Dark Night Hidden Read online

  ‘Aye,’ he said softly. ‘But women have men friends, do they not?’

  ‘If they bear a baby then yes, they must have had on one occasion at least,’ she replied tartly. ‘So now we have an outraged expectant or new father murdering a priest because he insulted the man’s woman? Really, Sir Josse! I think not.’

  ‘Nevertheless, my lady, I must have your permission to ask the women in the hostel a few questions.’ She did not answer. ‘I will be gentle with them, you have my word.’

  Her anger seemed to vanish as quickly as it had arisen. ‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘I know, too, that you understand the ways of the world a little better than poor Father Micah did. That you are well aware of the lives those women lead and you realise that to spend them in vice and sin is not necessarily their choice.’

  He bowed his head. ‘Aye, I do. And thank you.’

  Somehow, he thought, the interview had become emotional again. Casting around for a simple question with no dangerous undercurrents whatsoever, he said, ‘Do you know what Father Micah did after leaving you?’

  ‘He went to see the brethren in the Vale,’ she answered. ‘I know that because later Brother Firmin came to see me in some distress. He, too, had been the recipient of a tongue whipping.’ With a sudden flash of her usual smile, she said, ‘But I don’t suppose dear old Firmin broke Father Micah’s neck any more than I did.’

  ‘No.’ He grinned back. ‘Even less likely a candidate, I should imagine.’ He thought – but managed not to say – that the old monk’s hands were nowhere near as strong as hers.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘Sir Josse, I’ve just remembered something! You’ll have to seek out Brother Firmin for the full story, but he – Firmin – told me where Father Micah was going next. I don’t in fact know if he meant straight away or some time in the next few days, but Brother Firmin said that the Father spoke of calls he had to make, one to a nobleman or something, one to—’ She frowned as she tried to recall. ‘No, it’s gone. It was something rather horrible, I seem to remember . . . Something that made me recoil and think, oh, yes, that sounds like Father Micah.’ There was silence for a moment as she tried to bring the details to mind. ‘No. I’m sorry, Sir Josse, you’ll have to ask Brother Firmin.’

  He was already opening the door. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘As soon as I’ve called in on the women in the hostel. Thank you, my lady,’ he added belatedly. ‘You have been very helpful.’

  Then he closed the door and, breaking into a sprint, headed off along the cloister.

  He was not sure what he had expected to find, but Hawkenlye’s home for fallen women quite surprised him. For one thing, it was tidy and spotlessly clean; I am prejudiced, he told himself sternly, I believe squalor and filth to be the natural state of prostitutes rather than conditions brought about by abject poverty. For another thing, there was a decided air of happiness, of joy, about the hostel. He could hear soft female voices talking quietly and then someone laughed. He caught the gentle strains of a lullaby; one of the new mothers must be rocking her baby to sleep.

  Standing just inside the door, he attracted the eye of a young, plump nun and raised his eyebrows in enquiry. She came gliding up to him across the polished flagstones. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am Josse d’Acquin,’ he said. ‘May I speak to your – er, the women?’

  ‘It’ll be about that priest that’s upped and died,’ the young nun said sagely. ‘Because we wear the habit of obedience and love of God, I cannot but pray for him. But in truth, Sir Josse, I—’

  She managed to swallow the remark she was about to make. Studying her flushed face and the way in which she had tightened her generous lips, as if to hold the words in by force, Josse guessed that it took quite an effort.

  ‘Father Micah visited the women yesterday, I am told,’ he said. ‘I would like to ask them what happened.’

  ‘Of course. Follow me.’

  He did as he was bid. The nun took him through an area of the room where there were six beds, only three of which showed evidence of present occupancy. They then went through an archway into a second area where there were more beds and more space around them. ‘This,’ the nun said, ‘is where the mothers and babies are cared for.’

  ‘How many are here at present, Sister – er, I do not know your name.’

  ‘I am Sister Clare. We’ve three pregnant women, although one I believe to be in labour. It is her first confinement and she is very nervous’ – Sister Clare’s voice had dropped to a whisper – ‘so it may be merely anxiety that is making her think she feels her pains.’

