Authors: Alys Clare
‘You’d better tell me what these grievances are,’ Josse replied, ‘although even a wood-dwelling innocent such as I can probably guess most of them.’
Gervase grinned briefly. ‘Yes, you probably can,’ he agreed. ‘It’s a predictable litany of misdemeanours: they complain of the king’s financial ruses, perpetually bleeding from them what remains of their wealth. They are heartily sick of the constant fines, and what our great monarch is pleased to refer to as reliefs, although the only man to gain much relief is John himself. They complain that he forces the destruction of castles said to have been built or fortified without his express approval. They moan that no castle or estate left in his wardship is safe from his ruthless depredations and, allied to that, they are furious that he marries off heiresses and wealthy widows to men who are unworthy of them, with no thought but his own profit. And – this seems to be what chiefly enrages them – there are the forest laws.’
‘The forest laws,’ Josse echoed dully. ‘Of course.’
‘Lords and their hunting,’ Gervase said wryly. ‘You know what they’re like.’
‘Indeed I do.’
Leaning close again, Gervase whispered, ‘Do not think, Josse, that Fitzwalter and his faction are prompted by anything but self-preservation. They have no thought for the lot of the poor, suffering common folk; they have but one aim, and that is to limit the power of the king so that he can no longer milk them as he does.’
Josse nodded slowly.
I am not surprised
, he thought.
I have lived too long on this good earth to expect men to be altruistic.
‘How widespread is the support for this … this faction?’ he asked.
‘It is by no means universal,’ Gervase said swiftly. ‘Many barons are still loyal to the king.’ Lowering his voice, he added, ‘Fitzwalter is, I believe, organizing no more than an offensive of words: he and the other barons wish to persuade others to their cause. They will use whatever means they can drag up to persuade others to their viewpoint, and I fear it will be a dirty fight. It is to this end that they gather here, in my own town.’ He gave an expression of disgust. ‘Why did it have to be here?’ he muttered angrily.
‘You said earlier that rumours claim the de Clares are not in evidence,’ Josse reminded him. ‘Yet you believe they are there?’
‘I do,’ Gervase agreed. ‘Old Richard de Clare is no supporter of the king, and his son – that’s Gilbert – follows where his father leads. They may not yet have declared themselves, but, before long, they will. Of that I am convinced.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, since I know little about either man.’ Josse leaned on one arm of his chair, going over all that he had just heard.
‘They’ve got an influential Cistercian with them at the castle.’ Gervase’s quiet voice broke in on Josse’s musings. ‘Ralph of Odiham. Do you know of him?’
‘No,’ Josse admitted. ‘I do know that the Cistercian order have no love for King John.’ All religious houses, he reflected, had suffered greatly under the interdict, but the king’s treatment of the Cistercian order had been particularly harsh and humiliating.
Gervase was nodding. ‘Ralph of Odiham’s a power in the Order, and it seems he’s throwing his weight behind this Battle monk who’s being paraded about. He’s attached himself to the lad like a burr to your cloak hem, and Caleb too is here in the town.’
‘Caleb. Is that his name?’
‘They’re using him, Josse,’ Gervase said angrily, ignoring the question. ‘Caleb’s an innocent, and he’s speaking from the heart when he says these terrible times are God’s punishment for our wickedness. That’s all very well in a monastery,’ he went on, ‘where they’ve got nothing else to do but pray all day, but it’s a different matter for we who have to make a life of some sort out in the world. Why, we—’
It sounded, Josse reflected, as if Gervase was winding up for a long complaint. ‘Why is this Caleb in Tonbridge?’ he interrupted. He didn’t think it was the moment to take issue with Gervase’s assertion that those in the religious life did nothing but pray, but, nevertheless, he felt a moment’s hot fury on behalf of Abbess Caliste and her people.
That question seemed to further anger Gervase. Leaning close again, he lowered his voice and said, ‘I don’t know for sure, but my men keep their ears and their eyes open, and they reckon Nicholas Fitzwalter’s had spies out, searching the country for people like Caleb who are prepared to speak out loud against what the K— er, what’s being done in our land.’
Even here, within his own four walls, he is afraid to utter what he would like to say
, Josse thought sadly.
