by Alys Clare
Joanna had hidden in an old house in this area. The house had belonged to her great-aunt and uncle, and when she was small she had spent much time in their household. She had been cared for and taught by their house servant, Mag Hobson; it was many years later that Joanna learned who Mag really was. The house was modest, with a few ramshackle outbuildings. It belonged to Joanna now; not that she went there often, preferring to live in her little hut deep in the forest.
Had Kathnir and Akhbir stumbled on the old place and, finding it deserted, made themselves at home? Josse prayed that he was wrong, for he could imagine all too clearly what Joanna’s reaction would be if she paid one of her rare visits to the house and discovered a strange Saracen in her hall. She would attack and—
A smile spread over his face. Aye, Joanna might be a woman pitting herself against a warrior but she had a power about her now and ways of not only defending herself but also attacking her enemy that might come as quite a surprise to Akhbir.
But on a visit to the house she’d undoubtedly have Meggie with her . . .
Grim now, he pressed on.
The faint ribbon of track broadened into a well-defined path, then into a road wide enough for a horse and rider. Josse was certain now: the old house was about a quarter of a mile ahead. He had Akhbir in view as the Saracen climbed a slight rise and stepped out into the clearing, then hurried towards the paved courtyard, overgrown with tufts of grass and weeds.
Memories of being here with Joanna flooded Josse’s mind despite his efforts to keep them at bay. It was to this house, her secret hiding place, that she had brought him when he had been wounded. Here she had told him her poignant tale; here she had wept and he had taken her in his arms. Here, on fur rugs in front of the fire, he had intended only to comfort her but comfort had turned into mutual passion and they had made love for the first time.
Joanna.
He closed his eyes and suffered the mingled joy and pain of his memories. Then, ordering himself to get on with his present imperative task, he opened his eyes again. But memory was still in command. He thought he saw her, clad in her heavy, enveloping woollen cloak. Just for an instant she seemed to shimmer there on the path beside the house.
Then the vision was gone.
Less out of his sense of duty than to rid himself of the anguish of remembering, he took a calming breath and began to creep carefully forward.
It looked as if Akhbir and Kathnir had been living in the undercroft, for whereas the heavy wooden door to the hall was fast shut and had a strand of wild rose growing across it, the arched door beside the steps was ajar and there were signs that feet had been treading through the doorway.
There was a group of holly trees where the track joined the open space in front of the house and Josse crouched behind it. He was thinking hard. Someone was living here, or had been very recently. Had it been the two Saracens? Or did Akhbir know that someone else was here – Fadil, perhaps, or the runaway monk; both, maybe – and was he even now about to burst in on them?
He stood up and stared after Akhbir.
Whoever was in the house, Akhbir was wary of them; he had drawn his long, curved knife. He held it firmly in his raised right hand.
He broke into a run.
And then suddenly he stopped, skittered to a halt and collapsed on the ground, an arrow in his chest.
Josse broke cover and raced to the fallen man. The arrow had been fired at short range and the shot had been devastatingly accurate. The missile had gone straight through Akhbir’s body and its evil head was sticking a hand’s breadth out of his back.
He was dead.
Josse knelt by his side, Akhbir’s warm blood soaking into the cloth of his hose. He reached out a hand and gently closed the wide eyes. He muttered a prayer; although he had no idea what a Saracen would wish said over his dead body, Josse was familiar with the Christian ritual and he did his best.
I must get his body away and back to Hawkenlye, he thought. I cannot carry him. I shall have to hurry back and fetch help. But before I go I must find something to cover him. Akhbir’s cloak was bunched up beneath his body and Josse began to roll the corpse from side to side to free it. He pulled out a section of the hem and was just attempting to move the body again when he heard a whistling sound above him.
He looked up to see a second arrow flying in a lobbed trajectory high over his head. Losing momentum, it fell to earth and embedded itself in the ground about a foot from where he knelt.
