A Dark Night Hidden (23 page)

Then, without a backward glance, she walked away.

Utta perceived what she was trying to do and came to help. Weak though she was from loss of blood and infection, still she worked with all the little strength she had, lowering ropes, helping to pull up loads and always, even when not actually engaged in a task, nodding, smiling, encouraging Joanna in her efforts. She was, Joanna was quickly realising, a good woman.

She was also excellent with Meggie. One of Joanna’s main problems in her solitary life was only having one pair of hands; whenever Meggie needed something, Joanna either had to drop what she was doing and attend to her or else endure the child’s protests until she did so. Now, when a loudly crying baby was the last thing they wanted in their secret refuge, the problem was poised to escalate into a major difficulty.

Until, the first time it happened, Utta stepped in. With a swift look at Joanna as if to ask for permission, she picked the child up from her furry nest. Cradling her against her breast, she began softly crooning to her, stroking the small back with a smooth, gentle rhythm that Meggie instantly seemed to appreciate. She has the touch! Joanna thought, watching from two branches down the tree as her daughter relaxed into Utta’s arms. Her heart full of relief, she sent up a swift thank you to the Goddess for sending her someone so very useful.

When the two women sat down to eat at noon, Joanna was exhausted. She had stripped to her undergown and, as she downed a very welcome draught of water, she realised something.

The weather had improved.

It was nowhere near so cold, and the Sun now really had some heat in it. The hardest task – of keeping the three of them warm enough – had just been made a great deal easier.

Again, Joanna sent up her thanks. Whoever was up there in the Heavens keeping an eye on them, they certainly seemed to be on Joanna and Utta’s side.

They heard the hunt early in the morning of the next day.

At first they thought that it could have been horsemen after deer or boar; such parties came into the forest from time to time, as Joanna well knew since she had sometimes had to hide from them. Usually they were rich, well-mounted men who had the King’s permission to hunt in his forests.

Joanna, hurriedly pulling up the rope ladder and securing it, found herself a vantage point; there was a small hole in one of the planks, in a place where the platform sat above thinner branches and empty air instead of right over the thick trunk. Quickly she checked on Utta and Meggie; Utta was crouched down against the trunk, wide-eyed with fear, and Meggie was asleep in her nest. Then, lying flat on the floor, Joanna put her eye to the hole and stared down.

The yew tree stood in the midst of undergrowth, but some faint animal tracks led here and there around it. A little further off, one of those small tracks met a larger one, which in turn led to a wider ride that gave on to a clearing. By angling her head, Joanna could make out the end of the ride and the very edge of the clearing.

She could see the men now. There were five of them, well dressed and well mounted. As she watched, three of them dismounted and gave the reins of their horses to the other two. She heard the faint murmur of conversation, then the three men on foot walked towards where the ride branched off from the clearing.

It became clear then that the men were no hunting party. There was a rustling in the undergrowth and then a large boar, presumably disturbed by the men and the horses, suddenly broke cover almost under their feet and raced away across the clearing and into the bracken on the far side.

The men just stood there. Someone made a comment, and somebody else laughed briefly.

Then the men on foot set off along the track.

Joanna did not move. She lay frozen in position, her eye fixed to the men walking so stealthily towards her. She did not dare lift her head to see how Utta was doing; she took the total silence from behind her as a good sign. If only Meggie did not choose this moment to decide she was hungry . . .

As the men came steadily closer she could occasionally make out what they were saying. They seemed to be talking about some escaped prisoners; one of them said something about a dead gaoler. Then – and she started with terror – one of them looked straight up into the branches of the yew tree.

She stared down at him. He was a good-looking man; she could not help but notice it, although she berated herself for the irreverence when this very man might be on the point of making a move that would lead to her death. If he spotted the refuge, if he managed to scale the yew’s trunk and came up to investigate . . .

He said, in a blessedly ordinary voice, ‘Great old tree, that one, eh, Robert? It’s stood there a thousand years, they say. It must have seen the Romans as they marched along these tracks.’

