Dark Night Hidden

3

‘They are an abomination in the sight of God. They must be cast into the purifying flames, every last man, woman and child.’

The thin priest’s eyes, fixed on Josse, were dark and impenetrable. As black as the cloth of his robe, and reflecting as little light. As little life; it was difficult to believe that a human heart pumped within the narrow chest. That a human brain was contained within the pale, shaven skull.

Josse, the guest at the Abbey, waited to see if the Abbess would speak. But although her flushed face appeared to indicate a degree of indignation, she kept her peace. Josse was at a loss to understand what was going on. Having been ushered into the Abbess’s room by a harried Sister Ursel, he had discovered that she was not alone, as he had expected, but stood stiff with outrage before a scrawny, white-faced priest who seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her chair.

And somehow the conversation had turned to the subject of heresy. The Father, it seemed, had been well into his stride when Josse entered the room; Josse had overheard some remark about those who abandoned the ways of righteousness not being worthy of consideration, and apparently the priest had cited heretics as a prime example.

With an apologetic glance at the Abbess, Josse said carefully, ‘Are not heretics also the children of God, Father?’

Father Micah’s deep eyes seemed to burn with fervour. He said, with the finality of the weigher of souls on Judgement Day, ‘They forfeit that blessed right when they set their feet on the paths of sin.’

‘Surely you overlook forgiveness?’ Josse persisted. ‘Did Our Lord not order us to forgive those who trespass against us?’

The expression on the Abbess’s face should have warned him; she was frowning so hard that her brows almost collided. And she was right, Josse reflected; it was folly to have opened a debate on ecclesiastical philosophy with a fanatical cleric. .

‘But the trespass is not against us, is it, Sir Josse?’ Father Micah’s lean, pale cheeks had taken on a faint flush. ‘The sin is against God Himself, from whom these wretches turn in their madness!’ He paused, breathing deeply, and appeared to be waiting until he was calm once more before continuing. ‘Any man — any woman or child also — who turns from the one True Church and from the knowledge of God commits treason,’ he said eventually, his voice cool and distant. ‘And the penalty for treason is known to all.’

‘Death,’ Josse whispered.

‘Indeed.’ Father Micah, whose virtually lipless mouth had briefly twisted into a sardonic smile, gave him a brisk nod of approbation, as if rewarding a dull child who had finally and against all expectation come up with the right answer. ‘Death by burning.’

Josse, momentarily brought to a standstill by the horror of that sort of death, found he had nothing to say. The Abbess, as if she had been waiting for the chance, instantly spoke up. ‘Father Micah, we have detained you far too long,’ she said smoothly, moving as she spoke to go and open the door. ‘I am quite sure you wish to be about your duties, a busy man such as you.’

At first Josse thought she must be making some sort of a joke and he half expected the priest to drop his frightening intensity and relax his ferocious face into a grin.

But he didn’t. Getting to his feet with a swish of his long dark robe — which emitted, Josse noticed, a faint smell of old fish — Father Micah nodded curtly to him, gave the Abbess a glance that looked strangely like a sneer and swept out of the room.

The Abbess walked across the floor and sank into her chair. Josse, closing the door firmly, rested his broad shoulders against it just in case the Father decided to return for one last harangue. ‘And exactly who,’ he asked, ‘is that?’

The Abbess had leaned her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. Josse watched her anxiously, concerned at the desperation he saw in her face. But then, at first very slowly, she began to smile. Opening her eyes, she looked at Josse and said, ‘That, my dear Sir Josse, friend and deliverer, is our parish priest, the replacement for Father Gilbert.’

‘Father Gilbert is. .?’ Josse could not bring himself to ask the question.

‘Oh, no, no, he’s all right! Well, he’s not, he has broken his ankle and given himself a nasty blow to the head, but he will recover. I pray he hurries up about it!’

‘So you’re landed with that cold fish?’ Josse whistled softly. ‘Oh, my lady, I am sorry for you.’

He had spoken in all sincerity, but to his discomfiture the Abbess began to laugh. ‘Sir Josse, you must excuse me,’ she said after a moment, merriment still lively in her face, ‘but it amuses me that, after but a brief experience of the man, you judge so accurately that he and I are not destined to be friends.’

