by Alys Clare
‘Father Micah is dead,’ Josse said quietly.
‘I know. The Lord told me. I did not kill him.’
‘I am told that your sect does not kill.’
‘That is largely true,’ Arnulf said cagily. ‘Although any man will kill to save his own life.’
‘Such a killing is not regarded as murder under the laws of this land.’ Josse was thinking of de Gifford. ‘When it is a question of kill or be killed, those with authority over us are reasonable.’
Arnulf ’s brown eyes regarded Josse steadily. ‘I do not know who killed your priest, Sir Josse. And that is the truth.’
‘I believe you,’ Josse assured him. ‘But that is not why I am here. I have come to help you.’
Arnulf ’s intense scrutiny continued for a moment or so. Then, with a sigh, he said, ‘I accept your help, Sir Josse. In truth, we have need of the assistance of good folk.’ He turned and gave a brief smile to the Lord. ‘Were it not for my Lord here, Alexius, Guiscard, Benedetto and I would probably have perished and Aurelia certainly would be in her grave. One of his sons came across us, sheltering in a ditch down below the hilltop. Aurelia was delirious and we were trying unsuccessfully to soothe her. The Lord himself came to fetch us and has protected our secret ever since.’
Josse nodded. ‘Aye, and do not think, Arnulf, that he revealed your presence here to me. I—’ He stopped. To claim to have worked it out for himself would sound immodest. ‘Well, he didn’t,’ he concluded abruptly.
Arnulf gave his quick smile again. ‘I was told that you are a man who keeps his eyes and ears open,’ he said. ‘When you were here before, you heard Aurelia crying out in her fever and her pain, and her husband trying to quiet her.’
‘I thought that you did not believe in marriage?’
Arnulf looked at him with interest. ‘You know about us?’
‘A little. If indeed you are Cathars’ – Arnulf nodded an affirmation – ‘then I am told that you are here on earth under sufferance, that you long to die and be reunited with your spirits, that you do not marry and that you abstain from – er, from things of the flesh.’
Now Arnulf’s smile was a positive beam. ‘In essence you have it,’ he said. ‘Although perhaps the bare bones that you present could do with a little fleshing out. As to marriage, Aurelia and Guiscard were husband and wife before they joined us. And, although it is indeed our main ambition to reunite with spirit, yet we are sufficiently human to retain emotions such as love and dependence.’ His eyes sober, he added simply, ‘Guiscard was not ready to lose his beloved wife. We therefore have done what we can to prolong her life a little.’
‘Are you all here, all four men?’ Josse asked.
‘Yes. Benedetto I believe you know of.’
‘Aye, I know that he brought Aurelia to Hawkenlye and then disappeared. She is doing well, by the way.’
Arnulf smiled. ‘I know. But thank you for telling me.’
Putting aside the interesting question of how he knew, Josse pressed on. ‘You and Alexius were in prison and rescued by Benedetto, yes?’
‘Yes.’
Lowering his voice, Josse asked, ‘Was it he who killed the prison guard?’
‘It was.’ Arnulf sighed. ‘It was such a case as we spoke of earlier. Alexius and I were to go to the stake. The Black Man – he who you call Father Micah – had ordained that I was too much of a threat to be allowed to live for, as he quite rightly judged, I had no intention of ceasing my evangelist mission.’ He stared earnestly at Josse. ‘Now I was quite happy to meet my death. But Alexius is still a youth and has not yet received the Consolamentum – you know what that is?’ Josse nodded. ‘I did not want him to die young and unprepared. Benedetto came for us and the guard tried to fight him. Benedetto does not know his own strength; he is a simple-minded man. He does not really understand our faith – any faith, I would say – but he is devoted to our group. We are, I believe, the closest to a family that he has ever known; his is a tragically sad story. He was a large, ungainly and slow-witted child, unloved by his harassed mother, tormented mercilessly by other children. On reaching adulthood he was employed by a man who used him like an animal. The one woman he ever encountered whom he hoped might return his feelings for her betrayed him. Then he met us.’ Arnulf paused, an expression of great sorrow on his broad face. ‘He would defend any of us with his life. He meant only to subdue that gaoler, but he squeezed too hard. Believe me, Sir Josse, Benedetto has suffered an agony of remorse.’