‘A trio of wool merchants arrived here from Battle not long before Caleb was brought into the town,’ Gervase went on in a practically inaudible whisper. ‘At least, they said they were merchants. Rumour has it that they have now thrown off their lowly disguises and, dressed in their true and considerably more wealthy colours, are now up at the castle with Fitzwalter and his faction.’ He sighed. ‘Who knows how many others are out there, combing England for poor, helpless saps like Caleb who don’t begin to understand the peril of mixing with ruthless and unscrupulous men?’
Unscrupulous men
. Now what, Josse wondered, did that bring to mind?
He heard Meggie’s voice in his head, clear as a bell.
She’s been experiencing visions in which she’s seen dangerous things, and there’s a possibility that unscrupulous men may try to use her for their own ends
.
Aye, that was it – she’d been telling him about some old girl she’d been called to see in Hawkenlye’s infirmary.
Abbess Caliste will keep her safe
, she had reassured him.
But what if some agent of Nicholas Fitzwalter already knew about this woman and her ‘dangerous things’? How safe would Hawkenlye’s walls prove to be, against a deputation from the barons now collecting in Tonbridge Castle?
Suddenly he was on his feet, striding across the hall towards the door. ‘Josse, where are you going?’ Gervase called after him, sounding half-amused, half-angry.
‘Something I must do,’ Josse replied.
Gervase hurried over to him, a detaining hand on his arm. ‘But you haven’t told me why you’re here! What did you want to see me about?’
Josse cursed under his breath. Gervase’s ranting had driven his mission right out of his head. Briefly he debated with himself: was there time to tell Gervase about Benedict de Vitré’s murder, or should he hurry straight up to the abbey to check on the old woman in the infirmary?
A few moments will not hurt
, he told himself.
Turning to face Gervase, he told him what Meggie had discovered on Lord Benedict’s dead body.
By long custom, on arriving at Hawkenlye Abbey Josse went first to see its abbess. As she rose to greet him, he remembered Helewise’s request. He returned her greeting, then said, ‘Is there any news regarding the two dead young men?’
‘No,’ Abbess Caliste said sadly. ‘I find it inconceivable that nobody has missed them, but, as yet, none have come asking about them.’
‘I tried to take the news to Lord Wimarc,’ Josse said, ‘but Wealdsend appeared to be deserted.’
‘How strange, when it was the poor young men’s destination,’ the abbess remarked. ‘They cannot have been expected, then.’
Josse shrugged. ‘Who can say?’
The abbess was studying him intently. ‘Sir Josse, I sense that you are here on another matter,’ she said, ‘for you have an air of distraction.’
‘Aye, my lady,’ he agreed. ‘Meggie tells me you have an old woman in your care, who you believe may be in danger because of certain visions she has experienced?’
‘Lilas of Hamhurst.’ The abbess nodded. ‘Indeed we do, and Meggie, I believe, is with her even now. Would you like to come and meet her?’
As soon as he and the abbess stepped out into the cloister, Josse knew something was amiss. It was the noise – that great clamour of shouting male voices, interspersed with shrill female laughter, was something you never normally heard inside the abbey’s walls.
Abbess Caliste, her face set in stern, angry lines, marched off towards the source of the noise, and Josse hurried to keep pace with her. ‘Be careful, my lady,’ he warned. ‘There is violence in the air.’
She shot him a swift look. ‘Violence or not, something is disturbing the peace of Hawkenlye Abbey, Sir Josse, and the maintenance of that peace is
my
responsibility.’
He had no option but to follow her.
They emerged from the shelter of the cloisters into the wide open space between the main gates and the east face of the great abbey church. It was full of a thronging, surging press of people. They represented all stations of life, from barefoot, ill-fed, gap-toothed peasants to lordly men in warm, fur-lined cloaks and fine leather boots. Among the rags and the brilliant colours, two figures stood out: one was dressed entirely in the black habit of a Benedictine monk, and the other in the plain white wool and black scapular of the Cistercians.
On the fringes of the pushing, heaving crowd, small groups of the Hawkenlye nuns, monks and lay brethren stood, mouths open in amazement at this extraordinary intrusion. Abbess Caliste, with Josse as close at her side as if he were tethered, elbowed her way to where Sister Liese and Meggie stood, outside the small rear door of the infirmary. The infirmarer was trying vainly to hush the crowd and commanding them to have some respect for the sick and the dying in her care.
Meggie smiled in relief as she caught sight of Josse, detaching herself from Sister Liese and hurrying over to him.
