Free The Tavern in the Morning by Alys Clare Page B

the blindfold, wordlessly handing it to her.
    Then he looked around to see where they were.
    He didn’t recognise the spot.
    She said, ‘The road down to Tonbridge is half a mile along the track, in that direction.’ She waved an arm. ‘You can get your bearings there?’
    ‘Aye.’
    He looked at her, then looked away. He wanted very much to say something – something about being there to help her, whatever her trouble was, if she’d only swallow her pride and let him. Something about the importance to her of a true friend. The friend that he could be.
    But her chin was in the air again, and instead of offering his loyalty he almost said, do it your way, then! But don’t come crying to me if it all goes to the bad!
    He knew she wouldn’t go until he was out of sight, in case he was watching to see which direction she took. So, with the briefest of nods, he kicked Horace and set off down the track.
    She called, ‘Sir Josse!’
    He stopped, turning round in the saddle to look at her. ‘What is it?’
    For a moment, her despair and her need were naked in her face. ‘I—’ she began. Then, with a visible effort, violently she shook her head. ‘Nothing. Farewell.’
    ‘Farewell, lady.’
    He turned back to face out along the track once more. This time, he encouraged Horace into a canter and, when once more he looked round, he had left her behind and out of sight.

Chapter Six
    Helewise was feeling well again.
    Three days’ total bed rest had done the trick. She was a robust woman, and, as Sister Euphemia remarked, it had only been necessary for her to act sensibly and take to her bed, which had allowed Mother Nature to do the rest.
    Sitting at her table once more, the truckle bed and the brazier – such signs of weakness! – removed, out of sight and out of mind, she was eagerly going through Sister Emanuel’s entries in the accounts ledger.
    She was, although she didn’t admit it to herself, looking for mistakes.
    There weren’t any.
    Sister Emanuel, whose usual duties revolved around the care of the elderly folk in the retired nuns’ and monks’ house, was an educated woman. She was – and this was another thing Helewise didn’t care to admit – probably more learned than her Abbess.
    Helewise came to the end of Sister Emanuel’s entries. Closing the heavy ledger, she folded her hands on top of it and tried to empty her mind of the many other items clamouring for her attention.
    I resent the fact that another nun has just proved herself as capable as I over this matter of keeping the accounts in a neat, legible hand, she thought, spelling it out relentlessly to herself. My pride is bruised, because she can do a task I liked to think only I could do.
    This I must confess, and I must do penance. Pride is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, and particularly ill-housed in a nun.
    Then I shall humbly ask Sister Emanuel if, amid her busy life, she can find the time to help me out by taking on the task of keeping the accounts ledger up to date.
    That, Helewise was well aware, was going to hurt.
    All the more reason, said her conscience firmly, to do it. When it hurts, it means it is important.
    What, then, shall I do with the spare time I shall have bought for myself? she wondered. Then, as she sat there, still trying to empty her mind so as to make it receptive, she remembered a scheme she had dreamed up long ago, in the heady days when she had just been appointed Abbess of Hawkenlye and believed she could change the entire religious world single-handedly.
    I shall teach my nuns to read and write.
    Oh, not all of them! That would be impossible! For a start, there are too many, and secondly, many are not … She tried to find a way of expressing the fact that many were not bright enough for such skills without it seeming patronising or condescending (which would have added to her present weight of pride). Many are possessed of talents that do not suit them to the acquiring of literacy, such as skill with plants or