‘To say the least,’ Josse muttered.

‘Ah, I am glad to see you!’ She was still smiling widely.

‘So it seems. Your deliverer, my lady? What did you mean?’

‘I had been praying that someone would come and rescue me before Father Micah talked me into my grave.’ She tried, and failed, to straighten her face. ‘He had been lecturing me for some time on the irredeemable sins committed by fallen women and, I believe, gone on to the even greater sin of heresy, only I confess I had all but ceased to listen. Then in you came, and what more welcome rescuer could there be than you?’

They talked for a long time. Good friends that they were, they had not met since the previous autumn, and there was much to catch up on. Having covered the minutiae of both the Abbess’s daily round and his own — in considerable detail, since each was well-versed in the doings of the other — the conversation eventually turned to the pressing matter of the moment.

Josse was immensely gratified that he had been right in his assumption that Queen Eleanor would have made the time for a visit to Hawkenlye Abbey. Listening intently to the Abbess’s account of what had passed between the Queen and herself, he was pleased, for Queen Eleanor’s sake, that she had found a kind and sympathetic ear at Hawkenlye.

When the Abbess told him about the Queen’s gift and what she had in mind to do with it, he agreed that the concept of a Hawkenlye Herbal was a good one. ‘And you have someone with the skill to do justice to such a book?’ he asked.

‘I believe so, Sir Josse. A young nun, one whom I do not think you have met, informs me that she is an artist. She is preparing an example of her work so that I may judge for myself. In fact’ — she rose to her feet as she spoke — ‘I think she may by now have finished. Will you accompany me while I go to see?’

‘Gladly I will.’

He followed the Abbess as she led the way along the cloister and around a corner to a private spot that he did not think he had visited before. There was nobody there, but a tall desk and a stool indicated where the artist had sat. On top of the desk, a cloth had been carefully tucked round several objects to protect them. As Josse watched, the Abbess raised the cloth, revealing pots, paints, brushes, ink and a small piece of parchment.

The Abbess picked up the parchment. Josse waited. After a moment, she said, ‘Sir Josse, I believe that my project’s success is assured.’ Then she passed the parchment to him.

He saw straight away that she was right. The unknown nun had captured the very essence of her subject; the blackberries looked so lifelike that they all but made his mouth water. And the text was inscribed in a bold, flowing hand that was both attractive and easy to read, although Josse, whose reading skills were not well developed, found he had to struggle a little with some of the words.

‘It is exquisite, my lady.’ He handed back the scrap of parchment.

‘You think I would be right to go ahead and order the materials?’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘It is a lot of money. .’

‘Aye, I do,’ he said firmly. ‘Queen Eleanor, you say, wishes a permanent tribute to the King?’

‘Yes. That was what she specified. To the King and his mother, in recognition of their grief and sorrow at this terrible time of the King’s imprisonment.’

‘Aye.’ He sighed. The King’s present condition was a fact that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his mind, sometimes at the back, sometimes — as now — brought to the forefront. Turning back, not without effort, to the matter in hand, he said, ‘Well, in your proposed herbal, it would seem, you have something both useful and decorative. What could be better?’

The Abbess appeared to think for a while longer. Then, her face clearing, she said, ‘Thank you. Then I will arrange for the order to be sent without delay.’

‘Er — might I ask to be allowed to meet your artist?’ he ventured.

‘Sir Josse, of course! I will send for her, and you shall be present when I tell her of the role she is to play in our great undertaking. But the meeting will have to wait until after Nones — will you come to pray with the community?’

Telling her that he would like nothing better, he walked beside her across the cloister to the Abbey church.

Back in the Abbess’s room, Josse leaned against the wall as she settled herself in her chair. She had despatched a novice nun to go and find Sister Phillipa and tell her she was wanted in the Abbess’s room and, after a short wait, there was a soft tap on the door.

