by Alys Clare
‘What could the fat man have bartered for his young brother?’ she mused. ‘We have asked ourselves before, but we are no nearer to an answer.’
‘And why was the younger man so very valuable to his brother?’ Josse said. ‘My lady, did you mark Akhbir’s reaction when the name of Fadil was mentioned?’
‘I did,’ she replied. ‘I thought he seemed amused. He found it funny that we should believe it was Fadil whom he and Kathnir were hunting.’
‘Why would that be funny?’ Josse wondered. ‘Because it was so unlikely Fadil would be here in England?’
‘Perhaps because he could not take Fadil seriously.’ The flash of intuition seemed to come out of nowhere. ‘He knows Fadil and he doesn’t think much of him; he cannot imagine that Fadil could possibly have evaded him and Kathnir for so long and over so many hundreds of miles.’
‘If he does not think much of this Fadil, then he would be either amused or insulted by the suggestion that he’d been such an efficient and elusive quarry,’ Josse agreed. He was regarding her with admiration in his brown eyes. ‘A good suggestion, my lady.’
She barely heard him. ‘Josse, supposing it’s Fadil himself? Akhbir just said that Kathnir’s orders were to find his master’s precious treasure and return it. Supposing it was not an object that he was speaking of but a person?’
‘Fadil is the fat man’s brother. But if he does not have sons of his own, then his younger brother might be his heir and thus important to him.’
‘Precious,’ she repeated. ‘Would a man refer to his heir as being precious to him? It sounds more like a term one would use for someone one loved very, very deeply and — oh!’ She realized what she had just said.
So, evidently, did Josse. ‘It would explain a lot,’ he said quietly. ‘Love makes men blind; it makes them lose all reason and all sense of proportion. If the fat man was driven by love and desire, not only would he be prepared to pay the highest price to redeem Fadil from the Hospitallers; he would also take whatever measures necessary to find him when he escaped and bring him back. Even to the extent of sending two Saracen warriors who would not hesitate to kill.’
‘Yet they attacked and killed the Turk and they would not have killed Fadil,’ she pointed out. ‘Their objective was to take him back unharmed to their master.’
‘Aye, but they knew the Turk wasn’t Fadil,’ Josse replied. Then: ‘Fadil must be the other Saracen; it’s just as we surmised. He must be the man known to me as John Damianos.’
‘Why did Kathnir torture the Turk?’ She could hardly bear to think about it. ‘What did he think the poor man knew?’
‘The whereabouts of Fadil?’ Josse suggested. ‘Or, if Fadil and the treasure are not one and the same, perhaps Kathnir believed the Turk knew the location of both.’
‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘that the missing Hospitaller — the runaway English monk — is looking after both prisoner and treasure, just as he has been doing for more than two years ever since that night in the desert. Don’t you?’ She stared at Josse expectantly.
After a moment he sighed heavily and said, ‘Aye. I do. We’ve got to find him, my lady; as Gervase said, we have to succeed where Kathnir and Akhbir failed.’
‘Can we do it?’ she whispered.
He shrugged. ‘We can try.’
Eleven
W hen Josse finally got to his bed he was exhausted and fell asleep quickly. But some time later he was awakened; his soldier’s reactions warned him there had been a sound that did not belong among the safe night noises. He lay on his back with his eyes open, staring out into the darkness of the low room. The door and the two small windows were closed, the fold of leather in place keeping out the moonlight and the starlight. The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers.
He listened.
Then he heard it.
From the far corner where they had put Akhbir came the sound of softly muttered but urgent words; it seemed that Akhbir was pleading with his God.
Barely pausing to think about it, Josse was out of his bedroll and padding across the cold, hard floor. Akhbir sounded as if he was in despair. He was all alone in a foreign land, the man who had been his senior and his companion had just died, he still had a mission to fulfil and he probably had no idea how to go about it. All of which was good enough reason for despair.
But desperate men tend to talk, Josse reasoned. Especially in the dark hours before dawn when courage and optimism are at their lowest ebb and when so many of the dying slip away to death. He knelt down beside Akhbir, who lay curled up with his face to the wall, and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. Akhbir jumped in alarm, twisting round to look up into Josse’s face.
