by Alys Clare
After a while, he looked up at de Gifford and said, ‘Where do you think they are?’
‘The heretics?’ De Gifford shrugged. ‘I have no idea. There are many places out in the forest and the wild where they might be hiding, although I doubt if they would have survived the bitter weather unless they found some sort of shelter and were able to build themselves a fire. And it is unlikely that any household has taken them in for, were they to be discovered, the house would be destroyed. That particular clause of the Assize of Clarendon is, I believe, quite widely known.’
‘Might they not have left England and returned to wherever it was they came from?’
‘I have asked myself that question. But I do not think that they would leave Aurelia behind. Somebody obviously cares deeply for her, to have taken the risk of formulating the plan to bring her to Hawkenlye. Had the big man who carried her there stayed after delivering her to the nuns, no doubt someone within the Abbey would have insisted he be put under guard until the matter could be investigated.’
‘Aye, someone did,’ Josse said grimly.
De Gifford gave him a sympathetic glance. ‘I see.’
There was something Josse wanted to return to, something that de Gifford had said earlier. ‘When you looked at the manuscript you said it was written in the langue d’oc and was a – what was the word you used?’
‘Cather. Yes, I said that I believed it is a Cathar tract.’
‘And the Cathars are heretics?’
‘Oh, yes. They are probably the biggest thorns in the Church’s side that all those great spiritual lords have ever experienced.’
‘I know nothing about them,’ Josse confessed. ‘Will you tell me?’
‘Of course,’ de Gifford replied. ‘Catharism is a dualist faith, and its followers believe that we are here in our earthly existence under sufferance, having been torn away from our spiritual entities in the heavens against our will. The most fervent wish of a Cathar is to be reunited with his or her spirit, which is why they view their life on earth with such indifference and why they go so willingly to the stake. It is also, incidentally, why they do not recognise marriage, since to procreate means that they have separated yet another soul from its spirit and brought it down to endure life on earth.’
‘If they do not marry and bear children,’ Josse asked, ‘how can the sect hope to continue?’
De Gifford smiled. ‘I do not think that continuance on earth concerns them much. But in fact quite a lot of them have been married and had children before they become Parfaits.’
‘Parfaits?’
‘Perfects. Pure Ones. Men and women who refrain from sexual intercourse, who eat neither meat nor any animal products, nothing that is brought into being by progeniture or coitus. They do not kill either man or beast. They take a vow to honour all these obligations and that is called the Consolamentum. When the vow has been sworn, the man or woman becomes a Perfect.’
‘So it’s possible to believe in the faith without making the vow?’
‘Yes. People who do that are referred to as adherents. They are accepted as such by the Perfects and they may take the Consolamentum when they are ready. It is, I understand, quite common for married couples to live as adherents until religious fervour overtakes bodily passion, at which point they forswear the pleasures of the flesh and take the vow.’
Josse, trying to absorb all that de Gifford had just told him, sat slowly shaking his head. Then he said tentatively, ‘Are they – do you think that they are good people?’
‘An interesting question,’ de Gifford observed. ‘Yes, I do. So, I might add, do some of the most powerful prelates of the Catholic Church. The Cathars lead pure lives devoid of violence and hypocrisy, working hard and caring for each other with tenderness and diligence, which is more than can be said for many Christians.’ He shot Josse a glance. ‘Even many of the clergy.’
‘Hm.’ There was one more thing that Josse wanted to know. He said, ‘Why did they come to England? What persuaded these seven people – whether or not they are Cathars – to come to an unknown land, unsure of their welcome, in the middle of winter?’
‘They came as evangelists,’ de Gifford said. ‘And I think that we can indeed assume that they are Cathars. The sect has been attracting many converts in the countries across the Channel and I imagine that they hoped to do the same here.’
‘No wonder Father Micah dealt so harshly with them,’ Josse said.
