‘Death,’ Josse whispered.
‘Indeed.’ Father Micah, whose virtually lipless mouth had briefly twisted into a sardonic smile, gave him a brisk nod of approbation, as if rewarding a dull child who had finally and against all expectation come up with the right answer. ‘Death by burning.’
Josse, momentarily brought to a standstill by the horror of that sort of death, found he had nothing to say. The Abbess, as if she had been waiting for the chance, instantly spoke up. ‘Father Micah, we have detained you far too long,’ she said smoothly, moving as she spoke to go and open the door. ‘I am quite sure you wish to be about your duties, a busy man such as you.’
At first Josse thought she must be making some sort of a joke and he half expected the priest to drop his frightening intensity and relax his ferocious face into a grin.
But he didn’t. Getting to his feet with a swish of his long dark robe — which emitted, Josse noticed, a faint smell of old fish — Father Micah nodded curtly to him, gave the Abbess a glance that looked strangely like a sneer and swept out of the room.
The Abbess walked across the floor and sank into her chair. Josse, closing the door firmly, rested his broad shoulders against it just in case the Father decided to return for one last harangue. ‘And exactly who,’ he asked, ‘is that?’
The Abbess had leaned her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. Josse watched her anxiously, concerned at the desperation he saw in her face. But then, at first very slowly, she began to smile. Opening her eyes, she looked at Josse and said, ‘That, my dear Sir Josse, friend and deliverer, is our parish priest, the replacement for Father Gilbert.’
‘Father Gilbert is. .?’ Josse could not bring himself to ask the question.
‘Oh, no, no, he’s all right! Well, he’s not, he has broken his ankle and given himself a nasty blow to the head, but he will recover. I pray he hurries up about it!’
‘So you’re landed with that cold fish?’ Josse whistled softly. ‘Oh, my lady, I am sorry for you.’
He had spoken in all sincerity, but to his discomfiture the Abbess began to laugh. ‘Sir Josse, you must excuse me,’ she said after a moment, merriment still lively in her face, ‘but it amuses me that, after but a brief experience of the man, you judge so accurately that he and I are not destined to be friends.’
‘To say the least,’ Josse muttered.
‘Ah, I am glad to see you!’ She was still smiling widely.
‘So it seems. Your deliverer, my lady? What did you mean?’
‘I had been praying that someone would come and rescue me before Father Micah talked me into my grave.’ She tried, and failed, to straighten her face. ‘He had been lecturing me for some time on the irredeemable sins committed by fallen women and, I believe, gone on to the even greater sin of heresy, only I confess I had all but ceased to listen. Then in you came, and what more welcome rescuer could there be than you?’
They talked for a long time. Good friends that they were, they had not met since the previous autumn, and there was much to catch up on. Having covered the minutiae of both the Abbess’s daily round and his own — in considerable detail, since each was well-versed in the doings of the other — the conversation eventually turned to the pressing matter of the moment.
Josse was immensely gratified that he had been right in his assumption that Queen Eleanor would have made the time for a visit to Hawkenlye Abbey. Listening intently to the Abbess’s account of what had passed between the Queen and herself, he was pleased, for Queen Eleanor’s sake, that she had found a kind and sympathetic ear at Hawkenlye.
When the Abbess told him about the Queen’s gift and what she had in mind to do with it, he agreed that the concept of a Hawkenlye Herbal was a good one. ‘And you have someone with the skill to do justice to such a book?’ he asked.
‘I believe so, Sir Josse. A young nun, one whom I do not think you have met, informs me that she is an artist. She is preparing an example of her work so that I may judge for myself. In fact’ — she rose to her feet as she spoke — ‘I think she may by now have finished. Will you accompany me while I go to see?’
‘Gladly I will.’
He followed the Abbess as she led the way along the cloister and around a corner to a private spot that he did not think he had visited before. There was nobody there, but a tall desk and a stool indicated where the artist had sat. On top of the desk, a cloth had been carefully tucked round several objects to protect them. As Josse watched, the Abbess raised the cloth, revealing pots, paints, brushes, ink and a small piece of parchment.
The Abbess picked up the parchment. Josse waited. After a moment, she said, ‘Sir Josse, I believe that my project’s success is assured.’ Then she passed the parchment to him.
He saw straight away that she was right. The unknown nun had captured the very essence of her subject; the blackberries looked so lifelike that they all but made his mouth water. And the text was inscribed in a bold, flowing hand that was both attractive and easy to read, although Josse, whose reading skills were not well developed, found he had to struggle a little with some of the words.
‘It is exquisite, my lady.’ He handed back the scrap of parchment.
‘You think I would be right to go ahead and order the materials?’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘It is a lot of money. .’
‘Aye, I do,’ he said firmly. ‘Queen Eleanor, you say, wishes a permanent tribute to the King?’
‘Yes. That was what she specified. To the King and his mother, in recognition of their grief and sorrow at this terrible time of the King’s imprisonment.’
‘Aye.’ He sighed. The King’s present condition was a fact that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his mind, sometimes at the back, sometimes — as now — brought to the forefront. Turning back, not without effort, to the matter in hand, he said, ‘Well, in your proposed herbal, it would seem, you have something both useful and decorative. What could be better?’
The Abbess appeared to think for a while longer. Then, her face clearing, she said, ‘Thank you. Then I will arrange for the order to be sent without delay.’
‘Er — might I ask to be allowed to meet your artist?’ he ventured.
‘Sir Josse, of course! I will send for her, and you shall be present when I tell her of the role she is to play in our great undertaking. But the meeting will have to wait until after Nones — will you come to pray with the community?’
Telling her that he would like nothing better, he walked beside her across the cloister to the Abbey church.
Back in the Abbess’s room, Josse leaned against the wall as she settled herself in her chair. She had despatched a novice nun to go and find Sister Phillipa and tell her she was wanted in the Abbess’s room and, after a short wait, there was a soft tap on the door.
In answer to the Abbess’s quiet ‘Come in’ a young nun in the black veil and habit of the fully professed opened the door and advanced into the room. She was, Josse could see, very nervous; the oval face with its high cheekbones had a pink flush, and the clear blue eyes were very bright. Even with the severe, starched white wimple that concealed the jaw, neck and throat, and the forehead band that covered the hair, it was plain to see that this girl was a beauty. It pleased him to watch her graceful movements as, with a low bow to the Abbess, she straightened up and stood, head bent, hands folded in front of her, to wait for her superior to speak.
‘Sister Phillipa, this is Sir Josse d’Acquin, a good man and a true friend to our community.’ The Abbess indicated Josse, and Sister Phillipa turned and gave him a radiant smile. Temporarily bowled over by its intensity, Josse quickly decided that it was more a reflection of the young woman’s nervous state than of any sudden rush of emotion towards him. They were, after all, total strangers. ‘We have been looking at the example of your work,’ the Abbess was continuing, ‘and we are agreed that it seems right that you be given the task that I have in mind.’ She paused, and Josse guessed she was weighing her next words. ‘Hawkenlye Abbey has been asked, as have other foundations, to pray for our great King Richard, for he has need of our prayers. His lady mother, the Queen Eleanor, has been very generous and given us a gift of coin in recognition of our intercession on the King’s and her own behalf. With this bounty, Hawkenlye will prepare a herbal, in the names of the King and his mother.’