Helewise opened her eyes and, still dazed with sleep, looked around the room. She hadn’t meant to nod off. When Josse had gone off with his cousin to visit his uncle, Helewise had merely thought to stretch out on the luxuriously dressed bed for a short while and rest her tired body. But the rigours of the long day, and the hard ride in increasingly cold and progressively more alarming weather, had taken more out of her than she realized. She had drawn a thick, warm, soft blanket over herself, snuggled a hollow for her head in the wonderfully soft pillows, and before she had time to finish warning herself to stay awake, had fallen asleep.
She had dreamed vividly. She saw a small boy standing in the doorway, peering at her round the edge of the door. Be careful, whispered this dream boy. There are monsters here. There’s one under my bed, and there is probably one under yours, too. She had heard her own voice whisper back. I will be on my guard, she promised. I will take a big stick and thrust it furiously into the space beneath the bed, and it will poke the monster very hard in his eye, and he will run away. The dream boy had giggled, but the laughter had not quite extinguished the fear in his blue eyes. He had a mop of thick, fair hair, and, as he smiled, she saw that he had a gap between his two front teeth. They were the big teeth; the child seemed to be about six. Then, in the way of dreams, the boy changed, features, colouring and clothing morphing until Helewise knew, somehow, that she was looking at the boy version of Josse. He was frowning – angry about something – and he had a big stick in his hand. A hand reached out and smoothed her hair, and the adult Josse – her own beloved Josse – bent down over her and said softly, ‘Sleep, dear heart.’ She had been vaguely aware of the big bed rippling as he lay down beside her, and then slumber had reclaimed her.
Now she sat up, propped by the mound of pillows and rubbing the drowse from her eyes. Her dream was still vivid, and she smiled at the memory of the handsome little boy, and of the image of the child that Josse had once been. He was no longer beside her on the bed, although the rumpled covers and dented pillows confirmed that he had been there. Helewise’s smile widened. Josse had very nearly protested when Isabelle had referred to Helewise as his wife, and only her timely dig in his ribs had stopped him. For I am his wife, Helewise thought. Did not the wise and devout monk Gratian state that the only thing necessary to make a binding bond was the spoken willingness of each partner to take the other as their spouse? And so we have done, my Josse and I, Helewise reflected. She had said to him, I receive you as mine, so that you become my husband and I your wife, and then he had repeated the vow to her. In Gratian’s view – and Helewise’s – that made her and Josse married, even if the vow had been made alone, in a place apart, and without witnesses. In any case, until the endless quarrel between King John and the Pope came to an end – if it ever did – and the interdict was at last lifted, the absence of priests in England meant that Helewise and Josse’s solemn and sincere vows to one another were the best they could do.
Helewise stretched extravagantly, enjoying the sensation of being warm right to the tips of her toes. This brief, restorative period of privacy wouldn’t go on much longer, and soon now she must get up and set about tidying herself, in preparation for meeting the family and attending the feast that they had kindly prepared. There seemed to be rather a lot of people to meet, and it had been a thoughtful gesture on Josse’s cousin’s part to hold back from making the introductions the moment Helewise and Josse had arrived.
Helewise lay back again, thinking about Isabelle. There was no mistaking the fact that she and Josse were kin. Both were big-boned, strongly made people, and of similar height: Isabelle was tall for a woman. There was something in her features, too, that strongly resembled Josse. Their colouring was different, however. Josse’s hair was grey-flecked brown and what could be seen of Isabelle’s, beneath the white bands of her headdress and the light indoor veil, was fair turning to silvery white. Also, Josse’s eyes were brown where Isabelle’s were sea-green, the bright colour surrounded by a band of indigo. Yet the shape of both pairs was the same, as were the golden lights that shone in the irises. And the cousins both had that indefinable air of strength and firm resolve that had first drawn Helewise to Josse, recognizing in him a man to depend on, and in whom to discover a true, loyal friend. A man, in short, to love.
Isabelle, Helewise was sure, would prove to be out of the same mould. Josse had told her that Isabelle’s husband had died five years ago, but whatever the magnitude of that grief had been, she seemed to have learned to cope without him. She would no doubt—
The door to the bedchamber opened a crack, and Josse’s head appeared round it. ‘You’re awake!’ he said, smiling as he pushed the door fully open and came into the room. ‘I’m glad, for I’ve been sent to tell you that the meal will shortly be ready, and invite you to come and meet the household.’