‘I see.’ All the remorse in the world would not bring the guard back to life, Josse thought. ‘What happened to Guiscard?’
‘After punishment, he and Aurelia were turned out to fend for themselves,’ Arnulf said tonelessly. ‘I imagine that the Black Man did not reckon they would last long for both are frail. But, again, Benedetto tracked them down and took them under his care. He had managed to herd us all together and find for us the relative shelter of a bank beneath the Lord’s lands when we were discovered.’
‘There were two other women with you. What about them?’
‘Utta and Frieda were friends who joined our sect together in their home town of Liège. That was where I met them, and young Alexius too. I am also from the Low Countries, but I had been away on a long journey to the south. I met Benedetto in Verona; Aurelia and Guiscard joined us when we were on our way north again. They had been sent to find other Cathars and try to persuade them to make for the Midi. Their home is in the region.’
‘Where they are more tolerant than in the north,’ Josse said.
‘Yes. I see that you are well informed. Utta and Frieda were also beaten and branded, then sent off in a cart loaded with criminals bound for a different gaol from the one where Alexius and I were confined. On the way there was a mishap – I am not sure of the details, for Benedetto was confused, but it sounds as if someone in the crowd was trying to get to a relation or friend in the cart. Anyway, there was a riot, during which Utta was thrown from the cart. While the men of the law went around bludgeoning anybody who got in their way, she had the presence of mind to pull her veil down over her forehead and crawl away. Later, when she realised that Frieda had not also been thrown clear, she tried to go after her. But by then Benedetto had found her and he would not let her go.’
‘And where is she now?’ Josse prompted.
Arnulf closed his eyes, lips moving as if he were silently praying. ‘None of us knows,’ he said heavily. ‘Benedetto found a hiding place for her where he left her while he tried to find where they had taken Frieda. He was unsuccessful. When he returned for Utta, she had gone.’ His brown eyes full of pain, he said, ‘We all weep for her. Benedetto, who believes both her loss and Frieda’s death to be his fault, has all but lost his mind with grief.’
‘What will you do now?’ Josse asked.
‘My plan, such as it is, is to wait here under the Lord’s protection’ – he flashed a grateful glance at the Lord, sitting watching and listening closely – ‘until we receive word that Aurelia is ready to travel. Then we shall make our way to the coast and find some way of crossing the Channel. We shall then head down to the Midi.’
‘And Utta?’
‘What do you suggest?’ Arnulf ’s sudden anger startled Josse. ‘My Lord has sent out search parties, but it is an impossible task. You must know this land far better than I, Sir Josse; can you not appreciate my difficulty?’
‘Aye, I can,’ Josse agreed. ‘I can also see a way in which I can help you. Let me try to find Utta. As you surmise, I do indeed know this land well. I know its hiding places; well, some of them, and I am acquainted with—’ He made himself stop. It was unwise to boast of knowledge of the forest people; for one thing it was arrogant, for another, he was quite sure they would not like it if they ever came to hear of it. ‘I know people hereabouts,’ he finished lamely.
‘You are a welcome and respected guest at Hawkenlye Abbey, a personal friend of the Abbess,’ Arnulf observed.
How did he know? Josse wondered. Oh
, aye – Benedetto. The strong man must have been listening to gossip during his brief time within the Abbey. But no, there was something wrong with that . . .
Frowning, Josse realised that Arnulf was waiting for an answer. ‘I do not deny it,’ Josse said. ‘The Abbess is a fine woman and also a devout nun. She is vowed to obedience.’
‘Naturally,’ Arnulf murmured. ‘And what would she think of her friend Sir Josse d’Acquin consorting with heretics and offering to help them locate their missing lamb?’
‘She – I will make sure that she does not know.’
‘And how will that lie on your conscience?’ Arnulf asked shrewdly. ‘You who readily claim close friendship with the lady, you will not suffer from keeping such a secret from her?’
