by Alys Clare
Oh, it made sense! Josse thought triumphantly. Then whoever it was – the Saracens or the two bowmen – had followed the Hospitallers first to Hawkenlye Abbey and then on to Tonbridge, where they had lodged in the guest wing. Still believing poor innocent Brother Jeremiah to be the man they sought, they had marked which bed was his, then slipped in at night and killed him, starting the fire to cover the murder.
The more he thought it over, the more he was convinced he was right. Had Thibault reached the same conclusion? The poor man had had long enough to think about it; had he too worked it out? There was only one way to find out.
‘Thibault?’ Josse said softly.
He thought the Hospitaller had dropped off to sleep but Thibault’s eyes shot open and he said, ‘What is it?’ There was a wary look on his face.
‘I believe I know why Brother Jeremiah was killed.’
Thibault watched him steadily. ‘Go on.’
Josse outlined his theory. He did not mention the Saracens or the bowmen specifically, merely referring to them as parties on the trail of the runaway. Thibault did not interrupt, and when Josse finished he gave a heavy sigh and said, ‘I believe you are right. This is how I too have reasoned.’ He shifted slightly, wincing. ‘Brother Jeremiah was young, eager and, as far as I could judge on so brief an acquaintance, had lived an innocent life. He chatted freely to Brother Otto and me as we walked up from Robertsbridge and we learned a great deal about him. He gave us the impression that he was a man with nothing to hide and I have not been able to think of any reason why anyone should have wished to kill him. Unless they thought he was somebody else.’
‘Such as your runaway monk.’
‘Exactly.’
Something else was stirring in Josse’s mind; slowly he teased it out. He did not believe that Brother Jeremiah was murdered by the same hand that killed the Turk, for the method was quite different. The killer had tried to extract information out of the Turk; Brother Jeremiah’s killing had been more of an execution. Either the killer knew that the man for whom they had mistaken Brother Jeremiah did not have the information they were after – which was very unlikely – or else they were not after the information.
They had a different reason for wanting the runaway monk dead.
Dear God, Josse thought, his head aching with the intense concentration, but it’s a tangled business!
‘Sir Josse?’ Thibault’s voice broke into his thoughts.
‘Aye?’
‘Brother Otto and I were not the only men pursuing our runaway,’ Thibault said. ‘I know of one other party and I suspect the presence of a third.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Josse asked.
‘Because I am forced to remain here,’ Thibault said with poorly suppressed, frustrated anger. ‘I fear for my quarry, Sir Josse. We wish to apprehend him and take him to our superiors for interrogation, for he has—’ Thibault shut his mouth like a trap. ‘If we catch him and overcome him there will be punishment but there is no danger that his life will be forfeit. I cannot say the same for others who pursue him.’
‘What will happen if they get to him first?’
Thibault sighed. He seemed to be wrestling with himself over how much to reveal and Josse was sure that he would not be giving away anything at all were it not for the fact that his injuries kept him in his bed. He seemed to murmur a brief prayer then, his eyes on Josse, he said, ‘I have decided to tell you something in the hope that you will agree to take my place and hunt down my missing monk.’
‘I am more than willing to do so,’ Josse said promptly.
‘Thank you.’ Then, picking up where he had earlier left off: ‘After the disaster in the desert, our prisoner’s brother was as desperate to recover his young sibling and his treasure as we were to find our runaway monk. The elder brother was wounded but he immediately selected two trusted warriors of his household and sent them on the trail of the monk.’
‘And the prisoner,’ Josse added.
Thibault pursed his lips but did not respond. ‘These two men are almost certainly now in England,’ he said, ‘and, I sense, close on our runaway’s heels. They must not find him, Sir Josse. They are desperate to get that which he— They know what happened in the desert that night and they will try to make Brother— They will force him to give up that with which he was entrusted.’
Irritated all over again by Thibault’s stubborn refusal to reveal the whole truth, Josse said curtly, ‘They will not find him or make him talk. They are dead.’
‘They are – dead?’
‘Aye. One – the leader – took an arrow in the chest. The other was shot through the heart with a crossbow bolt.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Aye. I saw them both die.’
‘And there is no doubt that they were the two Saracens sent by – sent by the prisoner’s elder brother?’
‘Sent by Hisham?’ Josse smiled grimly. ‘See, Thibault: I know his name. And there is no doubt they are Hisham’s warriors. With their deaths, one threat to your runaway has been removed.’
Thibault sank back into his pillows. His relief was evident and Josse saw the ghost of a smile on his face.
It was time to leave him to rest, Josse thought. In the morning he would return and see if Thibault had managed to persuade himself that if Josse was to find his runaway before anyone else did, then it made sense to reveal a few more facts. For now, Thibault should sleep.
He got up and stepped across to the curtains. As he parted them something occurred to him. ‘Thibault?’
‘Sir Josse?’
‘You speak Arabic?’
‘I do.’
‘Can you tell me what simyager means?’
‘Where did you hear this?’ Thibault whispered.
‘From one of the Saracens. He was describing his master Hisham and he said he was a merchant from Tripoli and then he said he was a simyager.’
