Alys Clare - Dark Night Hidden

But somehow — and the reasoning entirely escaped him — Josse did not believe that Father Micah’s murderer was of the Saxonbury household. If indeed there was a murderer.

‘Accident or murder?’ Josse wondered aloud as he jogged along.

And he knew that, even had he not been suffering the after-effects of the Lord’s ale, there was not going to be an easy answer.

During the afternoon Helewise received a visitor. Sister Ursel had announced that the Sheriff had arrived and wished to speak with her and Helewise, heart sinking, had prepared herself for a meeting with the odious and not very bright Sheriff Pelham.

But to her surprise it was a very different sort of a man who was shown into her room. He was smartly dressed, of a little above average height, slim and, she had to admit, handsome, with well-cut and smoothly dressed brown hair and light-green eyes. Bowing gracefully, he said, ‘I am grateful, my lady Abbess, that you have found the time to see me. I am Gervase de Gifford.’

Accepting his greeting with an inclination of her head, she said, ‘I understood that Harry Pelham held the office of Sheriff.’

‘He may have given that impression,’ Gervase de Gifford said easily. ‘The de Clares have use for such men, but it is a mistake to give a man more authority than that with which he is equipped to cope.’

Wondering whether that amounted to a yes or a no, Helewise said, ‘Won’t you sit? There is a stool beside the door there.’

He looked where she pointed. Apparently he took in instantly the fact that, once seated on the low stool, he would be at a considerably lower level than she, sitting on her throne-like chair. He said courteously, ‘Thank you, my lady, but I prefer to stand.’

‘As you wish. Now, you said you wished to speak to me?’

‘Yes, my lady. Concerning the dead priest, Father Micah. My lord, Richard FitzRoger de Clare, has asked me to discover what details are known of the death.’

‘Very few. I have despatched Sir Josse d’Acquin, who is a friend of the Abbey, to find out more.’

‘Sir Josse d’Acquin,’ de Gifford murmured. ‘Yes. The man is known to us.’

Wondering just who he meant by ‘us’, Helewise asked, ‘You are tasked with bringing to justice anybody who may be implicated in the Father’s death?’

‘I am.’ Gervase de Gifford gave her a smooth smile.

‘You may call again,’ she said, sounding grand even in her own ears, ‘and discuss the matter with Sir Josse, once he has returned.’

‘You think, my lady, that he will bring information?’

‘I know he will.’

She met de Gifford’s gaze calmly. She wanted to say, he will do better in his enquiries than some fashionably dressed servant of the grand family at Tonbridge Castle, but she held her peace.

‘You will tell Sir Josse that I called.’ In the mouth of de Gifford, it sounded more like an order than a request.

She said, ‘Yes.’

Then, taking the hint, he bowed again and left the room.

She was still thinking about Gervase de Gifford when Josse came to see her after Vespers. He instantly apologised for coming so late. ‘I was entertained too well up at Saxonbury,’ he confessed, ‘and I had to sleep it off.’

Disarmed by his frankness, she said, ‘Saxonbury?’

He told her that he had visited Father Gilbert and gone on to see someone calling himself the Lord of the High Weald because Father Micah was known to have been there the day before he was found dead. She listened intently as he described his conversation with the Lord.

‘It would seem,’ she observed, ‘that this Lord Saxonbury had good reason to ply you with strong drink. Do you think, Sir Josse, that he has something to hide?’

Josse scratched his chin. ‘I believe him to be a powerful man, with good reason for antagonism towards the Father. I do not see him as a murderer, although there are things about the Saxonbury household that strike me as odd.’

‘Such as?’

Now the chin scratching developed into a vigorous face rubbing. From behind his hands Josse said, ‘My lady, I cannot now recall. I know full well that there were matters concerning which I told myself to take note, but what they were I have no idea.’ As if to exonerate himself he added, ‘Tiny things, you know. The sort that make you say to yourself, now why does that seem important?’

‘The sort of things that are so elusive that they can all too easily vanish,’ she said sympathetically.

‘Especially after too many mugs of ale,’ he added dully.

‘Do not distress yourself, Sir Josse. Why not go to bed and have a good night’s sleep?’ she suggested. ‘Perhaps your memory will serve you better by morning.’

‘Good advice,’ he muttered. ‘And I am of no use to you, me or anyone else tonight.’

As he bade her goodnight she remembered that she had not told him about Gervase de Gifford. Ah well, tomorrow would do.

But the next day brought its own troubles. Helewise forgot all about Gervase de Gifford, and whatever it was that Josse had been trying to bring to mind concerning Saxonbury was driven out altogether.

Very early in the morning, while it was still dark and as the Hawkenlye community was leaving the Abbey church after Prime, there came a loud beating at the gates and a deep male voice called out, ‘Hoa, Abbey! Help! Help!’

Sister Ursel rushed to climb up the short flight of steps to the spyhole in the wall beside the gates. As she opened it and peered out, Brothers Saul, Michael and Augustus sprinted to join her. ‘Who’s there?’ she cried. ‘What do you want of us?’

Helewise joined the gathering crowd of nuns and monks and they stood back respectfully to let her through. ‘Who is out there, Sister Ursel?’ she demanded.

‘It’s a man — he’s carrying someone — a woman, I think, she appears to be slight and quite small,’ Sister Ursel replied quietly. Then, raising her voice, she repeated, ‘What do you want?’

But the man merely said again, ‘Help!’

Helewise said, ‘Sister Ursel, let me look.’ As the porteress got out of the way, Helewise stepped up to the spyhole. Her instinct was to open the gates immediately; there had been a note of anguish in the man’s repeated cry that persuaded her his need was genuine. But as Abbess she was responsible for the safety of her community, and there were ruffians abroad in the night who might try to gain entry to the Abbey by subterfuge.

She stared down at the short, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man who stood outside. He raised his head and stared back. In the thin dawn light she saw the despair in his expression. She also saw that the front of his shirt was covered in blood. Judging by the way in which he carried the woman in his arms, it appeared to be hers.

Deciding, she stepped down from the spyhole. ‘Sister Ursel, open the gates,’ she ordered. ‘Brothers, stand by in case of any disturbance.’ She did not elaborate; meeting Brother Saul’s eyes, she knew she did not need to.

The gates opened and the man came straight in. He gasped out something — it might have been ‘Thank you’ — and Sister Euphemia took hold of his arm.

Her eyes on the limp figure that he carried, she said, ‘Come with me. I will look after her.’

Initially, the most difficult part of the infirmarer’s task was in getting the man to relinquish his hold on the woman. His broad arms supporting her seemed to have locked into position and his eyes were fixed on her white face; he ignored the presence of anyone else.

Sister Euphemia had commanded Sister Caliste to prepare a bed in one of the infirmary’s small curtained-off recesses. Having done so, Sister Caliste now stood ready, and the infirmarer noticed that the young nun, good nurse that she was, had set out a bowl of steaming water, wash cloths and bandaging materials. With the curtain drawn to keep curious eyes off the drama, all that now remained was for the man to lay the woman down and allow the nurses to do their job.