The Song of the Nightingale Read Free

people.
    It was quite different at Hawkenlye Abbey, Little Helewise reflected. Abbess Caliste was, presumably, as honour bound as any other nun, monk or priest to obey the pope’s dictates, yet somehow she and her loyal team were managing to succour all the desperate people who came asking. Little Helewise knew – or suspected – that men such as her father, her uncle Dominic and her grandmother’s dear friend, Sir Josse d’Acquin, were helping to the best of their ability, and quietly sending as much as they could spare for the abbey to distribute. It made Little Helewise proud, even if sometimes, if she was honest, she might wish her own household kept back just a bit more for their own use. It was a selfish thought, perhaps, but she was only sixteen and life was dark and frightening.
    The reality of her bleak, miserable situation broke out all at once from the corner of her mind in which she had tried to pen it. She suffered the ensuing wave of distress, then, when it had passed, straightened her spine and raised her head. Had anyone been there to witness, they might have thought she was steeling herself to go into battle.
    She sighed, trying to find something to be cheerful about. Feeling suddenly exhausted, she crossed the cold stone floor and sat down on her bed, swinging her legs up and lying back on the soft pillows. She pulled up the wool blankets and the thick fur cover, snuggling down and making a warm nest. Gazing out across the chamber, she caught sight of a silver box resting on the low table beside the bed. It had been a gift from her father. He had brought it back from a recent trip to London, hoping, she guessed, to cheer her up.
    If only it were that simple.
    The box was a pretty thing. It was rectangular in shape, about the size of her hand, and, although the sides were decorated with a swirling pattern of leaves, the top was plain. She reached out for it, holding it up so that she could see herself reflected in the bright metal.
    She saw her own wide eyes staring back at her, light in colour like her grandmother’s. Her thick, dark hair was drawn back severely, leaving her pale face mercilessly exposed. She read knowledge in her eyes; the lids were puffy from weeping, and the dark circles that were etched deeply around them bore witness to sleepless nights.
    She was pining. She was listless, miserable, and her customary high spirits appeared to have quite deserted her. Anxiety rode her constantly. Hardest to endure was the enforced imprisonment within the house. Not that she was alone in having to bear it; every young woman of her acquaintance was in the same position. The harsh winter was to blame: that, and the widespread, desperate poverty of the people of England. Bands of the homeless and the dispossessed lived – existed – out in the wilds of the countryside, and even the ones who had begun as honest men eventually became desperate. Cold to their very bones, often sick or wounded, hunger drove them to violence, and terrible tales were whispered of their crimes. Men such as Little Helewise’s father no longer considered it safe to permit their womenfolk to travel the roads and the tracks unless they were accompanied by at least one strong, stoutly-armed man to act as guard, and the trouble with
that
was that most strong men in the employ of those such as Leofgar Warin were far too busy on essential tasks to have any spare time to escort a young woman while she went off visiting.
    Little Helewise was lonely, longing more than almost anything to be allowed to go and visit family or friends. One member of the family in particular . . .
    It was no use asking. Her mother Rohaise, frowning, always tense and anxious, preoccupied with running a home on increasingly tight rations, had no time for such queries. Had Little Helewise pleaded again, she knew she would get exactly the same answer:
if you have time on your hands and are bored and at a loose end, I will find you