‘Do not be afraid; I wish to help you.’ Josse pitched his voice low. Akhbir had been put in this far corner well away from the sleeping lay brethren, but Josse was aware that one or more of the brothers would wake if he spoke aloud. Even worse, one of the two guards that Gervase had sent up from Tonbridge might hear.
‘You cannot help,’ Akhbir hissed back.
Josse considered how to proceed. It depended on Akhbir’s mood; there was so much that he needed to know, but Akhbir would only be likely to talk if he truly believed there was no hope for him.
‘You will not be ill-treated when they take you down to the prison cell,’ he began, choosing his words carefully. ‘You will be put on trial for murder but the sheriff may speak for you if he believes that it was Kathnir and not you who killed the Turk.’
‘What happen to me if not?’
‘If they think you were equally guilty? You’ll hang.’
A sob escaped Akhbir. ‘I want to go home,’ he whispered mournfully.
Home. I wonder, Josse thought.
‘Would you be able to find your way back to Outremer?’
‘Yes.’ There was no doubt in Akhbir’s voice.
‘But what of your mission? What of the treasure your master sent you to recover?’
Akhbir said something in his own tongue; it sounded faintly disparaging. Then: ‘I not know about treasure. Kathnir know; Kathnir not tell secret to me.’ Then, in case Josse was still in any doubt: ‘Kathnir my master. I serve him all my life but he dead now.’
Josse saw tears in his dark eyes, welling up and catching the dim light from the hearth.
‘Perhaps you truly do not know what the treasure is,’ Josse said softly. ‘But there are many things, Akhbir, that you do know; things that I should be very grateful to be told.’
The dark eyes slid to Josse’s. There was a calculating expression in them. ‘Very grateful?’
‘Very grateful indeed,’ Josse said. Firmly putting from his mind what Gervase was going to say, he took a deep breath and said, ‘Answer my questions and I’ll let you go.’
Akhbir’s teeth flashed in a brief smile. ‘Ask,’ he said simply.
Josse was ready and the first question shot out. ‘What is the name of the fat man who wanted Fadil returned to him?’
‘Hisham.’
‘He is wealthy and important?’
‘He is both.’
‘Is he a great landowner?’
‘He own much land. He is — merchant, of Tripoli, but also man of very great wisdom. He is-’ Akhbir appeared to struggle to find the word but then, giving up, said something in his own tongue that sounded like simyager.
‘And Fadil is his brother and heir?’ Josse thought he knew the answer already.
Akhbir sneered. ‘Not kin. Not heir. But beloved.’
Josse did not think he had ever heard the beautiful word spoken with such disdain and disgust. ‘I see,’ he murmured. ‘You told us that Hisham had lost that which he held most dear. Did you mean Fadil? Or did you mean whatever Hisham was offering to get him back?’
Akhbir narrowed his eyes and an expression of extreme cunning crossed his face. He watched Josse closely and Josse could almost hear his thoughts. Then the moment of resistance was gone. Akhbir gave a soft sigh and said, ‘I not sure but I believe he m
ean both.’
So it was true that the fat man was trying to cheat the Hospitallers, Josse thought. What did he do? Prepare a secret force to overcome the knights in that lonely desert spot? They all died — all except one — so it was likely. And it would have to have been quite a force; the Knights Hospitaller fought like cornered lions.
But Akhbir had leaned closer and was whispering again. ‘One monk get away. He take Fadil. My master say he also take treasure. My master call Kathnir, tell him, follow monk and Fadil. Bring back Fadil. Kill monk and take back treasure.’
‘You cannot do the second part of your mission now. You just said you do not know what the treasure is.’
‘No.’ A deep sigh. ‘No.’
Would Akhbir try to go after Fadil? Josse intended to keep his word and get Akhbir out of the lay brothers’ quarters and onto the road that led to the coast; but by doing so would he be putting Fadil — John Damianos — in danger? I liked the man, he thought. I will not put him in danger of being taken back to Outremer and whatever terrible life he had as the fat man’s sex slave.
Something did not feel quite right. He pictured John Damianos and tried to imagine him as the subject of an older man’s lust. It was all but impossible.
