Dark Night Hidden Page 9

But Father Gilbert was saying something: ‘You will want something in return for your charity.’ He smiled as if to make sure that Josse appreciated he spoke in jest. ‘I will think, as I lie here, about Father Micah and ponder who, if anybody, might have wished him ill.’

  Josse, suppressing the thought that such a task could surely not be difficult, gave him a brief bow. ‘Thank you, Father. That would indeed be helpful. I’ll be back soon.’

  7

  The ride up to Saxonbury took Josse around the edge of the Great Forest. Bare limbs of beech, birch, oak and hazel raised naked branches up to the pale grey sky and, interspersed with their quiet, misty shades, there were patches of deep, dark green where the holly and yew trees grew. Soaring high above the forest canopy were the needle-clad branches of the pines, at the very top of their long, bare trunks. There were tracks leading off under the trees that might have afforded a more direct route to Saxonbury, but Josse knew better than to go into the forest unless he had to. He had ventured into the forest before and understood, as well as any outsider could, that it held its own perils and was best left alone. In any case, Father Gilbert’s directions had specified this path, and to divert from it might mean that Josse missed Saxonbury altogether.

  The journey was not long: four, perhaps five miles, according to Father Gilbert. Nor was it arduous, for although the track dipped into occasional valleys and climbed out again, the slopes were quite gentle. In the main, however, the path kept to the higher ground and Josse surmised that it was one of the old dry ridge tracks. Had it not been for the extreme cold and the fact that he had not eaten since early morning, he would have enjoyed the ride.

  He did not see a soul. He was hardly aware of another living being, come to that, although he did think he heard the distant howl of a hungry wolf. Packs of wolves were not unknown in the area, although they usually gave human beings and their habitations a wide berth. Passing the tiny settlement of Fernthe, he saw a thin plume of smoke rising up from one of the thatched wooden huts. Someone had recently repaired the fence surrounding the little hamlet; perhaps that person, too, had heard the wolf.

  The track took another dip into a shallow valley. As it rose up again, Josse began to look out for the turning on the right that the priest had told him about. ‘An ancient way, I believe,’ Father Gilbert had said, ‘for the footsteps of the ages have carved it deep into the ground and banks rise high on either side.’

  Aye. There it was. And it looked dark and forbidding, going in there beneath the trees . . .

  ‘Come on, Horace,’ Josse said loudly. Horace twitched back his ears. ‘The sooner we get on, the sooner we can turn for home.’

  Horace’s hooves fell on the hollow way with a dull thud, as if even ordinary sounds were muffled and strange in this lonely place. The tall trees on either side stood still, their bare branches untouched by the slightest breeze. The banks were rust-coloured with dead bracken and the track was black with the fallen leaves of hundreds of years. Nothing stirred. Nothing, it seemed, lived.

  Climbing the increasingly steep gradient towards the summit of the ridge, Josse had the peculiar idea that this track went on for ever. That it would take him into some strange faery world where a few minutes passed would be an aeon in the outside world, so that when he returned it would be to find that all that he knew was dead and buried in the far-distant past.

  He was approaching what looked like the vestiges of a ditch, on the far side of which a bank had been raised. The track went over the ditch on a crumbling earthwork. Crossing over, Josse thought of old legends of ditches and dykes, said, so the tales went, to be the devil’s work. Overhead, some evergreen tree spread its thick, heavy branches. It was very dark . . .

  Beyond the bank there was a dry-stone wall. It appeared to be in quite a good state of repair, and Josse felt a sense of relief. If someone were looking after the walls, then perhaps this place was still the abode of humans after all. In places the wall was supplemented by sections of paling fence, in one of which there were wooden gates. They were closed.

  Josse rode up to the gates and shouted out, ‘Halloa! Is anyone there?’

  Somebody must have been on guard within. Instantly a deep voice called back, ‘Who is enquiring?’

  ‘I am Josse d’Acquin, and I come from Hawkenlye Abbey on a mission concerning Father Micah.’

  ‘If you’ve come on that wretch’s business, then you’ll not receive a welcome at Saxonbury,’ the unseen guard answered. ‘Turn back, Josse d’Acquin, and tell them at Hawkenlye that each of their priest’s emissaries will receive the same answer.’

