Authors: Alys Clare
She walked over to the cot where the boy lay and at her approach the father got to his feet.
‘Please, sit down.’ Helewise said. ‘You too are sick, are you not?’
The man resumed his place at his son’s head. ‘I thought I was yesterday,’ he admitted, ‘but today the fever’s gone and so has the headache.’ He managed a weak grin. ‘Reckon I must be tougher than I look.’
Helewise studied him. He was of average height, fair haired, dark eyed, and appeared to have a wiry strength that might indeed imply a resilient constitution. ‘You are a thatcher, are you not?’ she asked.
‘Aye, Sister. Name’s Catt. This is my son Pip.’ He stroked the boy’s sweat-darkened hair back from his pale face.
‘How old is he?’
‘Twelve.’
‘And have you other children?’
‘No, lady. His mother, she died when Pip’s little sister was born, and the baby died too.’ He sighed, then tried to smile. ‘Pip and me, we’re all each other has got, if you take my meaning.’
‘I do.’ She went to sit on the opposite side of the boy’s narrow bed, studying his features. ‘He has a look of you,’ she said.
‘D’you think so?’ Catt seemed pleased. ‘Me, I always see his mother in him, but I expect that’s only natural. We see what we want to see, and I miss her.’
‘Yes, I understand, and I’m sure you’re right,’ she agreed. She reached out to touch the boy’s hot forehead. ‘I’ll fetch some cool water and we can bathe him,’ she said, getting to her feet. She hurried to the long table where the lay brothers – and Josse – ensured that there was always a plentiful supply of spring water, clean cloths and freshly washed out containers. She was in luck for someone had just delivered a full jar of lavender oil; its fresh and invigorating fragrance cut clean through the assorted stenches of illness and seemed to bring with it a vision of sunshine, a thread of bright purple light running through the sombre dimness of the Vale ward. She poured water into a bowl, added several drops of lavender oil and, selecting a cloth, returned to the thatcher and his boy.
She squeezed out the cloth and carefully sponged the lad’s brow and cheeks. At first the cold made him frown but quickly his face cleared and he seemed to relax. The thatcher, watching closely, sighed softly.
‘Look at that! You’ve got the touch, Sister,’ he said. ‘But then I expect you’ve been at it a long time.’
‘At what?’
‘Nursing.’ Catt chuckled. ‘There now, you’re that tired, you’ve forgotten your own profession!’
She smiled with him. He was clearly unaware who she was, and it would have been both unnecessary and rather unkind to get on her high horse and tell him. Anyway, she was not at all sure that
she
knew who she was just then; it was suddenly much more important to be a nurse than an Abbess.
After some time of silent sponging, Helewise removed the cloth to wring it out. The thatcher put his hand on his son’s forehead. ‘It may be my imagination, Sister,’ he said tentatively, ‘but it seems to me he’s not quite so hot.’
She felt the boy’s skin. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Although it is probably just the effect of the cold water.’
‘It’s holy water,’ Catt said knowingly. ‘It works miracles, they do say.’
‘It can do,’ she agreed. Then, for her cautious response had clearly affected him, she said, ‘Shall we see if he’ll take a drink? The water is also effective when drunk, you know.’
‘Aye, I know. You stay there, Sister’ – he pushed her back when she made to get up – ‘I’ll fetch the water.’
The boy managed to drink half a cup of water. Then he turned his face away.
Helewise knew she must leave the pair and get on with her next task, although her instinct was to stay; she was quite sure that the lad was approaching some sort of crisis. But the new system had been her idea and she would undermine others’ obedience to it if she ignored it herself.
She got up quietly. ‘I must go,’ she said to Catt. ‘We change shifts at Vespers and, although I wish I could return, it will be another nun who comes back later.’
He grinned up at her. ‘That Abbess keeps you on your toes, I warrant,’ he said. ‘Bit of a tyrant, is she?’
Helewise smiled. ‘Just a bit.’
Then, with a nod, she turned and left.
She ate a swift supper after Vespers and went to her room to do some work. But she could not concentrate; the image of the boy’s pale face kept getting between her eyes and the parchment. Finally she gave up and, having forced herself to complete the present task and leaving everything neat and tidy (for she had the strong suspicion that she would not be sitting at her table again for some time to come) she left her room and firmly closed the door behind her.
She made her way across the cloister and through the rear gate, hurrying down the path to the Vale. There was considerably more activity down here that there had been up at the Abbey; hardly surprising, since everyone not presently on duty nursing the sick, including herself, was meant to be up there resting quietly ready for the next shift, whereas here in the Vale was where the battle was being fought.
As she approached the door of the Vale infirmary, Josse appeared at her side.
‘You are disobeying your own rules, my lady,’ he said softly. ‘You should be asleep.’
‘So should you,’ she whispered back, but so glad, in that moment of closeness, that he was not.
‘I’m about to go to my bed,’ he admitted, stifling a huge yawn. ‘It’s been a long day.’ He eyed her curiously, as if something about her puzzled him.
‘What is it?’ she demanded.
‘Hm? Oh, nothing. Nothing.’ And with a low bow, he turned and hurried away to the monks’ shelter where she knew he had made his sleeping place.