Thibault said, ‘It is not Arabic but Turkish.’ Then with an indifference that was just too studied to be genuine, he added, ‘It simply means merchant.’
‘I see.’ Josse twitched back the curtain and stepped out into the main ward. ‘Sleep well, Thibault. I will visit you again tomorrow.’
He hurried down to the Vale. It was fully dark now and very cold. He sent up a prayer for Fadil and the runaway monk. Wherever they were, he hoped they had a fire. In the lay brothers’ quarters he sat before the dying hearth with Brother Saul and Brother Urse for a short time, sharing the last of their mulled ale, then he excused himself and made his way over to his bedroll.
As he settled down, he wondered what the real meaning of the word simyager might be. He knew it did not translate as merchant. Before he uttered the word, Akhbir had just said in his halting English that Hisham was a merchant so why would he repeat it in Turkish? Whatever it meant, it referred to something that Hisham was, or perhaps did, that Thibault did not want him to know.
It was, he thought sleepily, just one more thing to worry about.
He went to see the Abbess early the next morning. There was something he needed to do – now, before anyone could try to stop him or demand to come with him – and his instinct was to slip off without telling anybody. But there might be danger, in which case it was probably better that someone knew where he was going.
As soon as they had greeted each other he said, ‘My lady, last night Thibault asked me if I would take up his task of hunting for the missing Hospitaller and I said I would. Accordingly, since I believe that it may be he and Fadil who are hiding at the house in the woods, I am going back there this morning.’
‘To the place where Akhbir was killed?’
‘Aye. I need to—’
‘You must not do any such thing, Sir Josse! Yesterday someone shot at you there, and although you maintain they were merely warning shots, still it is perilous. They do not want you there and they may shoot to kill this time.’
‘I do not believe that I am in any real danger.’ His voice was calm.
‘How can you possibly say that?’ she demanded.
He smiled. ‘For one thing, whoever is hiding there knows their presence is no longer a secret. Akhbir knew where to find them, or him, and now he has led me there too. They do not want to be found, so they will have already fled. And for another thing—’ He stopped. He had been about to say that if one of the men camping out in the undercroft was indeed Fadil – John Damianos – then he didn’t think the man would harm him. I liked John Damianos, he reminded himself, and I am sure he liked me too. But it was slim reasoning with which to convince a beloved friend who was gravely worried for his safety.
‘For another thing?’ she prompted stonily.
‘Gervase will want to turn the place over,’ he said. Even if it was not what he had been going to say, it remained perfectly true. ‘Akhbir may have deserved death for his part in the murder of the Turk, but Gervase will say that it is for the courts to award punishment. He will wish to find and arrest whoever fired that crossbow bolt, and he’ll probably ask me to show him the way to the house in the woods as soon as he’s rounded up some of his men. I want to get there before him, my lady,’ he added.
It was apparent that she was not convinced. There was nothing left but the truth. ‘I sheltered John Damianos at New Winnowlands and I feel compelled to protect him. If he and the runaway Hospitaller are still at the house, I would like the chance to speak to them before they are arrested.’
Now she understood. ‘You do not believe that these fugitives have done anything wrong, do you?’ she asked softly. ‘We have been told that the runaway monk abandoned his dead and dying comrades out in the desert; that he abducted the prisoner and made off with the treasure that was to buy the young man back. At least one pursuing group wanted him dead, and Thibault wishes to take him to the Knights Hospitaller at Clerkenwell to be punished. Yet you, Sir Josse, wish to protect him?’
He tried to think of a soundly reasoned, rational reply. He couldn’t. So he just said, ‘Aye.’
Her face remained serious but he could see a smile beginning in her eyes. ‘It’s strange,’ she mused, ‘but ever since I heard tell of this John Damianos of yours, I have warmed to him. Probably it is because you have turned yourself into his champion. Very well, Sir Josse,’ she added decisively, ‘go. Take care – oh, do take care! – and if you have not returned by this afternoon I shall send out a search party.’
‘You do not know where I’m going,’ he pointed out.
She sat up regally. ‘Then you had better tell me.’
He and Horace set out a short time later. He preferred, for reasons that he did not explore, to take the long road that skirted the forest rather than cut through it and he kicked the big horse into a canter. Gervase might set out for the house without him – it was possible that one of his men knew the place. Well, if he was there when Josse arrived, there was nothing he could do about it. He put it from his mind.
He reached the place where the path to the house led off the track and rode in beneath the trees. They were quite thin here and, by keeping to the wider paths, he was able to go to within perhaps two or three hundred paces of the house. He and Joanna had ridden right up to it before, but that had been a long time ago. Now, like some strange, vigorous growth encouraged by a magical spell, the undergrowth sprawled in places right over the faint line of the path. Dismounting, he tethered Horace to a birch tree and walked on.
The house on its rise came into sight. He was approaching at a different angle from yesterday and his view of the courtyard was obscured. This, no doubt, was why he could not see the body. But then he emerged out into the open.
The body had gone.