‘Gladly,’ she replied, hastening to get up and straightening the rumpled bed. She washed her hands and face – some time while she slept, the hot water had been replenished – and then she smoothed back her hair and tucked it under her wimple, arranging her soft, silky veil over it. Then she smoothed the creases out of her gown and stood before Josse for his inspection. ‘Do I look all right?’
He grinned. ‘Aye, you’ll do.’ Then he held out his arm to her, and she put her hand on it. Side by side, they left the room and set off along the corridor.
‘This house is a veritable warren!’ she said quietly to him. ‘I’m sure it is going to take me a while to find my way around.’
‘Aye, it’s been extended even since my last visit, and they’ve built a new chapel, within the house.’ Josse pointed ahead. ‘That’s it, in there.’
‘A chapel!’ Helewise exclaimed. ‘May I see it?’
‘Well, not just now, because the family await us, but later, of course. I’ll explain the layout of the whole house.’
‘You’ve been taken on a tour, then?’ she said with a smile.
‘Aye. Young Herbert – he’s Isabelle’s son, and my Uncle Hugh’s grandson – showed me around while you slept. I’ve also met the family, which has grown considerably since I was last here, and I begin to understand the need for more living space. The big building where you and I first entered is the original extension, built when I was a lad, like I told you. That’s where most of the family have their own rooms. Beyond it, stretching away to the south towards the higher ground, there are the kitchens, the servants’ quarters, the ovens and bakehouse, and a series of workshops. The long, low room with the hearth is the original hall – always referred to as the Old Hall – and the building we’re in now houses guest quarters and a solar.’
‘First a chapel, now a solar! How lovely,’ Helewise said wistfully.
‘Maybe one day,’ Josse murmured. He was well aware of her long-held desire for both, in the House in the Woods.
‘What’s it like?’ she asked.
‘The solar? Very fine,’ Josse acknowledged. ‘There’s plenty of space for those wishing to get away from the bustle of family life. There are comfortably padded settles, some groups of stools and benches for those wanting to sit together to sew, or draw, and arched windows facing out to the west to catch the afternoon and evening light. Oh, and a small opening facing out to the north, too, looking out over the valley.’ He gave a mock-shudder. ‘Too high for me,’ he said with a grin. ‘Herbert invited me to lean out and see just how long and steep the drop is, but one swift glance was more than enough. The ground falls away like the side of a mountain.’
‘And now,’ Helewise said, for, even strolling slowly, they had almost reached the Old Hall, ‘it’s time to meet the family.’ For a moment, she tightened her grip on Josse’s arm. Then, hand in hand, they walked on into the hall. A series of trestles topped with long boards had been put up, set with knives and platters, benches set along one side and five fine oak chairs opposite.
Isabelle was looking out for them, and came hurrying to the doorway to greet them. ‘You are refreshed, I see,’ she said, taking hold of Helewise’s hand. Then, leaning close, she added in a voice just for Helewise, ‘I will keep the introductions brief, then we can get down to eating and drinking.’
Helewise suppressed a smile.
‘Now,’ Isabelle said, ‘here is my sister Editha, also, of course, cousin to Josse.’ She led Helewise before a fine, carved chair in which sat a frail-looking woman, thin, a little bent. She looked up at Helewise with eyes as brown as Josse’s. ‘Forgive my not getting up,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Welcome, Lady Helewise. I am very happy to meet you.’
Lady Helewise! It was not a form of address she had expected. ‘And I you,’ she replied. ‘But, please, just Helewise. We are, after all, kinswomen.’
Editha bowed her head in acknowledgement, and a swift smile crossed her lined face. Helewise had the strong impression that she had just passed a small test.
‘Editha is, like me, a widow,’ Isabelle was saying, ‘and here is her daughter, Philomena, and her husband, Henry.’ A blonde-haired woman, beautifully dressed, and a pleasant-looking man whose reluctance to meet Helewise’s eye suggested shyness. ‘These are their children, Brigida and Philippa –’ Helewise recognized the youngest pair of the trio who had earlier been playing with their dolls – ‘and they will just say a very quick good night before their nurse takes them off to bed.’ She frowned in mock ferocity, and the two little girls collapsed into giggles.
