her dark hair was neatly braided and partially concealed by a small, stiff white veil held in place by a plaited cord of silk. She sat on a low stool at the foot of the bed and she was sewing a hem in what appeared to be a very long length of white linen.
Standing with his head through the gap between the curtains, he said, ‘Lady Rohaise, may I come to talk to you? I am Josse d’Acquin.’
She had raised a startled, wide-eyed face to him at his first words, as if her thoughts had been far away and he had made her jump. But, as he identified himself, her expression relaxed and, putting her sewing aside, she stood up.
‘Please come in, Sir Josse.’ Her voice was low-pitched and attractive. He stepped between the curtains and into the recess. She pulled another stool forward from where it had been set back out of the way beside the wall and invited him to sit. As she resumed her seat, he did so.
‘You are the very exceptional man,’ said Rohaise, ‘who not only is a good friend of the Abbess, my mother-in-law, but also performed the miracle of making my little boy laugh and speak.’
Overcome by her praise, he muttered, ‘Hardy speak , my lady. It was but the one word.’
‘You cannot know what that one word means to me,’ she said urgently. ‘I wish with all my heart that I had been there to witness the moment, but I was sleeping. They gave me some drug that rendered me senseless,’ she added tonelessly.
He wanted to go on talking about the child but her words seemed to imply criticism, and he leapt to Hawkenlye’s defence. As kindly as he could, he said, ‘They are skilled healers here, Lady Rohaise. Put yourself in their hands, I do urge you, and they will do their very best for you.’
Her dark eyes met his and his kind heart shuddered at the misery he saw in their depths. ‘I am not sure that I can be helped,’ she said. She sighed. ‘There has been too much ...’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Too much?’ he prompted.
She did not respond, instead reaching out her hand for the sewing. ‘I asked for something to do,’ she explained, ‘for when my son is not by my side I worry about him. I worry even when he is with me, now, and I fear that it will take more than hemming sheets to stop me.’
‘Why do you worry so?’ Josse asked gently. ‘Your boy is healthy, is he not? Some parents would say that, offered the choice, they would prefer a quiet child to a boisterous one.’
‘Oh, Timus can be as boisterous as any little boy,’ she replied quickly. ‘Sir Josse, he used to—’ But, as if someone had put a hand over her mouth, she stopped.
‘Can you not confide in me, my lady?’ Josse asked. ‘I am here to help; you have my word on that.’
She gazed into his eyes, her needlework forgotten in her lap. ‘I am not a fit mother,’ she whispered. ‘Timus deserves better, for I fear that I contaminate him a little more with every day. I stopped feeding him, you know. My milk was bad for him and he was better off with Adela. She stopped coming to our home too, you know. She knew. She saw it all.’
The poor woman makes no sense, Josse thought, deeply concerned. Making up his mind that the best way to respond was with the prosaic and everyday, he said, ‘Well, once your boy was weaned, he had no more use of a wet nurse. Isn’t that so?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She sounded dreamy, as if her thoughts were far away.
‘I do not believe that you can possibly contaminate your own child, my lady,’ Josse pressed on. ‘It is clear that you love him.’
‘Is it?’ She almost snapped out the words. ‘ Is it?’
‘You have brought him here in order that help be given to him over these strange silences of his, have you not?’
She gave him a tiny smile, enough to put a faint dimple in her gaunt cheek and give him a glimpse of how pretty
Standing with his head through the gap between the curtains, he said, ‘Lady Rohaise, may I come to talk to you? I am Josse d’Acquin.’
She had raised a startled, wide-eyed face to him at his first words, as if her thoughts had been far away and he had made her jump. But, as he identified himself, her expression relaxed and, putting her sewing aside, she stood up.
‘Please come in, Sir Josse.’ Her voice was low-pitched and attractive. He stepped between the curtains and into the recess. She pulled another stool forward from where it had been set back out of the way beside the wall and invited him to sit. As she resumed her seat, he did so.
‘You are the very exceptional man,’ said Rohaise, ‘who not only is a good friend of the Abbess, my mother-in-law, but also performed the miracle of making my little boy laugh and speak.’
Overcome by her praise, he muttered, ‘Hardy speak , my lady. It was but the one word.’
‘You cannot know what that one word means to me,’ she said urgently. ‘I wish with all my heart that I had been there to witness the moment, but I was sleeping. They gave me some drug that rendered me senseless,’ she added tonelessly.
He wanted to go on talking about the child but her words seemed to imply criticism, and he leapt to Hawkenlye’s defence. As kindly as he could, he said, ‘They are skilled healers here, Lady Rohaise. Put yourself in their hands, I do urge you, and they will do their very best for you.’
Her dark eyes met his and his kind heart shuddered at the misery he saw in their depths. ‘I am not sure that I can be helped,’ she said. She sighed. ‘There has been too much ...’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Too much?’ he prompted.
She did not respond, instead reaching out her hand for the sewing. ‘I asked for something to do,’ she explained, ‘for when my son is not by my side I worry about him. I worry even when he is with me, now, and I fear that it will take more than hemming sheets to stop me.’
‘Why do you worry so?’ Josse asked gently. ‘Your boy is healthy, is he not? Some parents would say that, offered the choice, they would prefer a quiet child to a boisterous one.’
‘Oh, Timus can be as boisterous as any little boy,’ she replied quickly. ‘Sir Josse, he used to—’ But, as if someone had put a hand over her mouth, she stopped.
‘Can you not confide in me, my lady?’ Josse asked. ‘I am here to help; you have my word on that.’
She gazed into his eyes, her needlework forgotten in her lap. ‘I am not a fit mother,’ she whispered. ‘Timus deserves better, for I fear that I contaminate him a little more with every day. I stopped feeding him, you know. My milk was bad for him and he was better off with Adela. She stopped coming to our home too, you know. She knew. She saw it all.’
The poor woman makes no sense, Josse thought, deeply concerned. Making up his mind that the best way to respond was with the prosaic and everyday, he said, ‘Well, once your boy was weaned, he had no more use of a wet nurse. Isn’t that so?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She sounded dreamy, as if her thoughts were far away.
‘I do not believe that you can possibly contaminate your own child, my lady,’ Josse pressed on. ‘It is clear that you love him.’
‘Is it?’ She almost snapped out the words. ‘ Is it?’
‘You have brought him here in order that help be given to him over these strange silences of his, have you not?’
She gave him a tiny smile, enough to put a faint dimple in her gaunt cheek and give him a glimpse of how pretty
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