A Dark Night Hidden (11 page)

‘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.

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.’

‘It is not Church business that brings me here.’ Josse tried to think how best to plead his case; he was reluctant to break the news of Father Micah’s death to a guard whom he could not even see. ‘I wish to speak to Lord Saxonbury,’ he announced, with more bravado that he was actually feeling. ‘Is he within?’

‘Wait.’

After the curt order there was silence for some time. Then Josse heard the sound of the heavy bar that secured the gates being drawn back and, a few moments later, he was riding into Saxonbury.

The guard was waiting for him inside the gates. He was short, stocky and wore an expression of extreme suspicion. He said, ‘Follow me,’ and led Josse across an open space of rough ground. Beyond it high walls rose up and, as the guard led him through an arched opening halfway along one of them, he saw the dwellings that were hidden away within their protection.

There were several, although none was large. Each appeared to have its own entrance and consisted of perhaps one large room at ground level with another positioned above to act as a sleeping platform. Some of the buildings appeared to be stables and storehouses; one was clearly a cookhouse. Beside it was a well, covered with a little roof of thatch.

Although Josse could see nobody inside the dwellings, all the same he was quite certain he was observed from within them. It was an uncomfortable feeling, to be aware of people closely observing him whom he could not see.

But one man at least was visible. Standing in the middle of the space enclosed within the walls was a very tall, broad-shouldered man with reddish-blond hair that was in the process of turning white. He was bearded, the long tangle of his facial hair falling on to a knee-length padded tunic that had once been a beautiful garment but was now stained with the mementoes of very many meals. Around his hips he wore a wide leather belt from which hung a broadsword in a scuffed scabbard. Thrust into the other side of the belt was a double-headed axe.