Dark Night Hidden Page 25

  De Gifford said, ‘Morcar must have done it. Last night, under cover of darkness; very wise of him. He is stronger even than he looks; it can have been no easy task to dig a grave for a big man when the ground is so hard.’

  But Josse was hardly listening. The cross had reminded him of something.

  Reaching inside his tunic, he took out the Cathar manuscript. ‘I should have given them this,’ he said regretfully. ‘It must be priceless and they will surely miss their treasure.’

  De Gifford was frowning. ‘I am not so sure, Josse. Whoever left it at Hawkenlye did so for a reason. They wanted to hide it, I would guess, in a place where it stood a chance of being safe.’

  ‘But anyone in the Abbey who found it would take it to the Abbess Helewise and it would be destroyed! Even Benedetto must have known that!’

  ‘I do not think that it was Benedetto who hid the manuscript,’ de Gifford said thoughtfully. ‘I believe it was Arnulf. As the leader of the group, he would have had the charge of their precious document and it would have been his responsibility to decide what was done with it when they realised that they could not risk keeping it with them. I think he must have slipped inside the script room while Benedetto was carrying Aurelia into the infirmary. It would have made a good diversion, wouldn’t it? Every pair of eyes agog with the big man and the wounded woman?’

  ‘Aye,’ Josse acknowledged.

  ‘And as to the manuscript being destroyed if it were to be found, you have in your hand the proof that it was not so. That Arnulf judged right when he chose his hiding place.’

  Slowly Josse turned the brilliantly coloured pages. There was that strange cross again.

  De Gifford said, ‘What will you do with it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Will you put it back in the book cupboard?’

  ‘No. It has escaped from Hawkenlye once and I will not chance its fortune there again.’

  ‘Very wise,’ de Gifford murmured.

  ‘I ought not to keep it,’ Josse mused.

  ‘You fear for your skin if it is found on you or on your property?’

  ‘No, it isn’t that. It’s just that it is so clearly valuable and I have no right to it.’

  ‘It has come to you, though,’ de Gifford pointed out. He hesitated, then said, ‘Would you like to know what I think you should do?’

  Josse gave him a grin. ‘Aye, I’d be delighted.’

  ‘Put it away in a very good hiding place,’ the sheriff said. ‘Tell nobody where it is, not even me.’

  ‘But why not you?’

  ‘Try to forget about it,’ de Gifford urged, as if he had not heard Josse’s question. ‘One day it will be even more valuable than it is today, for it will be unique. One day, who knows, maybe somebody will come asking for it. You may give it to them, you may not.’ His green eyes met Josse’s. ‘You will know what to do.’

  Before Josse could ask him to explain, he had turned away. He stood with bowed head over Benedetto’s grave for a few moments, then mounted up and led the way off across the valley.

  When they were approaching Hawkenlye Abbey, de Gifford drew rein. ‘This is where we part company,’ he said. ‘I am heading home and I imagine that you are bound for the Abbey.’

  ‘Aye.’ And the Abbess too, Josse thought. He had not yet decided how he would approach her, how much of the recent happenings he was going to reveal to her. It troubled him to think of lying to her and his heart was heavy.

  De Gifford was studying him. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you should follow your instincts.’

  ‘But my instinct is to tell her everything!’

  De Gifford smiled. ‘Exactly.’

  Returning his smile, Josse said, ‘I have enjoyed our encounter, Gervase. There are many things about you that puzzle me, but I do know that I trust you.’

  ‘I am glad of it,’ de Gifford replied. Then he added carefully, as if he were reluctant to ask and did so despite himself, ‘What things puzzle you?’

  ‘Your defence of the heretics, for one. Aye,’ – he overrode de Gifford as the sheriff made to speak – ‘I recall what you said about there being more than one way to find the truth. Nevertheless, it still surprises me that a man of the law should go so far in his defence of a bunch of heretics.’

  ‘A bunch of heretics,’ de Gifford echoed softly. ‘Yes, Josse, but as I knew even before I met them, they are not just any heretics. They are Cathars.’

