by Alys Clare
‘Above them all there were Isis and Osiris,’ Piers went on, ‘husband and wife but also twin brother and sister, who fell in love in the womb and who did not desert each other, even through death and beyond, for when Osiris was murdered and dismembered by Seth, Isis reassembled his body and by her magic restored him to life. She was the life-giver, loved and worshipped all over the old world and she—’ As if he suddenly remembered where he was and to whom he was speaking, Piers abruptly stopped and said anxiously, ‘My lady, I beg your pardon, that I speak of such things within this holy place.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said soothingly. ‘Go on.’
He was fretful now, turning his head on the pillow, and she felt his fingers grasp hers convulsively. ‘They had answered Pope Urban’s great call to arms and most of them went out to Outremer with Robert of Normandy or his cousin, the duke of Flanders.’ She realized he was now speaking of the Knights of Arcturus. ‘I don’t know which of them discovered it – their camp was some distance away from Jerusalem and it is said that a group of them came across their find by purest accident.’ He sighed heavily. ‘There were learned men among the original thirteen, men with unorthodox views, and since arriving in the East they had been distressed at the war they saw waged for a holy purpose. The world was changing and the sounds of steel clashing against steel and the screams of wounded men dying in agony drove out the quiet voice of the spirit. To find what they found was somehow meant, for it possessed within it an older, simpler power and it spoke with a voice of ancient wisdom.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Or that is what they say.’
‘So they hid their discovery,’ she said slowly, ‘and in time brought it back to the West and formed themselves into a guardian group, and the eternal task that was theirs and that of their descendants was to keep it safe.’ She thought she had a good idea what the nature of this discovery might be.
‘It began with such a pure and noble motive.’ His voice was infinitely sad. ‘But there is a seductive appeal in secrecy, is there not? The power affected the descendants of those first honourable men and, in only a hundred years, they have fallen from the heights of honour to the depths of depravity. Dear sweet Lord, no wonder my poor old uncle tried to warn me off.’ He closed his eyes, his face crumpling in distress.
‘Were they . . . ? Is it their intention to guard this secret for ever?’ she asked.
He opened his eyes, agitated again. ‘No! They were meant to judge when the moment was right to reveal what they knew,’ he said urgently. ‘That was why Philippe had to go to Chartres – the knights had considered concealing their treasure within the new cathedral, so that the power would always be there for those who knew to go looking for it, only . . . only . . .’ A tear rolled down his cheek. She waited, and slowly he recovered his control. ‘That proposal was outvoted,’ he said flatly. ‘Instead Philippe was to take funds from the knights’ coffers and commission a special statue. He found a talented mason and gave his orders, but the mason, de Fleury, found out something – I do not know what – and tried to make Philippe pay for his silence. He might have picked up some unpleasant little details about Philippe but the poor soul did not know nearly enough; no man threatens Philippe de Loup, not if he wants to live.’
‘And so you—’ she began, but then she stopped. She thought she understood now. Many things that had deeply troubled her all at once began to clarify, and the heavy burden she had been carrying for the past two days no longer weighed her down. ‘Sir Piers?’ She spoke very gently, for she thought he had slipped into sleep.
His eyelids fluttered open. ‘My lady abbess!’ He seemed surprised to see her. ‘Did you wish to speak to me?’ His expression clouded. ‘Oh, but I have to speak to Sir Josse,’ he whispered anxiously. ‘Is he here?’
And, aching for him – he seemed to have totally forgotten their intense, disturbing conversation – she repeated what she had said a few minutes ago. ‘He is not here, I’m afraid. I will ask him to come and see you when he returns,’ she added. ‘Sleep now, Sir Piers.’ Then she got up and tiptoed out of the recess.
Helewise’s footsteps led her automatically to the church but, as its shadow fell over her, unnaturally long in the light of the setting sun, she realized that it was not where she needed to be. She muttered a quick prayer to the loving spirit whom she knew kept it in his protection. Nothing, she thought fiercely, nothing could change her love for he who gave up his life to save the world, but another voice was calling to her and it was not to be found within the abbey’s walls.
