The Song of the Nightingale Read Free Page A

something to do
. The
something to
do
would invariably be a dreary, repetitive, dull task such as helping mend the household linen, or chopping endless cabbages and root vegetables for the soups that seemed to have become the household’s sole food. To make matters worse, the task would have to be done beneath the stern, eagle-eyed scrutiny of her mother, who had a way of making it perfectly clear that she considered her daughter far too prone to daydreaming, time-wasting and generally failing to
drive
herself, whatever that meant. Working in her mother’s company was, Little Helewise reflected, uncomfortable at the best of times. Now, it would be—
    No. She must not think of that.
    She lay back on the bed and hunched the blanket and the soft fur more tightly around her ears. She stroked the fine wool of the blanket with her fingertips. Her family were growing wealthy because of wool and, despite the increasingly severe demands of the king’s incessant taxes, this wealth appeared to keep steadily growing. Not that it was doing them much good at the moment, when the terrible winter meant that food of every kind was in such short supply. But the flocks were surviving, despite the snow that refused to go away and the cold wind that went on blowing out of the north-east. The thick wool that now insulated the ewes against the elements would be shorn in the spring, as it was every year, and sent over to the Low Countries, where it would be turned into the fine, highly prized cloth that fetched the highest prices.
    Money.
    Yes, it was good to know it was there, shoring up her family and keeping them safe from the sort of lives endured by the tramps, vagabonds and brigands who paced the lanes and the tracks and somehow existed out in the woods. She would never take it for granted; never underestimate its importance.
    But, oh,
oh
, it couldn’t buy happiness, and it couldn’t solve the sort of misery she was facing now.
    She was on her own, and sometimes her heart hurt so much that it felt as if it would break.
    Of all the extended family, it was Little Helewise who pined most for the absentee: Ninian, the adopted son of Josse d’Acquin, had been forced to flee England late the previous October – over three months ago now – and not a word had come to say where he had gone, how he was, whether he was managing to eke out an existence, or even if he was still alive.
    He is still alive
, Little Helewise said silently to herself.
If it were not so, I would know
. She repeated the same phrases most days. Sometimes she managed to convince herself.
    Her grandmother and Josse had gone after him, once he was no longer suspected of murder and it was safe for him to come home. Little Helewise’s hopes had ridden high, so sure had she been that they would find him. Sir Josse was a legend – strong, determined, capable and resourceful – and Grandmother Helewise had the reputation of never giving up on a task until it was completed to her own and, more importantly, God’s satisfaction. Grandmother Helewise used to be abbess of Hawkenlye Abbey; the habit of command, and the ability to inspire awed respect from lesser beings, was still draped around her like a rich and elegant cloak, or so it seemed to her granddaughter.
    Not that such considerations had held Little Helewise back when her grandmother and Josse had returned alone. She remembered now, deeply ashamed of herself, how she had railed at the pair of them for their failure, not seeing until it was too late the shame in Josse’s brown eyes and the pain in her grandmother’s face.
    â€˜
You should have tried harder and ridden further!
’ Little Helewise had screeched, beside herself with bitter disappointment and the agony of her loss. ‘How could you let him go?’ Then she had rounded on Josse. ‘You claim you look on him as a son!’ she shouted. ‘How could you just give up?
I thought you loved