Dark Night Hidden Page 13

  Helewise opened her mouth, found she had nothing to say and closed it again.

  De Gifford turned to Josse. ‘You spoke just now of a little boy in the village who was terrified of the black man, Sir Josse,’ he said. ‘Did you have any idea who he meant?’

  ‘I wondered if some friend of the prisoners had got them out,’ Josse said, ‘and I thought that he might have been foreign, like them, perhaps from the lands of the distant south and with a black skin.’

  De Gifford smiled, shaking his head. ‘Fanciful but inaccurate,’ he said. ‘The Black Man has become known to quite a lot of folk around here by now. He was feared wherever he went because he had a violent temper and he descended on the poor and the weak like a fury against which they were powerless.’

  He looked from Josse to Helewise, making sure he had her full attention. Then, once more addressing Josse, he said, ‘The Black Man is what they called Father Micah.’

  While the Abbess, de Gifford and Josse were preoccupied with the drama of the Sheriff ’s account, Sister Phillipa sat by herself in the small, peaceful room that housed the manuscripts. She had been steadily working through the precious documents on and off for the last three days, slipping away to her pleasant and undemanding task whenever she was not required for other duties. To begin with, Sister Bernadine had helped her, but the two women had found that checking each script off against the inventory and inspecting it for damage was a job that one person could perform quite well alone. Sister Bernadine appeared to find the task stressful; Sister Phillipa guessed that she went in constant fear of discovering that something valuable had been stolen and of the punishment she might receive for her carelessness if this were so. The younger nun had kindly offered to proceed with the inventory alone, and Sister Bernadine gratefully accepted.

  ‘But I must know if you find – if you find—’ She had been unable to put the cause of her distress into words.

  ‘If I discover that anything at all is missing or damaged, then I shall report first to you,’ Sister Phillipa promised.

  To her surprise, tears had welled up in Sister Bernadine’s eyes. She had muttered something about Sister Phillipa being a good, kind girl, then hurried away.

  Now, the only slight drawback to the work was that it kept Sister Phillipa from her herbal. At first she had itched to return to her painting and her lettering; they were deeply absorbing in themselves but, in addition, there was the thrill of the new knowledge of herbs and their uses that she was learning from Sister Tiphaine and Sister Euphemia. Both nuns were natural and gifted teachers and, even when very busy in their own departments, always strove diligently to make quite sure that Sister Phillipa understood exactly what they were telling her and would not make a mistake. However, regret for time lost for her herbal had gradually faded; as she had thrown herself into her careful examination of the Abbey’s precious manuscripts, she had soon realised that this task in fact provided a lucky and perfectly timed opportunity for her to study the work of some of England’s greatest artists and craftsmen.

  This morning she was so happy that she hummed softly as she worked.

  She found it just before the summons to Sext called her away.

  She had been staring intently at a page in a glossed Bible; the page had an extract from the Book of Leviticus and the writing hand was so beautiful, so even, that it quite took Sister Phillipa’s breath away. Putting it carefully back – I have a job to do, she reminded herself, and I ought not to waste time in rapture over another’s fine penmanship – she noticed something bright lying on the base of the book chest.

  It was pure chance that the small patch of colour caught her eye. Had she not had to push two scripts carefully aside to make room for the Bible pages, it would have remained hidden. She took out several scripts and placed them carefully on the floor. Now, in the much larger gap that she had made, she could see that another document had been placed on the floor of the chest. Once all the other scripts had been replaced upright on top of it, it had been totally hidden.

  Now what, she wondered, removing the script, is this doing down there?

  She studied it. The letters appeared to make words, but she did not know what they were. They were not in Latin nor, she thought, in Greek. Leaving aside the writing for a moment, she looked at the first page of illustrations.