She walked out through the gates and up the grassy slope until she reached the edge of the forest. Then, taking a deep breath, she went in under the trees. She glided slowly, as if in a dream, and, as she moved beneath the leafy branches, dapples of rosy sunset light patterned her black habit.
Sunshine, shadow. Light, dark.
The play of light was hypnotic and soon she felt that she had entered a trance-like state. Her mind, which was always so busy, overflowing with all that each day demanded of her, gradually grew calm. It was, she thought, stopping to give it her full attention, like a child’s bouncing ball, which, as the initial impetus dies, bounces lower and lower until it is still.
Alone out in the quiet of the forest, Helewise stood with her eyes closed and she thought she understood. That strange moment of epiphany when she had speculated about the black statue had penetrated deep within her. Now she knew what it meant and, as realization flowered, it was as if she had always known, as if all her life there had been two Helewises. There was the one who loved the Lord and had for most of her adult life served Him within Hawkenlye Abbey – for the past fifteen years as its abbess – but there was also the Helewise in whom ran an understanding and a full acceptance that other ways also led to the divine.
With the realization came so much more and, as the tumult of thoughts exploded, she understood that the effort of suppressing them had been enormous, and that she had been making it for some time.
She sank down on to the short grass beside the track, her mind leaping back. There had been the business of the heretics and that sweet-natured woman whom Helewise ought to have denounced; she vividly recalled the night when she had kneeled before the altar, to see after hours of anguish the tender face of Christ. Aurelia – yes, the woman’s name had been Aurelia. Helewise had let her go. Then there was the abiding presence of the forest people and, indeed, dear old Sister Tiphaine, at least still half pagan. There was Joanna, whom Josse loved . . .
She turned her mind from that. This, she told herself firmly, is not about Josse.
She was a nun – an abbess – and it was exactly what she wanted to be, for her love of and faith in the Lord was profound and sincere. But her role meant that she must serve another master, whose nature was no longer what she had believed it to be. She was bound by that great, powerful, impersonal and increasingly furtive body, the Church, and sometimes she barely recognized this master at all.
She drew up her knees, rested her folded arms on top of them and put her head down on her crossed wrists. She closed her eyes. She sat there for a long time.
Then slowly she came back to herself, got up, stretched her stiff limbs and set out in the twilight to find Martin and tell him he could start building the chapel in the morning.
Very early the next day, Josse left Meggie in the care of Sister Tiphaine and set off for Tonbridge. He might not be able to persuade Ninian to accept a more secure lodging but at least he could make the place where the lad was a little safer. Philippe de Loup was after him and Piers – or, as Ninian had said, after the statue; well, Josse would do all that he could to stop Philippe in his tracks. Ninian had wounded him, perhaps gravely. He had not come to Hawkenlye for aid, but it was possible he had gone to the canons at Tonbridge. Josse would go and see and, before he did so, visit Gervase de Gifford and alert him to the danger in their midst.
He rode into the sheriff’s courtyard while the family were still at breakfast. Gervase ushered him inside and offered
him food and drink; both were very welcome, for Josse had ridden out from Hawkenlye with no more than a cup of water and a hard heel of bread inside him. As he wolfed down the food – it was delicious but he was in a hurry – he did his best to answer Sabin de Gifford’s cheerful remarks. She sat beside her two-year-old son, Simond, and the child quickly overcame his awe at having Josse at the breakfast table and threw a lump of soggy rusk, which scored a hit on Josse’s hand. For a few precious moments, Josse relaxed; Sabin and Gervase’s home was welcoming and always had been and, now that Sabin was over her grief for her old grandfather, who had died the previous Christmas, it was once more a happy place.
Josse finished his food and Gervase, drawing his chair closer, said, ‘Now, Josse, to what do we owe this very early visit?’
‘Aye, I’m sorry to disturb you at breakfast, but my errand could not wait.’ Briefly he told Gervase and Sabin about Philippe de Loup. Only when he had finished his tale did he add quietly, ‘The young squire is Joanna’s son.’
