Dark Night Hidden

18

In the morning, Helewise made it one of her first tasks to see how Aurelia was doing. She went across to the infirmary shortly before Tierce and discovered Sister Caliste crouching beside the woman’s bedside, feeding her spoonfuls of broth.

She watched in silence for a moment. Then, as the woman sensed eyes upon her and, with a small cry, turned to look up at her, she stepped forward into the recess.

Sister Caliste had got up and was giving her superior a deep bow.

‘Good morning,’ Helewise said quietly. ‘How is the patient, Sister Caliste?’

She noticed that Sister Caliste had taken hold of one of the woman’s hands as if in reassurance. ‘She is much stronger, my lady Abbess,’ the younger nun said. ‘She has slept well, her pain is less intense and she begins to recover her appetite.’

‘Good, good.’ Helewise was studying the woman and noting, for the first time, that apart from the red and sore-looking wound on her brow, Aurelia was very beautiful. She was dark-haired, black-eyed and her skin was a soft golden colour. But she was not as young as Helewise had thought; she guessed her age to be around the mid-thirties, perhaps more. She recalled that Gervase de Gifford had said some of the heretics were from the south; Aurelia, to judge from her dark colouring, was one of them.

Not heretics, Helewise corrected herself. I can be more definite now; she is a Cathar.

And I do not know what I am to do about her.

Aurelia was looking up at her with a doubtful expression, as if she wanted to feel that Helewise was her friend but was not sure that she was. It was an expression that tore at Helewise’s heart.

With a curt nod to Sister Caliste, she turned and left them.

On her knees in the Abbey church, she waited until the rest of the community had left after Tierce. Another priest had been assigned to Hawkenlye since Father Gilbert was still not ready to resume his duties. The man would be arriving later and Helewise had to make up her mind what she was going to tell him.

She is a Cathar, she told herself firmly. That is all that I need to remember. Cathars are heretics of the worst sort, for their sect seems to appeal to good Christians and seduce them into abandoning the Church and taking up a new faith. Each time a man or woman deserts Our Lord, he suffers the agony of his passion all over again, and the man or woman’s soul is lost.

I must tell the new priest the truth and leave the matter in his hands!

But then she saw the lovely face of Aurelia with its cruel disfigurement. It is possible that she will die if I reveal her identity, she thought miserably. Perhaps she will only be imprisoned, but then look what happened to her friend when she was in gaol. And supposing this new priest is another Father Micah? Supposing he thinks he’s had quite enough trouble from these heretics and condemns the lot of them to the scaffold or the stake? He might even use duress on poor Aurelia to persuade her to give away her friends’ hiding places, if she knows them.

What shall I do?

In an agony of indecision, Helewise dropped her face in her hot hands and prayed for guidance.

Josse had not slept well. He knew he should have notified the Abbess of what he had been doing and, moreover, what he intended to do today. But he also knew that he was going to slip out of the Vale this morning without seeing her. All of which made for poor sleep and bad dreams.

He went to fetch Horace and set out early.

He rode first to Tonbridge, where he managed to locate Gervase de Gifford quite quickly; he was given directions to the sheriff ’s lodgings close by the castle. He told him that he had located the men from the Cathar party and that he was now going to hunt for the missing woman.

‘Where do you intend to start?’ de Gifford asked, having congratulated an embarrassed Josse for locating the Saxonbury hiding place.

‘Oh — here and there,’ Josse said evasively. He was not willing to share his knowledge of the forest with anybody, even a man with whom he had recently formed an alliance.

De Gifford was eyeing him speculatively. ‘I have tried, you know,’ he said. ‘It is possible that I have visited the very places where you intend to search.’

‘Well, then I’ll just try again.’ Feeling more awkward by the minute, Josse took his leave.

De Gifford called after him, ‘I’ll come up to Hawkenlye tomorrow morning. Meet me there, if you would, and we can discuss what progress we have made.’

With a nod of assent, Josse hurried on his way.

Going into the forest, Josse experienced mixed emotions. It was always awe-inspiring to ride those ancient tracks beneath the dark and mysterious trees, and the sheer beauty of the place gave him a sense of quiet peace. But he had experienced too many perilous moments there to feel entirely without apprehension, if not actual fear.

He rode first to the disused charcoal burners’ camp close to the Hawkenlye fringes of the forest. He had known desperate people to camp there before; the old turf-roofed shacks were sound and fairly weatherproof. But now there was no sign of life. Dismounting, he checked for any areas of burned ground that would indicate a recent fire; there were none. And the crude dwellings themselves were overgrown and deserted.