Josse met his eyes. ‘Of course I’ll suffer,’ he said quietly. ‘But I would suffer a deal more if I put that higher than helping you and your people get to safety. I’ll not have your deaths on my conscience.’
‘I see.’ Arnulf stood silent for a moment and, again, Josse had the impression he was praying. Asking, perhaps, for guidance. ‘In that case, I accept your offer of help. And I thank you.’
It was late when Josse finally left Saxonbury. Heading back for Hawkenlye, he found himself hoping that he would be able to slip down to his quarters in the Vale, get something hot to eat and settle for the night without first having to have an audience with the Abbess.
He was resolved to do what he had undertaken to do and try to find the missing woman. He was in no doubt that it was the right thing. He would then find some way of introducing de Gifford to the group and persuading them of de Gifford’s sincerity. Then – maybe – he and de Gifford would manage to get the reunited six people down to the sea and away across the Channel.
Maybe.
18
In the morning, Helewise made it one of her first tasks to see how Aurelia was doing. She went across to the infirmary shortly before Tierce and discovered Sister Caliste crouching beside the woman’s bedside, feeding her spoonfuls of broth.
She watched in silence for a moment. Then, as the woman sensed eyes upon her and, with a small cry, turned to look up at her, she stepped forward into the recess.
Sister Caliste had got up and was giving her superior a deep bow.
‘Good morning,’ Helewise said quietly. ‘How is the patient, Sister Caliste?’
She noticed that Sister Caliste had taken hold of one of the woman’s hands as if in reassurance. ‘She is much stronger, my lady Abbess,’ the younger nun said. ‘She has slept well, her pain is less intense and she begins to recover her appetite.’
‘Good, good.’ Helewise was studying the woman and noting, for the first time, that apart from the red and sore-looking wound on her brow, Aurelia was very beautiful. She was dark-haired, black-eyed and her skin was a soft golden colour. But she was not as young as Helewise had thought; she guessed her age to be around the mid-thirties, perhaps more. She recalled that Gervase de Gifford had said some of the heretics were from the south; Aurelia, to judge from her dark colouring, was one of them.
Not heretics, Helewise corrected herself. I can be more definite now; she is a Cathar.
And I do not know what I am to do about her.
Aurelia was looking up at her with a doubtful expression, as if she wanted to feel that Helewise was her friend but was not sure that she was. It was an expression that tore at Helewise’s heart.
With a curt nod to Sister Caliste, she turned and left them.
On her knees in the Abbey church, she waited until the rest of the community had left after Tierce. Another priest had been assigned to Hawkenlye since Father Gilbert was still not ready to resume his duties. The man would be arriving later and Helewise had to make up her mind what she was going to tell him.
She is a Cathar, she told herself firmly. That is all that I need to remember. Cathars are heretics of the worst sort, for their sect seems to appeal to good Christians and seduce them into abandoning the Church and taking up a new faith. Each time a man or woman deserts Our Lord, he suffers the agony of his passion all over again, and the man or woman’s soul is lost.
I must tell the new priest the truth and leave the matter in his hands!
But then she saw the lovely face of Aurelia with its cruel disfigurement. It is possible that she will die if I reveal her identity, she thought miserably. Perhaps she will only be imprisoned, but then look what happened to her friend when she was in gaol. And supposing this new priest is another Father Micah? Supposing he thinks he’s had quite enough trouble from these heretics and condemns the lot of them to the scaffold or the stake? He might even use duress on poor Aurelia to persuade her to give away her friends’ hiding places, if she knows them.
What shall I do?
In an agony of indecision, Helewise dropped her face in her hot hands and prayed for guidance.
Josse had not slept well. He knew he should have notified the Abbess of what he had been doing and, moreover, what he intended to do today. But he also knew that he was going to slip out of the Vale this morning without seeing her. All of which made for poor sleep and bad dreams.
He went to fetch Horace and set out early.