Sabin gasped. ‘The one who—’ She stopped. Then in a whisper, ‘Joanna told me about him when we all stayed in the inn at Dinan.’
Josse stared at her. ‘Did she tell you all about him?’
‘Yes.’ Sabin’s eyes were wide. ‘But I have told nobody, not even Gervase. I promised, you see,’ she said, turning to look at her husband.
‘There is some secret concerning this boy?’ Gervase demanded.
‘Aye,’ Josse admitted, ‘but it is Joanna’s secret, Gervase.’
The sheriff frowned but then shrugged and said, ‘Very well. So, Josse, Ninian prefers to hide out in the house in the woods and will not accept the shelter of Hawkenlye, and you wish me to help him by hunting down the man who tried to murder his master. Have I got it right?’
‘You make him sound like a petulant child,’ Josse protested. ‘He has very good reasons for staying out in the forest. One, he is of the forest people’s blood and they will guard him. Two, he has what he sees as a sacred mission to guard this statue that Piers has brought to England and keep it from de Loup’s hands. Three –’ three was more difficult; it was something that had occurred to him in the small hours and he was not sure if he could speak of it in a level voice – ‘three is that Ninian fears some harm has come to his mother and he prefers to remain out there in her territory.’ He cleared his throat. ‘He is staying in the house, as I told you, but my guess is that he visits her hut regularly.’
There was silence. He could sense Sabin’s huge sympathy and even Gervase seemed affected. After a moment, the sheriff said gently, ‘And you, Josse? Do you too fear for Joanna’s safety?’
Abruptly Josse stood up, pushing his chair back so violently that it fell with a loud crash on to the stone floor. The little boy gave a cry of distress and hastily Sabin took him in her arms, soothing him. Josse barely noticed. I have to get out, he thought wildly. I cannot bear to think about my fears.
‘Josse?’ Gervase hurried along beside him as he strode out. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Josse spun round to face him and saw in the sheriff’s face nothing but kindness and concern. He brushed a hand over his face. ‘I do not know, Gervase. I never do with her!’ he added, his grief and anger spilling over. ‘But I am told that . . . I believe she may not come back.’
‘Oh, Josse,’ Gervase said very quietly. Then, briefly patting Josse on the back, he added, ‘Keep us informed. You know you are always welcome here. And I will put word around of your Philippe de Loup. A knight from Aquitaine wearing a unique device on his breast is unlikely to go unnoticed. If he passes this way, my men will find him.’
As Josse nodded his thanks and hurried away to his horse, Gervase turned and went back inside the house.
Josse got his emotions under control during the short ride from the de Gifford house to the priory down on the marshy land close to the river. As he approached, he looked at the guest wing, rebuilt since the fatal fire two and a half years ago and now the scene of busy activity. He rode over to the stables, left Horace to be watered and went in search of Canon Mark.
The round-faced, bustling monk greeted him warmly and, after asking about Josse’s health and the Hawkenlye community – Josse’s allegiances were well known – said, ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m looking for a wounded man,’ Josse said. ‘He was hit hard over the head about –’ how long ago? Ninian had left Piers at Hawkenlye four days ago, and that was presumably soon after the attack – ‘about four days ago. I understand that he was able to crawl away following the injury but it is likely he needed medical care. He is not at Hawkenlye and I wondered if he might have made his way here.’
Already Canon Mark was shaking his head. ‘Sir Josse, everyone hereabouts knows that Hawkenlye Abbey is the place to go if you have need of a healer,’ he said. ‘We have our Sabin de Gifford, whose skills as an apothecary are excellent and who treats all and sundry, both those who can pay and those who can’t, but a hurt such as you describe would surely take a man to the abbey.’ He was frowning and, as he finished speaking, his eyes seemed to focus on something in the distance. ‘Unless . . .’ His glance flicking back to Josse, he said, ‘Was this man a knight?’
‘Aye. I have not seen him, but I would judge that he would be well mounted and richly dressed. He probably wears an insignia on his breast depicting a horned woman standing in a boat like the crescent moon.’
‘He’s a foreigner?’ Canon Mark demanded.
‘Aye, from an island off the west coast of France.’