He rode on beneath the trees, keeping at first quite close to the forest boundary; it was reassuring to know that he had to ride for but a short distance to be out in the open again. But, as mile after mile passed with no sign of human beings, he knew he must go deeper in.

There was one place he had to check. It was a year since he had been there and he was not sure that he could find it again. He tried to visualise the tracks and tiny paths that led to it, and thought he had succeeded when he recognised a place where he could clearly recall fording a little stream. On up the bank, follow the track to the right, then there should be a clearing with a herb garden and a hut. .

There was the clearing. There, too, what could, with a little imagination, be a herb garden. At present, though, it was no more than bare earth with what looked to Josse, ignorant in gardening matters, like a few dead twigs sticking out of it.

He could not see the hut at all.

I must, he thought, be in the wrong place.

Muttering a curse, he turned and rode back to the stream. Perhaps he had been wrong about the turn to the right; it could have been further on. He would start again from the stream, maybe follow it for a while and see if anything looked familiar.

He dismounted, leading Horace on a loose rein; the stream was narrow and overgrown and it was likely that he would be cut and scratched by low-growing branches if he tried to ride. He was turning a long left-hand curve in the stream’s course when he heard laughter.

Quickly he tied Horace’s reins to a stout tree branch. Then, moving quietly, he crept on until he could peer round the bend.

And saw, kneeling on the fresh grass in sunlight that fell on a clearing by the water, a woman and a baby.

She had not heard him. She was totally preoccupied with the child, who lay on a fur rug waving its little fists in delight and cooing up at the woman, responding joyfully to her warm voice. As he watched her, she began to sing a soft, sweet song. She had her back to Josse and he could see little other than that she was dressed in a thick cloak and stout boots.

They had not said that the missing woman had a child with her. Or had they? It was impossible to be certain. If, indeed, this woman really was Utta.

There was only one way to find out.

Stepping forward on to the grass, he said, ‘I believe you are Utta?’

She gave such a start of fear that he could clearly see it. Spinning round, she stared at him with eyes full of terror in a round, plump face that was white with fear.

Even as he took in the mark on her forehead — which seemed to be healing remarkably well — he was hurrying to reassure her. ‘Please, do not be afraid — I am a friend. Truly — I have found Arnulf and the others and I am here to help you.’

She was shaking her head, uncomprehending, still so terrified that she was shaking. She had also, he noticed, moved so as to hide the baby from him.

‘I am a friend,’ he repeated, thumping his chest with his fist as if to emphasise his good intentions and trying to give her an encouraging smile.

She did not respond to his smile. But she whispered, ‘Fren?’

‘Friend, aye,’ he agreed. Then, speaking very slowly, ‘I will take you and your baby to Arnulf and the others, Alexius, Guiscard and Benedetto. Aurelia is in Hawkenlye Abbey being looked after by the nuns, but I will fetch her when she is ready to travel. I will take you all to the coast so that you can get away out of England.’

He had no idea how much she understood. He remembered that she came from the Low Countries so, trying to recall a few words of Flemish, he made his little speech again.

This time a great beam of delight spread over her face. Responding with a long, involved sentence in her own language — of which he caught about one word in three — her nods and smiles indicated that she believed him. He was about to offer to take her off to Saxonbury there and then — he took a few steps towards her and held out his hand to help her to her feet — but she drew back.

She said slowly in her own tongue — she seemed to have picked up the fact that Josse spoke it only very uncertainly — ‘I must collect my belongings. I will meet you here later. Come back later.’

‘But I can wait for you here while you fetch your things!’

She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘It is as I say or not at all.’

I’m trying to help you! he wanted to shout. Then he thought, but why should she give me instant trust? Better for her to have some time to think, to test whether I am as good as my word and leave her alone to prepare. Whether I return alone.

‘What is your name?’ she asked him.

He told her, and she repeated it softly. Then she nodded. ‘Come back later,’ she repeated. ‘Go away now.’

Under her determined blue-eyed stare, he decided that he had no option but to obey. With a brief bow, he retreated out of the clearing and went back to untether Horace.

He did not know how much time to give her. He rode slowly back along the stream, following it absently while he thought about the woman. After some time, he realised that the trees were beginning to thin out; another half mile or so and he would be in the open.

He rode on, drawing rein under one of the last of the great oaks. From here he could see out into the fields and hedgerows of the small community around Hawkenlye Abbey. There was nobody about, no sound but the distant barking of a dog.