She stared after him for a moment. She felt that she might understand his perplexity; she was aware that she had been acting oddly towards him, her guilty conscience bothered as it was by the approach to Joanna that she had ordered. Well, that appeared to have come to precisely nothing; for better or for worse, Joanna had refused to have anything to do with the Eye of Jerusalem, with the sick people in the Vale and with Hawkenlye in general. Of course it was a great pity – who could say what might have been achieved with the help of the magic jewel wielded by the rightful hand? – but that was that and there was no use moaning about it.
With that particular weight lifted from her, Helewise felt distinctly lighter. And Josse, bless him, had picked it up . . .
No wonder the poor man had looked bemused.
Smiling, shaking her head, Helewise went into the ward.
Head lowered so that her face was hidden by her coif – she did not want the nuns on duty to see her – she made straight for the thatcher and his boy. Catt was dozing, resting his face on his hand as he sat awkwardly on his son’s bed. The boy’s face was scarlet.
She hurried forward, and put her hand on the burning forehead. Her movement woke the thatcher; with a start, he looked up at her. ‘What is it?’
‘He is very hot,’ she said. ‘I will fetch water.’
She repeated her actions of earlier in the day. This time the boy’s brow almost sent steam from the damp cloth, so high was his fever.
Helewise realised that she was on her knees. The thatcher dropped down beside her, eyes closed, hands pressed together; he seemed to think that she was praying, and it occurred to her that this was a very good idea. The lad was on the very precipice of death and only God could save him now.
Helewise began to pray softly, almost under her breath, and she heard Catt murmur the responses. They prayed for some time. Then she got to her feet and stood looking down at the boy.
The thatcher said, his voice cracking with emotion, ‘If you save him, Sister, I’ll make sure that your Abbey has the finest roofs in all the country.’
Helewise was about to tell him that few of the Abbey buildings were thatched but something stopped her. ‘His life is in God’s hands,’ she said gently. ‘We have prayed and done all that we can; now we must wait.’
They waited.
Time passed. Helewise fetched two more bowls of cold water. The boy writhed under the sheet soaked in his own sweat, fighting for air, and it seemed to her that his efforts became a little more difficult with each labouring, gasped intake of breath. Then suddenly he seemed to stiffen as if his muscles had locked and his back arched, lifting his narrow chest up off the bed.
Helewise prepared the words that she would say. It is God’s will, even though we cannot understand his great purpose. The child is innocent and will surely spend minimal time in purgatory, especially if we all pray as hard as we can for his soul. One day the two of you will be reunited in heaven, with your wife and the baby girl too.
All of which, in the face of the thatcher’s vast grief, would be next to useless.
The boy gave a long groan. His father fell like a stone to the lad’s side, crying his name and muttering incoherently, calling out to the boy not to leave him.
The lad opened his eyes, tried to sit up, gave a stifled cry of pain, then dropped back and lay still.
Helewise knelt beside the thatcher, her hand already searching for his; if nothing else, at least she could show him that she was there with him, aware of his terrible agony and ready to help him through it.
‘He is out of his pain now,’ she began, ‘he—’
But that was not right. Could not be right, for, her eyes on the boy, she saw that he was breathing, softly and deeply.
Darting up, she put her hands to him, on his forehead, on his chest. The heat was gone and the sweat had cooled on his skin. The tension had left the young face, replaced by the natural look of utter relaxation.
Pip was fast asleep.
Helewise felt joy surge through her and in that sublime moment sent her thanks up to the God who had understood a father’s desperation and answered his prayer. She put her hands on the thatcher’s shaking shoulders – he had buried his face in his hands to weep – and, bending down to speak in his ear, she said, ‘Get up, Catt, and have a look.’
‘I don’t want to—’ he began, but then something in her tone must have penetrated his grief, for he removed his hands, looked up at her and then, obeying her command, stood up and stared down at his son.
A sound broke from him, a sound of such unique quality that Helewise never heard the like again. Then the thatcher lowered himself on to his son’s bed and, with the infinitely tender touch of a mother intent on not waking her baby, he picked up one of the boy’s hands and pressed it to his face. Weeping still, but now from relief, he whispered, ‘Pip, oh, my Pip.’
Helewise, tears in her own eyes, crept away.
Chapter 17
In the morning a young monk sought out Josse and announced that a messenger had come to speak to him. On being asked who the messenger had come from and where he was, the lad said he didn’t know and outside the main gate.
Having fleshed out the admirably brief response, Josse wiped his hands – he was still engaged in the water-carrying task – and made his way up to the front gate of the Abbey. The messenger had the good sense to stand a short distance off – probably, Josse reflected, everybody in the county now knew that there was sickness at Hawkenlye – but nevertheless Josse recognised him. He was one of Gervase de Gifford’s men and his name . . . Josse struggled to recall . . . was Matt.
‘Good day to you, Matt,’ he called out.
Matt nodded. ‘Good day, Sir Josse. I won’t come closer, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘No, please don’t. What can I do for you?’
‘Not for me. It’s the sheriff as wants to see you,’ Matt replied.
‘Very well. I will make my way down to Tonbridge as soon as possible.’
‘Not the town,’ Matt said. ‘He says to meet at the top of Castle Hill. Safer.’
Matt had always been a man of few words, Josse remembered. ‘I admire his sense,’ he said. ‘I’ll set out for Castle Hill as soon as I get my horse saddled.’
Matt nodded again. ‘I’ll fetch Sheriff, then.’ Without another word, he turned his horse and rode off.