‘This is my daughter Jenna.’ Now Isabelle drew forward a strong-faced woman whose face, although not beautiful, was undoubtedly striking. ‘Her husband, Gilbert, is away from home, involved with business affairs that have taken him down to the coast, where we fear he may now be stranded if the threatened deterioration in the weather comes about. Here are my granddaughters, Emma’ – a calm-faced, fair young woman of perhaps eighteen, who made Helewise a graceful courtesy, ‘and my little Cecily, whom you have already met.’ The impish little girl who had earlier hurried to welcome the guests skipped up to Helewise, tried to copy her sister’s curtsey, and fell over. Helping her up – there had come a sharp hiss of disapproval from someone, and the child had blushed and scowled furiously – Helewise whispered, ‘I did that once. It’s not easy to master a decent curtsey but, if you like, I’ll show you how I taught myself to stay on my feet.’
Cecily looked up at her and gave her a look of such gratitude that Helewise knew she had found an ally. Quite why she might need one, she did not know.
‘And, finally,’ Isabelle said, ‘may I present my son, Herbert.’ As a man in perhaps the early thirties came to kiss her hand, Helewise thought, Isabelle is a woman who loves her son very dearly, for I heard something different in her voice when she spoke his name. Herbert straightened up and looked right into Helewise’s eyes. ‘Welcome to our house, Cousin Helewise,’ he said with grave courtesy. Helewise opened her mouth to respond, but Herbert had already turned away. He had grasped the hand of a stocky figure standing right behind him – crowding him, almost – and now he drew her forward. ‘This is the lady Cyrille de Picus,’ he said. His tone reflecting his pride, he added, ‘My wife.’
The woman had edged in front of Herbert, and now stood up close to Helewise, the protuberant light-blue eyes staring at her with a particular piercing intensity, as if they habitually peered into private corners and personal concerns. ‘Good evening, my dear Lady Helewise,’ Cyrille said effusively, and she leaned forward to kiss Helewise’s cheek. Up close, her skin was pale, and the plump cheeks shone with a light film of grease. She was dressed in a gown of dove-grey, the fabric fine and costly. Her white headdress and gorget fitted quite loosely, allowing strings of thin, gingery hair threaded with grey to escape and straggle across her forehead. She was short, yet gave the impression of being taller than she was because of the stiff and upright manner in which she held herself. Her thick neck stretched taut above sloping shoulders, and she stuck her jaw in the air as if hoping to disguise a double chin.
‘Good evening to you, too,’ Helewise said politely. ‘How good it is to—’
But Cyrille had already turned away. ‘I must check the board,’ she muttered, ‘since those empty-headed serving girls never listen to orders and undoubtedly will have failed to set out the right knives and forgotten they were told to polish the best glassware.’ She looked briefly back at Helewise. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said, her face falling into lines of resignation and exaggerated distress. ‘But you know how it is in a big household. Unless one sees to things oneself, standards inevitably slip.’
She hurried away towards the table, and her short, flat feet in their soft leather house slippers made a flapping noise on the stone flags of the floor.
There was a brief and slightly awkward silence, and then, as if by pre-arrangement, several people all began talking at once. Herbert – surely with a slight flush staining his cheeks? – asked Helewise about her journey. Isabelle cornered Josse and suggested he accompany her to their seats at table. Editha called out to her niece Jenna’s husband to help her get up out of her chair. The two smallest girls were ushered away, with wails of protest, by their nurse. Cecily, after a brief, furious and unsuccessful protest to her mother, went with them.
And Helewise, making herself concentrate on the small talk of her conversation with Herbert, was at the same time wondering why, when without doubt Isabelle was the senior woman here, it had been Cyrille de Picus who had taken it upon herself to go and check – surely unnecessarily – on the final arrangements of the table setting.
The welcoming feast went on for some time, as dish after dish was set on the long boards. Although there was not a huge amount of anything – the family, like every other one in the land with the exception of those in the topmost echelons, was suffering from the King’s never-ending demands for more and more taxes – someone, probably Isabelle, had gone to a lot of trouble to do the very best with what was obtainable, and many of the dishes clearly included costly ingredients in the recipe: a tray of little honey cakes were coloured the unmistakable yellow of saffron, and the dark, rich gravy for the meats was flavoured with brandy. The wine was excellent. Helewise, savouring a mouthful, recalled Josse telling her that one of the many commodities his merchant uncle Hugh traded was wine. Presumably, she reflected, glancing down the table towards Young Herbert, he was now in charge of affairs. Judging from the extensive additions to the house and the quality of tonight’s fare, he was making a good job of it.
