Dark Night Hidden

by Alys Clare

  It became clear then that the men were no hunting party. There was a rustling in the undergrowth and then a large boar, presumably disturbed by the men and the horses, suddenly broke cover almost under their feet and raced away across the clearing and into the bracken on the far side.

  The men just stood there. Someone made a comment, and somebody else laughed briefly.

  Then the men on foot set off along the track.

  Joanna did not move. She lay frozen in position, her eye fixed to the men walking so stealthily towards her. She did not dare lift her head to see how Utta was doing; she took the total silence from behind her as a good sign. If only Meggie did not choose this moment to decide she was hungry . . .

  As the men came steadily closer she could occasionally make out what they were saying. They seemed to be talking about some escaped prisoners; one of them said something about a dead gaoler. Then – and she started with terror – one of them looked straight up into the branches of the yew tree.

  She stared down at him. He was a good-looking man; she could not help but notice it, although she berated herself for the irreverence when this very man might be on the point of making a move that would lead to her death. If he spotted the refuge, if he managed to scale the yew’s trunk and came up to investigate . . .

  He said, in a blessedly ordinary voice, ‘Great old tree, that one, eh, Robert? It’s stood there a thousand years, they say. It must have seen the Romans as they marched along these tracks.’

  One of the others answered him, making some laughing comment about a legion needing a wider road than this insubstantial path. The third man had come to stand right under the tree.

  Suddenly the first man cried out, making Joanna jump out of her skin. ‘Stop that!’ he roared. ‘Have some respect, damn you, and shed your water somewhere else!’

  The man under the tree, grumbling, turned away, walked a few paces into the dead bracken and then, raising his tunic, splashed a loud stream of urine into the thick, rusty foliage.

  Even if the man in the lead were her enemy, Joanna thought, he had one redeeming feature.

  He was still looking up into the branches, but she no longer feared that he had discovered her secret refuge; his interest appeared to be in the old tree itself. Now, coming to stand beside the trunk, he gave it an affectionate pat. He said something in a low voice – Joanna could not make out the words – and then, turning away, led his men off along the track and back to the wider path.

  They waited in silence for what seemed like hours. From time to time they heard the two men who had stayed with the horses making remarks to one another. They had both dismounted now, and one of them kept swinging his arms around himself, slapping his hands against his jerkin as if in an attempt to keep himself warm. They were in deep shade down there in the clearing, Joanna thought, and had not the benefit of the Sun whose beams she could see on the open section of the platform. The other man led the horses across to where there was a small rill leading from the stream that ran through her own glade, waiting with them while they drank.

  Eventually she heard the sounds of the other three making their way back. They were returning via a different path, one that passed further away from the yew tree.

  One of the men in the clearing called out, ‘Did you find anything?’

  The man who had led the searchers called back, ‘Deer tracks, boar tracks, plenty of signs of animal life. But I don’t think there’s a human being within five miles.’ One of his companions laughed and said something about Hawkenlye Abbey and the man, laughing too, replied, ‘Ah, yes, Robert, but we are not hunting pious Christian women, especially not nuns.’

  Joanna turned over on to her back, closing her eyes.

  So it was true. They were hunting for Utta and her party.

  After a moment, opening her eyes again, she stared across at Utta, who met her gaze steadily. She tried a smile, a gesture of such gallantry that Joanna’s heart went out to her all over again.

  I cannot protect her friends, she thought to herself. But I vow that, if it is in my power, I shall keep Utta safe.

  They spent the remainder of the day trying to recover from the fear engendered by the presence of the huntsmen. Joanna attempted to take Utta’s mind off her terror by keeping her occupied. It was not easy, in their restricted circumstances – and nothing on Earth would have persuaded Utta to descend from the safety of the yew tree – but she did what she could. First, there were Utta’s wounds to look at. She was healing well and Joanna realised that the enforced idleness up in their refuge was a blessing in disguise. The brand mark on Utta’s forehead was still angry and inflamed, but Joanna was sure that the area of heat around it was growing smaller. She encouraged Utta with nods and smiles, to which Utta responded with pathetic gratitude.

