A Dark Night Hidden (33 page)

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.

Josse, trotting off along the road and bound for New Winnowlands, put a hand inside his tunic to check that the linen-wrapped package was secure. He had been thinking about a hiding place for it back at his manor house and believed he had come up with a good one.

I did not tell her about the manuscript, he thought as he rode. I almost did, but somehow I stopped myself. She has been through quite a lot just recently, and every one of us has our limits.

He pictured her, the wide grey eyes troubled. Then he saw her weeping, saw himself go to stand by her side and place on her shoulder an awkward hand that wanted so much to comfort and did not know how.

Helewise.

Deliberately turning his thoughts away from her, he spurred Horace and cantered for home.

March 1193

Meggie was getting used to the people who now looked after her. They were kind and tended her with loving hands. They made sure that she was fed when she was hungry and bathed when she was dirty. They found somewhere warm and safe for her to sleep. When she cried – which, for the first time in her short life, she did quite often – someone always came to pick her up, give her a cuddle and croon a soft little song until her tears ceased.

But it was not the same. It was not right, because neither the very old woman with the long silver hair, nor the slightly younger one with the brown, wrinkly face, nor the plump young girl whose breasts were swollen with milk was the person for whom Meggie hungered.

None of them was her mother.

She was too young to understand, far too young to ask questions. At four and a half months old, all she could do was frown because her sorrow hurt her, without knowing why it had come.

Lora was looking after Joanna’s baby, with the help of one of the young mothers of the forest people. Sometimes Meggie would accept milk from the young mother’s breast – she was still feeding her own five-month-old son – and sometimes she would screw her small face up into an expression of grief and turn away.

‘I don’t smell like Joanna,’ the young woman remarked sadly one evening after she had finally admitted defeat.

‘Milk’s milk,’ Lora said tersely; Meggie’s quiet, heartbroken crying was affecting her badly. Glancing at the baby girl, she said, ‘The child must feed. Try once more, Silva.’

But Silva shook her head. ‘No, Lora. I want her to take in some nourishment as much as you do, but she’s just not interested at the moment.’ She picked up her own child and put him to her breast, whereupon he instantly began to suckle eagerly and efficiently, clutching at the smooth curve of his mother’s warm flesh with one small hand.

‘Hmm.’ Lora was staring at the pair of them with an absent expression. Then, as if suddenly coming to a decision, she got quickly and gracefully to her feet and said, ‘I’m going to speak with the Domina, if she will receive me. I’ll try to be back afore nightfall.’

‘Very well,’ Silva replied, eyes on her son.

Lora picked up Meggie, wrapped her warmly – the March evening was chilly, clear skies suggesting the coming of a frost after a sunny day – and headed off along one of the faint tracks that led out of the clearing where the forest people had set up a temporary camp.

After walking for some time she reached the dell where the Domina was wont to set up her own private shelter, a little apart from her people, whenever she visited this part of the Great Wealden Forest. Smoke was rising from a fire that burned within a circular hearth of stones. From within the shelter Lora could hear faint sounds of chanting. Knowing better than to interrupt, she sat down on a fallen log, checked that Meggie was warm enough, and waited.

It was not long before the chanting ceased. From within the shelter, the tall, grey-clad figure of the Domina emerged.

Standing up, Lora said reverently, ‘I am sorry if I disturbed you, Domina.’

‘You did not.’ The older woman sighed. ‘I was aware of your presence, yours and the child’s, and my own thoughts interrupted my meditation.’ Approaching Lora, she held out her hands for the baby and Lora put Meggie into her arms. ‘Now then, my pretty maid,’ she said in a gentle voice, ‘what is it that ails you? Why will you not accept milk from one other than your own mother when it is given with love?’

Meggie stared up at her, the delicate, dark eyebrows drawing together into a frown. She made a little mewing sound and the Domina lightly touched her cheek with a long finger.

Still staring intently into the baby’s round eyes, the Domina said, her voice now taking on a more compelling tone, ‘Return to Silva, little one. Satisfy your hunger on that which she so freely offers you and then sleep. Do not dream; do not see bad visions of what must now be put behind you. Feed, and then sleep. Sleep soundly, sleep long.’

So powerful was the Domina’s magic that Lora found herself yawning hugely. With a grin, she said, ‘I am grateful to you, Domina. I’d better take the child back now afore I fall asleep myself.’

‘You will find that the babe will suckle now,’ the Domina replied. ‘And tomorrow . . .’

She did not finish her sentence and Lora knew she must contain her impatience over what the older woman intended to do. It was not done to ask questions of one so senior. With a deep bow, she took Meggie back, wrapped her in her furs and turned around to set her feet on the homeward track.

The Domina sat alone outside her shelter long into the night. The temperature fell drastically as the hours went by and a sharp frost turned the ground around her to a shade of silver that almost matched her long hair. The waxing Moon, already past the half, shone down on her, the bright light paling the stars of the Milky Way that stretched high above in an arc as if someone had hurled them from an outstretched hand.

She did not feel the cold. Her mind had left her body and the current state of her limbs and her torso was of no great importance to her. She would return to herself when she was ready, and then she would go inside her shelter to the hearth and to the drink she had set ready earlier. Once she had stirred the fire into life and added fuel, drunk her drink and wrapped herself up in her great bearskin, she would soon be as warm as she could wish.