Dark Night Hidden

15

Three days after Father Micah’s death, neither Josse nor anybody else within the Hawkenlye community yet had any idea how he died.

Soon after noon of that day, Josse stood in the road outside the Abbey gates staring after the retreating figure of Gervase de Gifford. He was going over in his mind all that de Gifford had told him concerning the group of strangers. The heretics, as he now knew them to be.

He was trying to decide exactly how — indeed, what — he was going to tell the Abbess. Briefly it crossed his mind that he might not reveal the group’s identity; would it really do any harm if she did not know? He had given his word to de Gifford to respect the man’s confidences, although with the proviso that only if by so doing he did not compromise anyone else. Not telling the Abbess would certainly save the almost certain introduction of friction in his relationship with her for, no matter that he knew her to be a compassionate and fair-minded woman, she was also Abbess of Hawkenlye. And, as such, she was answerable to those above her in the religious hierarchy who decreed what the attitude to heresy and heretics must be.

Aye. He gave a deep sigh. No matter what her own heart told her, she would obey the rules, as she had vowed to do. And he realised that he had to tell her; tempting though it was to leave her in ignorance, it might prove dangerous for her. It was quite possible that there were other priests as well as the late Father Micah out there on the heretics’ trail. If one of them came to Hawkenlye and found out that the Abbess and her nuns had tended a heretic woman in the Abbey infirmary, then she — and probably Sister Euphemia and Sister Caliste — would be severely punished.

To refrain from telling the Abbess that Aurelia was a heretic would certainly compromise her.

He sighed again, turned back inside the gates and went to find her.

Launching straight into his story, he told her what de Gifford had just told him. ‘They’re a band of heretics,’ he said baldly. ‘Some from the Low Countries, some from the south; some place in the Midi called Toulouse, or perhaps Albi. That’s why Father Micah treated them so savagely. And the letter on Aurelia’s forehead isn’t an A but an H.’

For some moments she just sat and stared at him. Then she said, very quietly, ‘She’s a heretic.’

‘Aye.’

He had expected her to be surprised — shocked, even — but nevertheless the pallor that spread over her face alarmed him. ‘My lady?’ he said anxiously. ‘May I fetch you water?’

‘Water will do me no good whatsoever,’ she snapped back. Then, eyes blazing, she cried out, ‘Heretics say terrible things, Sir Josse! They claim that Christ is not divine! They say that there is not the one true God but two deities, one good and the other evil, and that this world and everything in it is the creation of the Dark One! Dear Lord, but they claim our very existence here on earth is but an exile until our material bodies die and we are reunited with our souls!’

‘But-’ He tried to interrupt but she was in full flow, stung to fury by heresy’s terrible, hurtful slur on the loving Son of God she worshipped.

‘They reject marriage and baptism, they scorn the clergy and they say that each and every man and woman may address the deity personally!’ she stormed. ‘Just how, pray, is a man of the Church supposed to respond to that?’

‘Perhaps we should-’

Again she rode him down. ‘Think of the people, Sir Josse! What is to become of them if they do not have the strong, steady hold of the priesthood keeping their souls safe from temptation? If they fall into sinful ways and are not brought to confession and given God’s forgiveness, then when they die they will go to eternal damnation!’ She paused, panting from the effort, then, after a moment, said in a quieter tone, ‘That is why heresy must not be allowed to spread. Because it will lead directly to men and women dying in a state of sin, and I cannot believe that you would wish it on a fellow human being to appear before the terrible judge without having been reconciled by penance and fortified by Holy Communion.’ She sniffed, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘Even if you can accept that threat, I certainly cannot.’

‘What will you do, my lady?’ he asked frostily. ‘You now know that a heretic woman lies in your infirmary, where you yourself have looked down with pity on her wounds. Will you now go out and find whichever priest holds sway here in place of Father Micah and tell him? Watch as Aurelia is taken away, imprisoned, even burned, perhaps, simply because she views these vexed matters of faith differently from the way in which you and the Christian Church do?’

‘She will not be burned!’ the Abbess cried furiously. ‘She will be — they will. .’ Her words petered out. ‘Well, they’ll probably just let her go.’

