Alys Clare - Dark Night Hidden

Telling her that he would like nothing better, he walked beside her across the cloister to the Abbey church.

Back in the Abbess’s room, Josse leaned against the wall as she settled herself in her chair. She had despatched a novice nun to go and find Sister Phillipa and tell her she was wanted in the Abbess’s room and, after a short wait, there was a soft tap on the door.

In answer to the Abbess’s quiet ‘Come in’ a young nun in the black veil and habit of the fully professed opened the door and advanced into the room. She was, Josse could see, very nervous; the oval face with its high cheekbones had a pink flush, and the clear blue eyes were very bright. Even with the severe, starched white wimple that concealed the jaw, neck and throat, and the forehead band that covered the hair, it was plain to see that this girl was a beauty. It pleased him to watch her graceful movements as, with a low bow to the Abbess, she straightened up and stood, head bent, hands folded in front of her, to wait for her superior to speak.

‘Sister Phillipa, this is Sir Josse d’Acquin, a good man and a true friend to our community.’ The Abbess indicated Josse, and Sister Phillipa turned and gave him a radiant smile. Temporarily bowled over by its intensity, Josse quickly decided that it was more a reflection of the young woman’s nervous state than of any sudden rush of emotion towards him. They were, after all, total strangers. ‘We have been looking at the example of your work,’ the Abbess was continuing, ‘and we are agreed that it seems right that you be given the task that I have in mind.’ She paused, and Josse guessed she was weighing her next words. ‘Hawkenlye Abbey has been asked, as have other foundations, to pray for our great King Richard, for he has need of our prayers. His lady mother, the Queen Eleanor, has been very generous and given us a gift of coin in recognition of our intercession on the King’s and her own behalf. With this bounty, Hawkenlye will prepare a herbal, in the names of the King and his mother.’

Josse noticed that Sister Phillipa was trembling. Touched that the painting of the herbal meant so much to her, he wished he could see her expression. But she stood with her back to him, facing the Abbess.

‘Sister Phillipa, will you make the Hawkenlye Herbal?’ the Abbess asked gently.

And, with what sounded like a sob in her voice, Sister Phillipa said, ‘Yes. Oh, yes !’

The short February daylight was almost over when Josse left the Abbess. They had shared a happy moment together after the blissful Sister Phillipa had departed; as the Abbess had remarked, it was a rare pleasure to give one of her community tidings that brought such joy.

Josse realised that it was too late to think of riding on to New Winnowlands tonight. So, having checked with Sister Martha that his horse would be well looked after — there was no need for such a check, but he always enjoyed exchanging a few remarks with the brawny nun who tended the stables — he took the path that led out from the rear of the Abbey and made his way down into the Vale.

In the Vale was situated the miraculous Holy Water spring that was the reason for the Abbey’s having been sited where it was. The spring was housed in a simple little shrine, two of whose walls were formed from the rock out of which the magical waters ran. Beside the shrine was a rough and ready shelter where pilgrims who came to receive the waters could take their meals and, when necessary, put up for the night. A little way down the track was the dwelling where Hawkenlye’s monks and lay brothers lived. It, too, was rudimentary, with few comforts other than a roof, four rather insubstantial walls and some thin old mattresses and blankets.

What the monks’ dwelling lacked in amenities it made up for in the warmth of the brothers’ welcome. In particular, that of the two lay brothers, Brother Saul and young Brother Augustus, who were Josse’s particular friends. As Josse stuck his head in through the open doorway, Brother Saul saw him, got up and came over to embrace him, crying out, ‘Sir Josse! It’s good to see you! Come in, come in, and warm your toes by the fire!’

‘A fire! Great heavens, Saul, you’re getting soft in your old age!’ Saul was no more than thirty, at most.

‘Aye, we’re lucky, Sir Josse, and indeed it is a rare luxury. Only it’s been so cold, these last few nights, and’ — he lowered his voice diplomatically — ‘some of the older brothers do suffer so, and the Abbess, bless her good, kind heart, said we might light a blaze come evening.’

Josse smiled, giving Brother Saul a quick touch on the shoulder. ‘It’s a luxury that I shall enjoy to the utmost.’

He allowed himself to be led forward to a bench by the hearth. He nodded to the monks whom he knew, exchanging a few words of greeting with Augustus and old Brother Firmin. Presently, he was brought a bowl of broth and a hunk of rough bread, both of which he ate enthusiastically. The soft hum of male voices around him lulled him into drowsiness and, before the night was very old, Saul made him up a bed in the corner and he was soon asleep.

He awoke to the sound of hammering.

Getting up — he seemed to be the last man still asleep inside the monks’ dwelling — he went outside to see what was happening.

He noticed straight away that it was considerably colder this morning than yesterday. The sky looked. . sort of thin , he decided, and the wind had dropped. The air, however, felt like solid ice.

A group of monks were standing in a rough semicircle around the doorway of the pilgrims’ refuge. A large branch had fallen down from one of the chestnut trees in the grove that sheltered the Vale’s buildings, and it had landed right on a corner of the refuge’s roof. The flimsy construction was not designed to withstand the impact of heavy branches and it had partially collapsed.

Saul and Augustus were trying to get the weight of the branch off the roof before it did any more damage. Brother Erse, the Hawkenlye carpenter, had a mouth full of nails and a hammer in his hand and seemed to be attempting to fix a strengthening truss under the sagging roof. All three were, quite obviously, failing.

What they needed was another pair of hands. Josse rushed forward and added his strength to that of Saul and Augustus. With three of them pushing, the branch gave a little. Then a little more. Then they managed to roll it right off the roof and there was a great crack as the now-unsupported branch tore away from the chestnut tree and fell to the icy ground.

There was a ragged round of applause from the audience of monks. Turning to grin at them, Josse noticed how cold they looked; they were, he noticed with compassion, mostly elderly, thin and shivering. Brother Firmin’s skinny old feet in the clumsy sandals were bare and rapidly turning blue.

He turned to Brother Saul, whom he had always considered the most sensible and wise of the Hawkenlye brethren. ‘Shouldn’t the old boys go back inside?’ he whispered.

‘I’ve been telling them so all morning, Sir Josse!’ Saul protested. ‘Only Brother Firmin, bless him, said they wanted to help.’ He gave a kindly laugh. ‘Help! Hardly likely, is it?’

‘Shall I try?’ Josse suggested.

‘Oh, Sir Josse, I wish you would!’

Josse’s powers of persuasion were clearly superior to those of Brother Saul, or perhaps the old monks had simply got too cold to persist; either way, they gave in without an argument and meekly shuffled back to their dwelling.

Saul watched them go with a smile, then turned back to the pilgrims’ shelter. And, eyes widening, said, ‘Dear Lord, but it’s ruined!’

From within, Brother Erse called out, ‘Not as bad as that, Saul. Not quite,’ and Augustus, up on the roof, added, ‘It’s close, though!’