‘He was afraid,’ de Gifford said simply. ‘He had doubtless been informed by his superiors of the situation in the Low Countries, in Germany and in France. Despite reparations – many Cathars have already died in the fires – the sect is gaining more followers by the days.’
‘Will they win?’ Josse found he had put his question in military terms, as if he and de Gifford were speaking of a war.
‘I do not know.’ De Gifford looked thoughtful. ‘They are not winning, to use your word, in the north of Europe. But matters are very different in the south. The relaxed and colourful culture of the Midi is perfectly adapted for the Cathar faith, and indeed many members of the sect are flocking down to the Languedoc because it is the one place where they can be sure of a good reception.’
‘You said that one of our seven was from the Midi.’
‘Yes. Two, in fact. Guiscard and Aurelia. I imagine that they were sent to the countries of the north to spread the word among existing Cathars that they should head south, and to try to persuade others to convert and go too.’
‘Their mission here has not been a success,’ Josse remarked soberly. ‘It was their misfortune to encounter Father Micah. You said that they would not leave without Aurelia,’ he reminded de Gifford. ‘Do you think to put a watch over her and apprehend them when they come for her?’
De Gifford gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Sir Josse, for a man of your quality you can be exceedingly slow,’ he said tartly. ‘Far from apprehending them, as you put it, I shall be helping them on their way.’
‘You – but why?’
‘Because, as you so accurately observed a little while ago, I am bound by no vow of obedience to the Church and I make up my own mind. I have much admiration for the Cathar sect and I would not see any of its men and women put to the flames for their faith. If I take them under guard, they may not suffer that fate; I do not know. But all the time that it remains a possibility, I will do nothing that might lead to it.’
He sat for some moments regarding Josse, as if deciding whether or not to speak his mind. Eventually, apparently coming to a decision, he said, ‘Sir Josse, I intend to do all that I can to get them away across the Channel and on their way to what safety they can find in the south. Will you help me?’
Through Josse’s mind flashed an image of another, earlier allegiance. He saw the Abbess, distressed, her face flushed from the passion of her convictions.
Addressing her silently he said, Helewise, my dear friend, in this instance I believe you to be wrong. If ever you discover what I am about to undertake, I hope that you will forgive me for the hurt it must cause you.
Then, turning to de Gifford, he said, ‘Aye. I will.’
17
As Josse rode back up the long, sloping flank of the hillside to Hawkenlye, it began to snow. At first it was nothing much; a flurry of light flakes swirling on the air and barely settling. But the afternoon was very cold and it was likely that this initial fall presaged something worse to come before dark. Josse longed for the simple comfort of the monks’ quarters in the Vale and a warm hearth to sit by. He did not envy any lost souls who were wandering out in the wild when night came.
Lost souls. His mind must subconsciously have been puzzling over the mystery of Father Micah’s death, for those were the words that the priest had used. When he died, he had been preoccupied with a noble lord who had forgotten God’s law – well, Josse knew now who that was; it was the Lord of the High Weald in his stronghold at Saxonbury – and with some lost souls who were to be condemned to the eternal fires.
Undoubtedly Father Micah had been referring to the Cathars. It seemed likely, in the light of all that Josse knew about him, that he had been thinking of an earthly version of hellfire to see the group on their way.
Where were they?
Pondering the question as, head down, he rode on up the track, Josse thought that de Gifford was probably right in assuming that they were still in the area. One of their number still lay sick at Hawkenlye, and all that Josse had just learned about the ways of the Cathars made him support de Gifford’s view that the others would not simply slip away and abandon her.
‘Arnulf, Alexius, Guiscard,’ Josse said aloud, ‘Benedetto who carried Aurelia to the Abbey, Frieda who died in the gaol. Who else? Oh, yes, Utta. About whose movements we know even less that we do about those of the rest of them.’
If they are waiting for Aurelia to be well enough to travel before coming to fetch her, he reasoned, then they must surely be fairly close at hand. They will have to find out how she fares, whether she’s recovering her strength, how soon she will be fit to travel. How will they do that?
