by Alys Clare
She did not respond to his smile. But she whispered, ‘Fren?’
‘Friend, aye,’ he agreed. Then, speaking very slowly, ‘I will take you and your baby to Arnulf and the others, Alexius, Guiscard and Benedetto. Aurelia is in Hawkenlye Abbey being looked after by the nuns, but I will fetch her when she is ready to travel. I will take you all to the coast so that you can get away out of England.’
He had no idea how much she understood. He remembered that she came from the Low Countries so, trying to recall a few words of Flemish, he made his little speech again.
This time a great beam of delight spread over her face. Responding with a long, involved sentence in her own language – of which he caught about one word in three – her nods and smiles indicated that she believed him. He was about to offer to take her off to Saxonbury there and then – he took a few steps towards her and held out his hand to help her to her feet – but she drew back.
She said slowly in her own tongue – she seemed to have picked up the fact that Josse spoke it only very uncertainly – ‘I must collect my belongings. I will meet you here later. Come back later.’
‘But I can wait for you here while you fetch your things!’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘It is as I say or not at all.’
I’m trying to help you! he wanted to shout. Then he thought, but why should she give me instant trust? Better for her to have some time to think, to test whether I am as good as my word and leave her alone to prepare. Whether I return alone.
‘What is your name?’ she asked him.
He told her, and she repeated it softly. Then she nodded. ‘Come back later,’ she repeated. ‘Go away now.’
Under her determined blue-eyed stare, he decided that he had no option but to obey. With a brief bow, he retreated out of the clearing and went back to untether Horace.
He did not know how much time to give her. He rode slowly back along the stream, following it absently while he thought about the woman. After some time, he realised that the trees were beginning to thin out; another half mile or so and he would be in the open.
He rode on, drawing rein under one of the last of the great oaks. From here he could see out into the fields and hedgerows of the small community around Hawkenlye Abbey. There was nobody about, no sound but the distant barking of a dog.
He waited for a long time. Then, becoming chilled despite riding regular circles under the trees to keep both him and Horace from stiffening up, he made up his mind that he had given her long enough. He made his way back to the stream and had set out to follow it back to the clearing when she appeared, walking towards him with a small pack over her shoulder.
‘I am ready now,’ she said. ‘Please take me to the others.’
He said, amazed, ‘But where’s the baby?’
‘No baby.’ She spoke firmly, meeting his eyes with a determined look. He thought he could see the residue of tears on her cheeks and her eyelids were red and swollen.
‘But—’
‘No baby,’ she repeated. ‘Please, take me away.’
Stunned, he stared at her. Had he imagined it? Was it not Utta’s but some fairy child, which appeared to mortals then vanished back into its own world?
That, he knew, was fanciful. The child had been real enough, and for some reason Utta had left it behind.
He said, ‘Was it not your child?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Now, we go.’
But he could not leave it. ‘Will it be all right? It’s cold today, and—’
‘Baby will be very right,’ she said, switching to his own tongue as if to make quite sure he understood.
Was it then a child of the forest people? It seemed to him in that tense moment that this must be the explanation. Utta surely would not otherwise leave a baby all alone in the forest! No woman would, certainly not one who had been playing with the child with such delight. And if indeed Utta had met up with someone of the forest folk, it would explain how she had survived out there in the wildwood.
She had come right up to him and was holding out her hand. ‘I ride with you,’ she announced, ‘but careful, careful, hurt back.’
‘Aye, I know,’ he said. ‘You’d best sit behind me.’ Then, very gently, he took hold of her hand. Taking his foot out of the left stirrup, he indicated that she should put hers in, then, with her assistance, he lifted her up and sat her behind him on Horace’s broad back.
To his great surprise, she gave a quick laugh. ‘Big horse,’ she observed. ‘Very high up.’
‘Very high,’ he agreed. ‘Hold on to me, I won’t let you fall.’
‘I trust,’ she replied. ‘I know, I trust.’