In answer to the Abbess’s quiet ‘Come in’ a young nun in the black veil and habit of the fully professed opened the door and advanced into the room. She was, Josse could see, very nervous; the oval face with its high cheekbones had a pink flush, and the clear blue eyes were very bright. Even with the severe, starched white wimple that concealed the jaw, neck and throat, and the forehead band that covered the hair, it was plain to see that this girl was a beauty. It pleased him to watch her graceful movements as, with a low bow to the Abbess, she straightened up and stood, head bent, hands folded in front of her, to wait for her superior to speak.

‘Sister Phillipa, this is Sir Josse d’Acquin, a good man and a true friend to our community.’ The Abbess indicated Josse, and Sister Phillipa turned and gave him a radiant smile. Temporarily bowled over by its intensity, Josse quickly decided that it was more a reflection of the young woman’s nervous state than of any sudden rush of emotion towards him. They were, after all, total strangers. ‘We have been looking at the example of your work,’ the Abbess was continuing, ‘and we are agreed that it seems right that you be given the task that I have in mind.’ She paused, and Josse guessed she was weighing her next words. ‘Hawkenlye Abbey has been asked, as have other foundations, to pray for our great King Richard, for he has need of our prayers. His lady mother, the Queen Eleanor, has been very generous and given us a gift of coin in recognition of our intercession on the King’s and her own behalf. With this bounty, Hawkenlye will prepare a herbal, in the names of the King and his mother.’

Josse noticed that Sister Phillipa was trembling. Touched that the painting of the herbal meant so much to her, he wished he could see her expression. But she stood with her back to him, facing the Abbess.

‘Sister Phillipa, will you make the Hawkenlye Herbal?’ the Abbess asked gently.

And, with what sounded like a sob in her voice, Sister Phillipa said, ‘Yes. Oh, yes!’

The short February daylight was almost over when Josse left the Abbess. They had shared a happy moment together after the blissful Sister Phillipa had departed; as the Abbess had remarked, it was a rare pleasure to give one of her community tidings that brought such joy.

Josse realised that it was too late to think of riding on to New Winnowlands tonight. So, having checked with Sister Martha that his horse would be well looked after — there was no need for such a check, but he always enjoyed exchanging a few remarks with the brawny nun who tended the stables — he took the path that led out from the rear of the Abbey and made his way down into the Vale.

In the Vale was situated the miraculous Holy Water spring that was the reason for the Abbey’s having been sited where it was. The spring was housed in a simple little shrine, two of whose walls were formed from the rock out of which the magical waters ran. Beside the shrine was a rough and ready shelter where pilgrims who came to receive the waters could take their meals and, when necessary, put up for the night. A little way down the track was the dwelling where Hawkenlye’s monks and lay brothers lived. It, too, was rudimentary, with few comforts other than a roof, four rather insubstantial walls and some thin old mattresses and blankets.

What the monks’ dwelling lacked in amenities it made up for in the warmth of the brothers’ welcome. In particular, that of the two lay brothers, Brother Saul and young Brother Augustus, who were Josse’s particular friends. As Josse stuck his head in through the open doorway, Brother Saul saw him, got up and came over to embrace him, crying out, ‘Sir Josse! It’s good to see you! Come in, come in, and warm your toes by the fire!’

‘A fire! Great heavens, Saul, you’re getting soft in your old age!’ Saul was no more than thirty, at most.

‘Aye, we’re lucky, Sir Josse, and indeed it is a rare luxury. Only it’s been so cold, these last few nights, and’ — he lowered his voice diplomatically — ‘some of the older brothers do suffer so, and the Abbess, bless her good, kind heart, said we might light a blaze come evening.’

Josse smiled, giving Brother Saul a quick touch on the shoulder. ‘It’s a luxury that I shall enjoy to the utmost.’

He allowed himself to be led forward to a bench by the hearth. He nodded to the monks whom he knew, exchanging a few words of greeting with Augustus and old Brother Firmin. Presently, he was brought a bowl of broth and a hunk of rough bread, both of which he ate enthusiastically. The soft hum of male voices around him lulled him into drowsiness and, before the night was very old, Saul made him up a bed in the corner and he was soon asleep.

He awoke to the sound of hammering.