He waited for a long time. Then, becoming chilled despite riding regular circles under the trees to keep both him and Horace from stiffening up, he made up his mind that he had given her long enough. He made his way back to the stream and had set out to follow it back to the clearing when she appeared, walking towards him with a small pack over her shoulder.

‘I am ready now,’ she said. ‘Please take me to the others.’

He said, amazed, ‘But where’s the baby?’

‘No baby.’ She spoke firmly, meeting his eyes with a determined look. He thought he could see the residue of tears on her cheeks and her eyelids were red and swollen.

‘But-’

‘No baby,’ she repeated. ‘Please, take me away.’

Stunned, he stared at her. Had he imagined it? Was it not Utta’s but some fairy child, which appeared to mortals then vanished back into its own world?

That, he knew, was fanciful. The child had been real enough, and for some reason Utta had left it behind.

He said, ‘Was it not your child?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Now, we go.’

But he could not leave it. ‘Will it be all right? It’s cold today, and-’

‘Baby will be very right,’ she said, switching to his own tongue as if to make quite sure he understood.

Was it then a child of the forest people? It seemed to him in that tense moment that this must be the explanation. Utta surely would not otherwise leave a baby all alone in the forest! No woman would, certainly not one who had been playing with the child with such delight. And if indeed Utta had met up with someone of the forest folk, it would explain how she had survived out there in the wildwood.

She had come right up to him and was holding out her hand. ‘I ride with you,’ she announced, ‘but careful, careful, hurt back.’

‘Aye, I know,’ he said. ‘You’d best sit behind me.’ Then, very gently, he took hold of her hand. Taking his foot out of the left stirrup, he indicated that she should put hers in, then, with her assistance, he lifted her up and sat her behind him on Horace’s broad back.

To his great surprise, she gave a quick laugh. ‘Big horse,’ she observed. ‘Very high up.’

‘Very high,’ he agreed. ‘Hold on to me, I won’t let you fall.’

‘I trust,’ she replied. ‘I know, I trust.’

Giving up on trying to get her to explain her remark, he kicked Horace into a gentle trot and set off for Saxonbury.

He was moved almost to tears by the emotion of Utta’s reunion with her people. Turning away from them as they demonstrated their very obvious love and concern for one another and their joy at being reunited, he found himself meeting the steady gaze of the Lord of the High Weald.

‘You have done well, Josse d’Acquin,’ he said. ‘How did you know where to look for her?’

‘It was sheer chance,’ he replied. ‘I came across her in the forest. She-’ No. Better not to mention the baby. ‘She seemed willing to trust me,’ he finished instead. ‘I still do not understand why.’

‘Perhaps she was growing desperate,’ the Lord suggested. ‘It must have been very hard, trying to keep herself warm, fed and sheltered out there. Possibly any friendly face would have persuaded her away.’

‘I think-’ He was going to tell the Lord of his conclusion that Utta must have been under the care of the forest people. But, again, he decided against it. ‘I think she has done well,’ he said. ‘The wound on her face is almost healed and, from the way she swung herself up on to my horse, I can’t think that the marks from the flogging can be paining her too much.’

‘Perhaps she was treated less harshly than the others,’ the Lord said. ‘Either that or she is a quick healer.’ Turning to look at Utta, now held in a close embrace by Benedetto, tears streaming down both their faces, he lowered his voice and said, ‘How soon can you go for the other woman?’

‘I return to Hawkenlye from here,’ he said. ‘If you will keep them safe a while longer, I will bring her as soon as she is fit to come.’

The Lord nodded. ‘We will await you.’

The members of the heretic group were still wrapped up in each other. Not wishing to interrupt their happiness, Josse led Horace out of the courtyard, mounted and rode quickly away.

In the early evening, Josse watched from the shadows as the Abbess came out of the Abbey church and headed for her room. When she was inside behind a closed door, he went over to the infirmary.

‘Sir Josse,’ Sister Euphemia greeted him coolly. ‘We were wondering where you were. The Abbess is quite anxious about you.’

‘I — er, I have been visiting Gervase de Gifford down in Tonbridge,’ he replied. It was the truth, as far as it went, but still he felt the guilt rise up in him at his deceit.

‘I see.’ The expression in Sister Euphemia’s wise eyes suggested that she did see, all too clearly. ‘You’ve come to see Aurelia, no doubt. Go through, she’s sitting up and is much better.’

He did as she suggested. Aurelia stared up at him doubtfully; struck by how lovely she was, he knelt beside her bed and said slowly, ‘I am so pleased to see you looking well.’