  ‘Ah.’ He really could think of no fuller response.

  ‘And we have two newly delivered mothers,’ Sister Clare went on. ‘Come and meet them.’

  There followed an extraordinary spell. Josse was introduced to Gemma, Bertha and Belle, all round and slow in advanced pregnancy, to Jehane, cradling a sleeping baby, and to Alisoun, calmly feeding a robust-looking infant as she talked. They were all eager to tell their visitor about Father Micah and to repeat the dreadful things he had said. Repeating them brought tears to the eyes of young Belle and she had to be led away and comforted by Sister Clare.

  ‘It’s her time,’ Alisoun confided to Josse. ‘She’s scared, see, and that foul-mouthed bastard of a priest didn’t help her.’

  ‘The man is dead,’ Josse reminded her quietly.

  ‘Good riddance,’ Alisoun flashed back. Her baby, apparently picking up her mother’s anger and disliking it, detached her perfect, pink mouth from the milky nipple and let out a wail of protest. Alisoun, love in her face and tenderness in her large, rough hands, replaced her nipple with infinite gentleness and the child resumed her suckling.

  What am I doing here? Josse wondered. It is surely impossible that any of these women was abroad last night intent on waylaying Father Micah and breaking his neck. But, having made the effort to come to talk to them, it made sense to see it through.

  ‘Er – you were all here in the hostel last night?’ He felt a fool even as he asked.

  Alisoun laughed. Jehane said, ‘Aye, that we were. We did wonder if Gemma here might chase after the priest and attempt to carry out what she suggested he do to himself, but she decided after all to stay here in the warm.’

  He knew he shouldn’t, but he asked anyway. ‘And what was that suggestion?’

  There was quite a lot more laughter and, as Gemma told him, he joined in. Turning to her, he said, still chuckling, ‘I believe that lets you out, Gemma. He certainly wasn’t killed like that.’

  There was one thing he still had to ask. It was, he thought, trying to find the right words, even more tricky than asking if any of them had left the hostel last night.

  ‘You have – er, that is, do you receive visits from your – er, the babies’ fathers? Or other men?’

  More laughter. Then Alisoun said, her expression deceptively innocent, ‘We wouldn’t mind, sir knight, only the nuns don’t take kindly to us keeping company in here.’ Dropping to a whisper, she added, ‘They’re trying to cure us of earning our bread on our backs, see, not encourage it.’

  Again, he joined in the merriment. Then, as the laughter subsided, he said, ‘I am afraid, though, that I have to pursue this. Did any of you tell anyone on the outside about Father Micah’s visit? He was unforgivably rude, I know, and I just wondered if . . .’

  ‘If one of us told some strong, handsome, honourable fellow who took it into his head to avenge the insults and the curses and attack the Father?’ Jehane finished for him. ‘Oh, no, sir knight. If any of us had a man of that quality, do you reckon we’d be in here?’

  He looked at her face, oval, with a full-lipped mouth and hazel eyes. She must have been very pretty, he thought compassionately, before the hardships and the dangers of her profession ruined her. Now her hair was thin and straw-like, her skin bore the scars of the pox and the expression in her eyes was world-weary and cynical. Her words were, he was quite sure, the absolute truth.

  ‘N
o, Jehane,’ he said quietly. ‘No, I don’t suppose you would. I am sorry I had to ask.’

  She gave him a smile that, despite everything, still managed to be very sweet. ‘It’s all right,’ she replied. ‘We understand.’

  He found Brother Firmin in the Vale’s little shrine. He was with some other old monks and they were praying earnestly for the soul of Father Micah.

  Unable to prevent the thought that, from all he had heard, the late priest had hardly been worthy of such fervour, Josse waited patiently outside in the cold for them to finish.

  Brother Firmin was the last to leave. ‘Sir Josse!’ he said, his face creasing into a happy smile. ‘My, but it does me good to see you this sad morning!’ He took Josse’s arm affectionately. ‘You’re cold!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come with me and I will give you a mug of something to put that right and send some warmth through your bones.’