Canon Mark was nodding vigorously. ‘He was here! He slept in our guest wing for a night, a day and another night, and we judged that he had ridden far and needed sleep. Other than leaving food and drink for him, we left him alone. Oh, Sir Josse, why did he not tell us he was injured? We would have sent for a healer to tend him! Sabin lives close by and she—’
‘I believe he had his reasons for keeping his wound to himself,’ Josse interrupted. ‘I am sorry, Canon Mark, that I cannot tell you more, but for now I must know where he is. You said he was here; when did he leave?’
‘But—’
‘Please.’
Picking up Josse’s urgency, Canon Mark put aside his curiosity and his distress at having unwittingly failed a guest who was in need and said, ‘He left us yesterday evening. He set off up the road that climbs the hill to the south.’
The road that led to Hawkenlye. And to the forest.
Hastily thanking the canon, Josse ran for the stables, dragged Horace’s nose out of the water trough and, swinging up into the saddle, rode furiously away.
He wanted more than anything to find Ninian, but of the two of them he was the safer, for his hiding place was deep in the forest and he was under its protection. Piers, on the other hand, was known to be wounded and lay helpless in a place where anyone who asked a couple of questions could find him.
Josse handed the blowing, sweating Horace to Sister Martha and raced to the infirmary. He knew even before he had the chance to ask, for the curtains around Piers’s recess were drawn back and the bed was empty.
Sister Caliste and a young nun in the white veil of a novice had stripped the sheets and were wiping down the straw mattress. Both looked deeply upset, and the younger nun had tears on her face. Seeing Josse, Sister Caliste spoke a quiet word to her companion and then came over to Josse, taking his arm and guiding him out of the infirmary.
‘He’s dead, then,’ Josse said.
She nodded. ‘We found him this morning.’
It was callous in the face of her distress, but he had to ask. ‘His injury overcame him at last?’
‘No, Sir Josse.’ She spoke very quietly. ‘He was much improved, for the infection in the wound was retreating and his fever was down.’ She met his eyes. ‘Sister Euphemia found tiny feathers in his nostrils. She thinks someone put his pillow over his face and held it there until he died.’
Thirteen
There was nothing more that Josse could do for Piers
, but Ninian was out in the forest and Josse certainly could – must – help him. First he had to speak to the abbess.
‘Where is Abbess Helewise?’ he demanded of Sister Caliste.
‘Oh, she and Sister Euphemia have gone to the church with Piers’s body. They’ll be in the crypt.’
He hurried away, slowing to a decorous walk as he crossed the floor of the church but then descending the stone steps into the crypt so quickly that he slipped and almost fell. Bursting into the low chamber with the huge pillars holding up the vaulted roof, he saw the two black-clad figures standing either side of the dead man.
He approached the abbess. ‘Sister Caliste tells me that he was smothered,’ he said, keeping his voice low.
‘He was,’ Sister Euphemia said grimly. Then, tears welling in her eyes, she muttered, ‘And he was on the mend! We’d have had him on his feet inside a week.’
The abbess looked at him. ‘You will no doubt be able to identify the hand of his murderer, Sir Josse?’
‘Aye. Philippe de Loup.’
‘Why should anyone want to kill a man like Piers?’ the infirmarer asked sadly. ‘There was no harm in him – he bore his suffering bravely and we all liked him so much.’
‘Aye, he was a good man and he is dead because of it,’ Josse said slowly, the realization firming in his mind as he spoke. ‘Sister,’ he said to the infirmarer, ‘he was invited to join in an activity that was both a crime and a sin, and he refused. He took away something that was precious from the hands of men who were no longer worthy of it, and for that he had to die.’
The infirmarer was staring at him. ‘He was a hero, then?’
Josse hesitated briefly and then said, ‘Aye. He was.’
And Sister Euphemia said, with the ghost of a smile, ‘I knew it all the time.’
He nodded to the abbess and, picking up his signal, they left the infirmarer praying over the body of Sir Piers of Essendon. Once outside the church, he turned to the abbess and said, ‘My lady, now I must—’