One of the others answered him, making some laughing comment about a legion needing a wider road than this insubstantial path. The third man had come to stand right under the tree.

Suddenly the first man cried out, making Joanna jump out of her skin. ‘Stop that!’ he roared. ‘Have some respect, damn you, and shed your water somewhere else!’

The man under the tree, grumbling, turned away, walked a few paces into the dead bracken and then, raising his tunic, splashed a loud stream of urine into the thick, rusty foliage.

Even if the man in the lead were her enemy, Joanna thought, he had one redeeming feature.

He was still looking up into the branches, but she no longer feared that he had discovered her secret refuge; his interest appeared to be in the old tree itself. Now, coming to stand beside the trunk, he gave it an affectionate pat. He said something in a low voice – Joanna could not make out the words – and then, turning away, led his men off along the track and back to the wider path.

They waited in silence for what seemed like hours. From time to time they heard the two men who had stayed with the horses making remarks to one another. They had both dismounted now, and one of them kept swinging his arms around himself, slapping his hands against his jerkin as if in an attempt to keep himself warm. They were in deep shade down there in the clearing, Joanna thought, and had not the benefit of the Sun whose beams she could see on the open section of the platform. The other man led the horses across to where there was a small rill leading from the stream that ran through her own glade, waiting with them while they drank.

Eventually she heard the sounds of the other three making their way back. They were returning via a different path, one that passed further away from the yew tree.

One of the men in the clearing called out, ‘Did you find anything?’

The man who had led the searchers called back, ‘Deer tracks, boar tracks, plenty of signs of animal life. But I don’t think there’s a human being within five miles.’ One of his companions laughed and said something about Hawkenlye Abbey and the man, laughing too, replied, ‘Ah, yes, Robert, but we are not hunting pious Christian women, especially not nuns.’

Joanna turned over on to her back, closing her eyes.

So it was true. They
were
hunting for Utta and her party.

After a moment, opening her eyes again, she stared across at Utta, who met her gaze steadily. She tried a smile, a gesture of such gallantry that Joanna’s heart went out to her all over again.

I cannot protect her friends, she thought to herself. But I vow that, if it is in my power, I shall keep Utta safe.

They spent the remainder of the day trying to recover from the fear engendered by the presence of the huntsmen. Joanna attempted to take Utta’s mind off her terror by keeping her occupied. It was not easy, in their restricted circumstances – and nothing on Earth would have persuaded Utta to descend from the safety of the yew tree – but she did what she could. First, there were Utta’s wounds to look at. She was healing well and Joanna realised that the enforced idleness up in their refuge was a blessing in disguise. The brand mark on Utta’s forehead was still angry and inflamed, but Joanna was sure that the area of heat around it was growing smaller. She encouraged Utta with nods and smiles, to which Utta responded with pathetic gratitude.

‘I have – mark?’ she asked shyly, pointing to her brow.

‘Yes, Utta. You bear a mark.’

‘It will—’ Utta paused, clearly thinking how to ask what she wanted to know. ‘Mark will stay?’

Ah, of course, Joanna thought. She’s asking if she will be left with a scar. What woman would not want to know that?

Weighing her words carefully so as to sound neither over-optimistic nor over-pessimistic, she said slowly and clearly, ‘Usually a branding iron will leave a scar. But your wound is healing very well and I believe that the herbs that I have used will mean that eventually you will only have a faint mark.’ Leaning forward, she reached for the edge of Utta’s veil and said, ‘May I?’

Utta nodded, her blue eyes puzzled. Joanna draped the veil low over Utta’s eyebrows, covering the brand mark. ‘If you wear your veil a little lower,’ she said, ‘like this, I think that nobody will see the mark.’

Relief flooded Utta’s face. Taking Joanna’s hands in both of hers, she squeezed them warmly. ‘You – good woman,’ she pronounced. ‘You save Utta’s life, also save her face.’

