Alys Clare: Dark Night Hidden

She had retired to her room to go over in her mind the recent interview with the Queen and to pray for her. Then, just as she had settled on to her knees, the knock at the door had come. And Sister Ursel, the porteress, had announced that Father Micah was outside and wished to speak to her.

‘I have told him that it may not be convenient but-’

‘But I insisted,’ Father Micah interrupted, pushing Sister Ursel out of the way and entering the room. ‘Your prayers must wait, my lady Abbess, for I need to speak to you urgently.’

Rising to her feet, Helewise had swallowed her annoyance and, with a smile, invited Father Micah to be seated.

Standing before him — he had ignored the stool which Helewise kept for visitors and sat himself down in the Abbess’s own throne-like chair — she listened in growing incredulity as Father Micah divulged the nature of his urgent matter. Now, swallowing her growing anger, Helewise was finding it more and more of an effort to keep the smile on her face.

For Father Micah’s discourteous interruption had been for nothing more grave than to inform her that he was in need of a housekeeper. ‘One of your nuns will do,’ he was saying with a wave of a long, bony hand. ‘Get her to come in once or twice a day. There is cleaning to be done and, for all that my appearance belies it, I have a good appetite and I need a woman who can cook a decent meal.’

Helewise was speechless. Biting down the angry retort — that her nuns had their own duties, thank you very much, and it was up to Father Micah to see to his domestic arrangements — she reflected how very, very sorry she was that poor Father Gilbert had broken his ankle and dumped this ghastly replacement on the Hawkenlye community. For a moment Father Gilbert’s kindly face swam into her mind; he had struggled down to the small pond near to his house to break the ice and allow the birds to drink. Then, turning to go back inside, he had fallen heavily on the rock-hard ground. As well as the broken ankle, he had given himself a severe concussion.

His benign image helped her to reply politely, ‘My nuns have work enough here, Father Micah, but perhaps I can find someone in the neighbourhood who will be able to cook and clean for you-’

‘I’m not having some slut of a girl with dirt under her fingernails and lust in her heart!’

‘I would not recommend such a girl, even if I knew of one.’ Helewise kept her tone level.

Father Micah was looking suspiciously at her. ‘I don’t want one of those whores you tend in your house of fallen women, either,’ he went on, as if she had not spoken.

That idea was so inconceivable that Helewise almost laughed. ‘Quite so, Father,’ she murmured. ‘It would not be suitable at all.’

‘They are evil in God’s sight,’ the priest declaimed, ‘and by their foul and unnatural behaviour they lead good men into sin!’

Helewise, who had always considered that it was at least as much the other way round, wisely kept her peace. It was not the moment — if moment there ever would be — to remind the Father that many women were driven to prostitution as the only alternative to death by starvation. Which, while it might be acceptable to a woman on her own, with only herself to worry about, was certainly not an option when she had a child or two to feed.

And, anyway, was mankind not taught that their God was a God of love, and that He forgave those who repented of their sins?

Listening to Father Micah — he had taken the opportunity to launch out into a vicious diatribe against women who turned men’s eyes, heads and hearts from where they should be, rapt in the contemplation of the Lord — Helewise admitted to herself how much she disliked him.

And that, she well knew, was going to be very awkward since, all the time Father Gilbert lay incapacitated in his bed, Father Micah was her confessor.

Oh, dear Father Gilbert, she pleaded silently, come back to us soon! How am I to manage with this cold substitute, who stares at me as if he hates me and who is as likely to understand the particular problems of my position here as the stable cat?

Helewise and Father Gilbert had, over the years, established an excellent relationship. It was helped by the fact that they genuinely liked one another and were good friends. Although Father Gilbert took his responsibility for Helewise’s soul far too seriously for there to be any question of leniency with her, nevertheless, once he had heard her confession and given her penance, he frequently managed to turn their subsequent conversation round to matters that caused her anxiety. There had been the time, for example, when Sister Euphemia, the infirmarer, had reported to Helewise that the daughter of a rich and influential merchant was not, as her fond father believed, suffering from a stomach upset but was in fact pregnant. The girl had quietly lost the baby and Helewise had not corrected the father when he said what a relief it was to see his girl over her sickness and with no harm done.

Having heard her confess her lie and awarded her penance, Father Gilbert had remarked gently that it was wise to ask oneself three things before answering a difficult question. Is my reply true? Is it necessary? Is it kind?

‘And how should one act if only some of the answers are in the affirmative?’ Helewise had asked.

Father Gilbert had given her his sweet smile. ‘Abbess Helewise, I usually act on the principle that three out of three means I give the answer, no matter how difficult; two out of three means I may or may not, depending on the circumstances; and one out of three means I keep my mouth shut.’

Imagine, Helewise thought now, such a conversation with this dry fellow. She wondered absently just how long Father Micah was intending to go on haranguing her; already it felt as if he had been ranting away for hours. She began to pray quietly for a diversion.

Quite soon her prayer was answered. There was another tap on the door and, as soon as Helewise said, ‘Come in!’ Sister Ursel appeared once more and announced that Sir Josse d’Acquin had just ridden through the gates and, if it was not too much trouble, would like a few words with the Abbess.

Sir Josse, Sir Josse, how very fond I am of you! thought the Abbess.

With a carefully polite inclination of the head to Father Micah, she said, ‘A shame that we cannot continue our conversation, Father, but I know how busy you are and I would not detain you longer.’ Then, turning to the porteress, she added, ‘Please, Sister Ursel, ask Sir Josse to come in.’

‘They are an abomination in the sight of God. They must be cast into the purifying flames, every last man, woman and child.’

The thin priest’s eyes, fixed on Josse, were dark and impenetrable. As black as the cloth of his robe, and reflecting as little light. As little life; it was difficult to believe that a human heart pumped within the narrow chest. That a human brain was contained within the pale, shaven skull.

Josse, the guest at the Abbey, waited to see if the Abbess would speak. But although her flushed face appeared to indicate a degree of indignation, she kept her peace. Josse was at a loss to understand what was going on. Having been ushered into the Abbess’s room by a harried Sister Ursel, he had discovered that she was not alone, as he had expected, but stood stiff with outrage before a scrawny, white-faced priest who seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her chair.

And somehow the conversation had turned to the subject of heresy. The Father, it seemed, had been well into his stride when Josse entered the room; Josse had overheard some remark about those who abandoned the ways of righteousness not being worthy of consideration, and apparently the priest had cited heretics as a prime example.