The Paths of the Air h-11

by Alys Clare

  Josse stared into the wound. He could see all the arrow and its head. The pincers were holding the wound open where the arrowhead flared out, giving it a clear and unimpeded route out of Kathnir’s flesh. Clutching the shaft as close to the arrowhead as he could, he tensed his arms and shoulders and tugged. The arrow resisted at first but then suddenly yielded and he fell over backwards with it in his hand.

  He stared at it. He had seen one just like it not very long ago…

  ‘Sir Josse!’

  He crouched beside her. The blood was flowing out of Kathnir like a flood, pulsing lazily with each beat of his heart.

  Sister Caliste had grabbed a wad of linen from her pouch and was pressing it hard to the wound. It seemed she was stopping the flow for, after quickly soaking the cloth, it appeared to slow down. She removed the cloth.

  The blood had stopped.

  She put her fingers to Kathnir’s throat, just below his ear. Then she crouched down, her cheek to his slightly open mouth. She stayed like that for some time.

  Then she straightened up and said, ‘He’s dead. I’m sorry.’ Respectfully and as if this were still a living, sentient man, she removed her pincers, wiped them on the cloth and put them back in her pouch.

  Akhbir had maintained his stone-still, silent pose. Now, starting slowly and quickly escalating, a moan rose up out of him. He threw himself down beside Kathnir’s body, his arms around the shoulders and his face against the deathly pale cheek.

  Josse caught Sister Caliste by the hand. Squeezing it gently, he whispered, ‘Best leave him be, Sister. We’ll step away and presently he’ll come and find us.’

  She wiped her eyes, nodded and allowed Josse to lead her outside into the chilly sunshine.

  Akhbir came out to them quite a long time later. They had left the courtyard and were seated by the fire in the kitchen. Ella, shy with strangers, had made herself scarce and she and Will could be heard from their own little room off the kitchen exchanging the occasional remark in low, awed voices.

  Akhbir bowed very formally to them both in turn and said, ‘You try. I thank you. I am grateful.’

  ‘I am sorry we could not save him,’ Josse said.

  The ghost of a smile crossed Akhbir’s thin face. ‘He say no use. When arrow go in he say he feel something very bad, very deep. He say leave me, bury me here but I put him on horse and come here.’ His face crumpled. ‘I do my best. But no good.’

  There was so much that Josse wanted to ask. So much that, he was sure, Akhbir could tell him. But the man was grieving and in shock; he needed food, drink and rest. Josse stepped towards him and put an arm across his narrow shoulders. Akhbir flinched, then relaxed.

  ‘We will look after you,’ Josse said. ‘Tell us what you want to do with the body and we will carry out your wishes. Then we will give you food and drink and a place to sleep.’

  Akhbir was crying now. Covering his face with his hands, he said, ‘You are good people. I stay for now.’

  Sister Caliste went to stand on his other side and together she and Josse escorted him slowly back along the passage and into the hall.

  They buried Kathnir in a corner of the orchard at New Winnowlands that caught the westering sun; before the last of the light fell below the horizon, he was in his grave. Josse, Will and a couple of labourers who had helped Akhbir dig the grave and bear out the body stayed with bowed heads for a little while and then they crept away and left Akhbir to his grief.

  Josse insisted that Sister Caliste accept his bed and he had Ella make it up with fresh linen. He set out shakedown beds for himself and Akhbir in the hall. A long time after he had settled down for the night, he heard Akhbir come in. He had neither eaten nor drunk, although food and drink had been offered. He had stayed out there alone in the cold night beside his companion’s grave.

  As he lay down, Josse could hear him sobbing.

  Josse and Sister Caliste returned to Hawkenlye the next morning and Akhbir borrowed Will’s horse and rode with them. He was silent, deathly pale and the flesh around his dark eyes looked bruised. Sister Caliste, watching him anxiously, asked Josse in a whisper if he had accepted anything to eat. Josse shook his head.

  As they covered the miles to the Abbey, he wondered what on earth they were going to do with the poor man.

  On arrival, his half-hearted suggestion that he take Akhbir to the Abbess so that she and Josse could ask him a few questions was met with a shake of the head from Sister Caliste. ‘I am sorry to contradict you, Sir Josse,’ she said, ‘but Akhbir is not fit to answer questions, no matter how gently put. I fear he is very near collapse.’