  ‘It is not Church business that brings me here.’ Josse tried to think how best to plead his case; he was reluctant to break the news of Father Micah’s death to a guard whom he could not even see. ‘I wish to speak to Lord Saxonbury,’ he announced, with more bravado that he was actually feeling. ‘Is he within?’

  ‘Wait.’

  After the curt order there was silence for some time. Then Josse heard the sound of the heavy bar that secured the gates being drawn back and, a few moments later, he was riding into Saxonbury.

  The guard was waiting for him inside the gates. He was short, stocky and wore an expression of extreme suspicion. He said, ‘Follow me,’ and led Josse across an open space of rough ground. Beyond it high walls rose up and, as the guard led him through an arched opening halfway along one of them, he saw the dwellings that were hidden away within their protection.

  There were several, although none was large. Each appeared to have its own entrance and consisted of perhaps one large room at ground level with another positioned above to act as a sleeping platform. Some of the buildings appeared to be stables and storehouses; one was clearly a cookhouse. Beside it was a well, covered with a little roof of thatch.

  Although Josse could see nobody inside the dwellings, all the same he was quite certain he was observed from within them. It was an uncomfortable feeling, to be aware of people closely observing him whom he could not see.

  But one man at least was visible. Standing in the middle of the space enclosed within the walls was a very tall, broad-shouldered man with reddish-blond hair that was in the process of turning white. He was bearded, the long tangle of his facial hair falling on to a knee-length padded tunic that had once been a beautiful garment but was now stained with the mementoes of very many meals. Around his hips he wore a wide leather belt from which hung a broadsword in a scuffed scabbard. Thrust into the other side of the belt was a double-headed axe.

  The man said in a strong voice, ‘I am the Lord of the High Weald and this is my dwelling place. What do you want of me, Josse d’Acquin?’

  Josse had slipped from Horace’s back. Standing on this giant’s land, it seemed prudent to remember his manners, so he made a low bow. ‘Thank you for receiving me,’ he said.

  ‘I am told that your mission concerns Father Micah.’ The tone was neutral.

  ‘Aye.’ Deciding that here was a situation when the only option was the truth, Josse said, ‘The Father is dead. He was found on the track above Castle Hill early this morning with a broken neck. I am in the service of the Abbess of Hawkenlye, who has charged me with discovering what I can of the Father’s recent movements, and I am told that he may have visited you.’

  There was what seemed to Josse to be a very long silence while the bright blue eyes of the Lord of the High Weald considered him. Then the giant said, ‘Come inside. I’ll have someone see to your horse while we take refreshments together and I tell you exactly what Father Micah wanted with me.’

  Then he turned and led the way up a shallow flight of stone steps into the largest of the dwellings. Josse, following, looked around him with interest; the long, low room was timber-built, its line of sturdy posts filled in with wattle and daub. At the far end there was a stone hearth in which a fire was blazing. Several people were sitting round the fire; two middle-aged men, a youth and a quartet of young women. Quite a lot of them seemed to be red-haired. With a wave of his hand, t
he Lord shooed them away.

  ‘My family are well trained,’ he remarked to Josse. ‘Although they have their own firesides, they prefer to congregate around mine. However, they know when I want to be left in peace.’

  ‘Your family,’ Josse repeated.

  ‘Aye. My sons and daughters live here with their spouses and their children, and their children marry and bring their new husbands and wives to Saxonbury in their turn. I am the patriarch.’ He flung out his impressive chest. ‘Now, ale.’ He reached down for a large pewter jug that stood on a bench and poured some of the contents into two mugs, handing one to Josse. He tasted, smacked his lips appreciatively – the ale was malty and slightly sweet – and drank down several mouthfuls, at which the Lord quickly refilled his mug.

  Waving Josse to a bench pulled up in front of the hearth, the Lord settled himself opposite and said, ‘We are instructed not to speak ill of the dead, and so you must excuse me, Sir Josse, because I am about to do just that.’ He paused. Then, surprisingly, he asked, ‘Are you pressed for time?’

