Alys Clare - Dark Night Hidden

‘If one of us told some strong, handsome, honourable fellow who took it into his head to avenge the insults and the curses and attack the Father?’ Jehane finished for him. ‘Oh, no, sir knight. If any of us had a man of that quality, do you reckon we’d be in here?’

He looked at her face, oval, with a full-lipped mouth and hazel eyes. She must have been very pretty, he thought compassionately, before the hardships and the dangers of her profession ruined her. Now her hair was thin and straw-like, her skin bore the scars of the pox and the expression in her eyes was world-weary and cynical. Her words were, he was quite sure, the absolute truth.

‘No, Jehane,’ he said quietly. ‘No, I don’t suppose you would. I am sorry I had to ask.’

She gave him a smile that, despite everything, still managed to be very sweet. ‘It’s all right,’ she replied. ‘We understand.’

He found Brother Firmin in the Vale’s little shrine. He was with some other old monks and they were praying earnestly for the soul of Father Micah.

Unable to prevent the thought that, from all he had heard, the late priest had hardly been worthy of such fervour, Josse waited patiently outside in the cold for them to finish.

Brother Firmin was the last to leave. ‘Sir Josse!’ he said, his face creasing into a happy smile. ‘My, but it does me good to see you this sad morning!’ He took Josse’s arm affectionately. ‘You’re cold!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come with me and I will give you a mug of something to put that right and send some warmth through your bones.’

He led the way to the monks’ shelter where he set water on to the fire to heat, putting into it generous pinches of various powdered herbs. Then he set two coarse pottery mugs ready. When the water began to steam, a deliciously warming, sweet, spicy smell filled the room. Brother Firmin let the liquid boil gently for a short while, then he removed the vessel from the heat and poured the concoction into the mugs.

‘Here,’ Brother Firmin held out one of the mugs, ‘try this. Don’t ask me what it is, for I have no idea. Sister Tiphaine gives the herbs to me because she knows how I feel the cold. She is a good woman,’ he said emphatically, as if Josse had said she wasn’t, ‘for all that she keeps one foot in the pagan past.’ He tutted and shook his head. ‘Ah well, that is a matter between her and God.’ He sipped at his mug, smacking his lips in satisfaction. ‘And, by, she makes a good potion!’

Josse listened to the old monk rambling on for some time. Then, when he could get a word in, he said, ‘Brother Firmin, the Abbess said that you spoke to Father Micah yesterday and that he informed you he was going to make other visits. Do you remember to whom?’

‘Ooh, you’re tracking his movements, are you?’ Brother Firmin looked as if the idea greatly excited him. ‘Well, let me see, yes, he did say. .’

The old face creased as Brother Firmin tried to remember. Josse’s heart began to sink as the silence extended. Ah, well, it had always been unlikely, but worth a try at least-

‘He was going to see a noble lord who had forgotten God’s law and some lost souls who were to be banished to the eternal flames,’ Brother Firmin suddenly said, making Josse jump. ‘Perhaps not his exact words, but close enough.’ The old monk beamed his pleasure at having done what Josse asked.

‘Thank you, Brother Firmin,’ Josse said heartily. ‘You have been most helpful. Er — I don’t suppose the Father mentioned any names?’

‘Oh, dear — no, I’m afraid he didn’t.’ Firmin’s delight turned swiftly to dismay.

‘Never mind!’ Josse said quickly. ‘You have given me quite enough to be getting on with, Brother. And thank you for the drink, too — I now feel aglow from my head to my toes.’ He rose to his feet as he spoke, reaching down to pat the elderly monk on his bony shoulder.

‘Drop by and tell me how you get on!’ Brother Firmin called out as Josse strode out of the door. ‘Any time. .!’

A nobleman who had forgotten God’s law. Not much of a description, Josse thought as he marched back up to the Abbey to collect Horace. Besides which, it could apply to the majority of noble lords of Josse’s acquaintance.

There was, however, one person who might know to whom the words applied in this case; the priest who usually tended the flock in Hawkenlye and the surrounding area. Quickly putting saddle and bridle on his horse, Josse called out to Sister Martha to ask if she would kindly give him directions to Father Gilbert’s house.

The priest lived in a small, ill-furnished but scrupulously clean dwelling slightly separated from the small hamlet of Hawkenlye. When Josse put his head round the door and called out, ‘Father Gilbert? Are you in there?’ a faint voice replied from within, ‘Yes! Who is it?’

Josse advanced into the house, closing the door behind him. It was a bitterly cold morning and Josse’s first impression was that the inside of the house was no warmer than the outside, making his careful door-closing a fairly pointless gesture. He crossed a tiny scullery where a used trencher and mug lay beside a jug of water; ice had formed on the surface of the water. In the next room he found Father Gilbert, lying on a low bed and huddled into a variety of thin, insubstantial blankets. The priest appeared to be wearing every garment he possessed, which did not amount to very many.

Seeing who had come to visit him, he said joyfully, ‘Sir Josse! It’s glad I am to see you. Please, if you can spare the time, would you make up the fire?’

Turning, Josse noticed the hearth, in which two large logs were smouldering gently, giving out quite a lot of smoke but no discernible heat.

‘Of course! Er — where’s your wood supply, Father? Outside somewhere?’

‘Out of the door, down the path and on the right.’ The Father was already looking more cheerful, obviously anticipating the pleasure of some warmth.

Josse followed his directions and located the woodpile. It consisted of five or six cut and split logs and several large rounds cut, Josse thought, from an oak tree. Rolling up his sleeves and spitting on his hands, he picked up the heavy axe that had been stuck into the chopping block and set to work.

Some time later he had cut and split sufficient firewood to last for a day or two; he made a mental note to ask the Abbess if one of the Hawkenlye lay brothers could be sent each day to replenish the log supply. Then, bearing in his arms as much wood as he could carry, he went back inside.

As he relaid and lit the fire, chatting inconsequentially to Father Gilbert, it suddenly occurred to him that the priest did not know of Father Micah’s death. Indeed, how could he, bed-bound as he was, unless somebody from the Abbey had already been to see him today? And if that were the case, then surely Father Gilbert would not be lying there making feeble but courageous jokes about the icicle on the end of his nose melting at last?

Josse gave the fire another poke — the blaze was roaring away now and the room was actually starting to feel warmer — and then stood up. Approaching Father Gilbert’s bed, he said, ‘Father, I have some bad tidings. It’s Father Micah.’

To Josse’s surprise, the priest’s face fell and he said, ‘Oh, Sir Josse, not more trouble! I do not wish to appear to moan, but, really, Father Micah is only doing his job in the best way he can, according to his own beliefs, and I do think that people might-’

‘Father, I’m afraid it is a little more serious than that,’ Josse said gently. ‘There has been an accident. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Father Micah is dead.’

‘Dead!’

After the one word, muttered in a shocked whisper, Father Gilbert acted exactly as Augustus had done: he began to pray.