  ‘Is he ill?’ Josse asked. He was quite relieved that Sister Caliste was being so decisive; asking delicate questions of a man so obviously in shock was not a prospect he relished.

  ‘I do not think so,’ Sister Caliste answered. ‘He has neither eaten nor drunk, you tell me, and he has suffered the terrible strain of seeing his companion wounded and trying, unsuccessfully, to save his life. He needs to rest in a quiet and safe place. Once he is himself again, then you may speak to him.’

  ‘May I make a suggestion, Sister?’

  She was already blushing; he guessed, at having given what amounted to an order to someone who greatly outranked her. She lowered her eyes. ‘Of course, Sir Josse.’

  ‘It is possible that Akhbir and his late companion may have some involvement in the death of the man out on the forest track. There is also the matter of the fire at the priory, which it seems was deliberately set. Two of the victims of that act lie in the infirmary; their brother monk died in the fire. I suggest that-’

  ‘That we do not house Akhbir anywhere near the two Hospitallers,’ she finished for him. ‘I will ensure that he is kept well away.’ She looked across to the infirmary and then her gaze went on past it. ‘He does not need any treatment, other than someone making sure he drinks and eats,’ she mused. ‘Should we ask the lay brethren in the Vale to look after him?’

  ‘Aye, Sister,’ Josse agreed. The suggestion suited him very well. Since his own accommodation was down in the Vale, he could make sure that, with Akhbir being housed there too, he was the first to know when the man was ready to talk. He could also put the word around that Akhbir was to be subtly watched; Gervase de Gifford would undoubtedly wish to interview him as soon as he was up to it. It was probably just as well for Akhbir, Josse reflected, that the sheriff was not there with them now because he would not be as considerate as Sister Caliste and Josse with a man suspected of being involved in two murders. ‘I will come with you to install him in the lay brothers’ quarters,’ he added.

  ‘Should we not first ask the Abbess?’

  ‘I will report back to her as soon as Akhbir is comfortable,’ he assured her. ‘You have my word.’

  His word was, apparently, good enough; Sister Caliste gave a relieved smile and, with Josse trying to form the words of a simple explanation to inform the stunned and silent Akhbir what was happening, they set off for the Vale.

  ‘The arrow that killed Kathnir was of the same manufacture as the one I pulled out of the tree,’ Josse said to the Abbess a short time later. ‘Whoever killed him was one of the pair who aimed the warning shots at Gervase and me to drive us away from where their Turkoman companion died.’

  ‘You are certain?’

  ‘Aye, my lady.’

  She raised her hands in a gesture of frustration. ‘What are we to make of it all, Sir Josse? We now have two bands of murderers in the area.’

  ‘It appears that they are busy killing off each other,’ he said grimly. ‘First one of the group of archers is tortured and killed, and his companions value him enough to return to the spot and make a simple sort of shrine. Then one of their arrows kills Kathnir, whom we already suspect of knowing about the death of the Turk and who might well have killed him. I think we can now be sure of that. Kathnir — the leader out of him and Akhbir — mistook the Turk for his real quarry, whom we believe to be Fadil, going under the name of John Dam
ianos. Kathnir and Akhbir capture the Turk and try to extract from him the whereabouts of whatever it was that the runaway monk stole.’

  ‘They are surely aware that the English monk and Fadil are in league,’ the Abbess said. ‘They must be, since they assumed that Fadil knew where the treasure is hidden.’

  ‘Aye. So, Kathnir fails to extract the information he seeks — because the victim isn’t Fadil — and he murders him. The Turk’s companions find his body and they know who killed him. They bide their time and when the moment presents itself, one of them fires an arrow which finds its mark and kills Kathnir. Vengeance is done.’

  ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,’ the Abbess quoted softly.

  ‘I do not think, my lady, that the Lord comes into this very much.’

  There was a short silence. The Abbess broke it. ‘What of the man Akhbir?’

  Josse shrugged. ‘He is broken, a soul in despair. Whatever he has done, he is suffering grievously. Sister Caliste said quite rightly that we should not attempt to question him yet.’