  ‘Does that make any difference?’

  ‘Yes.’ The light green eyes held an emotion that Josse could not immediately read. ‘I have family in the Midi, Josse. For all that she married a knight from the north and made her home here in England, my mother never forgot the land of her birth. When my father died, she went back to the Languedoc. She became a parfaite three years ago.’

  ‘Your mother is a Cathar?’

  De Gifford nodded. ‘Yes. A well known and, so I believe, well loved one. Aurelia and Guiscard know her well and brought her greetings to me.’ He lowered his head. ‘Of course, she wishes that I would join her – join her faith, too – but she respects my decision not to.’ He sighed. ‘She is – all of them are – a very great deal more tolerant than their Christian brethren, don’t you think?’

  Now he had raised his head again and Josse could read the emotion that had him in its grip.

  It was love.

  The two men parted at the Abbey gates. De Gifford said, ‘Remember what I said.’

  And Josse, thinking back swiftly and isolating the one comment to which de Gifford must be referring, nodded.

  ‘We shall meet again, Josse,’ de Gifford said. ‘I do not forget that you saved my skin. Sooner or later, I shall find a way to repay you.’

  Then, with a wave of his arm, he spurred his horse and cantered off down the road.

  Helewise had been expecting Josse for many hours. She had tried to calculate how long his journey would take but had quickly given up; she had no idea how fast they would be able to travel, nor even how soon they would have set out.

  She had known where he was going. She had known, too, that he would quietly remove Aurelia from the infirmary as soon as she could tolerate being moved. And she had finally made up her mind what she should do.

  It had cost her dear.

  She had knelt at the altar for most of the night before Josse came for Aurelia. She had gone into a sort of trance, probably brought on by distress, fatigue and hunger; she had been fasting, offering the discomfort and the hunger pangs to God in return for his guidance. The two options, to denounce Aurelia or to let her go, had warred inside her head like fierce rival armies, first the one getting the upper hand and then the other. Obedience to her nun’s vow, indeed, to her Christian faith, told her she must find a priest – any priest – and tell him that Hawkenlye Abbey was harbouring a Cathar. But her heart had its share of Christ’s greatest gift, that of compassion, and, no matter how hard she tried, she could not make herself believe that the Saviour whom she loved wanted her to deliver another of his daughters to the pain of imprisonment and an agonising death.

  In the end she had seen – thought she had seen – the tender face of Christ. And in the small hours she had risen to her feet knowing what to do.

  It was on Helewise’s own orders that no nun had sat quietly on duty in the pre-dawn silence of the infirmary that morning. On her orders too that the bolts on the Abbey gates were oiled to make sure that they slid back easily and soundlessly.

  Later that day, when Josse and Aurelia were long gone and Gervase de Gifford had come looking for them, something deep within her had told her that he, too, was a friend to the group. That, like Helewise, he was deliberately putting aside the duty he owed to his office and following his heart. That he was helping the Cathars to escape.

  She did not know why he was doing so. She was only glad, as she saw him on his way, that he was on their side.

  Sister Caliste, quietly and efficiently going about her duties, had a new patient in the bed t
hat had been Aurelia’s. An elderly man had gone down with a racking cough that tore at and pained his lungs, and Caliste was dosing him with Sister Tiphaine’s strongest remedy. She had also put a bowl of hot water beside his bed into which she had cast a bundle of special herbs. The steam that rose from the water was fragrant and soothing; already the old man’s cough was easing.

  Sitting beside him, wafting the steam towards his sleeping form, Caliste asked herself yet again whether she had done right or whether she had disobeyed and must confess and do penance. Her actions had helped someone reach safety, which must be good. But on the other hand she might well have gone against ecclesiastical rules in so doing . . .

