Read The Tavern in the Morning for Free Online Page B

floor. ‘You may think you’re indispensable, Abbess, but you’re not. Nobody is. What’s this you were doing?’ Before she could stop him, he had turned the large ledger round and was studying it. ‘You’re doing the accounts!’ He stared at her, his expression as amazed as if he’d found her painting pictures of naked men.
    ‘Somebody has to,’ she said primly. ‘And it’s my job.’
    He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘When you’re well, yes. But surely you can delegate?’
    ‘Not many of the others can read and write,’ she said, registering in passing that she seemed to be taking his proposal seriously, ‘and of those who can, I don’t know who would have a sufficiently fair hand.’
    He was nodding infuriatingly, as if she had proved a point he was trying to make. ‘Just as I said! Indispensable, aren’t you? The only nun among – how many is it? Nigh on a hundred? – who can write neatly enough for the account book. It’s not an illuminated manuscript!’ he cried. ‘Not holy writ! Would it really matter if, just for a week or so, the records were kept in a less than perfect hand?’
    ‘Yes!’ she protested, automatically. Then – her headache was getting worse by the minute – she said in a whisper, ‘No. Of course not. As long as we do our very best, there can be no grounds for complaint.’
    She dropped her hot face into her cold hands, momentarily luxuriating in the comfort afforded by the contrast.
    She sensed him coming to stand beside her. A moment later, there was a tentative touch on her arm. ‘Abbess?’ His tone was kindly now. ‘Would it be against all protocol for you to talk to me while lying in your little bed there?’
    She looked up. His strong-featured, humorous face was creased into anxious lines, as if he really was afraid his suggestion would have mortally offended her. Wanting to laugh, valiantly she suppressed it, said meekly, ‘Not in the least, Sir Josse,’ and allowed him to lead her the few steps to her truckle bed. He propped the pillow behind her head, covered her with the blankets and then stood back.
    It was, she had to admit, a huge relief to be lying down.
    He watched her for some moments without speaking. In case he was waiting for her signal to speak – what had he come to see her about? she wondered – she said, ‘Sir Josse? You are, naturally, a welcome visitor, but was there something particular you wanted to discuss?’
    He had, she observed, backed away until he was standing against the door. Assuming this was how he imagined a man should behave when in the same room as a nun lying on her bed, again she wanted to laugh.
    ‘I don’t think I should be bothering you with my worries,’ he said. ‘Not when you’re meant to be convalescing.’
    ‘Well, you’re here now,’ she replied. ‘Why not tell me anyway?’
    ‘Very well.’ He gave her an intent look. ‘But only on condition that you kick me out when you’ve had enough.’
    ‘I promise.’ Smiling, she closed her eyes. ‘Now, proceed.’
    She listened as he told her what had happened in the inn at Tonbridge. Of the dead man, Peter Ely, of Josse’s own discovery of the pie poisoned with wolfs bane, of Tilly and the swapped plates. Despite the gruesome details, she found she enjoyed listening to him; he told a tale well, in an orderly manner and with sufficient details for her to imagine the scenes he was describing. Reflecting on how pleasant it was to have a visitor bringing tidings of the great world beyond the walls of Hawkenlye, it was a few moments before she realised he had stopped speaking.
    She opened her eyes, to find him bending over her. ‘Sorry,’ he said, instantly backing away. ‘I thought you might have nodded off.’
    ‘In the midst of such a narrative?’ She smiled up at him. ‘Heaven forbid!’ He grinned back, apparently relieved by her response. ‘So, what now?’ she wondered aloud. ‘If I were in your position, I should return to Peter Ely’s family and