He stood absolutely still. A shiver of dread crept up his spine; what unearthly presence could make a body disappear . . . ? Then reason returned. Either the crossbow man disposed of the body straight after he drove Josse away, or else he, or others, returned later. Perhaps it had been the forest people. They might have different views on burials and funerals but he was sure it was not their custom to leave a dead body out in the open.
He made to walk on. It felt for a moment as if he was up against some powerful but invisible force trying to hold him back: This place is not for you.
‘I have to look,’ he said aloud. To his faint surprise his voice sounded quite level. He pushed against the invisible force. It yielded and he stumbled forward.
Before his courage could desert him, he went straight to the spot where Akhbir had fallen. There was a little blood, and he could make out crushed areas of grass, as if footprints had passed to and fro. He tried to detect a trail. It was faint but it was there. Akhbir’s body had been dragged across the courtyard and into the woods. Breaking into a trot, Josse went in under the trees and presently came to a spot where the earth had been disturbed. The area of bare soil was roughly man-shaped. He had found Akhbir’s burial place. Slowly and thoughtfully he walked back to the house.
The low door of the undercroft was closed and bolted. He pushed back the bolts. The door did not open; it must be locked. It made sense, he thought, that the undercroft could be bolted to keep livestock in and also locked to keep intruders out. But where was the key?
Whoever had been camping there had not broken down the door, for it showed no sign of damage. It was highly unlikely that they had been given the key – did Joanna even possess one? – so it must be concealed somewhere. Where, Josse mused, would I hide a key?
He looked around. He picked at one or two loose corners on the paving slabs close to the door but found nothing other than a handful of woodlice. He saw a crack in the wall, but his probing fingers found nothing inside. He frowned, turning in a slow circle, searching.
The rose that grew across the hall door at the top of the steps had its roots in the soft soil between their base and the side of the house. In the thick tangle of the rose’s intertwining stems there was a blackbird’s nest. The strong, dense cup of grass, roots, moss and twigs was lined with dried mud, and as Josse reached into it his fingers closed on the cold, hard shape of a key. He put it in the lock of the undercroft door. It turned easily, as if it had been recently used, and the door opened.
He pushed the door fully open to admit the light and then stepped cautiously inside. There was a short flight of half a dozen shallow steps. Slowly he descended. Despite the open door it was dim down there, for the undercroft had no windows. He waited while his eyes adjusted, then looked up at the vaulted ceiling. The room was well built and, despite the house having stood empty for so long, felt sound and dry.
He lowered his gaze and inspected the stone floor. There was a ring of hearthstones, encircling an area blackened with ash, soot and smoke. The makeshift fireplace had been swept clean; nearby was a neat stack of logs and kindling. Other than that, the room was bare.
Kneeling, he put his hand on the hearthstones. He detected warmth. There had been a fire there not long ago. But they had gone, that fugitive pair who had come so far; Akhbir’s arrival, with Josse on his heels, had sent them running.
Slowly he straightened up, mounted the steps out of the undercroft, closed, bolted and locked the door and returned the key to its place in the blackbird’s nest.
Sent them running . . . Were they on foot or did they have horses? Making his way to the stables, he pushed the door open and went in. He looked inside the short row of stalls and at first saw no sign of recent occupation. But then he discovered that, unlike the others, the two stalls furthest from the door had been recently mucked out. The floors were swept clean. He hurried out of the second, his searching eyes fixed to the ground.
Just inside the entrance he found what he was looking for: hoof prints. Two horses, one slightly bigger than the other, had recently passed out through the stable door.
He ran outside, closely examining the ground, and found more hoof prints leading out across the courtyard. But then he came to the line where stone gave way to grass and found no more. They have gone, then, he thought. The English Hospitaller fired those cr
ossbow shots and then, once I had run off, yelled to Fadil that their hiding place had been discovered and they must leave without delay. Fadil, perhaps down in the undercroft preparing food over the hearth, stamped out the fire and threw his belongings in his pack. Perhaps he packed the monk’s bag too, since his companion would have kept watch in the courtyard in case I came back. Then the pair of them raced round to the barn, saddled up the horses and fled.
Where to? Josse wondered. ‘Where did you go, John?’ he said aloud.
But there was no answer.
Thirteen
On arriving back at Hawkenlye, Josse went straight to the Abbess to announce his safe return. He strode along to her room to discover Gervase was there, and interrupting him in mid-sentence – he was declaiming Josse’s action as foolhardy and careless of his own safety – Josse said, ‘Thank you for your concern, Gervase, but as you see, I have survived without a blemish.’ Gervase raised an eyebrow at the gentle irony. ‘I can report that whoever was out there has gone. They’ve left the undercroft clean and tidy, the stalls have been swept out and there is no sign save a little residual warmth in the hearthstones to say that anyone was there.’
‘What of Akhbir?’ Gervase asked.
‘There’s a new grave out in the woods. Whoever shot him has buried him.’
Gervase regarded him, his expression grave. ‘This is not the end of the matter, Josse. Akhbir should have been arrested and made to answer for his crime. To shoot him dead is a criminal act in itself, and I must now find this mysterious crossbow man and question him.’
‘It is not a crime if you kill a man who would otherwise kill you, is it, Gervase?’ the Abbess asked.