Getting up — he seemed to be the last man still asleep inside the monks’ dwelling — he went outside to see what was happening.

He noticed straight away that it was considerably colder this morning than yesterday. The sky looked. . sort of thin, he decided, and the wind had dropped. The air, however, felt like solid ice.

A group of monks were standing in a rough semicircle around the doorway of the pilgrims’ refuge. A large branch had fallen down from one of the chestnut trees in the grove that sheltered the Vale’s buildings, and it had landed right on a corner of the refuge’s roof. The flimsy construction was not designed to withstand the impact of heavy branches and it had partially collapsed.

Saul and Augustus were trying to get the weight of the branch off the roof before it did any more damage. Brother Erse, the Hawkenlye carpenter, had a mouth full of nails and a hammer in his hand and seemed to be attempting to fix a strengthening truss under the sagging roof. All three were, quite obviously, failing.

What they needed was another pair of hands. Josse rushed forward and added his strength to that of Saul and Augustus. With three of them pushing, the branch gave a little. Then a little more. Then they managed to roll it right off the roof and there was a great crack as the now-unsupported branch tore away from the chestnut tree and fell to the icy ground.

There was a ragged round of applause from the audience of monks. Turning to grin at them, Josse noticed how cold they looked; they were, he noticed with compassion, mostly elderly, thin and shivering. Brother Firmin’s skinny old feet in the clumsy sandals were bare and rapidly turning blue.

He turned to Brother Saul, whom he had always considered the most sensible and wise of the Hawkenlye brethren. ‘Shouldn’t the old boys go back inside?’ he whispered.

‘I’ve been telling them so all morning, Sir Josse!’ Saul protested. ‘Only Brother Firmin, bless him, said they wanted to help.’ He gave a kindly laugh. ‘Help! Hardly likely, is it?’

‘Shall I try?’ Josse suggested.

‘Oh, Sir Josse, I wish you would!’

Josse’s powers of persuasion were clearly superior to those of Brother Saul, or perhaps the old monks had simply got too cold to persist; either way, they gave in without an argument and meekly shuffled back to their dwelling.

Saul watched them go with a smile, then turned back to the pilgrims’ shelter. And, eyes widening, said, ‘Dear Lord, but it’s ruined!’

From within, Brother Erse called out, ‘Not as bad as that, Saul. Not quite,’ and Augustus, up on the roof, added, ‘It’s close, though!’

The four of them collected in front of the shelter. The roof had caved in on one side, where a supporting post had given way. The wooden planks of one wall had deep cracks in them; another wall had developed a worrying outward curve.

After some time, Brother Erse said lugubriously, ‘Reckon we’ll have to rebuild the whole thing. Won’t be safe, else. We don’t want the risk of it coming tumbling down on top of a gathering of pilgrims.’ With a quick grin, he added, ‘The poor souls come here to have their hurts mended, not be given a whole lot more.’

‘Thank God nobody was inside last night,’ Saul breathed.

And they all said, ‘Amen.’

‘How long do you think it will take?’ Josse asked. He was thinking of Hawkenlye’s visitors, the sick, the injured and the needy who came to take the healing waters and pray with the monks for relief from their afflictions. What were those poor folk to do if they arrived in this bitter weather to find no shelter, no comfort, nothing but the cold, hard ground?

Brother Erse was eyeing the collapsed shelter as if it were a dangerous animal, rubbing his chin absently with one square hand and swinging the hammer in the other. ‘Won’t be an easy job,’ he remarked. ‘Ain’t no way we can ask the old ’uns to lend a hand — they’d be more of a liability than a help. Reckon a week, maybe more, with just the three of us.’

Several thoughts ran through Josse’s head. He pictured some poor family with a sick child making the fraught winter journey to Hawkenlye and finding nowhere to shelter. He thought of the welcome that the monks and the nuns always gave to everyone, him included. And he thought how long it was since he had thrown himself into a satisfying job of manual work.

Making up his mind — not that it took long — he said, ‘Not three of you, Erse. Four. If you’re prepared to put me up a while longer, I’ll stay and help.’