The Paths of the Air

by Alys Clare

It seemed an odd place to start but at least he was starting. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Fadil fight with Muslim army and is taken prisoner. He is beloved of man named Hisham. Hisham claim Fadil is his young brother but this is not so. Relationship is – different.’ He hesitated. ‘Bad.’

  ‘I see.’ Helewise thought she knew what he meant.

  ‘Hisham approach Knights Hospitaller and make offer to exchange Fadil for something of very great value. Knights agree and meeting in desert at night is arranged. But knights and Hisham are alike. Both wish to keep prisoner and ransom. Very bad things happen – I cannot describe for I not there – and Hisham is wounded and many of his servants die but Hisham very clever, very devious, and he hide more men – fighting men – and more horses out in dark desert. These men help others to kill knights. They take Hisham away to where healers treat his wounds.’

  ‘Both parties tried to cheat?’ Helewise asked.

  ‘Very much at stake,’ the young man said. ‘Even good men will do bad things in such circumstances.’

  Helewise had noticed something. Careful so as not to alert him, she said, ‘The monk who survived took the prisoner – Fadil – and fled, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. He take ransom as well.’

  She nodded. ‘So Hisham sent his men Kathnir and Akhbir to chase after them and the Hospitallers sent Thibault and his companions. Both pursuing parties wanted to recapture the prisoner and take possession of the ransom. Is that not so?’

  The young man turned his swathed face her way and just for an instant the light of the candle flames illuminated his eyes.

  Had Helewise not been paying such close attention and waiting tensely for just such a chance, she would have missed it. As it was she saw: just a glimpse in a split second. Her suspicion was confirmed.

  Whoever this young man might be, he was not a Saracen. For one thing, as he told his tale the halting speech of someone speaking an alien language vanished. For another, Helewise was fairly certain that Saracens did not have jade-green eyes. He must not know that I have seen, she thought. For some reason it is very important to him that I believe in this false identity.

  ‘Two parties pursue, yes,’ he was saying. ‘But only one cares about Fadil.’

  ‘Hisham wanted his – er, his—’

  ‘His boy,’ supplied the young man. Helewise would have sworn that he was amused by her discomfiture.

  ‘He wanted him desperately enough to have offered something of great value in exchange,’ she said.

  ‘He did, but it was never his intention that the thing he offered would be given away. Thirty fighting men of his household hidden out in the darkness beyond the circle of light would see to that.’

  ‘So the monk and Fadil galloped off into the night,’ she resumed. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Fadil did not wish to be returned to Hisham. He had become a fighter to get away from his particular form of servitude, and when he was captured and imprisoned he hoped that by the time he was released Hisham would have found another sexual slave and forgotten all about him. When Fadil was told that Hisham was going to buy him back, he was so desperate that he thought about taking his own life. But he did not and in the end he was very glad, for the monk took him far away from the desert and Fadil will never see Hisham again.’

  ‘Where is he? What happened to him?’

  ‘When the Knights Hospitaller were attacked and slaughtered by Hisham’s men, Fadil slipped to the ground and went over to where Hisham had been lying on his divan. Hisham was intent on the fight, so Fadil helped himself to his purse. It contained not only a large sum of gold but also very valuable rings which Hisham had removed before he drew his knife. Hisham has fat hands,’ he added, ‘and the jewels that he wears are set in wide bands of gold, so it is hard to grip a weapon.

  ‘Fadil made a deal with the monk, who wished to take him back to Margat. But Fadil knew that if this happened, it would only be a matter of time before Hisham made another attempt to buy him back. Fadil said he would give the monk a third of what he had stolen from Hisham in exchange for his freedom. The monk agreed.’

  ‘Why?’ Helewise cried. ‘Surely his orders were to guard the prisoner closely and return him to his cell?’

  ‘That is true,’ agreed the young man. ‘But the monk understood what was waiting for Fadil in Hisham’s house and in his bed and he did not wish to condemn him to such horror. What Hisham did to him is a sin,’ he added primly. ‘Besides, the monk knew that what he had in his pack was inestimably more valuable, both to his Order and to everyone else, than any number of prisoners.’