  ‘Sister Caliste is charitable,’ the Abbess said neutrally. ‘But Akhbir was present at a brutal scene of mutilation and death.’

  ‘Aye, my lady. I know.’ He paused. ‘I have the advantage over you in that I have met and spoken to Akhbir,’ he said diplomatically. ‘Had you too had that experience, I am sure you would agree that he is not a ruthless, vicious killer and that it is best to accord him time to absorb his grief and begin to recover himself.’

  He watched her nervously and soon a slow smile spread over her face. ‘How tactful you are, Sir Josse,’ she murmured. ‘Very well.’

  ‘I will not hesitate to inform you when that time comes,’ Josse said, relieved. ‘My lady, we must send someone down to Tonbridge in the morning to tell Gervase what has happened. He will want to come straight here to speak to Akhbir, but we will instruct our messenger to explain that the man is unwell and that it would be better to wait for a day or so.’ Something occurred to him: there was another mission he had been going to pursue when Will brought news of the wounded Kathnir and drove everything else out of his mind… Ah yes! ‘I will go to see Brice of Rotherbridge and ask about local interests in Outremer. Unless, that is, you have anything from Thibault concerning the English monk’s lord?’

  ‘No,’ she answered. ‘I did ask him but he says he does not know.’

  There was something in her tone that made him pause. ‘But?’

  She smiled again. ‘But,’ she echoed. ‘Yes, Sir Josse; there is indeed a but.’ She drummed her fingers on her table and he could sense her impatience and tension. ‘I asked Thibault a very simple question: did he know the name and domicile of the English lord in whose company the runaway monk had gone out to Outremer?’ Her eyes met Josse’s. ‘I expected an equally simple answer: yes or no. It was not what I got.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He made a great show of appearing to think, but I am sure it was only to give himself the time to make up a credible lie. Then he said he hadn’t known the English monk that well and when they were together it was usually in the press of battle and they had never got round to talking of the past. It was,’ she added dismissively, ‘a shower of words that said precisely nothing. He knows the identity of this English lord perfectly well, Sir Josse; but for some reason he doesn’t want to tell us.’

  Ten

  Josse took a guilty pleasure in his ride over to Rotherbridge the following morning. There had been a hard frost overnight and now the sky was a clear, brilliant blue and the early sunshine was making diamond sparkles of the melting drops of water on tree and grass. It was a relief to leave the complex problems at the Abbey for a few hours. There was, he told himself, nothing that he could do for the time being, anyway. Akhbir was still refusing food and water and he lay curled up on his side, his face to the wall. Sometimes his voice could be heard keening in a peculiar high-pitched, animal-like wail. It was unnerving, to say the least.

  Brother Augustus had volunteered to ride down to inform Gervase de Gifford of Akhbir’s presence at Hawkenlye. When Josse had asked if he could manage to deter the sheriff for a day at least, Augustus had replied glumly, ‘I’ll tell him about that inhuman howling that kept us all awake and chilled our blood. That ought to do the trick.’

  Josse smiled at the memory. Gussie was a solid and dependable young man and, in his own modest way, as much of a force to be reckoned with as the sheriff himself.

  He clucked to Horace and encouraged him to a reasonably sprightly canter. Rotherbridge was still an hour’s ride away and the morning was advancing.

  He was shown into Brice’s hall by a young maidservant with a shy smile and a dimple. Brice’s wife Isabella sat on a settle before the hearth, a girl of about two and a half sitting beside her and a baby of perhaps a year clutching on to its mother’s skirts as it tried to stand up. At Josse’s approach, the smaller child, a little boy, turned and gave him a wide and endearing smile that displayed four top teeth and five bottom ones.

  ‘Josse,’ said Isabella, ‘how lovely to see you! Tilda, bring some mulled ale and some of those little cakes, for Sir Josse will be hungry and thirsty after his ride and it is a chilly morning.’

  The maid gave a bob curtsey and hurried away. At Isabella’s invitation, Josse sat down beside her. The little girl immediately scrambled over her mother’s lap and held out a rag doll. ‘E’nor,’ she said. Then, peremptorily: ‘Kiss!’

  ‘E’nor?’ Josse repeated, lifting up the doll and placing a light kiss on the cloth face.

  ‘Eleanor,’ Isabella said. ‘Fritha has grandiose plans for her doll.’