  He led the way to the monks’ shelter where he set water on to the fire to heat, putting into it generous pinches of various powdered herbs. Then he set two coarse pottery mugs ready. When the water began to steam, a deliciously warming, sweet, spicy smell filled the room. Brother Firmin let the liquid boil gently for a short while, then he removed the vessel from the heat and poured the concoction into the mugs.

  ‘Here,’ Brother Firmin held out one of the mugs, ‘try this. Don’t ask me what it is, for I have no idea. Sister Tiphaine gives the herbs to me because she knows how I feel the cold. She is a good woman,’ he said emphatically, as if Josse had said she wasn’t, ‘for all that she keeps one foot in the pagan past.’ He tutted and shook his head. ‘Ah well, that is a matter between her and God.’ He sipped at his mug, smacking his lips in satisfaction. ‘And, by, she makes a good potion!’

  Josse listened to the old monk rambling on for some time. Then, when he could get a word in, he said, ‘Brother Firmin, the Abbess said that you spoke to Father Micah yesterday and that he informed you he was going to make other visits. Do you remember to whom?’

  ‘Ooh, you’re tracking his movements, are you?’ Brother Firmin looked as if the idea greatly excited him. ‘Well, let me see, yes, he did say . . .’

  The old face creased as Brother Firmin tried to remember. Josse’s heart began to sink as the silence extended. Ah, well, it had always been unlikely, but worth a try at least—

  ‘He was going to see a noble lord who had forgotten God’s law and some lost souls who were to be banished to the eternal flames,’ Brother Firmin suddenly said, making Josse jump. ‘Perhaps not his exact words, but close enough.’ The old monk beamed his pleasure at having done what Josse asked.

  ‘Thank you, Brother Firmin,’ Josse said heartily. ‘You have been most helpful. Er – I don’t suppose the Father mentioned any names?’

  ‘Oh, dear – no, I’m afraid he didn’t.’ Firmin’s delight turned swiftly to dismay.

  ‘Never mind!’ Josse said quickly. ‘You have given me quite enough to be getting on with, Brother. And thank you for the drink, too – I now feel aglow from my head to my toes.’ He rose to his feet as he spoke, reaching down to pat the elderly monk on his bony shoulder.

  ‘Drop by and tell me how you get on!’ Brother Firmin called out as Josse strode out of the door. ‘Any time . . . !’

  A nobleman who had forgotten God’s law. Not much of a description, Josse thought as he marched back up to the Abbey to collect Horace. Besides which, it could apply to the majority of noble lords of Josse’s acquaintance.

  There was, however, one person who might know to whom the words applied in this case; the priest who usually tended the flock in Hawkenlye and the surrounding area. Quickly putting saddle and bridle on his horse, Josse called out to Sister Martha to ask if she would kindly give him directions to Father Gilbert’s house.

  The priest lived in a small, ill-furnished but scrupulously clean dwelling slightly separated from the small hamlet of Hawkenlye. When Josse put his head round the door and called out, ‘Father Gilbert? Are you in there?’ a faint voice replied from within, ‘Yes! Who is it?’

  Josse advanced into the house, closing the door behind him. It was a bitterly cold morning and Josse’s first impression was that the inside of the house was no warmer than the outside, making his careful door-closing a fairly pointless gesture. He crossed a tiny scullery where a used trencher and mug lay beside a jug of water; ice had formed on the surface of the water. In the next room he found Father Gilbert, lying on a low bed and huddled into a variety of thin, insubstantial blankets. The priest appeared to be wearing every garment he possessed, which did not amount to very many.

  Seeing who had come to visit him, he said joyfully, ‘Sir Josse! It’s glad I am to see you. Please, if you can spare the time, would you make up the fire?’

  Turning, Josse noticed the hearth, in which two large logs were smouldering gently, giving out quite a lot of smoke but no discernible heat.

  ‘Of course! Er – where’s your wood supply, Father? Outside somewhere?’

  ‘Out of the door, down the path and on the right.’ The Father was already looking more cheerful, obviously anticipating the pleasure of some warmth.

  Josse followed his directions and located the woodpile. It consisted of five or six cut and split logs and several large rounds cut, Josse thought, from an oak tree. Rolling up his sleeves and spitting on his hands, he picked up the heavy axe that had been stuck into the chopping block and set to work.