  What he had in his pack . . . She burned to ask but the moment was not right. ‘What happened to Fadil?’

  ‘The monk took him as far as Constantinople, where they crossed the Bosporus together. There Fadil felt safe at last and they parted company. Fadil had distant family in Constantinople and he was in no doubt that they would take him in. He was a rich man now, remember, and wealth has a way of smoothing the road.’

  ‘It has,’ Helewise murmured. So Fadil didn’t come to England, she was thinking. Josse and I were wrong. The monk’s companion was not Fadil but this man who sits so calmly and self-assuredly before me. ‘So,’ she said, carefully, ‘the monk decided that whatever Hisham had offered as ransom for Fadil was too dangerous to take to Margat or any other fortress of the Order?’

  ‘That is true. It is— That is to say, there were good reasons why he knew he must bring it to England.’

  ‘To the English headquarters of the Knights Hospitaller at Clerkenwell?’

  He shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Yes.’

  ‘And how did you come to be travelling with him?’

  ‘I am his manservant.’ The young man bowed elegantly from the waist.

  Helewise said nothing.

  The young man raised his head and looked at her. She studied what she could see of the face and took in the green eyes in the smooth skin. She observed the graceful way in which he held his head. She remembered that pale, translucent skin on the inside of his wrist.

  ‘Stand up,’ she said.

  Hesitantly, eyes on her all the time, he did so.

  She was sure.

  ‘Before you knew who I am I told you that the Abbess of Hawkenlye was more inclined to mercy than to condemnation,’ she said quietly. ‘I also said that this Abbey offers sanctuary to those who flee. That beneficence is not in my gift, for it is the same in any religious house. Unless you have done or proceed to do something that I know to be a mortal sin, I shall not advertise your presence here to those who pursue you. Even if you were to confess that you have committed some crime, then it would be to our sheriff that I would give you up, and he is a just man.’

  The man’s eyes had widened in alarm when Helewise had spoken of those who pursued him but as she concluded her short speech, he looked calmer. He said, ‘I have done wrong, but not without dire need.’

  It is as I thought, Helewise said to herself. Then, rising, she walked slowly around her table until she was standing right in front of him. Again moving unhurriedly, her movements smooth and steady, she raised her hands and began to unfasten the headdress.

  There was no reaction.

  She unwound what seemed like yards of cloth from around the head and presently the smooth, honey-coloured hair came into view. Then she drew the folds away from the lower face and chin. Finally, she pulled the last length of the material from where it was tucked into the top of the robe.

  She looked at what she had uncovered. And, with a wry smile, a green-eyed, dark blonde and rather beautiful young woman looked back at her.

  Josse left the home of Gerome de Villières early the next morning. He had been right in predicting that Gerome would not refer again to the matter that had taken Josse so urgently to his house; however, he and his womenfolk entertained Josse to such an enjoyable evening that he could not complain. Indeed, as he settled for sleep on a luxurious feather mattress with sheets of finest linen and thick, warm woollen blankets, r
eplete after an excellent meal and some even better French wine, he realized that it had been a relief to have a few hours’ rest from his abiding preoccupations. Then, of course, he felt guilty because others – Abbess Helewise, for instance – would not have been given any such respite. They certainly wouldn’t have enjoyed that delicious meal and the wonderfully soft, warm bed.

  As he left, Gerome came out to the courtyard to see him off. ‘I wish you good luck, Josse,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to hope for in the case of Brother Ralf. In a way he’s damned if the Hospitallers catch up with him and damned if they don’t.’

  ‘Damned?’

  Gerome waved a hand. ‘Not literally, or at least I pray not! No; I merely meant that if they find him they’ll punish him, but if he manages to evade capture then he’ll be on the run for as long as there are people out there who know what he’s done.’

  ‘Tell me what he’s done!’ Josse said.

  But Gerome shook his head. ‘I cannot. I—’ He made a face. ‘I wish to live here in peace,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, Josse, and no doubt you think me weak, but this house has seen enough of tragedy and I will not willingly invite it back to my door.’