She answered him in his own tongue, although with an accent that he did not at first recognise; it was a long time since he had talked with someone from the Midi. Listening intently, he realised that she was thanking him. That, even though he had not yet told her, she seemed to know what he was planning to do.

‘How do you know?’ he whispered.

She put a long finger to her lips. ‘I cannot tell you. It is a secret. But I know what you have been doing and I know that you will take me to join them as soon as it is possible. I think perhaps we can go tomorrow. But very early, yes? Before anyone is awake and watching.’

Thinking that it would have to be very early indeed to be before an Abbey full of nuns rose for their first prayers, he nodded. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’ll come for you before daybreak.’

She reached out and took his hand. ‘I cannot move quickly,’ she said. ‘You need to know this, and also that you will have to help me.’

‘I understand. I’ll get you up on my old horse. He’s steady and has a broad back. You’ll think you are still lying in your bed.’

She gave him a very lovely smile. ‘You are being untruthful with me, Sir Josse, but I know that you do it to reassure me and so I forgive you.’ She gave his hand a squeeze then, letting him go, shifted in her bed with a small wince. ‘You should go,’ she urged. ‘Somebody may wonder what you do here, whispering to me in such secrecy.’

‘Very well.’ He stood up. ‘Until tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow.’ He caught an echo of the smile, then he turned away.

The next morning, Helewise repeated her previous day’s early visit to the infirmary. Today she went straight after Prime. She headed for the recess where, behind a curtain, Aurelia’s bed was concealed, reaching it before even the infirmarer or Sister Caliste got there.

When, a little later, she was joined by Sister Euphemia, she said quietly, ‘Aurelia has gone.’

‘Aye,’ the infirmarer replied. ‘Before daybreak, I would guess.’

‘Was she fit to travel?’

Sister Euphemia gave a brief tut of concern. ‘I would have said not. I would prefer to have had the care of her for a few days more. Her wounds are healing quite well and her fever is down, but I fear very much that, without care, she may open up one of those cuts and the infection may come back.’

Helewise lightly touched the infirmarer’s sleeve. ‘It is out of our hands now, Euphemia,’ she said gently. ‘You and Sister Caliste have done your very best for her.’

Sister Euphemia stood looking down at the empty bed for a while. Then, with a shake as if she were pulling her attention back to more practical matters, she said, ‘Aye, you’re right, my lady. I’ll get this bed stripped and prepare it for whoever needs it next.’

Later in the morning, Helewise received a visit from Gervase de Gifford. He began on an elaborately courteous greeting, which she interrupted by raising a hand.

‘I am sure that you have not come rushing up to the Abbey this morning to exchange polite remarks with me,’ she said coolly. ‘Would you care to explain your mission here?’

‘Er — I am still trying to discover what happened to Father Micah,’ de Gifford said. ‘I am ashamed to confess that I still know no more than that he was found six days ago at the top of Castle Hill with a broken neck.’

‘I hope you had not been hoping for another look at the body,’ Helewise said, deliberately keeping her tone neutral. ‘We buried him four days back.’

‘No, no, I don’t think there was anything more to be learned from looking at the poor man.’ De Gifford appeared to be recovering his composure.

‘You have learned no more of his final movements?’ she asked. ‘Other than his visit to this Lord up at Saxonbury?’

‘No.’ De Gifford would not, she noticed, meet her eyes. Then he said, ‘My lady, I was expecting to meet Sir Josse here this morning but I am informed down in the Vale, where I understand him to be putting up, that he is not here.’

‘Is he not?’ She widened her eyes. ‘I am afraid that I cannot help you, Sir Gervase. I do not know where he is.’

She had a fair idea, but it was, she told herself, quite true to say that she did not actually know.

‘Oh.’ De Gifford seemed to be at a loss. ‘I wonder, my lady, if I might pay a visit to the woman in the infirmary? The heretic woman with-?’

‘I know to whom you are referring,’ Helewise interrupted. ‘I would gladly give my permission for such a visit, only I am afraid that she is not there either.’

She had to give de Gifford credit for quick thinking. The words were hardly out of her mouth when he made her a swift bow and turned for the door. ‘If you will excuse me, my lady, I have just-’

‘Just remembered an important engagement?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Please, then, do not let me detain you.’

For one brief moment he met her eyes. In his she saw excitement, the thrill of some dangerous task he had to do. There was something else, too; she did not think that he had been fooled for a moment by her act of innocence.

He said very quietly, ‘Thank you, my lady, and may God bless you.’

Then he was gone.