‘Aye, and just how long will she last, do you think?’ he demanded. ‘She’s badly hurt, her wounds are infected and she is weak with fever. The month is February, my lady, in case you have forgotten, and she will find no food and precious little to drink all the time the ponds and streams are frozen. If she approaches some far-flung hamlet and creeps into an outhouse for shelter, the inhabitants will denounce her for fear of having their dwellings burned down over their heads in punishment for harbouring a heretic!’

The Abbess had dropped her flushed face into her hands. Feeling a surge of pity for her, he stepped forward, about to offer to help her think up a solution to the dilemma in which she found herself.

But even as he did so she removed her hands and shouted up at him, ‘I cannot risk the safety and integrity of Hawkenlye! If I had a hundred heretics hiding here, I should have to report it, even if it meant they were all taken straight to the stake for their treason!’

‘I do not believe that,’ he said flatly. ‘I have known you too long and too well to think you capable of such cruelty.’

‘They deny Christ!’ she cried. ‘They spit on the Cross and profane his holy name, he who suffered so for us!’

‘Who says they do?’ he shouted back. He saw that she had tears in her eyes, but was too angry to let it affect him.

‘The priesthood tells us,’ she said earnestly. ‘They know about these things — they find out, and it is their job to inform us.’

He knew there was a flaw in her argument — something to do with priests only passing on their own version of what they had learned — but just then he heard a faint sound from the cloister outside. He was about to go and investigate when she said, ‘Sir Josse, I have no choice. Do you not understand?’

He spun round to face her again. ‘Give Aurelia a few more days,’ he urged. ‘Let her receive the benefit of Sister Euphemia’s and Sister Caliste’s loving care a little longer, until she is strong enough to get away from here and out of immediate danger. Nobody is aware that you know her to be a heretic — I won’t tell anybody that I told you.’

‘But I do know,’ she said dully. ‘And it is not right that I should allow you to lie.’

‘Leave it to me to take care of my own soul,’ he said gruffly. ‘And if your conscience pricks you, you can do the hardest penance ever devised after she’s gone.’

She was staring at him and for once he could not read her expression. Sensing — hoping — that she might be weakening, he said softly, ‘What do you think the Lord Jesus would have done? Would he have turned a sick woman out to fend for herself and be hunted down by her enemies? Or would he have given her love and tended her hurts?’

‘She is a heretic woman who denies His divinity,’ the Abbess muttered.

‘She is still a human being,’ he insisted. Hoping that he had the words exactly right, he said, ‘“A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another as I have loved you.”’

‘But-’ She stopped. It seemed to Josse, watching her so intently, that it had perhaps occurred to her that there was no ‘but’.

Deciding that it would be wise to slip away and leave her to think, he murmured, ‘I will leave you to your contemplation, my lady,’ and eased himself out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.

As he walked along the cloister, he sensed someone move in the shadows. He called out, ‘Who’s there?’

A black-clad nun stepped out from the dimly lit corner where two arms of the cloister met at a right angle. She gave him a graceful bow and, as she straightened up, he found himself looking into the bright blue eyes of Sister Phillipa.

‘Sister! How goes the Hawkenlye Herbal?’

‘Well, thank you, Sir Josse. Although I have had another task to do these last few days that has kept me from my work.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes.’ She looked doubtful suddenly. ‘I had thought that you might know of it.’

‘No. What have you been up to?’ He gave her an indulgent smile.

But then she said, ‘Sister Bernadine believed that someone had been going through the Abbey’s precious texts. I was ordered to help her to make an inventory and see if anything had been stolen.’

‘I had no idea!’ He wondered why the Abbess had not told him; theft of one of the manuscripts would be a dire blow for the Abbey. ‘And is any document missing?’

‘No, that’s the strange thing.’ Her straight brows knotted into a frown. ‘Everything that is meant to be there — everything on the inventory — is there, and undamaged, as far as I can tell. Nothing’s been stolen but, Sir Josse, something’s been put in.’

‘What sort of a something?’

From beneath her scapular she pulled a small parcel, wrapped in linen. It was rectangular in shape, about as long as a large man’s hand and perhaps two-thirds as broad. After looking in each direction to make sure that nobody was watching, Sister Phillipa unwrapped the linen and held out what it had concealed for Josse to see.