‘They just shoved their way in, all those lords and ladies and the gaggle of hangers-on,’ she said breathlessly, ‘and they certainly didn’t bother with asking anyone’s permission, and—’
‘What on earth is going on, Sister?’ the abbess shouted. ‘Who are all these people?’
Josse’s old friend Brother Saul appeared, panting with the effort of fighting a path through the crowd. Catching Meggie’s words, he shoved his way through to the abbess and cried, ‘We tried to tell the men, my lady abbess, that they must speak to you first and ask your permission – me, Sister Teresa and Brother Luke, that is.’ Briefly he indicated the nun on duty in the porteress’s hut and the lay brother who, judging by the pitchfork in his hands, had been mucking out the stables. ‘We told that lord fellow over there – the tall one in the blue cloak, him with that band of guards lurking round him – since he seems to be in charge, but he said they had a right to be heard, and the people must know the truth, and we—’
A ferocious shout cut off Saul’s anxious words. ‘
Listen!
’ a deep, authoritative male voice cried. ‘Hear the words of our holy monk here, who has seen the
truth
!’
Spinning round, Josse saw that someone had dragged up trestles and boards to set up a makeshift platform, on to which the Cistercian, the Benedictine and the tall man in the blue cloak were clambering; it was the latter who had shouted. The gang of burly men, who Saul had indicated as guards, had taken up positions around the foot of the platform. At Josse’s side, the abbess made to move forward, her expression thunderous, but, sensing again the threat of violence thrumming in the air, Josse grabbed her hand, holding her back. Waving his arm, he indicated the fascinated, avid faces all around. They had come here for a show, and they were not going to give it up. He said into Abbess Caliste’s ear, ‘My lady, if you try to stop this now, you risk a riot, in which many innocent people will undoubtedly be hurt.’ Even as he spoke, someone pushed forward against the platform, and instantly one of the guards swung a heavy club and forced the man back. Instinctively, Josse put his free arm round Meggie, drawing her close.
He had always thought of Caliste as a level-headed, wise woman. Never had he been so glad to be proved right.
Still holding her hand, he felt the tension ease. Shooting him a furious look, she wrested herself out of his grasp. ‘Very well, Sir Josse,’ she said icily. ‘Since there appears to be no choice, we will listen to what this lord would have us hear.’
The man in the blue cloak had thrust out his chest, a gesture which had set his cloak swinging, revealing a sword at his side.
He has a sword, and his men have clubs
, Josse thought.
They dare to come armed into this holy place
. Josse’s apprehension grew. The man looked around the crowd ranged below him, eyes narrowed as he waited for silence. He had a thin, hawkish face, with pale and strangely unblinking eyes, and a long nose that came to a sharp point. Such was his air of command that, quite quickly, he got the silence he wanted.
‘I am Nicholas Fitzwalter,’ he announced, ‘as many of you will already know.’
There were murmurs of assent, and someone yelled out, ‘We know you all right, Lord Nick!’
Smiling, he suppressed the brief noise with his outstretched hands. ‘I have not summoned you here to listen to me,’ he went on, ‘but to hear the words of another: one who has heard the voice of our Lord God, and who wishes to share His words with you!’
The startling announcement was greeted for an instant with dead silence. Then a soft buzz of excited comment spread through the crowd.
Watching the trio on the platform, Josse sensed all was not well. The Benedictine (young, pale and clearly frightened) was pleading with the Cistercian (older, his very stance expressive of authority) and Josse was all but certain the young monk was not at all happy … He let his gaze roam around the crowd, studying the expressions. The mood of expectation seemed to be steadily growing.
‘Behold,’ Fitzwalter shouted above the growing hum of excited chatter, ‘I present to you Caleb of Battle! Hear, my friends, what he has to say, for he speaks for God himself!’
Even Josse, some way away, heard the agonized squeak of Caleb’s reply: ‘I don’t! Oh,
I don’t
– I never claimed that, no man has the right to speak for God! I just …’ He lowered his voice to a whisper.
I need to hear exactly what passes between these men
, Josse thought. He edged through the crowd until he was standing just beneath the platform, and the abbess came with him. He looked up at Caleb, taking in the extreme pallor and the shiny film of greasy sweat on the emaciated face. The black robe was threadbare, poorly darned here and there, and dotted with crusty stains.