  Sister Tiphaine had explained what she must do. There was a sanctuary waiting for the Cathar woman, she said, and someone would come for her when she was ready to go. Sister Tiphaine had found the opportunity to have a quiet and unobserved moment with Aurelia, who consequently knew what was being arranged for her. Sister Caliste had but to inform Sister Tiphaine when Aurelia was ready and Sister Tiphaine would get word to the friends who awaited her. So Caliste had watched carefully, spoken to Aurelia, done all that she could to bring about the woman’s recovery and to restore her to strength. And then, when the moment was right – a little before, actually, but Sister Tiphaine had urged haste and told Caliste that they must act as soon as was at all possible – Sister Caliste had sought out Sister Tiphaine and told her that Aurelia was ready.

  It had been dark in the herbalist’s little hut, and there had been a strong smell from something that she was brewing up in her cauldron. Caliste had delivered her message and then, with relief, turned to go. Sister Tiphaine, with a short bark of laughter as if she read Caliste’s mind, had said, ‘You’ve done well, lass. Now leave it to me. I have my own ways of getting a message out to those who dwell in the world, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t share them with you. But don’t worry. I’ve been keeping Aurelia’s friends aware of all that’s happened here. I’ll make sure they’re expecting her.’

  Ah well, Caliste thought now, if I tell them what I’ve done, I’ll get Sister Tiphaine into trouble. So I’d better not.

  With the serenity that was her own particular gift as a nurse, Sister Caliste put some more herbs into the bowl of hot water and recommenced waving the fragrant steam towards her patient’s face.

  Late in the day, Helewise heard a soft knock on her door.

  She smiled. No matter how gently he knocked, she always knew it was he and not some timid novice standing quaking outside her room. Timid novices did not wear boots with spurs that rang out as they walked.

  She called out, ‘Come in, Sir Josse.’

  He opened the door, came in and closed it again, leaning against it as if reluctant to approach her. For some moments they stared at each other. Then he said gruffly, ‘They got away. I helped them. I took them to Pevensey and saw them aboard a ship bound for Harfleur. They sailed last night so they’ll be somewhere in Normandy now.’

  She closed her eyes in relief. She had been so afraid that he would not trust her, that, even now that it was all over, he would not reveal to her what he had done.

  To think that Josse, whom she loved so dearly, could have thought her capable of betraying him, of taking an action that would probably have sent the Cathars to their deaths, had hurt more than almost anything else. And why should he not believe I would perform such an act? she had asked herself honestly. I almost believed it myself.

  Behind her closed eyes she felt the warm tears begin to flow. Bowing her head, she tried surreptitiously to wipe them away.

  But he must have seen.

  She heard his spurs chink as he crossed the room. And, from somewhere much nearer to her, his voice, rich with sympathy, said, ‘Don’t cry, Helewise. This has been hard for every one of us, but most of all for you.’

  ‘Please, Josse, don’t be kind to me,’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t deserve it and it’s making me worse!’

  ‘We all deserve kindness when we’ve done our best,’ he said. ‘Yours was no easy choice. And it’s not over yet, not for you. Will you have to confess what you have done?’

  Silently she nodded. She had not yet dared to think what punishment she would receive from her confessor, whoever he was.

  Josse was speaking again. ‘I hear from the Lord of the High Weald’s lad that Father Gilbert’s on the mend and about to resume his duties.’

  At first she thought he was tactfully changing the subject and giving her the chance to recover her composure. Then, as his words sank in, she realised what he was telling her.

  With the relief of knowing that she would be able to confess to the understanding, wide-minded Father Gilbert and not to some hatchet-faced zealot who was a total stranger, she began to cry all over again.

  ‘He’ll be by in a day or so,’ Josse said comfortably. ‘By then the Cathars will be halfway to the Midi.’

  Through the hands with which she had covered her wet face she said, ‘Thank God.’

  A little later, when she had recovered and could once more sit up straight and face him, she said to Josse, ‘We still do not know how Father Micah died. Do we?’

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I cannot make myself believe that any of the Cathars killed him. Benedetto might have done’ – he had told her earlier what had happened on the journey to the coast – ‘and we now know for a certainty that he is capable of such an action. He protected his group fiercely and ruthlessly and he would, I am sure, have killed Father Micah if he had perceived him to be a threat.’

  ‘But you do not think that he did?’ she prompted.