It was a book made from some eight or ten sheets of fine vellum, bound down the left-hand side with a narrow leather cord woven in an intricate pattern. The first page was densely covered in letters, but what they said, or even what language they were in, Josse had no idea.

‘There are some wonderful illustrations,’ Sister Phillipa whispered, right in his ear; she was so close that he felt the brusque touch of her starched headdress brush his cheek. ‘Look.’

Carefully she took the manuscript from him and turned a page or two. A lively picture leaped out at him, its style so vivid and its colours so vibrant that the tiny figures almost appeared to move. He studied them; they were dressed in long black robes and seemed to be standing in a circle and holding their arms up in an attitude of reverence.

‘What are they doing?’ he asked softly.

‘I have no idea,’ Sister Phillipa murmured back. ‘I have never seen anything like these pictures before. There’s a strange cross’ — she turned another page — ‘and there’s a really frightening picture of two worlds side by side, one all light and brilliant, one dark and seething with weird distorted beings. . There!’

He saw instantly what she meant. The dark world was a nightmare landscape of chaos and misery, with people in torment, wailing and tearing at their hair. Nature was distorted and corrupt, twisted and cruel. The light world, by contrast, was filled with fluffy cloud and bright sunshine, and yellow, gold and pink were the predominate colours. All was ethereal and with an almost unreal quality, and the groups of human-like figures were slightly vague and dream-like.

Josse said wonderingly, ‘These are like — like illustrations of a tale only half-remembered. I’ve never seen anything similar, either, Sister.’ He raised his eyes and looked at her. ‘Any ideas?’

She said tentatively, ‘At first, no. I thought that both the writing hand and the paintings were very beautiful, perhaps the most perfect work I have ever seen, even though I was bothered by the strangeness. But then I remembered something that my father once told me about a religion that believed in two different forms of existence, one all good and the other all bad, and I wondered if this painting’ — she pointed at the page that Josse was still looking at — ‘could have something to do with it.’

Aye, Josse thought. We have a heretic woman in the infirmary, brought here by the man we believe to be the bodyguard for the whole group. Having carried out his task and brought her to safety, he disappears. But to imagine that this heretical text appeared coincidentally just at the same time is just too incredible.

Benedetto must have hidden it.

Josse said, not meeting Sister Phillipa’s eyes, ‘What were you going to do with it, Sister?’

She said instantly, ‘I was bringing it to the Abbess. But when I stood outside her door I heard you both arguing. I’m sorry to confess that I listened, and I understood what it was that made you both so heated.’ She stared at him, her blue eyes troubled. ‘Sir Josse, I am very afraid that if I do as I should and give this manuscript to the Abbess, she will destroy it.’

‘And the artist in you, Sister Phillipa, cries out in protest against flinging this beautiful work, which must have taken its creator so many painstaking hours to complete, into the flames. Yes?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. But what should I do? I cannot put it back, can I? I promised to tell Sister Bernadine if I discovered that anything was missing or damaged, but even if that is not so, surely it is not right to put this manuscript back and say that nothing at all is amiss?’

‘I don’t know, lass,’ he admitted. ‘I agree with you that it would not be a strictly honest thing to do. But I also agree that this should not be destroyed.’

They stood in silence for a few moments. He could almost hear her unspoken appeal and after a while he said, ‘I will take care of it.’

She said fervently, ‘Thank you. They said you are a man to depend on and they’re right.’

Flattered, too modest to ask who they were, Josse rewrapped the script in its linen cloth. ‘Perhaps you might merely report to Sister Bernadine that you found nothing damaged and nothing missing and that you have put all the Hawkenlye documents neatly back where you found them,’ he suggested. ‘That would be the truth, other than a small omission. Can your conscience bear that?’

‘I believe it can.’ She gave him a brilliant smile. ‘And any penance that I have to do will be worth it to see poor Sister Bernadine relieved of her anxiety.’

With a repeat of her graceful bow, she turned and walked away. Absently tucking the linen-wrapped package inside his tunic, Josse wondered what on earth he was going to do with it.

Josse did not notice, but while he had been engaged in his clandestine discussion with Sister Phillipa, Helewise had slipped out of her room and gone across to the Abbey church.