  ‘But I could—’

  ‘Go, Josse!’ Gerome exclaimed with a short laugh. Then, as Josse gave him a valedictory salute and edged Horace off towards the gates, he called out, ‘Come and see us again!’

  ‘I shall!’ Josse called back. ‘Farewell!’

  He was keen to get back to Hawkenlye to tell the Abbess what he had discovered and he set Horace off at a good pace. The morning was warmer than the previous few days and the white frost that had held the earth in its hard grip had melted, except on the verges of the track that did not receive sunshine. As Horace cantered along, Josse noticed the prints of his hooves going in the other direction. He was reflecting what huge feet Horace had when he noticed something: alongside Horace’s hoof prints there was another set. They were considerably smaller and their spacing suggested a horse with a shorter stride.

  As he rode to Robertsbridge, somebody had been following him.

  It could be innocent. Many people used that road and it was likely that another rider had been travelling behind him, bound on some independent quest. He reached the place where the narrower and lesser-used track from New Winnowlands joined the road and rode along it. Again, he found Horace’s prints; again, that smaller horse had been following him, perhaps all the way from his own home . . .

  He was torn. He wanted to get back to the Abbey but his curiosity was piqued. He was also perturbed. There were violent men about, and he was alone. He told himself firmly not to be a coward. Then he dismounted and, leading Horace, he retraced their journey of the day before until, about two miles from New Winnowlands, he found what he was looking for.

  There were Horace’s prints. And there, coming in from a path to the right of the road, were those of his pursuer. Without hesitation he mounted and turned Horace onto the path.

  It did not seem to be going anywhere. He was very close to the borders of his own land yet, ashamed, he admitted to himself that he had never been this way before. It began to rain. He drew his hood up over his hat, pulling it forward to shield his face.

  Open ground gave way to woodland and presently he rode through a beech grove. Giant slabs of golden-yellow sandstone stood out from the leaf-covered ground and the breeze stirred the bare branches of the trees high above him. He could not see the horse’s prints and he hoped that he had not missed the place where they joined the path. Then he came to a muddy stretch of track and there they were once again.

  He looked ahead and could see no dwelling; not so much as a tumbledown hovel, hut or outbuilding. Should he give up the chase? It was tempting. He might ride all morning and find nothing and he had business elsewhere.

  He pulled Horace up, turned him and set off back the way he had come.

  It happened as he entered the beech grove.

  There was no warning, or if there was it came all but instantaneously with the sudden dread as someone jumped down from the trees onto Horace’s back, put an arm around Josse’s neck and said, in a surprisingly normal voice, ‘Do not go for your knife for mine is already at your throat.’

  Josse made himself relax. He could sense Horace tensing as he felt this new weight on his back and he reached out to pat the strong neck.

  ‘Be still!’ his assailant said.

  ‘I am calming my horse,’ Josse replied.

  ‘Very well. But remember my blade.’

  Josse felt pressure on the flesh just over his windpipe. ‘I will.’

  ‘Why are you following me?’ the man demanded.

  ‘Why were you following me?’ Josse countered.

  The blade was removed from his throat. There was a brief pause, then: ‘Who are you? Remove your hood and let me see your face.’

  He did as he was ordered. The man behind him craned forward and Josse turned to look at him.

  He was staring at a man perhaps in his late twenties. He wore a faded and mud-stained robe and at his side there was a leather satchel, its strap across his chest. His light brown hair had a reddish tinge and his eyes were grey-blue. He was lean-faced, clean-shaven and around his throat and jaw he wore a grimy bandage. Josse had never seen him before but he knew who he was. He had thought he recognized the voice and now the bandage made the man’s identity certain.

  Which was odd, for he had been convinced that John Damianos was a Saracen.

  ‘John Damianos,’ Josse said. On the man’s tunic there was the outline of a cross; the emblem had been torn off, leaving its shape in an unfaded area of the black cloth. And, as the few facts he thought he knew collapsed in little pieces around him, he added incredulously, ‘Also known as Brother Ralf.’