  ‘I have – mark?’ she asked shyly, pointing to her brow.

  ‘Yes, Utta. You bear a mark.’

  ‘It will—’ Utta paused, clearly thinking how to ask what she wanted to know. ‘Mark will stay?’

  Ah, of course, Joanna thought. She’s asking if she will be left with a scar. What woman would not want to know that?

  Weighing her words carefully so as to sound neither over-optimistic nor over-pessimistic, she said slowly and clearly, ‘Usually a branding iron will leave a scar. But your wound is healing very well and I believe that the herbs that I have used will mean that eventually you will only have a faint mark.’ Leaning forward, she reached for the edge of Utta’s veil and said, ‘May I?’

  Utta nodded, her blue eyes puzzled. Joanna draped the veil low over Utta’s eyebrows, covering the brand mark. ‘If you wear your veil a little lower,’ she said, ‘like this, I think that nobody will see the mark.’

  Relief flooded Utta’s face. Taking Joanna’s hands in both of hers, she squeezed them warmly. ‘You – good woman,’ she pronounced. ‘You save Utta’s life, also save her face.’

  Something about the way she phrased her gratitude made Joanna giggle. Utta joined in and, as their fear gave way to laughter, they looked at each other, both aware that some new factor had entered their relationship.

  I wish, Joanna thought, that I could ask her why she has been branded a heretic. What is her faith? What do her people believe in? But, given Utta’s limited command of Joanna’s language, she realised that her wish was to remain unfulfilled.

  They both slept more soundly that night. Joanna gave Utta some more of the painkilling draught, ensuring that she would have a peaceful rest, and Joanna felt able to relax to a greater degree. But she knew that having had one visit from those who hunted for Utta did not necessarily mean that there would not be others.

  Sound sleep might have come to her, but it was full of dreams, the content of most of which Joanna did her best, on waking, to forget.

  He came late in the afternoon of the next day.

  Joanna never knew why he should have found his way to that particular area of the great forest. Since nobody told her otherwise, she concluded that it was nothing more than mischance.

  She had just fed Meggie and settled the child in her furry nest. Meggie went quickly to sleep, one small fist clenched under her chin slowly uncurling as she relaxed; Joanna tucked the hand beneath the fur covers.

  Utta was wrapped up in her own rugs, leaning a shoulder into the spongy trunk of the yew. Patting the tree, she was haltingly saying something about its wood being comfortable to rest against when Joanna heard a sound.

  She held up her hand for silence and instantly Utta obeyed. It sickened Joanna to see the terror in Utta’s eyes; in that one brief moment, she had gone from being a happy, relaxed woman anticipating an evening with a congenial companion to one who looked as if she expected to die in the very near future.

  Trying to reassure her, Joanna put her mouth close to Utta’s ear and whispered, ‘They did not find us before so they will not now. Anyway, it may be nothing but a forest animal.’

  But Utta did not appear to be reassured. Moving so stealthily that a moth would ha
ve made more noise, slowly she crawled right to the back of the shelter, covering herself in both her and Joanna’s furs and rugs and crouching down until she was no more than a vague heap in the gloomy light. Joanna could see nothing of her but her eyes, wide with fear.

  There was, Joanna knew, no need to tell her to be absolutely silent.

  Turning her back on Utta, Joanna lay down on the platform and once more put her eye to the spyhole. At first she could see nothing. She was not entirely sure from which direction the sound had come so she waited, holding her breath, to see if it would come again. After a few moments, it did.

  It sounded as if someone – or something – were moving cautiously along the track. Not the main track, up towards the clearing where the horsemen had waited for the hunters, but the smaller path that led off towards the yew tree. Watching, every sense straining, Joanna looked out for movement. It was almost sunset and the light was fast fading down there beneath the trees. If we have been scared rigid by nothing more threatening than a boar, she thought, peering along the line of the path, then I may never even see the creature . . .