Giving up on trying to get her to explain her remark, he kicked Horace into a gentle trot and set off for Saxonbury.
He was moved almost to tears by the emotion of Utta’s reunion with her people. Turning away from them as they demonstrated their very obvious love and concern for one another and their joy at being reunited, he found himself meeting the steady gaze of the Lord of the High Weald.
‘You have done well, Josse d’Acquin,’ he said. ‘How did you know where to look for her?’
‘It was sheer chance,’ he replied. ‘I came across her in the forest. She—’ No. Better not to mention the baby. ‘She seemed willing to trust me,’ he finished instead. ‘I still do not understand why.’
‘Perhaps she was growing desperate,’ the Lord suggested. ‘It must have been very hard, trying to keep herself warm, fed and sheltered out there. Possibly any friendly face would have persuaded her away.’
‘I think—’ He was going to tell the Lord of his conclusion that Utta must have been under the care of the forest people. But, again, he decided against it. ‘I think she has done well,’ he said. ‘The wound on her face is almost healed and, from the way she swung herself up on to my horse, I can’t think that the marks from the flogging can be paining her too much.’
‘Perhaps she was treated less harshly than the others,’ the Lord said. ‘Either that or she is a quick healer.’ Turning to look at Utta, now held in a close embrace by Benedetto, tears streaming down both their faces, he lowered his voice and said, ‘How soon can you go for the other woman?’
‘I return to Hawkenlye from here,’ he said. ‘If you will keep them safe a while longer, I will bring her as soon as she is fit to come.’
The Lord nodded. ‘We will await you.’
The members of the heretic group were still wrapped up in each other. Not wishing to interrupt their happiness, Josse led Horace out of the courtyard, mounted and rode quickly away.
In the early evening, Josse watched from the shadows as the Abbess came out of the Abbey church and headed for her room. When she was inside behind a closed door, he went over to the infirmary.
‘Sir Josse,’ Sister Euphemia greeted him coolly. ‘We were wondering where you were. The Abbess is quite anxious about you.’
‘I – er, I have been visiting Gervase de Gifford down in Tonbridge,’ he replied. It was the truth, as far as it went, but still he felt the guilt rise up in him at his deceit.
‘I see.’ The expression in Sister Euphemia’s wise eyes suggested that she did see, all too clearly. ‘You’ve come to see Aurelia, no doubt. Go through, she’s sitting up and is much better.’
He did as she suggested. Aurelia stared up at him doubtfully; struck by how lovely she was, he knelt beside her bed and said slowly, ‘I am so pleased to see you looking well.’
She answered him in his own tongue, although with an accent that he did not at first recognise; it was a long time since he had talked with someone from the Midi. Listening intently, he realised that she was thanking him. That, even though he had not yet told her, she seemed to know what he was planning to do.
‘How do you know?’ he whispered.
She put a long finger to her lips. ‘I cannot tell you. It is a secret. But I know what you have been doing and I know that you will take me to join them as soon as it is possible
. I think perhaps we can go tomorrow. But very early, yes? Before anyone is awake and watching.’
Thinking that it would have to be very early indeed to be before an Abbey full of nuns rose for their first prayers, he nodded. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’ll come for you before daybreak.’
She reached out and took his hand. ‘I cannot move quickly,’ she said. ‘You need to know this, and also that you will have to help me.’
‘I understand. I’ll get you up on my old horse. He’s steady and has a broad back. You’ll think you are still lying in your bed.’
She gave him a very lovely smile. ‘You are being untruthful with me, Sir Josse, but I know that you do it to reassure me and so I forgive you.’ She gave his hand a squeeze then, letting him go, shifted in her bed with a small wince. ‘You should go,’ she urged. ‘Somebody may wonder what you do here, whispering to me in such secrecy.’
‘Very well.’ He stood up. ‘Until tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow.’ He caught an echo of the smile, then he turned away.
The next morning, Helewise repeated her previous day’s early visit to the infirmary. Today she went straight after Prime. She headed for the recess where, behind a curtain, Aurelia’s bed was concealed, reaching it before even the infirmarer or Sister Caliste got there.
