A Dark Night Hidden (25 page)

Carefully she took the manuscript from him and turned a page or two. A lively picture leaped out at him, its style so vivid and its colours so vibrant that the tiny figures almost appeared to move. He studied them; they were dressed in long black robes and seemed to be standing in a circle and holding their arms up in an attitude of reverence.

‘What are they doing?’ he asked softly.

‘I have no idea,’ Sister Phillipa murmured back. ‘I have never seen anything like these pictures before. There’s a strange cross’ – she turned another page – ‘and there’s a really frightening picture of two worlds side by side, one all light and brilliant, one dark and seething with weird distorted beings . . . There!’

He saw instantly what she meant. The dark world was a nightmare landscape of chaos and misery, with people in torment, wailing and tearing at their hair. Nature was distorted and corrupt, twisted and cruel. The light world, by contrast, was filled with fluffy cloud and bright sunshine, and yellow, gold and pink were the predominate colours. All was ethereal and with an almost unreal quality, and the groups of human-like figures were slightly vague and dream-like.

Josse said wonderingly, ‘These are like – like illustrations of a tale only half-remembered. I’ve never seen anything similar, either, Sister.’ He raised his eyes and looked at her. ‘Any ideas?’

She said tentatively, ‘At first, no. I thought that both the writing hand and the paintings were very beautiful, perhaps the most perfect work I have ever seen, even though I was bothered by the strangeness. But then I remembered something that my father once told me about a religion that believed in two different forms of existence, one all good and the other all bad, and I wondered if this painting’ – she pointed at the page that Josse was still looking at – ‘could have something to do with it.’

Aye, Josse thought. We have a heretic woman in the infirmary, brought here by the man we believe to be the bodyguard for the whole group. Having carried out his task and brought her to safety, he disappears. But to imagine that this heretical text appeared coincidentally just at the same time is just too incredible.

Benedetto must have hidden it.

Josse said, not meeting Sister Phillipa’s eyes, ‘What were you going to do with it, Sister?’

She said instantly, ‘I was bringing it to the Abbess. But when I stood outside her door I heard you both arguing. I’m sorry to confess that I listened, and I understood what it was that made you both so heated.’ She stared at him, her blue eyes troubled. ‘Sir Josse, I am very afraid that if I do as I should and give this manuscript to the Abbess, she will destroy it.’

‘And the artist in you, Sister Phillipa, cries out in protest against flinging this beautiful work, which must have taken its creator so many painstaking hours to complete, into the flames. Yes?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. But what should I do? I cannot put it back, can I? I promised to tell Sister Bernadine if I discovered that anything was missing or damaged, but even if that is not so, surely it is not right to put this manuscript back and say that nothing at all is amiss?’

‘I don’t know, lass,’ he admitted. ‘I agree with you that it would not be a strictly honest thing to do. But I also agree that this should not be destroyed.’

They stood in silence for a few moments. He could almost hear her unspoken appeal and after a while he said, ‘I will take care of it.’

She said fervently, ‘Thank you. They said you are a man to depend on and they’re right.’

Flattered, too modest to ask who
they
were, Josse rewrapped the script in its linen cloth. ‘Perhaps you might merely report to Sister Bernadine that you found nothing damaged and nothing missing and that you have put all the Hawkenlye documents neatly back where you found them,’ he suggested. ‘That would be the truth, other than a small omission. Can your conscience bear that?’

‘I believe it can.’ She gave him a brilliant smile. ‘And any penance that I have to do will be worth it to see poor Sister Bernadine relieved of her anxiety.’

With a repeat of her graceful bow, she turned and walked away. Absently tucking the linen-wrapped package inside his tunic, Josse wondered what on earth he was going to do with it.

Josse did not notice, but while he had been engaged in his clandestine discussion with Sister Phillipa, Helewise had slipped out of her room and gone across to the Abbey church.

Now, all alone and on her knees before the altar, she asked for guidance. I do not know what to do, dear Lord, she prayed silently. I know now that the woman Aurelia is a heretic, who has been punished according to the Church’s dictates and who bears the mark on her brow to warn good Christians to be on their guard against her. I am sworn to obedience and it is my clear duty to report her presence here to the Church authorities immediately.