  She realised instantly that they were like nothing she had ever seen before. There was a wonderfully vivid, affecting little painting of a group of people with their hands held aloft and their ecstatic faces raised to the sky, out of which there shone a fiery sun with orange, yellow and gold rays. There were strange animals gambolling around the people, arranged like a sort of living frieze. Sister Phillipa did not recognise any of the beasts; she wondered if they might be symbolic, like the winged lion representing St Mark and the eagle St John, but of whom or what she did not know.

  The second illustration was of a golden, bejewelled cross. But it did not look like the familiar cross that Sister Phillipa knew and loved; there was something strange about it, something unfamiliar. Getting up, she went to check on the inventory to see what this alien document might be.

  There was no mention of it.

  She read through the inventory again, but the strange manuscript was not on it.

  In a flash of insight Sister Phillipa realised what had happened. She called to mind why she was doing this exacting task: she was meant to be checking whether or not anything was missing from the chest or the cupboard. So far – and she had almost finished – nothing was. None of the manuscripts had been taken.

  Instead, one had been added.

  Josse walked with de Gifford out to where Sister Martha was looking after the Sheriff ’s horse. They had stayed only a little longer with the Abbess. Josse had perceived her struggle between standing up for Father Micah because he was a man of the Church and joining in with their condemnation because he was also cruel, perverted, narrow-minded and took advantage of the weak and the powerless, and he had opted for a swift departure so as not to prolong her suffering.

  ‘She’s a good woman,’ Josse said when they were out of earshot of the few people out and about in the Abbey on that chilly morning. ‘She has—’

  De Gifford put up a slim hand, on to which he had just put a beautifully fitting cream kid glove embroidered with reddish-brown stones that matched the braid on his tunic. ‘Please, Sir Josse, there is no need,’ he said. ‘Although I have had but two brief meetings with the Abbess Helewise and not the advantage of a long acquaintance such as yours, I feel that I have already taken some of the lady’s measure. And, indeed, I ask myself how I would behave, were I in her position. To be called on to defend the indefensible is testing to us all, even more so to a woman to whom the truth clearly matters so very much.’

  ‘She likes to see things as they really are,’ Josse agreed, ‘and is ever at pains to strip away the sort of concealing, self-deluding devices that most of us use to disguise unpalatable facts.’

  ‘And now she has to cope with the aftermath of Father Micah,’ de Gifford murmured. ‘Poor lady. I do not envy her.’

  ‘It is—’ Josse paused delicately. ‘I believe, de Gifford, that it is easier for us. We are laymen, after all, and we may criticise – that is, we can—’

  ‘We are at liberty to say that Father Micah was an insult to the cloth he wore if we feel like it,’ de Gifford finished smoothly. ‘As, indeed, we do. I do, anyway.’

  ‘And I,’ Josse agreed. He checked again that they were not overheard, then said in a low voice, ‘I wonder, then, since we are agreed on that, if you feel that you could be more forthcoming with me than with the Abbess. Not that I’m trying to learn secrets that you would rather not divulge.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ de Gifford said easily. ‘That is exactly what you are doing, and I can’t say I blame you.’

  ‘Is there anything else that you can reveal to somebody who is not bound by their very profession to support that dead priest?’ Josse urged.

  De
Gifford studied him. ‘It is true that in part my reticence stems from my fear that the Abbess of Hawkenlye is likely to reflect the attitude exhibited by Father Micah. We speak of a delicate business, Sir Josse,’ he exclaimed as Josse made to protest, ‘concerning which neither I nor, I suspect, you, can say how the Abbess will react.’

  ‘Unless my silence compromises another, I will respect any confidence you make to me,’ Josse said. ‘Of that you have my word.’

  De Gifford, still staring into Josse’s eyes, frowned. Then he said, ‘I believe you. And, let me say, it would be a relief to speak frankly.’ He looked around, noticed a deserted corner where the end wall of the stable block rose up above the herb garden and said, ‘Let us go over there into the small shelter provided by the wall, and I will tell you what I can.’