  ‘No, not really.’ It was not far back to the Abbey and there must remain several hours of daylight.

  ‘Then, if you will hear it, I shall tell you my story.’

  ‘I shall be glad to hear it.’

  The Lord poured out more ale and then, cutting off a hunk of bread and a thick slice of venison, thrust them at Josse and began his tale. ‘I was a soldier of the Crusade,’ he announced, ‘and I went to Jerusalem with my brother, who was of the company of the Templar Knights. In the assault on the Turks of Damascus many lives were lost, including that of my brother.’

  ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ Josse said quietly. ‘My own maternal grandfather died at Damascus and my father too was there in the midst of the fighting.’

  ‘Was he, indeed?’ The Lord looked with interest at Josse. ‘It seems I was right to trust to my instincts and allow you admission,’ he murmured. ‘I was gravely wounded,’ – he picked up his narrative – ‘and believed that my hour had come. But I was rescued from the field of battle and nursed back to health by a young and very beautiful woman, to whom I gave my heart. When I was fully recovered, we were wed and she consented to leave her home and return with me to mine. She bore me three sons and two daughters and has been, in every respect, the most satisfactory wife a man could wish for.’

  ‘She lives still?’ If she became a wife more than forty-five years ago, Josse was calculating, then she must be sixty, surely, at the least. As must this man who sat in front of him, even though he did not look it.

  ‘Indeed she does, but sadly she is frail,’ the Lord said. ‘In body, at least, although not in mind, for it is her indomitable will that rules here at Saxonbury, Sir Josse. She lies most of the day snug and comfortable in her chamber, yet her word is law.’ He smiled affectionately.

  ‘A woman to admire,’ Josse murmured.

  ‘Precisely!’ The Lord’s eyes lit up. ‘I am glad that you perceive this, for that damnable priest did not.’ He leaned forward, his face earnest, and, speaking urgently as if it were imperative that his guest fully understand him, said, ‘You see, my wife is a Muslim woman. She is of Turkish blood and, naturally, of foreign appearance and habits. A strange creature indeed to one such as Father Micah, and he made no attempt to disguise his distaste for what he could not understand. The problem, of course, for such a man was that my wife is not a Christian and, for all that we were wed according to her faith, I would not force her to make vows according to mine. You see, Sir Josse,’ – he put a hand like a shallow basket on to Josse’s leg – ‘I felt that I had already asked enough of my beloved in bringing her here and commanding her to make her home so far from her own people. If she chose to keep her own faith and not convert to mine, what did it matter?’

  Treating the question as rhetorical, Josse merely nodded.

  ‘And shall I tell you what that evil man said when he discovered that I live with a Muslim woman in a marriage that, to his blinkered eyes, does not exist?’

  ‘What?’

  The Lord paused for dramatic effect and then said softly, ‘He said that my wife – my frail, ageing, devoted wife – must be whipped. That this was the only way to drive the Devil from her and make her ready to receive the blessing of Jesus Christ.’

  It was shocking in its savagery. But to Josse, for whom each new fact learned about the late priest merely served to enhance the impression he had received from the first, it came as no surprise. Meeting the hurt and furious eyes of the giant sitting before him, he said, ‘The man was twisted, mad. It must be so, for what other explanation can there be for a priest who had devoted his life to the service of a loving God to advocate such cruelty?’

  ‘Mad?’ The Lord raised his massive shoulders. ‘I cannot say.’ The blue eyes turned away from Josse and then, slyly, looked back. ‘But I am glad that Father Micah is dead for, when last he visited us here, he swore that he would be back. And for the life of me, Sir Josse, I do not know how I would have received him.’

  Then as Josse watched, the slyness left the brilliant eyes to be replaced with a look of such menace, such palpable violence, that Josse could not prevent himself from pulling back.

  ‘What would you have done?’ the giant asked softly. ‘Ask yourself this, before you rush to judge me. Suppose that it was your own elderly mother, let us say, who was threatened with this extreme measure. Would you allow it?’

  Josse’s mother was dead. He had loved her dearly and knew that he could not have stood back to see her abused. No, he would have defended her, whatever the cost to himself. Meeting the Lord’s eyes, he said, ‘No. I would not.’