But, oh, dear sweet Jesus, she is so hurt! She is sick and in pain, and if I do as I should, she will suffer more. Much more.

For a few terrible moments, images of somebody being burned at the stake filled Helewise’s mind. She did not try to push them away; if I give up Aurelia, she told herself sternly, then there is a strong possibility that this is the fate that awaits her. Can I do that? Condemn a woman who has done no wrong other than to believe in a different picture of the deity?

Out of nowhere she seemed to hear a voice:
All gods are one god, and behind them all is the one great Truth
.

Helewise waited. As she knelt, silent and still, she began to feel less agitated. She waited a little longer, and a deep peace descended on her.

After a while she opened her eyes. Looking up at the altar, she asked, is that your answer, Lord? Is the calm that I feel in my head your response to my appeal? I kneel here and I begin to think that I must not give Aurelia up to those who would harm her, and from you I hear nothing but silence.

Does this mean that you approve?

The deep peace continued. Then Helewise saw herself when she had believed that de Gifford had come for Aurelia. She watched herself leap to Aurelia’s defence, crying out
You shall not have her
!

That was the proper instinct, Helewise realised, and the force of her conviction told her that she was right. She remained there on her knees for some time. She had just been in communication with her God; he had listened and he had given her what she prayed for. She felt it was only fair to thank him.

Later, when the rest of the community had filed in for Nones and after they had finished the office, Helewise decided what to do next.

First she went across to the infirmary. Sister Euphemia confirmed that it was all right to visit Aurelia and Helewise went and stood by her bed, staring down at her. The woman was asleep – Sister Caliste, appearing beside Helewise and smiling a greeting, whispered that Aurelia was still in considerable pain and being given regular doses of a sedative.

Helewise put out a very careful hand and felt the hot, tight skin around the brand on Aurelia’s forehead. ‘Will it leave a scar?’ she asked Sister Caliste softly.

Sister Caliste frowned. ‘We believe so, yes, my lady. The infection must have set in swiftly and had already taken too strong a hold by the time she was brought to us. Sister Tiphaine has prepared a special salve to help healthy skin grow back, but we fear that there will always be a mark.’ Suddenly her serene face fell into lines of a rare bitterness. ‘It is a savage thing to do to a person, is it not, my lady? Whatever their crime, I cannot think it warrants inflicting such agony and such permanent damage.’

Helewise said quietly, ‘I agree, Sister. Nothing warrants this.’

Then, giving the young nun a brief nod, she turned from Aurelia’s bedside and left the infirmary.

Next she fetched the mare, Honey, from the stables and rode off once more to visit Father Gilbert. Now that Father Micah was dead, with no new priest yet despatched to the Hawkenlye community, it would have to be Father Gilbert, even though he still lay in his sickbed.

He was the only person whom Helewise could think of to whom to put the questions that burned in her.

She found the Father sitting up in bed cradling a mug of some steaming liquid that smelt deliciously savoury. Helewise, who had missed the midday meal because she had been praying, felt her belly growl. I shall suffer the discomfort of watching the Father drink his broth while I bear my hunger, she told herself, in a gesture of penance for what I am about to do. I do not intend to tell a lie, but I shall not be revealing all of the truth.

When she and Father Gilbert had exchanged pleasantries, she said, ‘Father, I remember that Father Micah spoke passionately about lost souls who must be banished to the eternal fires. Can he, do you think, have been referring to heretics?’

‘Heretics?’ Father Gilbert looked surprised. ‘I suppose so, yes, although I did not know that we had any in our area. Although, now I come to think of it, there was a rumour . . . Oh, dear, that blow to the head has left me feeling rather confused. Heretics, eh? Why do you ask, my lady Abbess?’