  They walked quickly to the spot. A weak sun shone down on it and the temperature felt quite pleasantly warm. Again de Gifford checked that they were alone, then he said, ‘The party I spoke of seek a place of sanctuary. Their leader, whose name is Arnulf, is from the Low Countries and he leads a group whose nationalities are varied. One is a fellow countryman of Arnulf ’s named Alexius, and these two are the men who escaped from the prison. They have a big man with them who is from the south, from Verona I believe. I think it is possible that it was he who killed the prison guard; they say he is exceptionally strong and he is doubtless capable of throttling a man with one hand.’

  ‘The man who killed the guard choked him with his left hand,’ Josse said.

  ‘Indeed? I do not know if the man of whom I speak favours his left or his right hand.’

  ‘You said seven people,’ Josse prompted.

  ‘Yes. Originally there were four men and three women. The fourth man is one Guiscard, who is from the Midi. Toulouse, Albi, I do not know for sure. Also in the group were Frieda, who was killed by her gaoler, Aurelia whom I believe is the woman who is safe here at Hawkenlye, and one other. Her name is Utta.’

  ‘And where is she?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Josse, taken aback by de Gifford’s willingness to talk, felt he ought to repay the confidences with one of his own. ‘The strong man is called Benedetto,’ he said. ‘It was he who brought Aurelia here.’

  ‘Was it?’ The bright eyes went instantly to Josse’s. ‘I imagine he is no longer here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And nobody knows where he is now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The whereabouts of five, then, are or have been known,’ de Gifford went on, more to himself than to Josse. ‘Arnulf and Alexius were imprisoned but escaped, probably helped by Benedetto. Frieda was also imprisoned but she is dead. Aurelia was flogged but presumably Benedetto got her away before, like Frieda, she was thrown into prison. Guiscard and Utta we know nothing about.’ He frowned.

  De Gifford might have been frank about the party, Josse thought, but his frankness in itself revealed very little. ‘Under whose orders were they beaten and imprisoned?’ he asked. ‘Father Micah’s?’

  De Gifford turned to him. ‘They were apprehended on the road north of Tonbridge and given over to the Church authority, which tried them and imposed the punishment. As I told you earlier, it is usual for those of us in the secular arm then to take over, administering whatever measures the Church feels necessary and then arranging for the criminals’ imprisonment, unless they’re to be executed. In which case the lay authorities usually do that too. But, as I said, Father Micah liked to take his involvement a little further.’

  Taking all that in, Josse said, ‘I suppose someone found out what was going on in the group. I must say I find it hard to see how; they must have been very indiscreet. You’d have thought they could have kept that sort of thing hidden, wouldn’t you?’

  De Gifford was looking at him curiously. ‘Well, no, not really. I mean, the whole point of their being here is surely because they want to win people over to their cause. After all, the more followers they have, the more formidable they will become.’

  ‘Their cause?’ Josse sounded incredulous. ‘What cause? They were punished for adultery!’

  ‘Adultery?’ De Gifford gave a short bark of laughter, quickly suppressed. ‘Sir Josse, what an extraordinary picture you paint, of the seven of them all fornicating with one another’s husbands and wives – none of them is married, in fact, I am almost certain of that, not in the sense that we understand marriage – and of Father Micah coming across them in the midst of their frolicking and instantly putting them under arrest!’

  ‘But Aurelia has a brand mark on her forehead,’ Josse persisted. ‘It looks like an A, which must mean that she was punished because of adultery!’

  De Gifford was shaking his head. ‘Whoever made the mark cannot have had a steady hand,’ he said soberly. ‘It isn’t a letter A, Sir Josse. It is a letter H.’

  Josse stared at him. ‘H?’

  ‘Yes. They’re heretics.’

  Part Two

  The Great Forest

  February 1192 – February 1193

  11

  Joanna had lived in the Wealden Forest for a little under a year when she was taken to attend her first Great Festival. From that time on, her new identity was assured.

