Alys Clare - Dark Night Hidden

After quite a long time, he opened his eyes and asked quietly, ‘How did he die?’

Josse told him.

‘And you believe this was as a result of an accident? That Father Micah slipped, perhaps, on the icy track and fell?’

Josse hesitated. ‘It’s possible, aye.’

‘Yet you believe it could equally have happened another way?’

In pain, cold and alone the priest might be, Josse thought, but there was nothing wrong with his powers of observation. ‘I cannot ignore the possibility.’

With admirable brevity, Father Gilbert said, ‘You will want to know of his recent concerns. I cannot tell you exactly what he did yesterday but I know that he intended to visit the Abbey. He was also deeply anxious about the Lord of the High Weald and the woman to whom Father Micah insisted on referring as his Lordship’s mistress.’

‘The Lord of. . who?’

Father Gilbert gave a swift smile. ‘I see you have not come across him.’

‘No.’

‘He has made his home at Saxonbury. It is an ancient fort on the ridge to the south of us. Rumours about it abound, but I suspect that it was an old iron working. People believe it to be haunted, which suits the Lord since it keeps the curious away. He lives there with his family. His kinfolk appear to come and go but usually there seem to be some fifteen or so people living there.’ Father Gilbert shifted under his blankets, winced, then said, ‘Father Micah believed them to be godless. He expressed the intention of making a nuisance of himself up at Saxonbury until the Lord did what the Father told him.’ He glanced up at Josse. ‘His words, not mine,’ he added. ‘Father Micah did not care how much of a nuisance he was when he was about God’s work.’

‘So I’m beginning to understand,’ Josse muttered.

Father Gilbert was still watching him closely. ‘You intend to visit Lord Saxonbury?’

‘Is that his title? Aye, I do.’

‘It is how he styles himself, although whether or nor he has a right to it I cannot say. Have a care,’ the priest added warningly. ‘They do not take kindly to strangers.’

‘I will.’ Josse took the priest’s outstretched hand. ‘How do I get to Saxonbury? Will you tell me, Father?’

‘I will, if you are resolved on going there.’

‘I am.’

With a sigh, the priest gave directions. They seemed simple enough and Josse did not anticipate having any difficulty in following them.

‘Is there anything I can do for you before I go?’ He looked about him but there seemed no comforts he could offer. ‘What about your food?’

‘Oh, one of the village women brings me my meals.’ Father Gilbert gave a wan smile. ‘Not that I have much appetite.’

‘I’ll come again,’ Josse said impulsively, ‘if I may?’

‘Of course!’ Father Gilbert looked pleased.

I’ll bring him something to cheer him up, Josse promised himself, a pot of good, hot stew, a flagon of wine. .

But Father Gilbert was saying something: ‘You will want something in return for your charity.’ He smiled as if to make sure that Josse appreciated he spoke in jest. ‘I will think, as I lie here, about Father Micah and ponder who, if anybody, might have wished him ill.’

Josse, suppressing the thought that such a task could surely not be difficult, gave him a brief bow. ‘Thank you, Father. That would indeed be helpful. I’ll be back soon.’

The ride up to Saxonbury took Josse around the edge of the Great Forest. Bare limbs of beech, birch, oak and hazel raised naked branches up to the pale grey sky and, interspersed with their quiet, misty shades, there were patches of deep, dark green where the holly and yew trees grew. Soaring high above the forest canopy were the needle-clad branches of the pines, at the very top of their long, bare trunks. There were tracks leading off under the trees that might have afforded a more direct route to Saxonbury, but Josse knew better than to go into the forest unless he had to. He had ventured into the forest before and understood, as well as any outsider could, that it held its own perils and was best left alone. In any case, Father Gilbert’s directions had specified this path, and to divert from it might mean that Josse missed Saxonbury altogether.

The journey was not long: four, perhaps five miles, according to Father Gilbert. Nor was it arduous, for although the track dipped into occasional valleys and climbed out again, the slopes were quite gentle. In the main, however, the path kept to the higher ground and Josse surmised that it was one of the old dry ridge tracks. Had it not been for the extreme cold and the fact that he had not eaten since early morning, he would have enjoyed the ride.

He did not see a soul. He was hardly aware of another living being, come to that, although he did think he heard the distant howl of a hungry wolf. Packs of wolves were not unknown in the area, although they usually gave human beings and their habitations a wide berth. Passing the tiny settlement of Fernthe, he saw a thin plume of smoke rising up from one of the thatched wooden huts. Someone had recently repaired the fence surrounding the little hamlet; perhaps that person, too, had heard the wolf.

The track took another dip into a shallow valley. As it rose up again, Josse began to look out for the turning on the right that the priest had told him about. ‘An ancient way, I believe,’ Father Gilbert had said, ‘for the footsteps of the ages have carved it deep into the ground and banks rise high on either side.’

Aye. There it was. And it looked dark and forbidding, going in there beneath the trees. .

‘Come on, Horace,’ Josse said loudly. Horace twitched back his ears. ‘The sooner we get on, the sooner we can turn for home.’

Horace’s hooves fell on the hollow way with a dull thud, as if even ordinary sounds were muffled and strange in this lonely place. The tall trees on either side stood still, their bare branches untouched by the slightest breeze. The banks were rust-coloured with dead bracken and the track was black with the fallen leaves of hundreds of years. Nothing stirred. Nothing, it seemed, lived.

Climbing the increasingly steep gradient towards the summit of the ridge, Josse had the peculiar idea that this track went on for ever. That it would take him into some strange faery world where a few minutes passed would be an aeon in the outside world, so that when he returned it would be to find that all that he knew was dead and buried in the far-distant past.

He was approaching what looked like the vestiges of a ditch, on the far side of which a bank had been raised. The track went over the ditch on a crumbling earthwork. Crossing over, Josse thought of old legends of ditches and dykes, said, so the tales went, to be the devil’s work. Overhead, some evergreen tree spread its thick, heavy branches. It was very dark. .

Beyond the bank there was a dry-stone wall. It appeared to be in quite a good state of repair, and Josse felt a sense of relief. If someone were looking after the walls, then perhaps this place was still the abode of humans after all. In places the wall was supplemented by sections of paling fence, in one of which there were wooden gates. They were closed.

Josse rode up to the gates and shouted out, ‘Halloa! Is anyone there?’

Somebody must have been on guard within. Instantly a deep voice called back, ‘Who is enquiring?’

‘I am Josse d’Acquin, and I come from Hawkenlye Abbey on a mission concerning Father Micah.’

‘If you’ve come on that wretch’s business, then you’ll not receive a welcome at Saxonbury,’ the unseen guard answered. ‘Turn back, Josse d’Acquin, and tell them at Hawkenlye that each of their priest’s emissaries will receive the same answer.’