  But then there was another, louder sound, swiftly followed by an exclamation. Whoever was down there had just tripped over something. And he was not a boar but a man.

  Joanna moved slightly so as to get a better view. The sound had come from the path, at a point where the smaller animal track led off towards the yew tree. Straining to see, she stared down into the gloom.

  As she watched, he came down out of the undergrowth and stood on the path. It seemed likely that he had been making his way under cover of the low growth beneath the trees, almost as if he knew somebody would be looking out for him and wanted to ensure that he stayed hidden. But, having damaged himself when he tripped – he was reaching down to inspect an ankle – he had decided to come out on to the easier way offered by the path.

  Joanna could see little of him but the top of his head – he appeared to be bald – and his slight shoulders. He was dressed in some dark garment that might have been deliberately chosen to make him hard to spot in the dim light. As she stared intently down at him, he straightened up and began to creep on down the path.

  Stay on that track, Joanna willed him, follow it wherever it leads you, and do not turn aside.

  It seemed as if he would obey. Turning his head to look from side to side, he paused for a moment to stare at the animal track leading off towards the yew tree – Joanna felt her heart stop – but then, apparently losing interest, he made as if to go on.

  Just at that moment, Meggie stirred, gave a little hiccup that brought up a mouthful of semi-digested milk, and let out a small, soft sigh.

  He can’t have heard, Joanna told herself, he is too far away!

  But the man had stopped. Turning with infinite slowness towards the yew tree, he raised his head and stared right up at the place where the platform sat hidden in the tree’s thick branches, still clad in their dark-green foliage. Only then, when danger really threatened, did Joanna fully appreciate the wisdom of her people in constructing the refuge in an evergreen tree.

  Keep still! Joanna ordered herself. And, instantly disobeying her own command, she stretched out a hand to Meggie.

  Who, not aware of the terrible drama being enacted around her, merely perceived her mother’s particular scent. And, as she always did when her mother came close, she gave a happy little gurgle.

  Even as Joanna watched the man hurl himself along the faint track she thought, what an irony, to be betrayed by a baby’s delight.

  There was still hope. Twisting round to give Utta a furiously intent look – stay still! – she put her eye back to the spyhole.

  He was very near now, standing just outside the protective ring formed by the outer branches of the yew tree. It seemed almost as if he were reluctant to enter under the dense green foliage. Putting all her power into her thought, Joanna commanded him: Keep away!

  It was almost as if he heard her. With a low laugh – a truly horrible sound – he bent down and, coming forward in a crouch, straightened up again right beside the trunk.

  But he could not get up to them, Joanna thought frantically, not without a rope! And if he went away to fetch one – to fetch more men too, probably – then she and Utta could escape while he was gone.

  There was silence for so long that she thought he had already gone. But then, sounding frighteningly close, came his voice.

  ‘I know you are there, my pretty maid,’ he said. ‘And, by the sound of it, you have one of your accursed offspring with you, although they did not tell me that you had whelped. Still, the fires that consume you will accept your young, have no fear.’

  Then there was a whisper of sound, quickly repeated once, then once again; he must have brought a rope with him, for he was trying to cast it over the lowest branch so as to haul himself up.

  Joanna heard a muffled sound behind her: Utta, stifling her agony with a corner of a blanket. For an instant, Joanna met her eyes. Then she looked at Meggie, grinning gummily up at her from her little nest.

  This was Joanna’s test. Suddenly she knew it, without any doubt. She heard the Domina’s words in her head: When the time comes, remember that what you have done before, you can do again.

  Feeling her fear run out of her as resolve took its place, Joanna climbed off the platform and silently descended the rope ladder. She was thinking, as her bare feet effortlessly found the rough rungs, of that earlier time, that occasion – which the Domina must have known about – when once previously Joanna had acted out of love for another. What you have done before, you can do again. Yes. The Domina was quite correct. And if this was the task, and the Domina had known about it and prepared Joanna for it, then it must be the right thing to do.