Something about the way she phrased her gratitude made Joanna giggle. Utta joined in and, as their fear gave way to laughter, they looked at each other, both aware that some new factor had entered their relationship.

I wish, Joanna thought, that I could ask her why she has been branded a heretic. What is her faith? What do her people believe in? But, given Utta’s limited command of Joanna’s language, she realised that her wish was to remain unfulfilled.

They both slept more soundly that night. Joanna gave Utta some more of the painkilling draught, ensuring that she would have a peaceful rest, and Joanna felt able to relax to a greater degree. But she knew that having had one visit from those who hunted for Utta did not necessarily mean that there would not be others.

Sound sleep might have come to her, but it was full of dreams, the content of most of which Joanna did her best, on waking, to forget.

He came late in the afternoon of the next day.

Joanna never knew why he should have found his way to that particular area of the great forest. Since nobody told her otherwise, she concluded that it was nothing more than mischance.

She had just fed Meggie and settled the child in her furry nest. Meggie went quickly to sleep, one small fist clenched under her chin slowly uncurling as she relaxed; Joanna tucked the hand beneath the fur covers.

Utta was wrapped up in her own rugs, leaning a shoulder into the spongy trunk of the yew. Patting the tree, she was haltingly saying something about its wood being comfortable to rest against when Joanna heard a sound.

She held up her hand for silence and instantly Utta obeyed. It sickened Joanna to see the terror in Utta’s eyes; in that one brief moment, she had gone from being a happy, relaxed woman anticipating an evening with a congenial companion to one who looked as if she expected to die in the very near future.

Trying to reassure her, Joanna put her mouth close to Utta’s ear and whispered, ‘They did not find us before so they will not now. Anyway, it may be nothing but a forest animal.’

But Utta did not appear to be reassured. Moving so stealthily that a moth would have made more noise, slowly she crawled right to the back of the shelter, covering herself in both her and Joanna’s furs and rugs and crouching down until she was no more than a vague heap in the gloomy light. Joanna could see nothing of her but her eyes, wide with fear.

There was, Joanna knew, no need to tell her to be absolutely silent.

Turning her back on Utta, Joanna lay down on the platform and once more put her eye to the spyhole. At first she could see nothing. She was not entirely sure from which direction the sound had come so she waited, holding her breath, to see if it would come again. After a few moments, it did.

It sounded as if someone – or something – were moving cautiously along the track. Not the main track, up towards the clearing where the horsemen had waited for the hunters, but the smaller path that led off towards the yew tree. Watching, every sense straining, Joanna looked out for movement. It was almost sunset and the light was fast fading down there beneath the trees. If we have been scared rigid by nothing more threatening than a boar, she thought, peering along the line of the path, then I may never even
see
the creature . . .

But then there was another, louder sound, swiftly followed by an exclamation. Whoever was down there had just tripped over something. And he was not a boar but a man.

Joanna moved slightly so as to get a better view. The sound had come from the path, at a point where the smaller animal track led off towards the yew tree. Straining to see, she stared down into the gloom.

As she watched, he came down out of the undergrowth and stood on the path. It seemed likely that he had been making his way under cover of the low growth beneath the trees, almost as if he knew somebody would be looking out for him and wanted to ensure that he stayed hidden. But, having damaged himself when he tripped – he was reaching down to inspect an ankle – he had decided to come out on to the easier way offered by the path.

Joanna could see little of him but the top of his head – he appeared to be bald – and his slight shoulders. He was dressed in some dark garment that might have been deliberately chosen to make him hard to spot in the dim light. As she stared intently down at him, he straightened up and began to creep on down the path.

Stay on that track, Joanna willed him, follow it wherever it leads you, and do not turn aside.

It seemed as if he would obey. Turning his head to look from side to side, he paused for a moment to stare at the animal track leading off towards the yew tree – Joanna felt her heart stop – but then, apparently losing interest, he made as if to go on.