Hurriedly he shoved Akhbir off his cloak, then draped the cloth over the dead man’s face and chest. Another arrow struck the ground, slightly closer to him. With a cry of alarm, he grabbed at it, wrested it free and leapt to his feet. His hands and arms covering his head in a futile gesture of self-defence, he ran for the path that led away under the trees.
The longer track that ran around the forest might have been the wiser road to take but Josse had received a bad scare and, in addition, he knew he had to face Gervase as quickly as he could with the news that the sheriff’s prisoner was dead. Consequently he took the direct route that led straight through the old forest.
He muttered under his breath as he hurried along, a random string of words such as please and sorry and short little sentences such as I would not intrude but for dire necessity. He was not quite sure who he was addressing: the forest people; the trees; the numinous presence that dwelt in the heart of this strange place. Whoever it was, it heard him and he was not only left alone but, as if by magic, he found his way along the swiftest tracks and paths without one wrong turning.
All too soon he was back at the Abbey.
The community was emerging from the church after tierce. The Abbess saw him and walked up to him. Wordlessly he inclined his head in the direction of her room and, with a nod, she led the way there.
‘Akhbir is dead,’ he said without preamble. ‘I let him go in the hope that he would lead me to either Fadil or the runaway monk.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘And did he?’
‘He led me to someone,’ Josse answered grimly. ‘That someone shot Akhbir through the heart and warned me off with two more equally well-aimed shots.’
‘It is exactly what happened when you and Gervase found the makeshift shrine to the dead Turk!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whoever shot at you then has already murdered Kathnir and now they have killed Akhbir too.’
‘But—’ he began.
‘I shall send word immediately for Gervase,’ she announced, striding over to the door. ‘Sister Ursel!’ she called loudly. ‘Sister!’ She hurried out into the cloister and Josse, following, saw the porteress run towards her. There was a brief conversation, Sister Ursel nodded then hurried away in the direction of the stables.
‘One of the young lay brothers is mucking out for Sister Martha,’ the Abbess explained as she came back into the room. ‘Sister Ursel is going to dispatch him down to Tonbridge immediately.’ She looked sympathetically at Josse. ‘Have you had breakfast?’ He shook his head. ‘Then come with me to the refectory, and while we wait for Gervase I shall order food and a warming drink for you.’
When he had finished Sister Basilia’s excellent breakfast and expressed his thanks, he and the Abbess returned to her room. She seemed disinclined to question him further until the sheriff was with them, and as they settled down to wait he said, ‘Someone has made a temporary camp out at the old house where Joanna’s great-aunt and uncle lived.’
She knew straight away why he had told her that. ‘Any sign of her?’ she asked quietly.
‘No. The door into the hall looked as if it hadn’t been opened in months. Whoever is living there is using the undercroft.’
‘I wonder why?’ She was, he thought, doing her best to distract him from thoughts of Joanna by presenting a small puzzle. ‘If you’re going to borrow someone’s house without permission, why not do it in style? He – or they – could have lit a fire in the hall and there must be furs and rugs and so on and—’
She must have noticed his expr
ession. He had very precious and extremely intimate memories of fur rugs and a roaring fire in Joanna’s hall.
‘Well, it’s odd to use the undercroft instead,’ she hurried on. Her cheeks had flushed a little, as if she were aware of her error. ‘Perhaps whoever it is knew they were doing wrong and were keen to keep the offence to a minimum . . .’
Silence fell. Although Josse was not keen to face Gervase and explain why he had released Akhbir and positively encouraged him to run away, still he found himself almost looking forward to the confrontation. Anything would be better, he thought miserably, than sitting here feeling the Abbess’s sympathy coming at him in waves and being unable to do what he longed to do.
Which was to share with her the less personal of those precious memories. To open his heart and pour out all the pain that he was suffering.
But she was Abbess of Hawkenlye and they were trying to find out why two people – three now – had been murdered. He kept his peace.