  Some time later he had cut and split sufficient firewood to last for a day or two; he made a mental note to ask the Abbess if one of the Hawkenlye lay brothers could be sent each day to replenish the log supply. Then, bearing in his arms as much wood as he could carry, he went back inside.

  As he relaid and lit the fire, chatting inconsequentially to Father Gilbert, it suddenly occurred to him that the priest did not know of Father Micah’s death. Indeed, how could he, bed-bound as he was, unless somebody from the Abbey had already been to see him today? And if that were the case, then surely Father Gilbert would not be lying there making feeble but courageous jokes about the icicle on the end of his nose melting at last?

  Josse gave the fire another poke – the blaze was roaring away now and the room was actually starting to feel warmer – and then stood up. Approaching Father Gilbert’s bed, he said, ‘Father, I have some bad tidings. It’s Father Micah.’

  To Josse’s surprise, the priest’s face fell and he said, ‘Oh, Sir Josse, not more trouble! I do not wish to appear to moan, but, really, Father Micah is only doing his job in the best way he can, according to his own beliefs, and I do think that people might—’

  ‘Father, I’m afraid it is a little more serious than that,’ Josse said gently. ‘There has been an accident. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Father Micah is dead.’

  ‘Dead!’

  After the one word, muttered in a shocked whisper, Father Gilbert acted exactly as Augustus had done: he began to pray.

  After quite a long time, he opened his eyes and asked quietly, ‘How did he die?’

  Josse told him.

  ‘And you believe this was as a result of an accident? That Father Micah slipped, perhaps, on the icy track and fell?’

  Josse hesitated. ‘It’s possible, aye.’

  ‘Yet you believe it could equally have happened another way?’

  In pain, cold and alone the priest might be, Josse thought, but there was nothing wrong with his powers of observation. ‘I cannot ignore the possibility.’

  With admirable brevity, Father Gilbert said, ‘You will want to know of his recent concerns. I cannot tell you exactly what he did yesterday but I know that he intended to visit the Abbey. He was also deeply anxious about the Lord of the High Weald and the woman to whom Father Micah insisted on referring as his Lordship’s mistress.’

  ‘The Lord of . . . who?’

  Father Gilbert gave a swift smile. ‘I see you have not come across him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He has made his home at Saxonbury. It is an ancient fort on the
ridge to the south of us. Rumours about it abound, but I suspect that it was an old iron working. People believe it to be haunted, which suits the Lord since it keeps the curious away. He lives there with his family. His kinfolk appear to come and go but usually there seem to be some fifteen or so people living there.’ Father Gilbert shifted under his blankets, winced, then said, ‘Father Micah believed them to be godless. He expressed the intention of making a nuisance of himself up at Saxonbury until the Lord did what the Father told him.’ He glanced up at Josse. ‘His words, not mine,’ he added. ‘Father Micah did not care how much of a nuisance he was when he was about God’s work.’

  ‘So I’m beginning to understand,’ Josse muttered.

  Father Gilbert was still watching him closely. ‘You intend to visit Lord Saxonbury?’

  ‘Is that his title? Aye, I do.’

  ‘It is how he styles himself, although whether or nor he has a right to it I cannot say. Have a care,’ the priest added warningly. ‘They do not take kindly to strangers.’

  ‘I will.’ Josse took the priest’s outstretched hand. ‘How do I get to Saxonbury? Will you tell me, Father?’

  ‘I will, if you are resolved on going there.’

  ‘I am.’

  With a sigh, the priest gave directions. They seemed simple enough and Josse did not anticipate having any difficulty in following them.

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you before I go?’ He looked about him but there seemed no comforts he could offer. ‘What about your food?’

  ‘Oh, one of the village women brings me my meals.’ Father Gilbert gave a wan smile. ‘Not that I have much appetite.’

  ‘I’ll come again,’ Josse said impulsively, ‘if I may?’

  ‘Of course!’ Father Gilbert looked pleased.

  I’ll bring him something to cheer him up, Josse promised himself, a pot of good, hot stew, a flagon of wine . . .