The Paths of the Air h-11

by Alys Clare

  The Paths of the Air

  ( Hawkenlye - 11 )

  Alys Clare

  Alys Clare

  The Paths of the Air

  Prologue

  November 1196

  The night had been still and cold. The approaching dawn had brought a rise in temperature and now, as the first faint silvery light appeared in the eastern skies, mist rose in spiralling wisps and curling folds from the lake in its shallow valley.

  The track around the lake was clear of vegetation but only a few paces back the undergrowth began, dense and dotted with stands of birch and alder. The leaves had fallen but the thickly growing bracken still provided rust-red cover. Boar made their heads-down, single-minded, trotting progress through the undergrowth; roe deer stood, heads raised and checking for threat, before resuming their browsing.

  It was not only animals who were making use of the Vale’s cover.

  Suddenly, silently, a tall figure appeared. One moment there was nothing; the next it was there, standing quite still in thigh-high bracken, its outline shimmering in the mist like some phantom of the woods. Very slowly it turned its head, as if making sure no human eyes observed its movements. Then, apparently satisfied, it stepped fluidly through the bracken and emerged onto the path.

  The mist swirled around its feet and legs, obscuring them so that an observer would have thought the figure floated, or perhaps flew. Its progress was swift; in a matter of moments it had reached the huddle of simple buildings at the end of the Vale. It gave this human habitation a wide berth, although this was scarcely necessary because most of the inhabitants were still asleep, and it made no more sound than an adder sliding through the grass.

  It reached the path that led up the rise and swiftly climbed up to the walled settlement on the brow of the hill. Without hesitation it turned left and, following the line of the stonework, reached the place where the wall turned a corner. Here there were apple trees within the walls and, on the outside, its branches reaching towards the apple trees as if they were yearning arms, an ancient yew.

  The figure reached up and caught hold of a thick branch about a tall man’s height above the ground. With a movement that suggested great strength, it swung off the ground and climbed up into the yew, coming to rest astride a high branch. It settled itself as comfortably as such a perch allowed — which was scarcely comfortable at all — and then it froze.

  It had sat there in that watchful pose all the previous day and the one before that. It had an urgent purpose and it did not allow bodily discomfort to impinge on its concentrated attention. Pushing back the dark headdress, it gazed down into the enclosed settlement that spread out on the other side of the wall.

  Towards the end of the day the man in the tree — it was a man and he was fully human even if he moved and acted like a lost spirit — had seen enough. He began the long and painful process of restoring feeling to his numb limbs, for the descent was potentially fatal and he could not risk an accident. Too much depended on him, and besides — for the first time there was expression in the gaunt face as a wry smile faintly touched the mouth — why risk taking his own life when so many others were lining up willing, eager and very well equipped to do it for him?

  He gritted his teeth through the agony of returning sensation in his feet, legs and hands. Then, very carefully, he climbed down the tree. He had to stand leaning against the trunk for some time before the shaking stopped and while he did so he ran his hands over himself, checking on his clothing. The ground-length dark brown woollen tunic was dusty and travel-stained, but that was all to the good as the dirt concealed its quality. Beneath it he wore garments which for very good reasons he chose to keep covered; he felt to make sure that the brown over-tunic had not become caught up and that the neck fitted snug to his throat. Then he smoothed the generous folds of his dark headdress, pulling it down low over his brow and up over his nose so that only his eyes, watchful in the deeply tanned face, were visible.

  When he was fully satisfied that he looked exactly as he wanted to look, he stepped out from beneath the yew tree and, following the path, walked light-footed around the walls until he came to the gate. Then, slipping into line behind perhaps a dozen others, slowly and steadily he shuffled forward until his turn came.

  The big woman in the voluminous white apron was tired. She had been on her feet since early morning and hadn’t had a moment to call her own. It was a busy time, as it always was when the first hard days of late autumn bit and people began falling foul of the miasmas that lurked and jumped out as soon as hunger and cold revealed underlying weakness.

  Quickly she dealt with the first of the sick and the needy, dishing out to the trio at the head of the queue a vermifuge, cough syrup and her patent earache cure. Then came a heavily pregnant woman, a man with bellyache, a boy with a wheeze, a baby with a bad case of cradle cap, a woman with a huge red sty. And, last in the line, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a long, dusty tunic, his head swathed in a concealing headdress. What she could see of his face suggested he was dark-skinned. In the failing light his eyes might have been any colour.

  He stood before her and, putting one hand to his heart, gave her a courteous bow.

  She waited but he did not speak. ‘What ails you?’ she prompted.

  Very slowly, as if his vocal cords were stiff from disuse, he said, ‘My… chin.’

  ‘Your chin? What’s the matter with it?’

  ‘Pain. Much pain.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  He glanced around as if to make sure nobody was watching — the other patients had gone and he and the large woman stood apart — then very carefully he reached up and lowered the cloth that covered the right side of his face. She went to help but, with a gentle but very firm hand, he pushed her fingers away. Holding the headdress so that most of his face was still hidden, he turned his head and she saw his chin.