‘Oh,’ – she had prepared the explanation, but still it felt awkward and clumsy on her tongue and she felt sure he must surely be suspicious – ‘oh, there is some talk of a group of heretics visiting England. Some were apprehended, I believe, to the north of Tonbridge. I know a little of heresy, that its followers believe there to be two worlds, one good and one evil, and that—’

Father Gilbert interrupted. ‘You speak of only one heresy, my lady,’ he said, ‘that of the dualists, whereas in fact there are many, although the majority are based on dualist misconceptions. Let me see, now – the Arians challenged the divinity of Christ, the Manichaeans said that man was evil but possessed a divine spark that could be brought alight through strict religious observance, the followers of Zoroaster believed in Ahura Mazda, the Divine Light. The Romans’ Mithras was a variant, you know.’ He gave her a little nod, as if in confirmation of his own words. ‘Then there are the Bogomils, of course. Now they are classic dualists, utterly believing in the creed of a good and an evil god.’ He smiled up at her. ‘Have I answered your concerns adequately?’

She returned his smile. ‘Well yes, in a way, Father. But I was also wondering what a good Christian ought to do if—’

‘I forgot to mention the Cathars!’ he exclaimed, interrupting her. ‘Which was remiss of me since they are a sect causing much distress within the Church just at present.’ He shifted in his bed, rearranging his weight more comfortably. ‘The Cathar heresy is spreading rather wildly,’ he said in a low tone, as if crowds of fascinated Christians on the brink of apostasy were gathered outside trying to listen. ‘They call themselves the Pure Ones –
kataros
is Greek for pure one – and theirs is a particularly pessimistic view of the dualist world. They are often referred to as Manichaeans; it is my own view that the two terms are used fairly indiscriminately.’ He looked slightly annoyed, as if such scholarly inexactitude were inexcusable. ‘The Church has been aware of them for some time – oh, more than a century, I imagine. Measures have been taken against them for almost as long. To begin with, the authorities strove hard to bring the faithless back into the fold, threatening them with excommunication if they persisted in their wrongdoing.’

‘But if they were heretics, followers of a different faith, then surely they would not take such a threat very seriously?’ Helewise asked.

‘Indeed they did not.’ Father Gilbert gave her a glance of approval. ‘Sterner measures were taken and some of the heretics abjured their faith under threat of such things as trial by water. Then a strange thing happened: in Cologne, where some heretics were on trial, the common people decided that the Church authorities were being too lenient. They grabbed the heretics and burned them at the stake.’

‘How did the Church react to that?’

‘At first the extremity of the violence was condemned outright,’ Father Gilbert said. ‘After all, back then – and I speak of a time almost fifty years ago – the vast majority of the populace, throughout Europe, were faithful to the one true Church. Except, of course, down in the south, in the lands that I believe men call the Midi. Provence and the Languedoc were the breeding ground of Catharism, and in the end the Church realised it.’

‘The Midi.’ She tried to remember. ‘Father, is there a town called Albi in the Midi? Or one called Toulouse?’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said, waving away her question as if impatient to return to his narrative. ‘The Cathars are also referred to as the Albigensians because Albi is one of their strongholds. Where was I? Oh, yes. In 1179, the Church held a council at which measures against the Cathars were outlined. The duty of the faithful was henceforth to hunt them down, and the treatment that the heretics had received in places such as Cologne, Liège and Strasbourg began to be more widespread.’

She sat stunned. What had until then been a very personal problem – what to do about a heretic woman lying in Hawkenlye’s infirmary – had just been revealed to be part of something infinitely greater.

Something that, if Father Gilbert were not exaggerating, was setting all of Europe alight . . .

He was still talking, speaking now of this Council and that pronouncement, of papal involvement and the possible interest of the King of France in a crusade to the south. But she was no longer listening.

Getting up, she said, ‘Excuse me, Father, if I interrupt your most interesting instruction, but it is time for me to go.’

‘Ah, yes indeed, duty calls you.’ He smiled affectionately at her. ‘As always.’

She spent a few moments checking that he was comfortable – she built up the fire and refilled his mug from the pot simmering beside the hearth – and then took her leave.

Mounting Honey, she rode back to Hawkenlye.

De Gifford had told Josse – who had related it to her – that two of the group of seven came from the south. From either Toulouse or Albi. It was beginning to look very much as if the members of the group were Albigensians, also known as Cathars.