by Alys Clare
Thibault had put his head back and seemed to be staring at the ceiling. ‘It is absurd,’ he said flatly.
Helewise, stung on Josse’s behalf, said coolly, ‘Thibault, you ask for Sir Josse’s aid and yet, far from giving him any assistance, you seem to go out of your way to increase the mists of mystery that surround this matter. What is your monk’s name? What does he look like? Can you not at least answer these questions?’
Thibault looked at her and she was sure she read regret and, strangely, pity in his expression. ‘I am sorry but I cannot, my lady,’ he said. ‘As another of the avowed, you will appreciate that it is not for us to make independent decisions when we have been given clear orders to follow.’
Oh, yes, she thought. I appreciate that all right. And how very convenient for Thibault to be able to produce such an unbreakably sound reason for not telling us what we so much want to know.
Josse was addressing Thibault. She made herself listen.
‘Your monk,’ he was saying, ‘is a fighting man?’
‘He is,’ Thibault replied warily.
‘He uses which weapons?’
‘Lance and sword.’
‘Can he shoot a bow?’
‘Most men can shoot a bow.’
‘Aye. I am asking if he is a good shot.’
Thibault shrugged. ‘Average, perhaps. I cannot say.’
‘And if a Knight Hospitaller such as he were to use a bow, of what type would it be?’
‘Probably the longbow.’
‘So you do not think it likely that your runaway is a deadly shot with the crossbow?’
‘If he is, I never heard tell of it,’ Thibault said decisively. ‘And if he were as good as that, then those in charge of his training would have discovered the talent and put it to use.’
‘Thank you,’ Josse said.
Helewise shot him a quick look; he raised his eyebrows at her and she nodded.
He had just established that if the shots that had killed Akhbir and driven Josse off had been fired by the fugitive monk and his Saracen prisoner, then the bowman had to have been Fadil.
For the first time Gervase spoke. ‘Thibault, I have taken note of all you have said and I am inclined to believe that your monk did not fire the shot that killed Akhbir. However, we — that is, my lady Abbess, Sir Josse and I — are convinced that he is involved in all four of the deaths that have recently occurred in this area. I will join forces with Sir Josse in our hunt for your runaway. If he is found, he will have to answer to the law of this land before he can be called to account by your Order.’
Helewise could see that Thibault objected to this statement. Perhaps Gervase realized it too for, before Thibault could say a word, he had turned smartly on his heel and could be heard marching away out of the infirmary.
Josse appeared to be concentrating very hard on Thibault. Helewise wondered why; the question was answered as Josse spoke. ‘I am going hunting,’ he announced. ‘First I shall ride over to New Winnowlands, keeping my eyes open and asking anyone I meet if they have seen two strangers, one dressed in a Saracen’s garb and the other in the robes of a Knight Hospitaller.’ Thibault regarded him steadily. ‘Then,’ he went on, ‘I shall go to Robertsbridge and speak to Gerome de Villieres.’
If Josse’s intention was to provoke a reaction, Helewise thought admiringly, he had succeeded surely beyond his wildest hopes. Thibault paled and shot out a bandaged hand, grasping at Josse’s sleeve as if he would detain him by force if he had to. But his self-control was excellent and his turmoil was not evident in his tone of voice: ‘I would not bother going there,’ he said calmly. ‘Brother Otto and I spoke to Gerome de Villieres, as I told you. The man whom we seek is not there and there is no likelihood at all that he will visit in the future.’ There was a small and, Helewise thought, telling pause. ‘There was a dispute,’ Thibault went on. Then, grudgingly: ‘The runaway caused grave distress to the family’s household out in Antioch. The lady Aurelie, a distant cousin of Gerome, had cause to report in the most reproachful terms to her English kinsman. Believe me,’ he concluded earnestly, ‘you would be wasting your time, Sir Josse, if you went there.’
Josse nodded. ‘Thank you for that advice.’ Helewise noticed — and she was quite sure Thibault did too — that Josse did not say whether or not he was going to take it.
