The simple-minded man called Jabez, young Waldo’s dead mother’s brother, had died early that morning. Two merchants had arrived a little later, both complaining of terrible pains in their heads and their joints; one of them, the weaker of the two, was showing a rash of dark pink spots on his face, throat and chest. They were being cared for in the far part of the shelter where Jabez had died. The less unwell of the two was able to take in fluids and, as Brother Augustus remarked, the liquid consumption really appeared to help, for all that it seemed that the poor man was losing it out of his rear end as fast as they poured it into his mouth. The older merchant was deep in delirium by midday and too far gone to drink; his fever was steadily increasing and the monks did not think he would last the night.
A little over a week ago, the merchants had put up overnight in Newenden, where, according to the younger man, they had delivered a consignment of frankincense to a certain apothecary’s apprentice.
In the afternoon a woman came in with a dead child. The little girl had only just died and the rash still stood out in ugly, vivid blotches all over her small face.
Sister Euphemia, standing in the Vale with Helewise, was setting out her orders for what must be done. So preoccupied and worried was she that she had been talking for some time before she recalled whom she was addressing: ‘Forgive me, my lady; hark at how unsuitably I’m speaking, telling my Abbess what she should and should not do!’
‘Please, Sister Euphemia, do not stop to consider such a thing,’ Helewise replied swiftly. ‘I thank God that, at this dreadful time, he has seen fit to supply us with someone like you. Go on with your instructions and, if you can, think of me simply as another pair of hands.’
The infirmarer’s dubious expression suggested that she was going to find this difficult. Nevertheless, she went back to her ordering and soon, as her clear-sightedness took over, she forgot all about what was suitable and what wasn’t.
Her instructions were based upon trying to keep the sick well away from the healthy and to this end she decreed that, since there were sick people there already, the sleeping shelter in the Vale be converted into an emergency infirmary. Braziers would be installed and the monks would do what they could to make the roof and walls more substantial; ‘Patients with fever,’ said the infirmarer, ‘feel the cold something wicked.’ She would send nursing nuns down to tend the patients as required.
Nobody who did not have to mingle with the sick in the Vale for the purposes of taking care of them would go anywhere near them. Those monks who had already tended the sick would bear the brunt of the nursing; ‘It’s nothing that requires special skill,’ Sister Euphemia said, ‘and I’ll be here if anybody’s unsure what to do.’
‘You can’t carry everybody all by yourself,’ Helewise said gently. ‘Let me help you; I’m not skilled but I’m willing.’
‘Aye, I know, my lady. But we need you to go on performing the role you were chosen for. Besides’ — she gave Helewise a swift and preoccupied smile, possibly in apology for having so summarily dismissed the offer of help — ‘I’ve already accepted the first two volunteers.’ She gave a nod back up the track that led to the Abbey and Helewise, looking in that direction, saw two black-clad figures hurrying towards her.
Soon they were close enough for their identities to be distinguished. Helewise felt a lump in her throat. As she might have expected, Sister Beata and Sister Caliste had been the nuns who had stepped forward when volunteers were called for. And Helewise, who valued both women not just for their loving, generous hearts and nursing skill but also for themselves, did not know whether to be glad or sorry.
That evening, Brother Firmin complained that his head hurt.
Up at the Abbey, Helewise knelt in the church and prayed that there would be no more cases of the terrifying sickness, that those who were sick now would get better — oh, especially Brother Firmin! Oh, dear Lord, please spare Brother Firmin! — and, perhaps most urgently of all, that Josse would come back.
As the first panicky outpouring of her appeal spent itself, she began to speak the words of the familiar prayers and, as always, felt comfort fall on her like a soft shawl around her shoulders.
And then — perhaps it was the juxtaposition of thinking of Josse and about Brother Firmin, that staunch believer in the benefits of holy water — something slipped into Helewise’s mind. At first it was faint and elusive. . a snatch of memory, nothing more, from, what, a year and a half ago? But then the dreamy images began to clarify and she knew what it was that something — someone — had prompted her to remember.
In the autumn of 1192, a stranger had presented Josse with an ancient treasure that had rightfully belonged to his father. Josse’s father was dead and so, as the eldest son, the treasure had come to Josse; it came from Outremer and they said it had the power to detect poison and that, dipped in water, it made a powerful febrifuge. But Josse, fearing not only its magical power but, even more so, the awesome prediction that accompanied it, had given it to Helewise and begged her to hide it away. ‘It would be best to keep it here,’ he had said, ‘because it is only safe in the hands of the very strong, the very wise and the very good, and you and your nuns here at Hawkenlye are all of those.’ Deeply touched, she had agreed, although she had firmly told Josse that if ever the day came that he wanted his treasure back again, he had only to ask. ‘I won’t want it back,’ he had assured her, ‘I’ll be delighted to see the back of it!’
Helewise had taken the treasure and prayed for guidance as to what she should do with it. There were associations of violence in its long and complex history and, to cleanse it, she had decided it should be placed near the altar. Pleading with God that he would make the treasure fit for the healing work that might one day be performed with it, she had left it in its little silver box tucked away on a hidden ledge beneath the altar, where a wooden support was concealed by the linen cloth that covered the altar. Where for the past fifteen months, other than a brief excursion for a first tentative testing of its powers, the treasure had quietly remained. .
Helewise debated with herself. Magic jewels are a relic of heathen, pagan times, she thought, and we should have no use for them, trusting only in the merciful, healing love of God and his precious son.
But here you are, another part of her instantly replied, kneeling before God’s altar, and what happens? A memory of that jewel of Josse’s pops into your head, for all the world as if God himself were prompting you! And did you not see fit to let Sister Euphemia try it out — successfully — when there was that outbreak of fever a year ago last autumn?
To and fro the argument went until Helewise felt quite distraught. Then, as if a cool hand were smoothing her brow, she had the sudden thought: I’ll ask Josse. It is his jewel, so that will only be right. And if, as I’m sure that he will, he gives his permission, the thought went on — it seemed to have a life and a purpose all of its own — then I shall authorise that the treasure be used.
And we shall see, she concluded as, stiffly and with aching knees, she got to her feet, whether Josse’s Eye of Jerusalem is really as powerful as we have been led to believe.
Chapter 6
Helewise did not know, when she awoke in the morning, that part of her desperate prayer had already been answered: Josse had arrived back in the Vale the previous evening, soon after the monks had settled for the night.
He presented himself in her room in the usually quiet time between Prime and Tierce and she had rarely been as glad to see anybody.
‘What news?’ she demanded, forgetting in her haste to greet him.
‘Some; not much,’ he replied, ‘although I believe that I begin to see a pattern in what was hitherto a mystery. My lady, unless there are matters about which you wish to speak with me, then, with your leave, I would set out what I see as a possible version of events.’