He rode first to Tonbridge, where he managed to locate Gervase de Gifford quite quickly; he was given directions to the sheriff ’s lodgings close by the castle. He told him that he had located the men from the Cathar party and that he was now going to hunt for the missing woman.
‘Where do you intend to start?’ de Gifford asked, having congratulated an embarrassed Josse for locating the Saxonbury hiding place.
‘Oh – here and there,’ Josse said evasively. He was not willing to share his knowledge of the forest with anybody, even a man with whom he had recently formed an alliance.
De Gifford was eyeing him speculatively. ‘I have tried, you know,’ he said. ‘It is possible that I have visited the very places where you intend to search.’
‘Well, then I’ll just try again.’ Feeling more awkward by the minute, Josse took his leave.
De Gifford called after him, ‘I’ll come up to Hawkenlye tomorrow morning. Meet me there, if you would, and we can discuss what progress we have made.’
With a nod of assent, Josse hurried on his way.
Going into the forest, Josse experienced mixed emotions. It was always awe-inspiring to ride those ancient tracks beneath the dark and mysterious trees, and the sheer beauty of the place gave him a sense of quiet peace. But he had experienced too many perilous moments there to feel entirely without apprehension, if not actual fear.
He rode first to the disused charcoal burners’ camp close to the Hawkenlye fringes of the forest. He had known desperate people to camp there before; the old turf-roofed shacks were sound and fairly weatherproof. But now there was no sign of life. Dismounting, he checked for any areas of burned ground that would indicate a recent fire; there were none. And the crude dwellings themselves were overgrown and deserted.
He rode on beneath the trees, keeping at first quite close to the forest boundary; it was reassuring to know that he had to ride for but a short distance to be out in the open again. But, as mile after mile passed with no sign of human beings, he knew he must go deeper in.
There was one place he had to check. It was a year since he had been there and he was not sure that he could find it again. He tried to visualise the tracks and tiny paths that led to it, and thought he had succeeded when he recognised a place where he could clearly recall fording a little stream. On up the bank, follow the track to the right, then there should be a clearing with a herb garden and a hut . . .
There was the clearing. There, too, what could, with a little imagination, be a herb garden. At present, though, it was no more than bare earth with what looked to Josse, ignorant in gardening matters, like a few dead twigs sticking out of it.
He could not see the hut at all.
I must, he thought, be in the wrong place.
Muttering a curse, he turned and rode back to the stream.
Perhaps he had been wrong about the turn to the right; it could have been further on. He would start again from the stream, maybe follow it for a while and see if anything looked familiar.
He dismounted, leading Horace on a loose rein; the stream was narrow and overgrown and it was likely that he would be cut and scratched by low-growing branches if he tried to ride. He was turning a long left-hand curve in the stream’s course when he heard laughter.
Quickly he tied Horace’s reins to a stout tree branch. Then, moving quietly, he crept on until he could peer round the bend.
And saw, kneeling on the fresh grass in sunlight that fell on a clearing by the water, a woman and a baby.
She had not heard him. She was totally preoccupied with the child, who lay on a fur rug waving its little fists in delight and cooing up at the woman, responding joyfully to her warm voice. As he watched her, she began to sing a soft, sweet song. She had her back to Josse and he could see little other than that she was dressed in a thick cloak and stout boots.
They had not said that the missing woman had a child with her. Or had they? It was impossible to be certain. If, indeed, this woman really was Utta.
There was only one way to find out.
Stepping forward on to the grass, he said, ‘I believe you are Utta?’
She gave such a start of fear that he could clearly see it. Spinning round, she stared at him with eyes full of terror in a round, plump face that was white with fear.
Even as he took in the mark on her forehead – which seemed to be healing remarkably well – he was hurrying to reassure her. ‘Please, do not be afraid – I am a friend. Truly – I have found Arnulf and the others and I am here to help you.’
She was shaking her head, uncomprehending, still so terrified that she was shaking. She had also, he noticed, moved so as to hide the baby from him.
‘I am a friend,’ he repeated, thumping his chest with his fist as if to emphasise his good intentions and trying to give her an encouraging smile.