‘We will leave you to rest, Thibault,’ she said. She glanced down at Brother Otto, who was looking at her out of dazed eyes. ‘You too, Brother,’ she added softly. She touched his shoulder very gently with her fingertips and the monk gave her a smile. ‘How are you feeling?’ she whispered, bending down over his bed.
Brother Otto tried to say something, but all that emerged was the whistling sound of air passing out through his lips.
‘His throat was burned,’ Thibault said. ‘He cannot speak.’
Helewise crouched down beside Brother Otto. ‘We will help you,’ she said. ‘Have faith, try to keep your spirits up and we will do all we can to make you better.’
Brother Otto nodded his thanks. Then he closed his eyes.
Helewise led the way out through the gap in the curtains, Josse behind her. On the way out of the infirmary she caught the eye of Sister Euphemia who, understanding that it was a summons, stopped what she was doing and came over to give her superior a bow of reverence. ‘My lady?’
‘Sir Josse and I have just been visiting Thibault and Brother Otto,’ she said. ‘How are they?’
‘Thibault is determined to be out of his bed and off about his business as soon as he can,’ the infirmarer replied, ‘and his resolve certainly seems to be aiding his recovery. His burns are healing well and he has insisted that we reduce the amount of pain relief. Although I am quite sure he suffers a great deal, his mind is much less clouded.’
‘I see. And Brother Otto?’
‘That poor young man has lost the power of speech. We are treating him with soothing herbal drinks to heal his burned throat but only time will tell if we will be successful.’
‘And the burns to his body?’
‘He progresses, but it is very slow. So far we have managed to keep infection away, thanks be to the good Lord,’ — and to your and Sister Caliste’s scrupulous care, Helewise thought — ‘so there is a good chance that he will make a reasonable recovery. It will take time, however.’
‘Thank you, Sister.’ Helewise patted the infirmarer’s shoulder. ‘We will leave you to your work.’
Outside, she and Josse stood in the cold morning air and she noticed that, like her, he too was taking deep breaths. Even in an infirmary as well run as Sister Euphemia’s there was no avoiding foul smells.
‘So, Sir Josse, you ride now to New Winnowlands?’ she asked.
‘Aye. John Damianos came there for refuge before, and now he has been driven away from the house in the woods, there is a chance he may come back.’
‘You still believe that he is Fadil?’
‘Aye, I do. Thibault has said that his monk does not use the crossbow, yet whoever killed Akhbir and fired those carefully aimed bolts at me was a first-rate exponent of the weapon. Which means that it must have been Fadil, an assumption that is reinforced by-’ He stopped abruptly.
‘Yes, Sir Josse? Reinforced by what?’
He looked bashful. ‘Well, Fadil — John Damianos — must have recognized me. He might well have wanted me to back off, but he did not want to hurt me. I just think — I mean, it’s likely that-’
‘Of course he did not wish to hurt you,’ she said warmly. ‘You took him in; your Will made up a comfortable place where he could rest and Ella cooked good, nourishing meals for him. You acted in the true spirit of loving kindness, Sir Josse, and whatever Fadil may be or may have done, it would be a thankless, vicious man who turned on his benefactor.’
‘Or a desperate one,’ Josse said glumly.
She thought about it. Yes, he was right. There were circumstances under which one might have to do such a terrible deed: to save one’s own life, perhaps.
Or that of a loved one. ‘Take care,’ she said, reaching out to take his hand. ‘Oh, do take care, dear Josse. Will you take one or two of the lay brothers with you? Brother Saul and Brother Augustus have often accompanied you into danger.’
‘It is a kind thought, my lady, but I prefer to go alone. We would be more of a threat riding three abreast and I do not want Fadil to think we mean him harm.’
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘God bless you, and return to us soon and safe,’ she murmured.
‘Amen.’ He gave her a swift bow, then turned and strode off towards the stables. Her heart heavy and with a strange sense of foreboding, she returned to her room.
