It had been dark in the herbalist’s little hut, and there had been a strong smell from something that she was brewing up in her cauldron. Caliste had delivered her message and then, with relief, turned to go. Sister Tiphaine, with a short bark of laughter as if she read Caliste’s mind, had said, ‘You’ve done well, lass. Now leave it to me. I have my own ways of getting a message out to those who dwell in the world, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t share them with you. But don’t worry. I’ve been keeping Aurelia’s friends aware of all that’s happened here. I’ll make sure they’re expecting her.’
Ah well, Caliste thought now, if I tell them what I’ve done, I’ll get Sister Tiphaine into trouble. So I’d better not.
With the serenity that was her own particular gift as a nurse, Sister Caliste put some more herbs into the bowl of hot water and recommenced waving the fragrant steam towards her patient’s face.
Late in the day, Helewise heard a soft knock on her door.
She smiled. No matter how gently he knocked, she always knew it was he and not some timid novice standing quaking outside her room. Timid novices did not wear boots with spurs that rang out as they walked.
She called out, ‘Come in, Sir Josse.’
He opened the door, came in and closed it again, leaning against it as if reluctant to approach her. For some moments they stared at each other. Then he said gruffly, ‘They got away. I helped them. I took them to Pevensey and saw them aboard a ship bound for Harfleur. They sailed last night so they’ll be somewhere in Normandy now.’
She closed her eyes in relief. She had been so afraid that he would not trust her, that, even now that it was all over, he would not reveal to her what he had done.
To think that Josse, whom she loved so dearly, could have thought her capable of betraying him, of taking an action that would probably have sent the Cathars to their deaths, had hurt more than almost anything else. And why should he not believe I would perform such an act? she had asked herself honestly. I almost believed it myself.
Behind her closed eyes she felt the warm tears begin to flow. Bowing her head, she tried surreptitiously to wipe them away.
But he must have seen.
She heard his spurs chink as he crossed the room. And, from somewhere much nearer to her, his voice, rich with sympathy, said, ‘Don’t cry, Helewise. This has been hard for every one of us, but most of all for you.’
‘Please, Josse, don’t be kind to me,’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t deserve it and it’s making me worse!’
‘We all deserve kindness when we’ve done our best,’ he said. ‘Yours was no easy choice. And it’s not over yet, not for you. Will you have to confess what you have done?’
Silently she nodded. She had not yet dared to think what punishment she would receive from her confessor, whoever he was.
Josse was speaking again. ‘I hear from the Lord of the High Weald’s lad that Father Gilbert’s on the mend and about to resume his duties.’
At first she thought he was tactfully changing the subject and giving her the chance to recover her composure. Then, as his words sank in, she realised what he was telling her.
With the relief of knowing that she would be able to confess to the understanding, wide-minded Father Gilbert and not to some hatchet-faced zealot who was a total stranger, she began to cry all over again.
‘He’ll be by in a day or so,’ Josse said comfortably. ‘By then the Cathars will be halfway to the Midi.’
Through the hands with which she had covered her wet face she said, ‘Thank God.’
A little later, when she had recovered and could once more sit up straight and face him, she said to Josse, ‘We still do not know how Father Micah died. Do we?’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I cannot make myself believe that any of the Cathars killed him. Benedetto might have done’ — he had told her earlier what had happened on the journey to the coast — ‘and we now know for a certainty that he is capable of such an action. He protected his group fiercely and ruthlessly and he would, I am sure, have killed Father Micah if he had perceived him to be a threat.’
‘But you do not think that he did?’ she prompted.
‘No.’ He met her eyes. ‘I believe that Arnulf would have told me if he had.’
‘Then who?’ she persisted. ‘Who killed him — or perhaps found him dead — and left him on the road above Castle Hill?’
‘He had many enemies,’ Josse said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps somebody took the law into their own hands when the Father’s threats, to them or to one of their own, became too frightening.’
‘Do you speak of the Lord up at Saxonbury?’ she asked.
‘No. He told me that he did not know who killed Father Micah and, again, I believe him.’
Helewise sat watching him for a while. It was possible that one of those men — Arnulf or the Lord — had been lying to Josse. But somehow his impulse to trust both of them was convincing. Perhaps, she thought, tired suddenly, we should not dwell any more on a mystery that is never going to be solved.
As if his thoughts had run along the same lines he said after a time, ‘My lady Abbess, we have to accept, I believe, that we shall never know.’ Meeting her eyes, he added, ‘I know I should not say this to you, but I do not think I shall grieve over long for Father Micah.’
Watching him steadily, she thought for a moment about her reply. But then she thought, he has been honest with me. I shall return the same courtesy.
With a smile, she said, ‘Neither shall I, Sir Josse. Neither shall I.’
To her quiet delight, he accompanied her to Compline. It was her favourite office and today of all days she felt that the sense of completion it always gave to the day’s actions and devotions was especially fitting. The matter of the Cathars was completed, she told herself. As far as it was ever going to be. And wasn’t that a matter for secret jubilation?
Afterwards, as he strolled beside her back to her room, she said suddenly, ‘Sir Josse, I understand now something that was puzzling me. When you and I spoke with Gervase de Gifford concerning the poor woman who died in gaol-’
‘Frieda.’
‘Yes, Frieda. Well, I told de Gifford that we would say a mass for her and he began to protest, although he swiftly recovered himself and said it was a good idea. But now I perceive his thinking. Our mass would not serve a Cathar woman.’
From the darkness Josse’s voice sounded very kind. He said, ‘My lady, de Gifford’s second reaction was surely the true one. He knew that your suggestion came from the right motives and he applauded it.’
She smiled to herself. It was a gift, to have a friend like Josse. His was a rare compassion.
After a moment he said, ‘How is Sister Phillipa’s work on the Hawkenlye Herbal progressing?’
‘Very well,’ Helewise replied. ‘She has completed some ten pages and I hope to be able to show them to Queen Eleanor soon.’
‘The Queen is to visit Hawkenlye?’
‘I cannot say for certain.’ Helewise felt her anxieties for the Queen come rushing back. ‘I am informed that she is doing her utmost to defend her son’s realm and that she is demanding a renewal of the Oath of Allegiance from the King’s lords and clergy. She is ably helped by Walter of Coutances and Hugh de Puiset, they say, and of course she is much loved and respected. However. .’ It would be, she decided, disloyal to refer to the particular hardships imposed by the Queen’s age, and so she did not.
But Josse seemed to understand anyway. He said gently, ‘It is a great burden for anybody. For a woman past her first youth it must be doubly heavy.’ Then, with a note of urgency, he added, ‘She will treasure her time here in Hawkenlye’s peace, my lady. I pray that you will have the opportunity to succour her.’