When, a little later, she was joined by Sister Euphemia, she said quietly, ‘Aurelia has gone.’
‘Aye,’ the infirmarer replied. ‘Before daybreak, I would guess.’
‘Was she fit to travel?’
Sister Euphemia gave a brief tut of concern. ‘I would have said not. I would prefer to have had the care of her for a few days more. Her wounds are healing quite well and her fever is down, but I fear very much that, without care, she may open up one of those cuts and the infection may come back.’
Helewise lightly touched the infirmarer’s sleeve. ‘It is out of our hands now, Euphemia,’ she said gently. ‘You and Sister Caliste have done your very best for her.’
Sister Euphemia stood looking down at the empty bed for a while. Then, with a shake as if she were pulling her attention back to more practical matters, she said, ‘Aye, you’re right, my lady. I’ll get this bed stripped and prepare it for whoever needs it next.’
Later in the morning, Helewise received a visit from Gervase de Gifford. He began on an elaborately courteous greeting, which she interrupted by raising a hand.
‘I am sure that you have not come rushing up to the Abbey this morning to exchange polite remarks with me,’ she said coolly. ‘Would you care to explain your mission here?’
‘Er – I am still trying to discover what happened to Father Micah,’ de Gifford said. ‘I am ashamed to confess that I still know no more than that he was found six days ago at the top of Castle Hill with a broken neck.’
‘I hope you had not been hoping for another look at the body,’ Helewise said, deliberately keeping her tone neutral. ‘We buried him four days back.’
‘No, no, I don’t think there was anything more to be learned from looking at the poor man.’ De Gifford appeared to be recovering his composure.
‘You have learned no more of his final movements?’ she asked. ‘Other than his visit to this Lord up at Saxonbury?’
‘No.’ De Gifford would not, she noticed, meet her eyes. Then he said, ‘My lady, I was expecting to meet Sir Josse here this morning but I am informed down in the Vale, where I understand him to be putting up, that he is not here.’
‘Is he not?’ She widened her eyes. ‘I am afraid that I cannot help you, Sir Gervase. I do not know where he is.’
She had a fair idea, but it was, she told herself, quite true to say that she did not actually know.
‘Oh.’ De Gifford seemed to be at a loss. ‘I wonder, my lady, if I might pay a visit to the woman in the infirmary? The heretic woman with—?’
‘I know to whom you are referring,’ Helewise interrupted. ‘I would gladly give my permission for such a visit, only I am afraid that she is not there either.’
She had to give de Gifford credit for quick thinking. The words were hardly out of her mouth when he made her a swift bow and turned for the door. ‘If you will excuse me, my lady, I have just—’
‘Just remembered an important engagement?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Please, then, do not let me detain you.’
For one brief moment he met her eyes. In his she saw excitement, the thrill of some dangerous task he had to do. There was something else, too; she did not think that he had been fooled for a moment by her act of innocence.
He said very quietly, ‘Thank you, my lady, and may God bless you.’
Then he was gone.
19
Josse remembered the pre-dawn ride to Saxonbury for a long time afterwards. He remembered it primarily for Aurelia’s courage.
He tiptoed into the infirmary while it was still pitch dark outside, finding his way to her bed by the soft glow of a candle on a shelf set up high in the wall.
He was not familiar with the daily and nocturnal nursing routine and, in any case, he was too preoccupied with getting Aurelia away unseen to think about why there was no nurse on duty with the patients.
Aurelia was sitting on her bed, dressed in a dark coloured robe and with a thick travelling cloak beside her. He whispered, ‘Have you a pack?’ and she shook her head.
He took her arm and she stood up. Then, with small steps and leaning heavily on his arm, she walked beside him along the length of the infirmary and out of the door. On the step she took one quick backward glance; he saw her lips moving but he could not hear what she was saying.