  ‘Sir Josse.’ John Damianos sheathed his knife and slipped down off Horace’s back. ‘I am sorry. I followed you yesterday to Robertsbridge and I was pretty certain it was you retracing our horses’ prints this morning. But you had covered your face and, although I recognized your horse, a man can steal another’s mount and pretend to be someone he is not. I cannot afford to be careless.’

  ‘I believe I understand that now,’ Josse replied.

  John Damianos looked up at him, the beginnings of a smile on his face. ‘Won’t you dismount? It makes my throat hurt like the devil to stand staring up at you.’

  ‘Aye, I will.’

  He got down and stood facing John on the soft ground of the beech grove. The rain had intensified. John said, ‘We should talk, Sir Josse. I badly need a friend and I am hoping that you are one.’

  ‘I make no promises,’ Josse warned. ‘I serve the purposes of both Abbess Helewise of Hawkenlye and Gervase de Gifford, sheriff of Tonbridge, and I am a King’s man.’

  ‘I know both your credentials and your reputation, Sir Josse,’ John said quietly. ‘Why do you think I sought refuge with you when I was in dire need?’

  ‘I – er, I’m glad that I could help,’ Josse muttered.

  ‘I have a shelter nearby,’ John said. ‘Let’s get out of the rain.’

  ‘Very well.’

  John set off back along the track and Josse followed, leading Horace. Soon John turned off to the left down a path that descended into the narrow valley of a stream and presently the path gave out. John pushed his way through the undergrowth and, not without difficulty, Josse and his horse followed. John, he noticed, was constantly alert, looking all around him and occasionally putting up a hand to stop them so that he could listen. Eventually they came to a clearing where a bend of the stream had all but cut off an apron of land. Close by there was a hollowed-out space in the sloping side of the valley. In it a chestnut horse was tethered.

  Josse stared at the animal. It was a gelding, smaller than the large and heavy Horace and quite beautifully formed. John, observing the direction of Josse’s fixed and fascinated stare, said, ‘His name is Cinnabar. He comes from a land a very long way away.’

  ‘You have ridden him all
the way from Outremer?’

  ‘I have. Lead your horse into the shelter; there is water there and a place where you can tether him.’

  Josse tied Horace’s reins to a stout branch. ‘The human accommodation is in here,’ John said, and Josse followed him to a deeper hollow, its roof formed by an outcrop of sandstone. At the entrance there was a circle of hearthstones and, just inside, firewood and a small cooking pot. There were other objects within but Josse could not make out what they were.

  John indicated a couple of cross-sections of tree trunk and said, ‘Sit down. It’s dry in here, at least.’

  ‘How did you know I would be there on the track?’ Josse asked.

  ‘I didn’t. I realized you were going to see Gerome yesterday and thought you would remain there. I keep a regular watch up in the beech grove when I use this shelter and you just happened to ride along.’

  ‘I saw your horse’s prints following mine,’ Josse said.

  ‘Yes, I know. I was careless.’

  There were so many questions that Josse wanted to ask and he did not know where to start. Begin at the beginning, he thought.

  ‘When you came to New Winnowlands,’ he said, ‘you were dressed differently and I took you for a Saracen.’

  ‘Among the men on my trail are a trio of Knights Hospitaller,’ John said dryly. ‘I do not have many garments other than this tunic and my Saracen disguise. Given that I knew Thibault was close, I decided on the second.’

  ‘That decision could have cost your life,’ Josse said. ‘Soon after you left us, a man dressed very similarly was tortured and killed close to Hawkenlye Abbey. I thought he was you.’

  John had gone very still. ‘How did you discover you were wrong?’

  ‘I explained to the Hawkenlye infirmarer that I thought the dead man was John Damianos, who had come to lodge at New Winnowlands. She had treated a man of similar appearance, and when she looked at the body she said this was not the man she had treated because he had a burn on his throat. So we concluded that you were the man she had treated and the dead man was someone else.’

  ‘His name was Touros,’ John said, ‘and he was a Turkish mercenary. He and his two companions followed me from Antioch. Although Touros did not deserve to die in such a terrible way, it may be some consolation to you to know that had he and his companions caught me, they would have killed me without a qualm.’