He recalled something the Abbess had said. It was when they began to believe that John Damianos was the name that Fadil had adopted; Josse told her he’d imagined Fadil to be a younger man and she replied that two years on the run would have aged him. Perhaps the experience had also hardened him from a rich old man’s plaything to a man who walked tall and strong.
A man who, from what Josse recalled of John Damianos, would be more than capable of dealing with the broken, lonely, grieving and homesick Akhbir.
But what about the runaway Hospitaller? Would a released Akhbir feel honour- and duty-bound to pursue him? He and Fadil seemed to have parted company — there had been no monk with John Damianos when he arrived at New Winnowlands — and Thibault appeared to have been searching for the runaway in the vicinity of Tonbridge.
Where was the runaway monk?
Where was Fadil?
Did Akhbir have any idea of the whereabouts of either? Because if so and if Josse followed him, then Akhbir just might lead him to one or both of them.
In the absence of a better one, it was quite a good plan…
‘Wait,’ he commanded Akhbir. Then he tiptoed back to his own bed, swiftly put on his outer garments, picked up his weapons and drew on his boots. Creeping back to Akhbir, he whispered, ‘Get up, put on your cloak and boots and collect your belongings together.’ Akhbir hastily obeyed. ‘Come with me — ’ Josse took hold of his arm — ‘this way.’
He put the Saracen directly behind him as he began to walk slowly and steadily along the room. One of the guards stirred and, looking up, said, ‘Sir Josse?’
Josse spread his arms, concealing Akhbir behind him. ‘Too much ale last night,’ he whispered with a grin. ‘I’m bursting.’
The guard gave a gap-toothed smile and lay down again, turning on his side away from Josse. Edging Akhbir round, Josse pushed him in front of him — the man walked soft-footed as a cat — and, prodding him to make him hurry, got him to the door. He opened it and Akhbir went out into the night, Josse on his heels.
He took the Saracen’s arm and, urging him to a fast pace, took him along the path that led along the Vale. There was a little-used track at the far end of the shallow valley that led up to the road. Josse hurried up it, Akhbir panting beside him. They stood side by side on the road. Dawn was not far off now and Josse said, ‘That way leads down to Tonbridge, where the sheriff has his cell waiting for you. That way — ’ he pointed — ‘skirts the forest and then turns south towards the coast.’
Akhbir stood quite still, as if he could hardly believe that Josse had really kept his word and was setting him free. ‘Go!’ Josse urged. ‘Hurry and get down to the sea, then take a boat for France and go home.’
Slowly Akhbir turned to stare at him. Then without a word he started to run down the track.
Josse watched him. He looked back once or twice, then he reached the turn in the road and vanished from sight.
Josse set off after him.
He discovered that it was possible to keep Akhbir in sight while remaining just beneath the cover of the forest fringe. Akhbir did not look back; he kept up a quick pace, his head down, sometimes turning to look to right or left as if checking for way markers. For two or three miles he kept to the main track. Then, when it veered off towards the south and the coast, Akhbir branched off to the right onto a smaller path around the edge of the forest. Now he — and Josse, in pursuit — walked with undergrowth and winter-bare trees on either side. After perhaps another mile and a half, Akhbir increased his pace. Then suddenly he wasn’t there.
He’s seen me, Josse thought instantly, and his instinct was to break into a run, but his common sense held him back. If he was wrong and Akhbir did not know he was there, then his pounding feet on the frost-hard track would advertise his presence as clearly as if he’d yelled Here I am!
He crept on, barely breathing, his eyes fixed to the bracken and the tangle of bramble to his right. And his diligence was rewarded, for presently he came to a place where an animal track — boar or deer — broke away from the path.
It led right into the heart of the forest.
Without hesitation he set off along it.
After a while he felt he knew where they might be heading. He could see Akhbir now, perhaps eighty paces ahead, keeping to the narrow track and walking purposefully, like a man eager to reach his destination.
Josse tried to summon memories of the last time he had been here, if indeed he was right and this was the place that he had in mind. It was difficult because apart from the fact that one forest track looked very much like another, especially when the leaves were off the trees and everything seemed fast asleep, when he had been brought here for the first time he had been blindfolded.
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.