Isabelle sat in the head of the household’s place, on a high-backed, beautifully-carved chair midway down the table. On her right sat Josse, her cousin and her honoured guest, and Helewise was on her left, with Herbert next to her. Beside Josse sat Cyrille. On the opposite side, Helewise faced the invalid Editha, who, she noticed, had been helped to her place on the bench and provided with a couple of small pillows. Helewise wondered why Editha had not been allocated one of the oak chairs, which were surely more appropriate for someone so obviously frail and perhaps in pain. Was the careful assigning of places in accordance with position so important that it overrode consideration and simple kindness?
Henry sat opposite Isabelle, and Philomena, Jenna and Emma took up the remainder of the bench. Emma, Helewise observed, was putting herself out to help her great-aunt, reaching for the dishes that seemed to be Editha’s favourites, retrieving a fallen cushion, and frequently asking, in a softly pitched tone, whether she was comfortable. Perhaps she, too, Helewise mused, sensed the injustice of poor Editha having to sit on the bench. She and Josse, she knew, had no choice but to accept the places either side of Isabelle; for tonight, at least. But it would have been a generous gesture on Cyrille’s part to suggest quietly to Editha that they swap places.
Helewise’s reverie was interrupted by Herbert, asking politely if he might refill her glass.
The long meal went on, and the noise level increased as the wine was consumed. Helewise, trying to gain an impression of both the individuals and of the family as a whole, managed a fair stab at both. She spoke at length to those nearest to her, tentatively concluding that Henry, while indeed very shy, was possessed of an observant eye, a thoughtful mind and a quiet, delightful wit. Editha bore whatever affliction ailed her with courage, and, although Helewise quite often saw her wince with pain, not once did she hear her utter a word of complaint. Emma was modest in her demeanour and preferred to listen than to talk; she must have overheard Josse speaking about the sanctuary that Helewise and the household at the House in the Woods had founded, where the poor, the sick and the desperate came for succour, for, taking advantage of a moment when Helewise was not engaged in conversation elsewhere, she leaned across the table and asked Helewise to tell her all about it.
At the other end of the table, Helewise observed that the two women sitting opposite Cyrille spoke mostly to each other. Sometimes one or other addressed a remark to Josse, but each time Cyrille interposed, deflecting the question as if implying that Josse ought not to be bothered. She is trying to show him consideration, Helewise thought charitably. Perhaps she believes him to be tired by the journey, preferring to eat and drink without interruption. But that wasn’t really very likely; anyone with eyes and ears could see that dear Josse, far from being exhausted, was having a wonderful time, talking, laughing, raising his glass to this person and that as he tried to compensate for twenty years’ absence in one evening.
At last empty platters outnumbered full ones, and even Josse admitted he’d had quite enough wine. The conversation became sporadic, and then, led by Editha, one by one the family members rose and made their good nights. Soon, only Isabelle, Josse and Helewise, Herbert and Cyrille remained at the table. Helewise noticed that Cyrille kept shooting glances at her mother-in-law, as if waiting for some action or signal; was she, Helewise wondered, expecting Isabelle to be the next to leave? Surely it didn’t matter, here in this friendly, informal home, in what order people retired for the night?
She was not to find out. As if Isabelle too had noticed, and was irritated, abruptly she turned to Cyrille and said, ‘Go to bed, Cyrille. I wish to go on talking to Josse and Helewise, if they are happy to stay up a little longer?’
‘Aye,’ Josse said, at the same time as Helewise murmured, ‘Of course.’
Cyrille stood up. Her expression was disapproving, as if Isabelle’s remark had displeased her. She lifted her chin, straightened her back, and, with the barest of nods, turned and strode away. Herbert got up to follow her. ‘Stay, if you wish, son,’ Isabelle said.
But he shook his head. Briefly resting a hand on his mother’s shoulder, he smiled down at her and muttered, ‘Best not.’ Then, bowing low to the three of them who remained, he hurried off after his wife.
The last sounds of their footsteps faded and died. Isabelle gave a sigh. Then, after quite a long pause, she said, ‘It is good to have you to myself at last, Cousin Josse.’ Turning to Helewise, she added courteously, ‘And you too, my lady, naturally.’