Now, all alone and on her knees before the altar, she asked for guidance. I do not know what to do, dear Lord, she prayed silently. I know now that the woman Aurelia is a heretic, who has been punished according to the Church’s dictates and who bears the mark on her brow to warn good Christians to be on their guard against her. I am sworn to obedience and it is my clear duty to report her presence here to the Church authorities immediately.

But, oh, dear sweet Jesus, she is so hurt! She is sick and in pain, and if I do as I should, she will suffer more. Much more.

For a few terrible moments, images of somebody being burned at the stake filled Helewise’s mind. She did not try to push them away; if I give up Aurelia, she told herself sternly, then there is a strong possibility that this is the fate that awaits her. Can I do that? Condemn a woman who has done no wrong other than to believe in a different picture of the deity?

Out of nowhere she seemed to hear a voice: All gods are one god, and behind them all is the one great Truth.

Helewise waited. As she knelt, silent and still, she began to feel less agitated. She waited a little longer, and a deep peace descended on her.

After a while she opened her eyes. Looking up at the altar, she asked, is that your answer, Lord? Is the calm that I feel in my head your response to my appeal? I kneel here and I begin to think that I must not give Aurelia up to those who would harm her, and from you I hear nothing but silence.

Does this mean that you approve?

The deep peace continued. Then Helewise saw herself when she had believed that de Gifford had come for Aurelia. She watched herself leap to Aurelia’s defence, crying out You shall not have her!

That was the proper instinct, Helewise realised, and the force of her conviction told her that she was right. She remained there on her knees for some time. She had just been in communication with her God; he had listened and he had given her what she prayed for. She felt it was only fair to thank him.

Later, when the rest of the community had filed in for Nones and after they had finished the office, Helewise decided what to do next.

First she went across to the infirmary. Sister Euphemia confirmed that it was all right to visit Aurelia and Helewise went and stood by her bed, staring down at her. The woman was asleep — Sister Caliste, appearing beside Helewise and smiling a greeting, whispered that Aurelia was still in considerable pain and being given regular doses of a sedative.

Helewise put out a very careful hand and felt the hot, tight skin around the brand on Aurelia’s forehead. ‘Will it leave a scar?’ she asked Sister Caliste softly.

Sister Caliste frowned. ‘We believe so, yes, my lady. The infection must have set in swiftly and had already taken too strong a hold by the time she was brought to us. Sister Tiphaine has prepared a special salve to help healthy skin grow back, but we fear that there will always be a mark.’ Suddenly her serene face fell into lines of a rare bitterness. ‘It is a savage thing to do to a person, is it not, my lady? Whatever their crime, I cannot think it warrants inflicting such agony and such permanent damage.’

Helewise said quietly, ‘I agree, Sister. Nothing warrants this.’

Then, giving the young nun a brief nod, she turned from Aurelia’s bedside and left the infirmary.

Next she fetched the mare, Honey, from the stables and rode off once more to visit Father Gilbert. Now that Father Micah was dead, with no new priest yet despatched to the Hawkenlye community, it would have to be Father Gilbert, even though he still lay in his sickbed.

He was the only person whom Helewise could think of to whom to put the questions that burned in her.

She found the Father sitting up in bed cradling a mug of some steaming liquid that smelt deliciously savoury. Helewise, who had missed the midday meal because she had been praying, felt her belly growl. I shall suffer the discomfort of watching the Father drink his broth while I bear my hunger, she told herself, in a gesture of penance for what I am about to do. I do not intend to tell a lie, but I shall not be revealing all of the truth.

When she and Father Gilbert had exchanged pleasantries, she said, ‘Father, I remember that Father Micah spoke passionately about lost souls who must be banished to the eternal fires. Can he, do you think, have been referring to heretics?’

‘Heretics?’ Father Gilbert looked surprised. ‘I suppose so, yes, although I did not know that we had any in our area. Although, now I come to think of it, there was a rumour. . Oh, dear, that blow to the head has left me feeling rather confused. Heretics, eh? Why do you ask, my lady Abbess?’