  ‘No.’ He met her eyes. ‘I believe that Arnulf would have told me if he had.’

  ‘Then who?’ she persisted. ‘Who killed him – or perhaps found him dead – and left him on the road above Castle Hill?’

  ‘He had many enemies,’ Josse said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps somebody took the law into their own hands when the Father’s threats, to them or to one of their own, became too frightening.’

  ‘Do you speak of the Lord up at Saxonbury?’ she asked.

  ‘No. He told me that he did not know who killed Father Micah and, again, I believe him.’

  Helewise sat watching him for a while. It was possible that one of those men – Arnulf or the Lord – had been lying to Josse. But somehow his impulse to trust both of them was convincing. Perhaps, she thought, tired suddenly, we should not dwell any more on a mystery that is never going to be solved.

  As if his thoughts had run along the same lines he said after a time, ‘My lady Abbess, we have to accept, I believe, that we shall never know.’ Meeting her eyes, he added, ‘I know I should not say this to you, but I do not think I shall grieve over long for Father Micah.’

  Watching him steadily, she thought for a moment about her reply. But then she thought, he has been honest with me. I shall return the same courtesy.

  With a smile, she said, ‘Neither shall I, Sir Josse. Neither shall I.’

  To her quiet delight, he accompanied her to Compline. It was her favourite office and today of all days she felt that the sense of completion it always gave to the day’s actions and devotions was especially fitting. The matter of the Cathars was completed, she told herself. As far as it was ever going to be. And wasn’t that a matter for secret jubilation?

  Afterwards, as he strolled beside her back to her room, she said suddenly, ‘Sir Josse, I understand now something that was puzzling me. When you and I spoke with Gervase de Gifford concerning the poor woman who died in gaol—’

  ‘Frieda.’

  ‘Yes, Frieda. Well, I told de Gifford that we would say a mass for her and he began to protest, although he swiftly recovered himself and said it was a good idea. But now I perceive his thinking. Our mass would not serve a Cathar woman.’

  From the darkness Josse’s voice sounded very kind. He said, ‘My lady, de Gifford’s second reaction was surely the true one. He knew that your suggestion came from the right motives and he applauded it.’


  She smiled to herself. It was a gift, to have a friend like Josse. His was a rare compassion.

  After a moment he said, ‘How is Sister Phillipa’s work on the Hawkenlye Herbal progressing?’

  ‘Very well,’ Helewise replied. ‘She has completed some ten pages and I hope to be able to show them to Queen Eleanor soon.’

  ‘The Queen is to visit Hawkenlye?’

  ‘I cannot say for certain.’ Helewise felt her anxieties for the Queen come rushing back. ‘I am informed that she is doing her utmost to defend her son’s realm and that she is demanding a renewal of the Oath of Allegiance from the King’s lords and clergy. She is ably helped by Walter of Coutances and Hugh de Puiset, they say, and of course she is much loved and respected. However . . .’ It would be, she decided, disloyal to refer to the particular hardships imposed by the Queen’s age, and so she did not.

  But Josse seemed to understand anyway. He said gently, ‘It is a great burden for anybody. For a woman past her first youth it must be doubly heavy.’ Then, with a note of urgency, he added, ‘She will treasure her time here in Hawkenlye’s peace, my lady. I pray that you will have the opportunity to succour her.’

  And Helewise, moved, simply said, ‘Amen.’

  In the morning Josse came to seek her out and informed her that he was leaving. ‘I’ve been away from New Winnowlands since before Christmas,’ he said, ‘and it’s high time I went home.’

  ‘You do not, I hope, fear for your manor?’ she asked.

  ‘No, indeed. Will and Ella are quite capable of looking after anything that arises in the normal run of events. For anything else, they knew where I was spending the Yule season.’ He gave her a quick grin. ‘And no doubt they would have guessed where I went afterwards.’

  She returned his smile. ‘As always, you are welcome here.’

  She saw him off, standing by the gates and waving until he rounded the corner and was out of sight. Then, with a faint sigh and a sudden brief lowering of the spirits – gone almost before she had registered it – she went back to her work.