He was very aware of the great forest, a silent, dark and brooding presence beside him as he rode. There were places within its secret heart where men – and women – had camped. Some people lived there permanently. Mag Hobson had done so, in her neat little hut with its herb garden and its fresh stream. The Forest Folk lived there too, although from the little that Josse knew about their life and their ways, he was pretty sure that they were constantly on the move, never staying in one location for more than a week or two.
Was that where the Cathars were hiding?
God help them, Josse thought with feeling, if so.
As Horace plodded on up the rise, Josse felt his mind wander. He felt, as he so often did, that there were unseen eyes within the forest watching him. He remembered suddenly standing with the Lord of the High Weald in his courtyard, knowing with some sense beyond sight that he was being closely observed.
Aye, it had been an unsettling place, Saxonbury. Out there on top of the ridge, ancient paths and earthworks all around it; hardly any wonder, really, Josse reflected, that he had been unnerved. And that was before the Lord had begun plying him so generously and enthusiastically with ale.
His vagrant attention suddenly entered an area of his mind that he had forgotten about. It was another memory of that visit to Saxonbury and it was also, Josse realised triumphantly, the little niggling thought that he had been trying without success to locate.
Until now.
He had remembered the voices. That voice speaking in a foreign language, the one that he had presumed belonged to the Lord’s Turkish wife, suffering pain, addressing her women. He had known there was something not quite right in his memory, and now he knew what it was.
There had been a man’s voice speaking that foreign language too.
Aye, Josse thought, kicking Horace and upping his pace, it might be that one of the Lord’s sons speaks his mother’s tongue. But it might just as well not be.
As he was contemplating the implications of his revelation, another one hit him with equal, if not greater, force. They had all been assuming that Father Micah had been referring to two different missions.
What if they had been one and the same?
He glanced up at the sky. It looked as if the snow clouds would bring darkness prematurely but, even so, surely he had time to get up to Saxonbury and back to Hawkenlye by nightfall. It was not very far. He kicked Horace again as they reached the top of the long climb, and the big horse broke into a canter. The ground was hard and the track now ran straight and level; if they hurried, they ought to be all right.
Whoever was on guard up at Saxonbury must have remembered the Lord’s order that Josse was to be admitted if he came calling; even as Horace, flanks heaving and sweating profusely, came trotting up to the gate, it was drawn back. A voice said, ‘Good day to you, Sir Josse d’Acquin. The Lord awaits you.’
The guard must also have been keeping a close watch on the path up to the hilltop, Josse thought. He was impressed by the diligence with which the Lord arranged for his lands to be watched over and protected.
The Lord was indeed waiting for him, standing in the middle of his courtyard with a heavy fur cloak around his shoulders.
‘You have been riding hard,’ he observed. ‘I am intrigued as to what pressing matter has brought you back here on a day of such bad weather. But, before we go inside and you tell me, I will call one of my men to attend to your horse.’ He put up a large hand and gave Horace’s damp neck a stroke and a pat; Horace nickered a soft response.
‘I would be grateful,’ Josse said, slipping off Horace’s back.
A youth had come running from what appeared to be a stable and he took Horace from Josse with a smile.
‘Your horse will be in good hands,’ the Lord murmured; looking at him, Josse noticed that he was smiling as if at some private joke. ‘Come in!’ He slapped Josse on the back. ‘Come into my hall and warm yourself. I will order some ale and—’
‘No!’ Josse protested. Then, remembering his manners, added, ‘Thank you, but on my last visit I found your ale too good, so that I did not know when to stop.’
‘Ah,’ said the Lord, a definite twinkle in his eyes.
The hall was empty. Again, though, Josse had the strong impression that he was being watched.
Now, though, he was almost sure that he knew why and by whom.
The Lord waved him to a seat by the fire, taking another one himself. He fixed bright blue eyes on Josse and said, ‘Well?’