  The last of her doubts left her. Standing now on the branch from which the upper of her two ropes habitually hung, she uncurled its length and let herself down to the lower branch. She slid down the rope too quickly, burning her palms, but speed was now essential: he had managed to get his own rope over the lower branch and even now he was securing it.

  Then he began to climb.

  Part Three

  Hawkenlye Abbey

  February 1193

  15

  Three days after Father Micah’s death, neither Josse nor anybody else within the Hawkenlye community yet had any idea how he died.

  Soon after noon of that day, Josse stood in the road outside the Abbey gates staring after the retreating figure of Gervase de Gifford. He was going over in his mind all that de Gifford had told him concerning the group of strangers. The heretics, as he now knew them to be.

  He was trying to decide exactly how – indeed, what – he was going to tell the Abbess. Briefly it crossed his mind that he might not reveal the group’s identity; would it really do any harm if she did not know? He had given his word to de Gifford to respect the man’s confidences, although with the proviso that only if by so doing he did not compromise anyone else. Not telling the Abbess would certainly save the almost certain introduction of friction in his relationship with her for, no matter that he knew her to be a compassionate and fair-minded woman, she was also Abbess of Hawkenlye. And, as such, she was answerable to those above her in the religious hierarchy who decreed what the attitude to heresy and heretics must be.

  Aye. He gave a deep sigh. No matter what her own heart told her, she would obey the rules, as she had vowed to do. And he realised that he had to tell her; tempting though it was to leave her in ignorance, it might prove dangerous for her. It was quite possible that there were other priests as well as the late Father Micah out there on the heretics’ trail. If one of them came to Hawkenlye and found out that the Abbess and her nuns had tended a heretic woman in the Abbey infirmary, then she – and probably Sister Euphemia and Sister Caliste – would be severely punished.

  To refrain from telling the Abbess that Aurelia was a heretic would certainly compromise her.

  He sighed again, turned back inside the gates and went to fin
d her.

  Launching straight into his story, he told her what de Gifford had just told him. ‘They’re a band of heretics,’ he said baldly. ‘Some from the Low Countries, some from the south; some place in the Midi called Toulouse, or perhaps Albi. That’s why Father Micah treated them so savagely. And the letter on Aurelia’s forehead isn’t an A but an H.’

  For some moments she just sat and stared at him. Then she said, very quietly, ‘She’s a heretic.’

  ‘Aye.’

  He had expected her to be surprised – shocked, even – but nevertheless the pallor that spread over her face alarmed him. ‘My lady?’ he said anxiously. ‘May I fetch you water?’

  ‘Water will do me no good whatsoever,’ she snapped back. Then, eyes blazing, she cried out, ‘Heretics say terrible things, Sir Josse! They claim that Christ is not divine! They say that there is not the one true God but two deities, one good and the other evil, and that this world and everything in it is the creation of the Dark One! Dear Lord, but they claim our very existence here on earth is but an exile until our material bodies die and we are reunited with our souls!’

  ‘But—’ He tried to interrupt but she was in full flow, stung to fury by heresy’s terrible, hurtful slur on the loving Son of God she worshipped.

  ‘They reject marriage and baptism, they scorn the clergy and they say that each and every man and woman may address the deity personally!’ she stormed. ‘Just how, pray, is a man of the Church supposed to respond to that?’

  ‘Perhaps we should—’

  Again she rode him down. ‘Think of the people, Sir Josse! What is to become of them if they do not have the strong, steady hold of the priesthood keeping their souls safe from temptation? If they fall into sinful ways and are not brought to confession and given God’s forgiveness, then when they die they will go to eternal damnation!’ She paused, panting from the effort, then, after a moment, said in a quieter tone, ‘That is why heresy must not be allowed to spread. Because it will lead directly to men and women dying in a state of sin, and I cannot believe that you would wish it on a fellow human being to appear before the terrible judge without having been reconciled by penance and fortified by Holy Communion.’ She sniffed, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘Even if you can accept that threat, I certainly cannot.’