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for God’s help in almost the same moment as she had wished for Josse’s presence, so maybe a part of God’s help had come in the form of sending him.
         Anyway, as soon as Josse spoke those words – so kindly, with such compassion for her in his brown eyes – she was lost.
         ‘You perceive what has not been put into words for you, Sir Josse,’ she said. ‘I ought not to burden you with my private concerns when you are so poorly but—’
         ‘Private concerns?’ he snapped, interrupting her. ‘Please, tell me straight away, my lady, what ails you?’
         ‘I am well, Josse,’ she said, putting her hand briefly on his. ‘Better than you!’ She tried to make a small joke.
         ‘Nothing much wrong with me,’ he said gruffly. ‘Sister Euphemia herself drew back the curtains which isolated me from everyone else and Sister Caliste assures me I’ll be on my feet tomorrow.’ He glared at her, but the fierce expression was denied by the tenderness in his eyes. ‘Now, what is the matter with you?’
         ‘It’s not me, it’s my son.’
         His eyebrows shot up. ‘Your son?’
         ‘Yes. You knew, I believe, that I was a wife and a mother before I came to Hawkenlye?’
         ‘Aye, my lady. I knew. But—’ He shrugged, as if what he was thinking could not be put easily into words.
         She did it for him. ‘But you cannot now imagine that one in my position was ever other than you now perceive her?’
         He muttered something that sounded like all too easily but she must have been mistaken.
         Wishing only to move the conversation on and spare them both further awkwardness – for he was giving a very good impression of an embarrassed man and her own composure was shaky – she said hastily, ‘Actually the problem really lies with my son’s wife, but such is his love for her that her problem is his, if you see what I mean.’
         ‘I do. Please, go on, my lady.’
         ‘They were married three years past and in September of last year, Rohaise gave birth to their son, whose name is Timus. According to Leofgar – my son – Rohaise has suffered in a variety of ways since the birth.’ Noticing that Josse was looking even more embarrassed, she said frankly, ‘Sir Josse, I do not speak of that sort of problem. The illness, if that is what it is, is of poor Rohaise’s mind.’
         Josse had such an open face, she reflected, watching him with amusement despite the seriousness of the subject under discussion; when she reassured him that they were not going to have to talk about some bodily malfunction of Rohaise’s but, rather, a mental one, relief had swept through him, swiftly displaced by guilt that he should feel pleased that Rohaise’s difficulty probably amounted to something a lot more serious than some temporary disorder in her reproductive organs.
         ‘I am sorry for her,’ he said as the flush faded from his cheeks. ‘Sorry for all of you. She has seen Sister Euphemia?’
         ‘Indeed.’ Helewise nodded in the direction of the long infirmary ward. ‘Rohaise was exhausted after the journey and did not sleep well last night, so Sister Euphemia has brought her in here and is keeping her under observation. She – Sister Euphemia – had a long talk with the girl this morning and then gave her a sleeping draught.’
         ‘The girl is in the recess down there?’
         ‘Yes.’
         He nodded. ‘And you went to see her just now.’
         ‘I did,’ she agreed. ‘She was deeply asleep and did not stir while Sister Euphemia quietly told me of their earlier discussion.’
         ‘Does the infirmarer detect the nature of this illness of the head?’
         She paused, collecting her thoughts. What Sister Euphemia had told her was still too fresh in her mind for her to have digested it. I shall share it with Josse, she decided, and see what he makes of it.
         ‘Sister Euphemia