As he had been riding up to Saxonbury, Josse had made up his mind that only the direct approach stood any chance at all of success with the Lord. Even then, that chance was not very good.
Still, he thought, now that I’m here I’ll do my best.
Meeting the Lord’s eyes he said, ‘When I was last here I heard voices speaking in a foreign tongue. I assumed that it was your wife talking to her womenfolk. I also heard a woman’s cry of pain and, again, assumed it was your wife, whom you had described to me as frail. I ask you now, my Lord, does she suffer pain?’
The Lord regarded him steadily. ‘No more than any other old woman. Or any other old man, come to that.’ He shifted in his seat, pressing a hand to the small of his back. ‘The cold weather brings out the pains in the joints, you know. Me, I suffer a niggle in my backbone when an easterly blows that feels like an imp with a pitchfork. And my wife was born and bred in warmer climes, so that our northern chill affects her worst than most. She keeps inside the house in winter.’
‘Ah. Aye, I see.’ Was that a confirmation or not? Deciding to plough on, Josse said, ‘It is quite possible, I know, that my first assumption was correct and that it was your wife whom I overheard. But I heard a man’s voice reply to her in that same foreign tongue. Do any of your sons or your manservants speak your wife’s language, my Lord?’
‘One of my sons has a word or two. But my wife rarely speaks her native tongue nowadays. Sometimes I think that she has all but forgotten it.’ Now the laughter in the Lord’s eyes was very evident and the smile that he tried to control was steadily getting the better of him.
‘Then, if you will allow it,’ Josse said, with more confidence than he felt, ‘I shall suggest another explanation for those mystifying voices that I heard, an explanation that would also, were it true, account for why it is that I feel hidden eyes closely watching my every move while I am in your hall.’
‘Please, proceed. I should be most entertained to hear you.’ The Lord waved a hand in an expansive gesture.
Josse took a deep breath and said, ‘I know that there is a group of heretics in the area. They originally numbered seven, but one was imprisoned and is dead and one has not been heard of for some time. Of the remaining five, one, a woman, is being treated by the nuns at Hawkenlye for severe wounds to her back and her forehead. She has been branded and flogged, as had the woman who died in prison. Now, unless they have perish
ed, the four men of the group must have found themselves a refuge. Somewhere quite close to Hawkenlye, so that they can be kept informed of Aurelia’s progress and come for her when she is ready to travel.’ He paused, stared briefly up at the Lord’s impassive face and made himself go on. ‘Somewhere where the master of the house is not afraid of the law that states that he who shelters heretics shall have his house burned to the ground. It comes to me, my Lord, that on both counts Saxonbury fits the picture that I have drawn.’
There was a long silence, during which Josse became uncomfortably hot under the Lord’s intense scrutiny. He was beginning to regret his openness, and wish that he had taken the precaution of telling someone where he was going, when at last the Lord spoke.
‘You have been honest with me, Sir Josse,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Wait here.’
Josse heard the Lord’s heavy footsteps cross the hall and recede somewhere in the distance. He stared into the fire, watching the dancing flames, trying not to think the worst. I have my sword, he thought, and maybe I’ll stand a chance if there are but the Lord and one or two of his kin at home . . .
Then the Lord came back. He was no longer alone. Beside him walked a man dressed in a long black garment tied with a rope belt. He had a wound on his forehead and he held himself stiffly, as if some other hurt pained him when he moved. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties, possibly a little older. He had a broad, chubby face, brown eyes and greying brown hair. He looked, Josse thought, very wary.
Standing up, Josse said, ‘I am Josse d’Acquin. If you are whom I believe you to be, please understand that I mean you no harm and that I will help you if it is in my power.’
The man came right up to him, staring into Josse’s eyes as if he were trying to see into his heart to judge whether he spoke the truth. After a moment, he said, in a heavily accented voice, ‘I am Arnulf. I am inclined to believe you and to put my trust in you for, as the Lord has explained, you have come here with your suspicions and not to some fierce priest.’