When Gervase arrived, Josse gave him his reasons for having let Akhbir go succinctly and honestly. The sheriff was more surprised than angry. He said, ‘I respect your judgement, Josse, and in fact you didn’t do anything wrong since Akhbir wasn’t exactly under arrest, merely under guard. But he didn’t do what you expected, did he? He didn’t lead you either to Fadil or to the English Hospitaller. Instead he seems to have run straight into the same bowman who killed Kathnir.’
‘He didn’t,’ Josse said quietly.
‘He didn’t what?’ Gervase demanded.
‘It was not Kathnir’s killer who fired the shot.’
‘Josse, you’re asking us to believe that there are two expert archers out there hunting down stray Saracens!’ Gervase exclaimed, looking across at the Abbess with an exasperated smile. ‘That is stretching credibility, is it not, my lady?’
‘It would appear so,’ she said guardedly.
‘I have not told you it all yet,’ Josse said.
‘Then please do so!’ cried the sheriff.
‘Kathnir was killed with the same type of arrow that was fired at us, Gervase, as we stood at the spot where the Turk died, and we concluded that whoever killed Kathnir did so out of revenge for their fallen comrade. Also, that they did not want our presence at a spot that they revered like a shrine to the dead man.’
‘Yes,’ Gervase agreed.
‘I believe that someone else killed Akhbir,’ he said gravely, ‘for he was shot with a crossbow bolt.’
‘You are certain of that?’ Gervase demanded.
‘Aye. The bowman did not want me to linger over Akhbir’s body and he fired two more shots to warn me off. I brought one of them away with me. It’s in the gatehouse with my weapons.’
‘You of all men ought to know the difference between a longbow arrow and a crossbow bolt,’ Gervase admitted.
‘Aye. I do,’ Josse agreed.
‘Cannot a man be efficient with both?’ the Abbess asked. ‘Is not the crossbow a better weapon for short-range fire?’
Josse turned to look at her. It was a surprising piece of knowledge for a nun, but then, as he often reminded himself, she had not always been a nun. ‘That is so. As to whether a man can be as good a marksman with both weapons, I have not experienced such a thing. The two types of bow require different skills, use different muscles, and it is normal for a man to train in the use of one or the other. But it’s not impossible.’
‘Unlikely?’ the sheriff persisted.
‘Aye.’
‘So those who wished to avenge the Turk’s death by murdering the two Saracen warriors were not responsible for this morning’s death,’ the Abbess said. ‘Who was, then?’
Josse, who had the advantage over his companions of having known for very much longer how Akhbir had died, had given a great deal of thought to the question. ‘There are two obvious possibilities,’ he said. ‘Akhbir was involved in the mission to find Fadil and take him back to the fat man. He and Kathnir were also commanded to retrieve the stolen treasure with which the fat man intended to buy him back. We believe that Fadil and the English monk came to England together but that they have parted company. I suggest that either Fadil – John Damianos – is living out in the house in the forest alone, or else that he’s got the Hospitaller with him. One of them must have fired the shots that killed Akhbir and sent me running.’
‘You said that John Damianos was alone when he came to New Winnowlands,’ the Abbess observed.
‘Aye, I know. I thought of that too. But just because they had separated then does not necessarily mean they have not joined forces again now.’
Gervase was shaking his head. ‘What are they doing out there?’ he said. ‘Is it simply that, all too aware there are people hunting for them, they are lying low?’
‘There are fewer people on their trail now,’ the Abbess said. ‘The two Saracens are dead. Thibault of Margat and Brother Otto are lying in their beds here at the Abbey recovering from the effects of the fire.’
‘Aye, that is true, my lady,’ Josse agreed, ‘but we still face a third pursuing party which is perhaps the most dangerous of all.’
‘How so?’ asked Gervase.
Josse smiled grimly. ‘Because, except for these facts – that they originally had a Turkish bowman with them, that there are at least two of them and both are expert archers, and they appear to be involved in the pursuit of Fadil and the English monk – we know absolutely nothing about them.’