  The skin under his jaw was red raw, swollen tightly, weeping and blistering. The dreadful wound must have been agonizing. She said very softly, ‘You poor soul.’

  He made a sound in his throat; it might have been in response to her sympathy.

  She led the way to a small table where she had laid out freshly boiled water, lavender oil, ointment and pieces of clean white linen. She made up a strong solution of the oil in water and then, with the tenderest of touches, began to bathe away the dead skin and pus. He winced — she was hardly surprised — but made not a sound. The shadowed eyes, she noticed, were focused on some object in the middle distance. A fighting man, she thought, trained to take pain in his stride by detaching from it. She changed the foul and bloody water and began again, and this time the man took her ministrations without a flicker.

  When at last she had finished, she gave a nod of satisfaction and turned away to dispose of the soiled cloth. She heard a tiny sound and, spinning round, saw that the pain had overcome him at last; he had slumped against the wall.

  She hurried to crouch down beside him. ‘I will find you a bed for the night,’ she said, ‘for you are faint, weak with suffering.’ He also looked as if a square meal and a decent night’s sleep wouldn’t be unwelcome. ‘Come, let me-’

  But he was struggling to his feet, backing away from her hands that wanted to help. Repeating his hand-to-the-heart gesture, he murmured, ‘No, lady. No.’

  ‘Oh, but why won’t you let us care for you?’ She too was whispering, as if she had caught his fierce desire not to be seen or overheard.

  He shook his head. ‘You have cared for me already.’ Then, his speech broken and hesitant once more: ‘Pain is less. I thank lady.’

  He bowed again, deeply this time, and then before she could stop him he spun round and hurried away.

  The relief was ex
quisite. The pain was still considerable but the woman’s lavender oil and ointment — witch hazel and St John’s wort, he thought, with a few precious drops of poppy — had greatly reduced it. He had known that the wound was infected; now, thanks to her, it would mend. He would have a scar but scars did not matter and anyway he already had plenty.

  He walked quickly, for he had a long way to go. His business with the foundation on the top of the hill was done. Not only had he watched for long enough to work out which people were influential and important, who did what and how the place operated; in addition, he had spoken to some of the visitors and listened carefully to the gossip of the inhabitants, which had probably told him more than everything else put together.

  Yes. He had found out what he needed to know. But he had been there for three days and it was very dangerous to stay in one place. Death stalked him; it might be a quick execution, or a long drawn-out agony while they tried to get him to tell him what they knew he had stored away in his head, or it could be a bloody mess of severed flesh designed for maximum effect. It all depended who found him first.

  Night fell. Soon Hawkenlye Abbey was left far behind.

  Part One

  The Quarry

  One

  Josse was bored. The November day was cold but bright and there were a dozen reasons to get up from his chair and out into the fresh air. A man more involved in his acres — a farmer or a conscientious landlord — would have been out at dawn on his daily inspection to make sure that everyone was working hard and everything was running smoothly. Josse, whose estate of New Winnowlands ran as smoothly as any thanks to his man Will, knew full well that any inspection tour he made would be seen for what it was: a complete waste of his and everyone else’s time.

  Josse knew next to nothing about agriculture. He was a soldier; a King’s man. With King Richard engaged in keeping Philip of France out of Normandy and with no threat of war looming, Josse had little purpose in life.

  He scowled. Perhaps none at all would be nearer the mark.

  He knew he should pray daily in gratitude for the steadfast Will, who, over the years that they had been together, had grown into a thoroughly dependable, capable and authoritative figure, whom the many people who worked Josse’s land obeyed almost as readily as they would Josse himself. Other than having to weigh in occasionally in some small matter that was beyond Will’s diplomacy and skill to solve, Josse knew that he did not need to be at New Winnowlands at all.

  He was very tempted to pack his gear, saddle his horse and set off for France. King Richard would pretend to know who he was and put him to work on some task aimed at furthering the Plantagenet cause. The King, they said, was building a wonderful new castle called Chateau Gaillard, situated on a bend of the Seine to the north of Paris and designed to pen Philip into the Ile de France. Philip, naturally, took exception to this and had been provoked into renewing hostilities with all the energy and force he could muster.

  The trouble was that Josse had absolutely no enthusiasm any more for fighting King Richard’s battles. He told himself that this was a perfectly understandable reaction, King Richard having proved to be a man more concerned with winning glory than with the well-being of his people. And just look at that business of his capture, Josse thought, and the enormous ransom we had to stump up!

  But this was only one of the complex set of reasons why Josse did not want to re-enter his monarch’s service in Normandy. The main cause of both his peevish discontent and his lack of enthusiasm for a foreign venture was that he wanted very much to be in two other places and he was not sure of his welcome in either.