  She had few regrets over leaving behind the realm of the Outworlders, as her new people referred to them. The outside world, the one that was ruled by the Church and by men for the good of the Church and men, had not treated her well. It did not suit her. Moreover, she could not put her faith in a religion that was ruled over by a male deity and that denied and denigrated all that was female.

  Her new people knew better.

  Joanna knew, even before Lora, wisest of teachers, had instructed her, that Samhain was one of the Great Festivals. The forest people always gathered for such occasions, not always in the same place but at some hidden location within Britain’s vast tracts of forest that was as yet undiscovered and unexplored by the Outworlders. Until Joanna attended one of these festivals herself, it had puzzled her how everyone knew where to go. She had not been able to attend the Samhain rites – she had been giving birth to her daughter Margaret – and Lora had deemed her not ready for the Yule celebrations, when their people honoured the Midwinter Solstice and welcomed the returning Sun. ‘You’re all the world to this little ’un now,’ Lora had said, stroking Margaret’s dark hair with long, gentle fingers. ‘She’s taking the essence of you into herself as she draws on your milk and you’re aware of her every breath. You’ve nothing to spare for anything else, specially not something that requires so much intense concentration. You’re in no state for your first festival, my girl.’

  But, as Joanna had sat alone in the forest clearing in front of the hut, staring into her own little fire and singing a soft chant to the Sun as he turned in his path and began the long, slow journey north again, her new people had not forgotten her. Margaret – Meggie, as Joanna had started to call her – was sound asleep inside the hut, well fed, snug and warm in her fur-lined cradle. There was a deep sense of peace in the glade. Joanna, breathing deeply of the smoke from the herbs she had cast on to her fire, had felt her eyelids growing heavy.

  Then she sensed that someone was watching her.

  Over on the far side of the clearing, in the thicket of hazel and brambles beyond Joanna’s herb bed, she could make out a dim shape. Tall – taller than most men – and broad. Dark – the whole of him was dark.

  She opened her eyes wide, then looked slightly to the side, a trick she had learned to help with night vision. The figure was still vague, but now it seemed that she could make out two deep, dark eyes watching her. And she thought she heard a low, rumbling growl.

  She was not afraid. Awe-struck – for she believed that she knew what this strange creature was – but not afraid. Very slowly and carefully she got to her feet and stood up straight, shoulders squared, to await his approach.

  He came on out of the shadow of the trees, a dark being made, it seemed to her entranced eyes, of the very substance of th
e secret forest. The black, pointed muzzle was raised as he sniffed at her, the small ears erect on the rounded head. He was, she realised, taking her in with all his senses.

  One great forepaw was raised, as if in greeting. With stirrings of real alarm, she saw the five long, sharp, curved claws. There is nothing to fear, she told herself. He is not what he seems, and he will not hurt me.

  Then it seemed that the man animal smiled at her, with a human mouth. Perhaps he picked up both her moment of apprehension and the fortitude that followed, for now his approach was swift and suddenly he was right in front of her, between her and the light of her fire.

  She said very softly, ‘Welcome to my hearth. You honour me with your presence.’ Then, prompted by something too profound, too ancient for her to comprehend, she gave him a deep bow.

  She felt hands – hands? Clawed paws? – on her shoulders as he raised her up. She made herself stare up into the strange face that was sometimes a muzzle thickly covered in dark brown fur, sometimes the features of a man with delight in his dark eyes that sparkled with firelight.

  Which was peculiar, she thought afterwards, since he had stood with his back to the flames.

  A voice said, speaking directly inside her head, This is your place, child of Anu. And, spreading throughout her whole being, she felt such a joy that she had never dreamed existed. Weak with longing – for what, she did not know – she leaned towards him and smelt on him the scent of the forest, of greenery that never died, of the deep Earth that received back into herself every living thing that gave up its life beneath the trees.