  ‘Thank you for your honesty,’ the Lord said. Then he gave a short and, it seemed to Josse, rueful laugh, cutting through the tension in the hall. ‘More ale?’ He offered the jug.

  Josse, whose head was already feeling muzzy, said, ‘Thank you, but no.’ He was wondering how on earth he was to go about ascertaining where the men of the Lord’s household had been last night – even knowing how many of them there were would be a good start – and intoxication was not going to help.

  Possibly the Lord had also realised that, because he leaned down and refilled Josse’s mug anyway.

  Absently sipping from it, Josse said, ‘Father Gilbert told me where to find you. He said that your community here numbered some fifteen people.’

  ‘Did he?’ The Lord, it appeared, was neither going to confirm nor deny the priest’s information. Instead he said, ‘Not a bad fellow, Father Gilbert. Wider-minded than Father Micah, but then that, I would say, applies to almost everybody. How is he? Father Gilbert, I mean?’

  ‘I have just come from him. He is mending, I believe, although slowly. The cold weather works against him. His house was ice-cold when I arrived.’

  ‘I see.’ The blue eyes watched Josse steadily and he had the impression he was being assessed. Then: ‘No doubt you cut wood for him and built up his fire.’

  ‘Er – aye.’ For some reason Josse felt embarrassed, as if he had performed the act of kindness purely to make people think well of him. From some distant past conversation he seemed to hear the Abbess’s voice: True charity is that which is known only to God.

  ‘It’s what I would have expected from what I hear tell of you, Josse d’Acquin.’ The Lord was still staring at him.

  Who had spoken to this man of him? Josse could not imagine. Father Gilbert, perhaps? It did not seem likely, for the Father barely knew Josse. But who else could it be?

  ‘And I hear good things of Hawkenlye Abbey,’ the Lord was saying. ‘Do not think that, because I dislike one man of the Church, it follows that I feel the same about every other man and woman in holy orders. That Abbess, now, they say she is a fine, fierce woman.’

  ‘She didn’t like Father Micah either.’ The admission was out before Josse could ask himself if it was truly wise to make it. ‘That is, of course she’s terribly upset that he’s dead—’

  ‘Oh, terribly.’ There was clear
irony in the Lord’s voice.

  ‘—and there will be prayers for his soul at the Abbey, I know, and a deal of grieving.’

  ‘Come, now, Sir Josse, that really is an unlikely exaggeration.’ Again, the Lord gave his short laugh.

  Josse gave a half-hearted grin. ‘Very well. Not very much grieving. Just the natural shocked reaction to sudden death.’

  ‘Sudden accidental death, think you?’ The question was put so subtly that Josse, increasingly fuddled, did not immediately understand its importance.

  ‘I cannot yet say.’ He went to take another sip of ale but found to his vague surprise that he had once more emptied his mug. ‘He could have slipped on the icy track and slammed his face hard against something that did not give but, on the other hand, someone could have forced his head backwards.’ Absently he upturned his mug. ‘I do not know.’

  There was silence in the hall. A log settled in the hearth, giving out a soft sound like a sigh. From somewhere quite near at hand Josse heard voices; a woman’s voice and, in one short, terse sentence, a man’s. He tried to make out the words but could not, which was surprising because they were clearly audible. Then through the fog in his head he realised. The woman was speaking in an unknown language. There was a sudden cry of distress, of pain, and a high, strained voice cried out briefly, abruptly silenced. Of course, Josse thought, the Lord of the High Weald’s wife was foreign. What did he say? Turkish? Aye. Something like that. And, poor soul, some quality of the frailty and sickness that kept her in her bed must give her pain. Poor woman.

  Unreasonably pleased to have solved the little mystery of those overheard words in a foreign tongue, Josse beamed at the Lord. ‘It is good to have met you,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘And you.’ The Lord’s expression was amused.

  With some effort, Josse stood up. ‘I must go,’ he announced. ‘It is not far to Hawkenlye, where I lodge tonight, but I would like to be back before dark.’

  ‘You are welcome to stay here. We eat well in my hall.’