  He wanted to be with Joanna and Meggie. Joanna had kept her word and usually she would be there in her little hut in the forest when Josse went to visit her after each of the eight annual festivals that her people celebrated. She had been there at Yule and he had even been allowed to join in one of the lesser feasts; something he was quite sure he had enjoyed although he couldn’t really remember. Those forest people certainly knew how to brew up a good mug of mead. He had not seen her at Imbolc; he had been summoned to Hawkenlye Abbey to help in a minor crisis and there hadn’t been time. Then when he’d gone into the forest at the spring equinox she hadn’t been there; it was only with great difficulty that he’d even been able to locate her hut, as she seemed to have become very skilful at casting some sort of hiding or camouflaging spell over the place when she wasn’t at home. At Beltane he had been allowed to take Meggie away with him for a couple of days. Joanna had given some vague explanation about having been summoned for an important role in some ritual that was too powerful for a small child of three years to attend.

  Josse enjoyed being alone with his daughter even more than being with her when her mother was there too. There was something very awesome about Joanna these days; he could tell that she shielded her power when she was with him but sometimes she didn’t do it very successfully and quite often he felt quite… Quite what? he wondered.

  Quite afraid, was the honest answer.

  He did not want to think about that.

  Meggie had power, too. They had explained to him about her ancestry on her mother’s side (on her father’s too, they said, although he didn’t want to think about that either) and he knew from personal experience that what they said was true. But when she was alone with him she was just a bright and pretty little girl with a wonderful sense of fun, an infectious giggle and a way of twining her arms around his neck in a loving hug that just about made him melt. During the two days they had spent in each other’s company — he’d taken her to the Abbey overnight, where they knew about her and asked no awkward questions — they had ridden together, walked in the woods and fields tracking small animals and birds, waded into streams and climbed trees. They had talked non-stop. Returning her to her mother and riding away had all but broken his heart.

  There had been no sign of either of them when he went visiting in midsummer and at Lammas they had had half a day and one night together before Joanna announced she had to go off somewhere. He and Joanna had made love that night; she had been as ardent, as loving as ever, although he sensed some sort of reserve, as if she wanted to give more than she felt she could. Or should…

  He had been invited to attend the daytime celebration at the autumn equinox and he had had a great time. Joanna’s people seemed to accept him for who and what he was and nobody ever made him feel like an outsider; well, not intentionally. Then when Joanna had gone off to do whatever it was she did, he had taken Meggie home to the hut, where he fed her, bathed her, cuddled her, told her five stories and then put her to bed.

  He had not even looked for them at Samhain; Joanna had told him not to bother as they wouldn’t be there. He didn’t know where they had gone. He didn’t know where they were now and he didn’t know when he was going to see them again.

  It made him angry.

  Some time later he resumed his seat by the hearth, a mug of ale in his hand. He had tried to divert himself by going out into the courtyard and checking that Will had dealt with the dead leaves blocking the gulley — of course he had — and by pretending an interest in Will’s woman Ella’s preserve-making.

  The other place he wanted to be was Hawkenlye Abbey.

  But he had been there only a couple of weeks back on the flimsy excuse that perhaps they’d like help in raking up the leaves. They had accepted his offer with gracious kindness and given him a besom and a rake, and for four or five happy days he had worked alongside the lay brothers in cheerful companionship.

  Abbess Helewise must have realized that it was Samhain and that he visited Joanna and Meggie around the time of the festivals. She had been too tactful to mention it.

  He did not want to risk going back to the Abbey so soon. If he kept turning up there like a puppy wanting attention they would see the underlying neediness. He really didn’t want them — oh, all right, he didn’t want her — feeling sorry for him.

  He took a long pull at his ale. I’m no use to anyo
ne, he thought mournfully, I’m idle, I’m miserable, I’m full of self-pity and I’m His ruthless catechism of faults might well have run on for some time, but Will tapped at the door and announced that there was a stranger at the gate and would Sir Josse come out to see if it was all right to let him in?

  It did not take Josse long to leap out of his chair, put his mug discreetly out of sight, brush down his tunic and wipe a hand across his beery lips. He hurried out through the door and down the steps. Beside him Will muttered, ‘There he is, sir. Wasn’t sure I liked the look of him.’

  ‘I see,’ Josse murmured.

  ‘Fellow looks as if he could do with some Christian charity, though,’ Will observed piously. ‘Never seen a man so weary and still on his feet.’

  Josse had to agree. The stranger was tall, wide in the shoulder and ought to have had the confident stance of one well able to take care of himself. Instead he was trembling with exhaustion. He wore a travel-stained brown tunic that reached almost to the ground, held in at the waist with a leather belt. His satchel of soft leather must have cost a pretty penny but was scratched and battered. The skirts of the brown tunic were generous; if the man were carrying a sword, it was concealed and, Josse thought grimly, it would take him a moment or two to extract it.

  Josse had a long knife in a sheath on his belt. He did not expect to use it but it was reassuring to know it was there.

  What could be seen of the stranger’s skin, between the hem of the headdress low over his eyes and the fold that covered his mouth and nose, was a sort of brownish-olive shade. Might he be from Outremer? Former crusaders often returned accompanied by servants they had picked up and it was all too common for these poor souls to be cast off once their masters were safely home. As Josse gave the stranger a tentative smile, the man put his right hand over his heart and bowed. The gesture was so alien, so unlike anything a native Briton would offer, that Josse decided his guess was right.