Urging her on, he helped her to where he had tethered Horace. Then, feeling her stiffen up with the pain, he helped her into the saddle. He slid back the bolts and opened the gate a little, then led the big horse outside, fastening the gate behind him. Then, trying very hard not to jog her, he got up in front of her. It was awkward and he would have felt safer supporting the ailing woman when seated behind her, but there were the wounds on her back to consider. When they were settled, he urged Horace forwards into a slow, even walk.
After quite some time, he felt her begin to relax. He encouraged Horace to move a little faster; she did not seem to protest. And, as the first rays of the early sun appeared behind them and to their left, they made their slow way up to Saxonbury.
The relatively short journey took a long time. Josse found it hard at times to restrain his impatience; as they rode on, he felt a growing sense of urgency, a feeling that he must get Aurelia to Saxonbury – and the whole group on their way to the coast – before . . . Before what? He did not know. He simply felt, with a sense of gloom that was quite unlike him, that something bad was going to happen.
Aurelia did not speak to him other than to reply to his infrequent questions about whether she was all right. Each time she said, ‘Yes’, and each time, he was quite sure, she probably felt like saying ‘No’. Other than those brief exchanges, he was left to his own thoughts.
He went over in his mind again and again just what could go wrong. He and Aurelia would soon be at Saxonbury, she would be reunited with the others and Josse would take them down to the sea. He knew the area well enough to take them to the coast along little-used ways and he was not worried about his ability to guide them. Even if he managed to get them all lost, it was a relatively simple matter to reach the coast from Saxonbury: all you had to do was to travel due south and you could not help but hit the sea sooner or later. And there were several fishing ports along the south coast from where he ought to be able to find a craft to take the group back across the Channel.
He was not worried, either, about his ability to protect the six Cathars. He would have preferred to have Gervase de Gifford with him in case they met with trouble; he did not reckon much on the ability of Arnulf, Alexius or Guiscard to help him out if it came to a fight, although Benedetto might be useful. But it now looked as if Josse would have to do without the Sheriff ’s company. He could have waited for de Gifford to turn up for their m
orning meeting at Hawkenlye. But the opportunity to slip away with Aurelia before anybody else was about had been just too good to pass up. Aye, Josse reflected, I reckon I’ll manage all right alone.
He tried to decide whether or not it was a threat from the Church that was bothering him. It was highly likely that the Hawkenlye community would be assigned a replacement for Father Micah and, if this priest shared the convictions of his immediate predecessor, then he might well set out on the Cathars’ trail.
If, that was, he came to know about them.
Would he?
Would the Abbess Helewise follow her head and obey her vow of obedience? If she did, then this new priest would have to do something. It was possible that the Abbess would convince him that they had nursed Aurelia in ignorance of who and what she was, and so escape retribution for herself and her nuns. But the priest could not but make at least an attempt to track the party down and impose whatever further punishment he deemed necessary.
If the Abbess followed her heart, however, Josse was quite sure that no threat pursued the group from the Church.
What would she do?
As they began on the last long climb up to Saxonbury, Josse half-turned and told Aurelia that they were nearly there. She said nothing, but her pained smile spoke many words.
Again, the guard must have seen their approach. Drawing aside the gate, he welcomed them in with an uncharacteristically cheerful expression. ‘They’re all waiting,’ he muttered to Josse. ‘They seemed to know you’d be by afore long.’
Josse dismounted and led Horace into the courtyard. And, as the guard had said, there they all were, lined up in a row with Utta in the middle, Arnulf and Alexius to her right, Guiscard and Benedetto on her left. Behind the Cathars stood the Lord of the High Weald and his son Morcar, with two other men of similar appearance beside them. As Josse led Horace and his rider into view, they all broke out into a cheer.
It was Guiscard who first broke ranks. He came running up to Horace and, reaching up, took his wife tenderly in his arms. Watching them as Aurelia carefully dismounted and fell into Guiscard’s embrace, Josse reflected briefly that they might have taken this vow of perfect chastity but, all the same, it did not seem to have diminished their very evident love for each other. Quite the contrary.