Josse made good time to New Winnowlands; Horace seemed to appreciate the crisp, sharp air and the frost-hardened ground under his big feet. The ride was exhilarating and as the familiar landscape came into view, Josse felt as if he had been given some powerful elixir that stepped up his brain function and encouraged him to action. He had seen few people on the way and those whom he had questioned had to a man — and a woman — shaken their heads and said no, they had seen neither a black-robed monk nor a swathed Saracen. Even the series of negative replies had not discouraged Josse. He told himself that he would have been most surprised if anyone had seen either of the men he was searching for. They were just too good at hiding.
Will greeted him with his usual total lack of surprise. He went with Josse into the hall, called out to Ella that master was home, hungry, cold and thirsty. As Ella bustled about stoking up the fire and preparing food and drink, Josse explained why he had come back and asked Will if there had been any sign of their former guest.
‘No,’ Will replied. Then, lowering his voice and with a quick glance to make sure Ella was not in earshot, he said, ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, could you not ask the same question of Ella? She’s well over that business now and it’d be a shame to bring it all up and set her to fretting and worrying again.’
‘Aye, it would indeed,’ Josse agreed, ‘and I won’t mention it, Will.’ There was no point, he thought. If Ella had any idea that the man she knew as John Damianos might return, she would be plunged back into the agitated state she had exhibited before. He was content to take Will’s word for it.
When Ella, having deposited a tray laden with bread, cheese, strips of dried pork, some berries and a jug of spiced wine, disappeared off in the direction of her kitchen, Josse indicated that Will should stay.
‘Where would you go, Will,’ he asked, ‘if you needed a safe refuge in the winter?’
Will gave the question considerable thought. ‘I’d go to a trusted friend.’
‘Supposing you did not dare trust anyone? If, for instance, you carried with you something of great value that you had to keep safe?’
Will frowned. ‘If there was not one single person I could ask for help, I reckon I’d find some out of-the-way place and build a shelter. I’d cut stout poles,’ he went on, warming to his theme, ‘and fix bracken and branches of evergreen over them to keep out the rain and the wind. I’d find stones and make a hearth, then I’d scour the land for firewood. I’d risk a bit of poaching to feed myself and when night fell I’d barricade myself in and hope for the best.’
It was a long speech from the usually taciturn Will and, amused at the romantic, imaginative streak in his servant that had created such a colourful and optimistic image of life in the wilds, Josse hid a smile. ‘You may be right, Will,’ he said seriously. ‘Perhaps our former guest has done just that.’
‘You’ll never find him if he has,’ said Will sagely. ‘There’s a whole forest full of out-of-the-way places not five miles from here. If he’s gone to ground in there, that’ll be that.’
Josse sighed. Although it was an unwelcome conclusion, he had a suspicion that Will might well be right.
Will excused himself and went back outside. Josse finished his food and drained the jug of wine and as the nourishment and the fire’s warmth relaxed him, he found his optimism beginning to creep back.
Fadil and the monk might well have done what Will suggested and hidden themselves away deep inside the forest. But they could not stay there for ever. If they were going to hide for the rest of their lives they could have done so out in Outremer. No: the monk had a clear purpose in coming to England, a purpose that was not going to be fulfilled by sleeping rough in the depths of the Great Wealden Forest. If Josse was right, the Hospitaller was aiming to get both his prisoner and the ransom safely to the headquarters of his Order at Clerkenwell. While he waited for them to emerge, there were other things that he could do and he intended to set about one of them immediately.
He stood up, brushed down his tunic and gathered up his cloak from where Ella had spread it to warm in front of the fire. Wrapping it round him with a dramatic flourish, he went outside, called for his horse and set off for Robertsbridge.
Part Four
The Lady
Fourteen
As he rode Josse thought how best to make his approach to Gerome de Villieres. If Thibault had been telling the truth about a dispute between Gerome’s erstwhile knight and the de Villieres family out in Antioch — and, unless this was a ruse to keep Josse away from the Robertsbridge manor, there was no reason for him to lie — then there was no point in posing as a friend or relative of the missing monk. If they were not prepared to receive the man himself, they would not welcome one of his relatives. It was not much of an idea in any case, Josse decided, since the subterfuge would become evident as soon as they asked him what his supposed kinsman’s name was or what he looked like, Josse having absolutely no idea of either.
