back, my lady, if you’ll excuse me,’ — she was already heading for the door — ‘to get her to ask him where they come from, who they are and who hurt that poor woman so grievously.’
Sister Caliste had begun to enjoy her task the moment she had managed to explain to the dumb man that the woman would live. As comprehension had dawned, he clasped Sister Caliste’s hands in his and, beaming his joy, began to cry. Patting him on his broad shoulder, she murmured soft words until he was calm again.
Later, when Sister Euphemia returned from the Abbess’s room and said that Caliste was to try to elicit information from the man, she took him out of the infirmary and found a quiet spot in a corner of the chapter house, at present empty of all but one of the Abbey’s cats, who slunk away as human beings entered what she regarded as her domain. They sat down side by side on a bench, which creaked ominously as the man lowered his weight on to it, and then, pointing firmly to her own chest, Caliste said, ‘Caliste. My name is Caliste.’ Then, pointing the same hand at him: ‘Name? What is your name?’
He frowned. He was muttering something; it sounded as if he were repeating name, your name.
Just as Caliste was concluding that he might well be slow-witted, foreign or even deaf but he did not seem to be dumb, the man suddenly shouted, ‘Aah, nome! My — name — Benedetto!’
‘Benedetto!’ Caliste exclaimed, delighted. ‘And the woman?’ She mimed cradling someone in her arms, then indicated her own forehead and made a sorrowful face.
‘Aurelia.’
At first Caliste did not grasp what he was saying; he made the word sound strange. He repeated it a few times.
‘Aurelia?’ Caliste tried.
‘Si. Aurelia.’
‘And she is-’ Caliste tried to think how to ask if the woman were his wife. Pointing to the third finger of her left hand, she raised her eyebrows in enquiry.
‘No, no.’ He frowned hard. ‘No my wife. My — fren. All are my frens. I-’ The frown intensified. ‘I care. I guard.’
His friend? Was he saying that the woman was his friend? And he cared, he guarded. What did he mean by that?
‘Thank you, Benedetto,’ she said gravely.
He muttered something in response, giving her as he did so a small but graceful bow.
She was thinking, her mind racing. He had definitely said all are my frens. Friends, presumably. Was he the bodyguard of some travelling group of foreigners who had been attacked while journeying? While coming to Hawkenlye, perhaps? If he were, it might explain why he had been so devoted. Why it had been so difficult to make him put down the woman he had brought to them. And it would also explain why he was so badly affected by the whole thing; he would feel that, as their bodyguard, he should have saved them from attack.