Twelve
Before Josse left the Abbess she mentioned that Thibault was restless, asking repeatedly how soon he might be able to go on his way. ‘But Sister Euphemia tells me he is still far from well,’ she added. ‘His burns are still raw and, apart from the dreadful pain, if he tries to move he risks infection.’ Josse offered to call in and talk to Thibault and the Abbess accepted with gratitude. Accordingly, he made his way to the infirmary as soon as he had wished her good evening.
He parted the curtains and went inside the recess. Brother Otto was dozing but managed to open his eyes briefly and give him a weak smile. Thibault was propped up on pillows, clean dressings on his many wounds, his face tense with anxiety.
‘I hear you wish to leave us, Thibault.’ Josse perched carefully on his bed.
‘I have a job to do,’ Thibault replied. ‘All the time I lie here, the man I seek flees further from me.’ He had been looking straight at Josse but his eyes slipped away.
Josse thought he knew why that was.
‘But he will not leave this area,’ he said softly.
Thibault shot him a sharp look. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that he is not likely to set off to other parts of the country when it is here that he has friends,’ Josse replied.
Thibault licked his lips nervously. ‘Friends?’
‘Aye. The runaway monk went out to Outremer with Gerome de Villières. And Gerome de Villières has his manor near Robertsbridge, less than ten miles away.’
He could have sworn that Thibault relaxed with relief, although why this should be he had no idea. After some time Thibault said, ‘You may be right.’
Aye, I might, Josse thought. ‘And if I go to this Gerome,’ he said, ‘and ask about a certain young knight who left his service in Outremer to join the Knights Hospitaller, he will know exactly who I mean?’
Thibault hesitated. ‘I knew him by a name different from that under which he enlisted in the service of Gerome de Villières.’
‘Are you able to tell me either of those names?’
Thibault looked at him for several moments. Then he said simply, ‘No.’
‘Because you don’t know them or because you won’t reveal them?’
Thibault went on looking at him but he did not answer the question. But then he said, ‘The man I seek is not at the manor of his former master and nobody in the vicinity has seen a solitary Hospitaller. Brother Otto and I went there shortly before we met up with Brother Jeremiah. The track from the de Villières estate joins the road from the coast to the north of
Robertsbridge.’
‘The de Villières family had received no word of him? He had not visited nor contacted them?’
‘No, Sir Josse.’ Thibault was watching him intently. ‘That is the truth, and I give you my word on it.’
Was he telling the truth? It might well be that Thibault had his own reasons for not wanting Josse to visit Gerome de Villières, in which case telling him that the family had neither seen nor heard from their former knight was a good way of ensuring he didn’t. On the other hand, a senior member of the Order of the Knights Hospitaller had just given his word.
On balance, Josse reckoned he believed him.
There was something about what Thibault had just related that called for Josse’s attention. Thibault had relaxed into his pillows and closed his eyes and swiftly Josse went over their conversation to see if he could pick out what it was.
After some concentrated effort he thought he had it.
Nobody there has seen a solitary Hospitaller, Thibault said. And, Brother Otto and I went there shortly before we met up with Brother Jeremiah.
Thibault and Brother Otto were not the only ones hunting for the runaway monk and his companion. Kathnir and Akhbir had been after the monk’s companion, Fadil, which meant they were also following the monk since he was travelling with Fadil. In addition, there was also the pair of bowmen who had avenged their Turkish companion’s death by killing Kathnir. And now there was a mysterious crossbow-wielding archer as well . . .
Could one of these parties have been close enough to Thibault and Brother Otto to witness the visit to Gerome de Villières? They must have known that the two Hospitallers were looking for one of their own, and if their intelligence was good, they could also have known that the runaway went out to Outremer with de Villières and would be likely to seek sanctuary there. Supposing one or other of these pursuing groups saw Thibault and Brother Otto before Robertsbridge and the visit to Gerome de Villières, when it was just the two of them, and again after Robertsbridge, when all of a sudden they had a third monk with them? Surely the pursuers would reach the obvious conclusion: that Thibault and Brother Otto had found the runaway hiding at the home of his former master and that now they were taking him on up to Clerkenwell to face the judgement of his Order.