I will say that I am from Hawkenlye Abbey, he thought in the end, the appointed representative of the Abbess. That was the truth. He would say that two Knights Hospitaller had been badly burned and were in the infirmary; that too was true. He would explain how he had offered to take on the Hospitallers’ search for a missing monk but he would make out that he did not know Thibault had already visited the de Villieres family. He would give the impression that Thibault could barely speak. He would let Gerome de Villieres assume that enquiries were being made at every manor in the vicinity, implying that he did not know of Gerome’s connection with the runaway.
Satisfied, he kicked Horace into a canter.
He obtained directions for the de Villieres manor and found it quite easily. The house was generously sized and attractive, set in a fold of land to the west of Robertsbridge. Tree-clad slopes sheltered it from the prevailing south-westerly winds and orchards grew on south-facing hillsides. The huddles of peasant dwellings seemed in good condition and the bare earth in the fields looked fertile and rich.
The house and courtyard were enclosed by a stone wall in which there was an arched gateway. Riding in, Josse called out and almost immediately a lad came to take his horse and an older man to ask his name and his business. He listened to Josse’s carefully prepared reply and invited him to come up into the house. Josse was ushered into an imposing hall with a wide central hearth and a raised dais on which there were a long table, two chairs and a couple of benches. A thin-faced woman of perhaps forty sat at the table, an embroidery hoop in her hand; a younger woman of about twenty sat beside her.
They watched as he approached the table and bowed. The older one said politely, ‘My brother will be with us presently. Will you take some refreshment?’
‘Aye, my lady, thank you.’
She nodded to the serving man who had brought Josse in and he bowed and went out through a doorway at the far end of the hall. Josse, beginning to feel slightly awkward beneath the two women’s scrutiny, gave a diffident smile and said, ‘Lovely bright day, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ the older woman agreed. She did not venture any further remark that might have picked up the conversation and helped it along. It was a relief when the sound of footsteps came from the passage and the manservant and his master came into the hall. While the servant poured mugs of wine, the master strode up to Josse and said, ‘I am Ge
rome de Villieres. This is my sister, the lady Maria, and this is my daughter Editha.’ The younger woman gave Josse a shy smile. ‘How can I help you?’
Gerome was a short, stout man who had probably once been strong but whose body was running to fat. Under his remaining grey-streaked brown hair his round, ruddy face wore a smile that creased up his light hazel eyes.
‘I have come from Hawkenlye Abbey,’ Josse began.
‘Yes, so my manservant tells me,’ Gerome replied. ‘We hear great things of the Abbey, Sir Josse.’
‘I am sure that they are all true,’ Josse said. Then: ‘There are two wounded Knights Hospitaller lying in the infirmary, Sir Gerome. They have come to England from Outremer searching for a runaway monk of their Order. Since neither is able to leave his sickbed, I have volunteered to search for the missing monk.’
‘Two Hospitallers,’ Gerome said, his eyes narrowed. ‘They have already been here.’ His sister made as if to say something but with a gesture of his hand Gerome silenced her.
‘They came to Hawkenlye,’ Josse said, ‘and then on to the priory at Tonbridge, where a fire in the guest wing killed a third monk who had joined them on the road after they left Robertsbridge.’
‘How terrible!’ Gerome seemed shocked. Then, his worried eyes meeting Josse’s, he said, ‘And was this fire an accident, Sir Josse?’
It was, Josse thought, a strange question. ‘Why do you ask?’
Gerome eyed him candidly. ‘Because there is much more to this tale of a missing Hospitaller than you know.’ He turned to the dais and gave his sister and his daughter a bright smile. ‘We will not further disturb your sewing, my dears — our male chatter may make you misdirect your needles!’
‘You do not disturb us, Gerome,’ said his sister, ‘and indeed we should prefer to hear-’
But Gerome, it seemed, had made up his mind and was not going to allow anyone, even his sister, to be a party to a conversation that he deemed unsuitable for their ears. ‘Sir Josse and I shall take a turn in the walled garden,’ he said firmly, ‘for it is sheltered there and we will not be interrupted.’