  Fritha had now elbowed her way onto Josse’s lap. She leaned her head against him and, after a slight hesitation, he put his arm round her. To have a little girl treat him with such affection was a poignant reminder of his own daughter and for a moment he did not feel able to speak. Fortunately he didn’t have to. Not only was Fritha keeping up a long monologue about her doll’s likes and dislikes — of which there seemed to be an unreasonable number — but in addition Isabella was chatting away about her little boy’s progress.

  ‘And just yesterday he clambered up onto the end of the settle and jiggled around pretending it was a horse, so you can imagine how delighted Brice was about that since he just can’t wait to have another man in the family to go hunting with!’

  Josse smiled. ‘How old is Olivar now?’

  ‘He’ll be a year old next month,’ she said. She held out her arms to the child and he threw himself at her. She sat him on her lap and he put a thumb in his mouth, regarding Josse with wide dark brown eyes.

  ‘You named him for Brice’s brother,’ Josse said.

  ‘Yes. I never met him, although you did, Josse?’

  ‘Aye.’ It was an old tragedy but Josse still remembered the tormented young man. ‘I hope his little nephew here will tread an easier path through life.’

  ‘Amen,’ Isabella whispered. Then, her smile breaking through, she said, ‘The omens are good, Josse. I know he is mine and therefore I am probably prejudiced, but I have never encountered a child with a sunnier nature.’

  The maid brought in a tray containing mugs of warm, spiced ale and a platter of small cakes. ‘The cakes are Tilda’s speciality and quite delicious,’ Isabella said, dismissing the maid with a smile of thanks. ‘The main ingredient is dried marigold petals.’

  Both children were eyeing the cakes and Josse decided he had better help himself quickly before they disappeared. He ate one, then another, then one more; they were indeed delicious. Then he brushed the crumbs from his tunic and said, ‘Where’s Brice?’

  ‘He has taken Roger and Marthe out for a ride,’ she replied, referring to her children by her previous marriage. ‘They’ll be back soon, for they set out early and have been gone some time. You wish to speak to him?’

  ‘Aye. I’ve a question for him but — ’ he grinned at her — ‘there’s no reason why I shouldn’t ask you.’


  She returned his smile. ‘Ask away.’

  ‘There’s an unpleasant business at the Abbey. Some people are hunting for a couple of men who have returned to England from Outremer. One probably went out to the East with a lord from this area, and I wondered if Brice — or you — knew of anyone locally whose family have interests in Outremer?’

  Isabella considered. ‘I can think of families who sent a son or a husband off to the crusades,’ she said after a while, ‘but in each case save one the man has returned, and the one who did not died at Acre.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was disappointing.

  ‘Unless,’ Isabella added, ‘you mean the de Villieres clan?’

  ‘The de Villieres?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, Josse, I thought everyone knew about them! They’re famous and people have been known to commit murder for an invitation to one of their grand gatherings. I’m joking,’ she added.

  He grinned. ‘Sorry, Isabella. I’m not much of a one for socializing.’

  ‘Oh really, Josse?’ The irony was unmistakable. Then she took his hand and squeezed it affectionately. ‘Don’t worry,’ she murmured, ‘as long as you don’t stop coming to see us, I shan’t complain.’

  He returned the squeeze. ‘Thank you.’ Then: ‘Who are they, then, and what can you tell me about them?’

  She settled Olivar more comfortably on her lap and said, ‘They hold estates to the west of Robertsbridge. They manage their land efficiently and carefully and their wealth has grown accordingly ever since Robert de Villieres was awarded it back in the middle of the last century.’ This Robert, Josse thought, must have been one of the Conqueror’s Normans. ‘He went off to fight in the First Crusade,’ Isabella was saying, ‘and he won lands in Antioch. He married the daughter of a wealthy family of Champagne merchants who, like so many others, turned themselves into noblemen out in Outremer, and she and Robert settled down in Antioch and raised their family.’ She turned to look at Josse. ‘They say that Mathilde de St Denys was a woman in the mould of our own Queen Eleanor,’ she added, ‘a matriarch who lived to the ripe old age of eighty and died in Antioch after fulfilling her ambition of visiting the newly refurbished Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem.’