I need someone sophisticated and worldly who owes no greater allegiance to the Church authorities than the next man, Josse mused.
His mind turned to the de Clares.
The family was certainly sophisticated; some of its members had at one time had very close connections with the royal court. William the Conqueror had given lands at Tonbridge to his close supporter, Richard Fitzgilbert, as well as the estates at Clare in Suffolk from which Richard took his title. Although he had later rebelled against William’s son, William Rufus — who had attacked and burned Tonbridge Castle in response — his own son Gilbert later became a good friend to the second William.
It was said that there was a blood link between the Norman kings and the de Clares. Richard Fitzgilbert was the son of Arletta of Falaise, a tanner’s daughter who later became the mistress of Robert the Devil, Duke of Normandy, by whom she had a son. That son became William the Conqueror.
The present holder of the de Clare title was Richard FitzRoger, Arletta’s great-great-great-grandson. He was a powerful baron and, as Josse well knew, a man of importance at court.
Perhaps he was too important.
But what about his servant, Gervase de Gifford?
It was some time since Josse had paid a visit to his friend Goody Anne, who kept the tavern down in Tonbridge. Josse resolved to ride down there the next day, gorge himself on Anne’s excellent food and ale and ask a few discreet questions about de Gifford.
He rode down Castle Hill the next morning. The day was sunny and quite warm, with an illusory promise that spring might be on its way. He made his way to the tavern and was greeted warmly by Goody Anne. After the usual flirtatious remarks, she slammed a tankard of ale in front of him and went off to fetch him a dish of mutton stew.
As always, it was a simple matter to start a conversation. This time, Josse merely turned to the man beside him — a stout fellow in early middle age who had been sharing a joke with Goody Anne and whose broad face still wore a beaming smile — and remarked on what a fine day it was.
He endured several minutes of his new acquaintance’s opinion on the weather, then said, as the man took a long gulp of ale, ‘I met a man from hereabouts the other day. His name’s de Gifford, and I believe he is a de Clare man. I wonder if you-’
‘Oh, aye, I know de Gifford,’ the stout man said confidently. ‘Well, that’s to say, I don’t know him personally, like, but I know well who he is.’
‘Is he a newcomer to the area?’
‘Hm? Newcomer? Well now, I wouldn’t like to say. He’s been a frequent visitor up at the Castle, they say, for many a day. But whether or not he’s taken up residence here, that I cannot tell you, my friend.’
‘Is he well liked?’
The stout man gave him an assessing glance. ‘He’s the law, isn’t he? Liking don’t much come into it, far as I can tell.’
‘Is he respected?’
Again, the sly look. ‘Like I say, he’s the law. Makes sense for a man to respect those with power over him, wouldn’t you say?’
The stout man’s genial air was, Josse was realising, slightly misleading. He might enjoy a good laugh and a mug of ale, but beneath the cheery exterior there appeared to be a shrewd brain. With a nod to Josse, he said, civilly enough, ‘My dinner’s nearly ready. I’m away to the table over there to eat it.’
It was as clear a snub as any. Josse wished him good day and turned back to his ale.
He had just finished his mutton stew — it was excellent — when a quiet voice beside him said, ‘I hear you were asking about me, Sir Josse. Can I be of assistance?’
He spun round. Gervase de Gifford, immaculately dressed in a burgundy-coloured tunic with rich gold braiding, stood behind him.
‘Word travels fast,’ Josse observed.
De Gifford gave a faint shrug. ‘I am fortunate in that someone happened to overhear your mention of my name.’
It was more than that, Josse was quite sure. There was probably a man — maybe more than one — in de Gifford’s pay who kept his eyes and ears open and reported anything likely to be of interest to the sheriff. Well, it made sense; Josse felt a moment’s admiration for de Gifford’s efficiency.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ Josse said quietly.
‘Indeed? What about?’ The light green eyes studied him.
‘Er — to do with the subject of the conversation we had yesterday.’
De Gifford nodded, as if in recognition of Josse’s diplomacy in not mentioning what that subject had been. ‘I see. There have been further developments?’
‘In a way, yes, although not in the sense that something new has happened.’ Josse glanced around him; the tavern was quite full and certainly no place to take out and wave about the alien manuscript. ‘I have brought something to show you,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Is there somewhere private where we could go?’
De Gifford said, ‘Yes. Follow me.’
Josse drained his mug and obeyed.
De Gifford led the way out of the tavern and along the road, taking a narrow alleyway between some low wooden houses. The alleyway was foul with dirty water and household waste; de Gifford, Josse noticed, stepped very carefully so as to protect his soft leather boots.
They soon left the last of the dwellings behind. The air improved quickly and Josse saw that they had come to a path that led down to the river. De Gifford headed for a spot where a fallen tree made a low seat; sitting down, he patted the gnarled trunk beside him and said, ‘Make yourself comfortable. Few people come along here at this time of year and if anyone does, we shall see them approach. Now, what did you want to show me?’
Josse reached inside his tunic and withdrew the linen bundle. Unwrapping the cloth, he held out the manuscript to de Gifford, who took it from him in gloved hands.
He studied it for a long time, turning the parchment pages slowly, staring at the graceful, even writing and at the lively, colourful pictures. Josse, burning to ask what he made of it, restrained his impatience with difficulty.
Eventually de Gifford said, ‘I cannot be absolutely sure, but I believe this is a Cathar tract.’ Josse opened his mouth to speak but de Gifford held up a hand. ‘Please, Sir Josse, do not say anything — I do not want to know how you came by this.’ He glanced up at Josse. ‘Yet. As I say, I am not certain. But the writing is in the langue d’oc, the speech of the Midi. It describes a ceremony and the illustration here’ — he turned to the painting of the group of people with their arms raised in reverence — ‘is a depiction of the ceremonial rites.’ He stared down at the picture for a moment. Then: ‘It is exquisite, is it not?’
‘Aye.’ Josse was thinking fast. His strong inclination was to tell de Gifford the truth; for some reason, he trusted the man. And, even if de Gifford subsequently revealed himself to be too devout a Christian to entertain the thought of preserving and treasuring a heretical document, then Josse could with all honesty say that neither he nor anybody else knew for certain how it had come to be hidden at Hawkenlye. That ought surely to absolve both him and the Abbey community from blame.
And, however hard he tried, he just could not believe in the picture of de Gifford as an obedient, devoted Christian. .
He said, ‘It was found in the book chest at Hawkenlye Abbey. One of the nuns thought she saw signs that the Abbey’s manuscripts had been disturbed and a search was instigated. This was found concealed beneath the other manuscripts.’
‘No doubt smuggled into the Abbey and hidden by whoever it was who arranged for the woman Aurelia to be brought for treatment in the infirmary,’ de Gifford said.
‘We cannot be sure of that,’ Josse said quickly.
‘No, of course not,’ de Gifford murmured. Then, turning intent eyes to Josse, he said, ‘Why did you bring it to me?’
‘I needed to consult someone with learning who was not vowed to mindless obedience to the Church,’ Josse replied.
De Gifford smiled. ‘I am flattered on the one count, a little perplexed on the second. Why, Sir Josse, do you perceive me as potentially disobedient to our priesthood?’