‘Oh,’ — she had prepared the explanation, but still it felt awkward and clumsy on her tongue and she felt sure he must surely be suspicious — ‘oh, there is some talk of a group of heretics visiting England. Some were apprehended, I believe, to the north of Tonbridge. I know a little of heresy, that its followers believe there to be two worlds, one good and one evil, and that-’

Father Gilbert interrupted. ‘You speak of only one heresy, my lady,’ he said, ‘that of the dualists, whereas in fact there are many, although the majority are based on dualist misconceptions. Let me see, now — the Arians challenged the divinity of Christ, the Manichaeans said that man was evil but possessed a divine spark that could be brought alight through strict religious observance, the followers of Zoroaster believed in Ahura Mazda, the Divine Light. The Romans’ Mithras was a variant, you know.’ He gave her a little nod, as if in confirmation of his own words. ‘Then there are the Bogomils, of course. Now they are classic dualists, utterly believing in the creed of a good and an evil god.’ He smiled up at her. ‘Have I answered your concerns adequately?’

She returned his smile. ‘Well yes, in a way, Father. But I was also wondering what a good Christian ought to do if-’

‘I forgot to mention the Cathars!’ he exclaimed, interrupting her. ‘Which was remiss of me since they are a sect causing much distress within the Church just at present.’ He shifted in his bed, rearranging his weight more comfortably. ‘The Cathar heresy is spreading rather wildly,’ he said in a low tone, as if crowds of fascinated Christians on the brink of apostasy were gathered outside trying to listen. ‘They call themselves the Pure Ones — kataros is Greek for pure one — and theirs is a particularly pessimistic view of the dualist world. They are often referred to as Manichaeans; it is my own view that the two terms are used fairly indiscriminately.’ He looked slightly annoyed, as if such scholarly inexactitude were inexcusable. ‘The Church has been aware of them for some time — oh, more than a century, I imagine. Measures have been taken against them for almost as long. To begin with, the authorities strove hard to bring the faithless back into the fold, threatening them with excommunication if they persisted in their wrongdoing.’

‘But if they were heretics, followers of a different faith, then surely they would not take such a threat very seriously?’ Helewise asked.

‘Indeed they did not.’ Father Gilbert gave her a glance of approval. ‘Sterner measures were taken and some of the heretics abjured their faith under threat of such things as trial by water. Then a strange thing happened: in Cologne, where some heretics were on trial, the common people decided that the Church authorities were being too lenient. They grabbed the heretics and burned them at the stake.’

‘How did the Church react to that?’

‘At first the extremity of the violence was condemned outright,’ Father Gilbert said. ‘After all, back then — and I speak of a time almost fifty years ago — the vast majority of the populace, throughout Europe, were faithful to the one true Church. Except, of course, down in the south, in the lands that I believe men call the Midi. Provence and the Languedoc were the breeding ground of Catharism, and in the end the Church realised it.’

‘The Midi.’ She tried to remember. ‘Father, is there a town called Albi in the Midi? Or one called Toulouse?’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said, waving away her question as if impatient to return to his narrative. ‘The Cathars are also referred to as the Albigensians because Albi is one of their strongholds. Where was I? Oh, yes. In 1179, the Church held a council at which measures against the Cathars were outlined. The duty of the faithful was henceforth to hunt them down, and the treatment that the heretics had received in places such as Cologne, Liege and Strasbourg began to be more widespread.’

She sat stunned. What had until then been a very personal problem — what to do about a heretic woman lying in Hawkenlye’s infirmary — had just been revealed to be part of something infinitely greater.

Something that, if Father Gilbert were not exaggerating, was setting all of Europe alight. .

He was still talking, speaking now of this Council and that pronouncement, of papal involvement and the possible interest of the King of France in a crusade to the south. But she was no longer listening.

Getting up, she said, ‘Excuse me, Father, if I interrupt your most interesting instruction, but it is time for me to go.’

‘Ah, yes indeed, duty calls you.’ He smiled affectionately at her. ‘As always.’

She spent a few moments checking that he was comfortable — she built up the fire and refilled his mug from the pot simmering beside the hearth — and then took her leave.

Mounting Honey, she rode back to Hawkenlye.

De Gifford had told Josse — who had related it to her — that two of the group of seven came from the south. From either Toulouse or Albi. It was beginning to look very much as if the members of the group were Albigensians, also known as Cathars.

One of the fastest growing and most threatening heresies that the Church had ever known.

Kicking her heels into Honey’s sides and feeling the mare spring off in an eager canter, Helewise thought grimly that this fact rather altered the way in which she must treat Hawkenlye infirmary’s heretic woman.