Helewise said, ‘Isabelle, please, if you would like the chance to speak privately to Josse, truly I don’t mind! I am more than happy to return to that very comfortable bed and—’
But Isabelle put out a detaining hand. ‘No, Helewise – there is, in truth, nothing private about what I want to say, for the situation is known to every person in this house, except one.’ Again, she sighed.
After another, longer, pause, Josse said, ‘Won’t you share your thoughts with us? We should be glad to hear whatever is on your mind.’
Isabelle flashed a very brief smile. Then, without preamble, she said, ‘My son Herbert was previously wed to Maud, as you probably recall, Josse.’
‘Er – aye.’
Helewise hid a smile. She was quite sure that Josse had no more memory of Herbert’s first wife than she had.
‘Poor Maud wasn’t robust,’ Isabelle went on, with the faint note of condescension so often heard in the strong when speaking of their feebler kin, ‘and she died after only eight years of marriage. They had no children.’ Her sigh this time was even deeper. ‘Herbert, of course, is Hugh’s heir, and it has always been desired that he – or, indeed, his sister or his cousin Philomena – should produce a male child to inherit in his turn. But we in this family have but the one male of the bloodline, and, for the rest, a surfeit of girls.’ She gave a rueful laugh. Then, hastily, less some angry deity might be listening and have some appalling nemesis in mind, she added, ‘Not that I don’t love my Jenna, and Philomena, and Emma, Cecily, Brigida and little Philippa dearly, and not one would I exchange for a boy.’ She gave a firm nod, as if to emphasize her words.
‘What – er, what of the future?’ Josse said. Helewise, knowing him so well, guessed what he was trying to say, although he was employing such careful delicacy that she was quite sure Isabelle didn’t.
‘What do you mean, Josse?’ Isabelle said.
‘I was simply wondering whether – um – whether boy children might still be born.’ Josse, Helewise observed, had flushed slightly, although it might have been from the wine.
Isabelle gave a snort. ‘Emma’s eighteen, and it might be reasonable to look to her to marry and reproduce,’ she said with a touch of anger, ‘but she is not interested in men and does not want to be a wife. She thinks the whole male-centredness of society is wrong and, in her own words, has “no wish to perpetuate an unfair system”. Instead, she intends to give her life to God and enter a convent.’
For the second time that day, Josse was about to speak when Helewise stopped him. This time, too far away to nudge him, she spoke over him. ‘What of her mother, your daughter Jenna? She is surely still of childbearing age?’
Isabelle turned to her, and there was relief in her face, as if she welcomed someone who spoke without awkwardness about delicate matters. ‘There is a gap of ten years between Emma and her little sister,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Jenna is not a very fertile woman, and, in addition, Cecily’s birth damaged her, so that the risk of future pregnancies must be avoided.’
‘There are others,’ Josse put in. ‘Your other granddaughter, and Philomena, and her little girls.’
‘Yes, Josse, little girls is exactly what they are!’ Isabelle flashed back. ‘Cecily is eight, Brigida is five, and Philippa – dear God, the child’s very name reveals how we yearn for a boy child! – is but three.’ For a moment, she dropped her face in her hands, kneading her temples as if her head pained her. ‘And Philomena is disinclined to go through another pregnancy. “Undoubtedly it would be another girl,” she says, not without justification, “and heaven knows we’ve got enough already.”’
Silence fell. It was, Helewise thought, a distressed, resentful silence. She was about to make some mollifying comment, for she had taken to Josse’s cousin Isabelle and found herself wishing to comfort and to help, when Isabelle spoke again.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, reaching out to take their hands. ‘Here you are on your first evening, distressed, I dare say, about Father, wanting to relax and no doubt ready for your bed, after the journey you had, and all I can do is moan!’
‘You’ve done a lot more than that,’ Josse protested. ‘You have welcomed us with a kind and open heart, and provided the sort of feast we haven’t seen in a long time.’
‘Indeed,’ Helewise agreed. Then – for, even as she spoke she had been thinking – she said, ‘Why, Isabelle, does this absence of a male heir to come after Herbert disturb you so deeply just now?’
Isabelle turned shrewd eyes to her, then muttered over her shoulder, ‘This one doesn’t miss much, Josse.’ A smile creasing her face, she said, turning back to Helewise, ‘Having posed the question, would you care to suggest an answer?’ Helewise hesitated. ‘Go on,’ Isabelle urged, ‘you won’t distress me or anger me, I assure you.’
‘In that case,’ Helewise began – it was Josse’s turn, she noticed with a private smile, to try to stop her going on; he was making frantic throat-cutting gestures at her behind Isabelle’s back, but she ignored him – ‘in that case, I would suggest that your concern has somehow to do with your new daughter-in-law.’
‘Your arrow strikes right in the gold,’ Isabelle murmured. ‘Not that new a daughter-in-law, for she married my son last year.’ Her hand went up to her forehead again, and she closed her eyes. ‘Cyrille is but thirty-two,’ she said – As young as that? Helewise thought, for she had judged the woman to be nearer forty than thirty, if not older – ‘and, in all likelihood, she will give my son children; boys, perhaps.’
‘And that is not a welcome thought?’ Helewise prompted gently.
Wordlessly, Isabelle shook her head. ‘I cannot warm to her,’ she said, dropping her voice to a barely audible whisper as if she feared Cyrille had got out of bed and crept back up the passage to listen.
‘Perhaps she won’t get pregnant,’ Josse said bluntly.
Isabelle met Helewise’s eyes, and both of them grinned. ‘Dear old Josse,’ Isabelle said. ‘Straight to the essence of the matter. But, in any case,’ she went on, her smile fading, ‘Cyrille already has a son, whose every thought, comment and moment she controls with rigid care, for she is determined he shall be a credit to her.’ She made a small sound eloquent of her disapproval. ‘Cyrille was married before, to a boyhood friend of Herbert’s named William Crowburgh, and when William died two years ago and Herbert went to pay his respects and give his commiserations to the widow, that meeting led to friendship, love, and, eventually, marriage.’ She paused. ‘Herbert is, for now, young Olivar’s stepfather. He is, however, in the process of adopting him as his heir.’
Josse was looking mystified. ‘Then wherein lies the difficulty?’
Again, Isabelle and Helewise exchanged a glance. Because the boy is hers, Helewise thought. She thought it diplomatic to leave Isabelle to say it.
Isabelle again took Josse’s hand. ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ she said softly, ‘I like Olivar very much; he’s only six, he’s lost the father he adored and is utterly bewildered, and he’s a very sweet, lovable child. I know he can’t change who gave birth to him, but, all the same …’ She didn’t finish the sentence. Helewise didn’t think she needed to.
‘What exactly—’ Josse began.
He was interrupted by sudden noises from outside. A voice crying out; heavy thumps, as if a fist wielding something hard were banging it against the gates; the sound of running feet within the house; a door opening.
Josse was already out of his chair. ‘I will go and investigate,’ he said, striding away towards the door.
‘Josse, no, the servants will attend to it!’ Isabelle called after him. He ignored her.
‘He prefers,’ Helewise remarked tonelessly, ‘to see to things himself.’ Isabelle looked at her. Both women laughed.
Quite soon, Josse was back, accompanied by the older man who had earlier taken their horses, a man in the livery of a senior indoor servant – a steward? – and a goggle-eyed boy almost breathless with the excitement of the moment. Addressing Isabelle, Josse said, ‘There’s been an accident. A man and his horse have had a bad fall. It seems he was trying to make for Lewes, along the track that runs on the top of the downs, but in the worsening weather, his horse missed its footing. Both are badly injured, and, in addition, they have been out in the severe weather for some time. It’s been snowing,’ he added.
Isabelle was already on her feet. ‘Nicholas,’ she said, addressing the servant, ‘fetch Willum, Matthew and Tab and a hazel hurdle, go out and very carefully bring the injured man inside. Take him to the guest chamber beside the chapel.’ The steward hurried off. Isabelle turned to the old groom. ‘Garth, you must do what you can for the horse.’
‘Aye, my lady.’ The groom touched his fingers to his forelock, then hurried off in the steward’s wake.
‘Now,’ Isabelle said, apparently talking to herself, ‘I need hot water, cloths for washing wounds, blankets to warm the poor soul, a fire in his room—’
Gently Helewise touched her arm. ‘Josse and I will help,’ she said softly.
Isabelle gave a curt nod. ‘Thank you. It’s a pity this had to happen on your first night with us, but there it is. Follow me.’
Then, already giving instructions about where to find blankets and kindling, she hurried out of the hall with Josse and Helewise trotting along behind.