by Alys Clare
‘. . . not the way things are done here, however you might carry on in Outremer. Here it is considered good manners to speak to the Abbess first, and only proceed when and if she says you can!’
He and Brother Firmin must have been taught the same rules. Suppressing her smile, she glided up to the group and said, ‘I am Abbess Helewise. May I help?’
Two of the three knights had the grace to look abashed. The third – a lean, pale man whose extreme thinness gave an illusory impression of height – stared straight at her with hazel eyes that did not look down as he gave a perfunctory bow. ‘I am Thibault of Margat, of the Order of the Knights of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem,’ he intoned. ‘These –’ he indicated the other two with a wave of his hand that was almost insulting in its indifference – ‘are Brother Otto and, er . . .’ he paused, frowning, ‘Brother Jeremiah.’
Helewise wondered which was which, for their superior did not deign to enlighten her. All three were dressed in dark robes that were dusty, mud-spattered and very well worn. She waited for Thibault to continue.
‘We are hunting for a runaway monk,’ he said in a curiously expressionless tone. ‘He is an Englishman.’
‘An English Hospitaller,’ she said. ‘And what does this man look like?’
‘He will be dressed as we are,’ Thibault said, ‘in a dark robe and black cloak –’ he held out a fold of his own cloak – ‘or scapular –’ he pointed to one of the brothers – ‘marked with the distinctive white cross of our Order.’
Slowly she shook her head. ‘I have seen no such man,’ she said. Then, for Thibault’s look of disdain was profoundly irritating, she added, ‘I will ask my nuns and monks if they have noticed a man dressed as you describe. Unless, that is, you have already done so?’ She fixed Thibault with a hard stare.
His lips tightened. ‘We have asked both in the settlement down by the lake and here in the Abbey,’ he acknowledged.
‘And have any of my community or its visitors been able to help you?’
‘No.’ The single word was curt.
Although she knew it was unworthy, she was enjoying his discomfiture. ‘To describe a man simply by the garb he wears is not of much value,’ she said, forcing a helpful expression, ‘since it is the easiest thing to remove one garment and put on another.’
‘I had thought of that, my lady.’ Thibault sounded as if he was speaking through clenched teeth.
‘Can you not tell us more?’ she prompted. ‘What age is this runaway? What is his name? And what does he look like – is he fair or dark? Tall, short, fat, thin?’
Thibault raised his chin and squared his shoulders. ‘I do not know,’ he said.
For an instant Helewise was blessed with additional perception and she knew without doubt that this was a lie. Then the moment passed.
She glanced at Josse, watching the exchange with close attention, and drew him towards her. ‘This is Sir Josse d’Acquin,’ she said, ‘a King’s man and a loyal friend to Hawkenlye Abbey. Have you asked your question of him?’
Thibault looked at Josse, who stared levelly back. ‘I have. Like you and your people, he says he knows nothing of a robed Hospitaller.’
There was a very faint emphasis on says. Helewise felt her anger boil up. She waited until she had herself under control and then said quietly, ‘If that is what Sir Josse says, then, Thibault of Margat, it is the truth. If there is nothing else you want of me or my community, then allow me to wish you God’s speed.’
She watched the protest rise and fall again in Thibault’s face. He is torn, she thought grimly. There is more – probably very much more – that he could tell us that would help us to identify this runaway monk, should he ever come this way. Yet this information is sensitive, for Thibault cannot bring himself to divulge it . . .
As she waited for the Hospitaller to make up his mind she was struck forcibly with the thought that whatever the fugitive monk might or might not have done, she was on his side. But that was not a thought that a nun – an abbess, indeed – should entertain.
Thibault must have been working out his parting remark. Now, sweeping his black cloak around him, he jerked his head at his two silent companions and they walked off towards the gates. Thibault, turning to look at first Helewise and then Josse, said, ‘We make now for Tonbridge, whence we shall set out for our Order’s English headquarters at the priory of St John in Clerkenwell.’ Then, in a voice of soft intensity, he added, ‘You will send word to me if the English monk comes here. We will not be hard to find for we make no secret of our comings and goings.’
And that also is a lie, Helewise thought coolly.
Thibault, after the briefest of reverences, strode away after the two brothers.
She felt Josse stir beside her. ‘Not so much as a farewell,’ he muttered.
Without thinking, she said, ‘He’ll be back.’
Josse’s expression suggested that he was almost as surprised as she was by the remark. ‘My lady?’
‘Oh – er, I just meant that here at Hawkenlye we have the biggest concentration of people for miles, so Brother Thibault is hardly likely to be satisfied with a few brief questions.’ It sounded unsatisfactory even to her ears.
Josse went on staring at her and now he was looking decidedly suspicious. She gave him a smile – she could not have explained how she knew, even had she wanted to – and after a moment he muttered, ‘Have it your own way.’
Her need for solitude had grown out of all proportion; a great deal had happened this morning and she urgently needed to think. Leaning close to Josse, she said softly, ‘I must send for Father Gilbert to arrange for the burial. I had thought that perhaps the man those Hospitallers are seeking might be our dead man, for I believe that the brethren do recruit soldiers from the native population in Outremer.’
‘Indeed, my lady,’ Josse relied. ‘They are known as turcopoles, and the military orders put them on a horse, give them a bow and, after scant training, fling them into battle.’
She hid a smile; evidently Josse did not approve of such practices. ‘But then they said the runaway is an Englishman,’ she said with a sigh, ‘so that was the end of that bright idea.’
He was frowning, clearly thinking.
‘Sir Josse?’ she prompted.
‘Oh – I was thinking of John Damianos. If what I suspect is right and the dead man is him, then perhaps he accompanied the missing Hospitaller? He – John Damianos – might have been the monk’s body servant, brought to England and abandoned.’
She considered the idea. Then, with an impatient shake of her head: ‘It’s all too vague, Sir Josse! Nothing but ifs and maybes.’
He looked quite hurt. ‘I’m sorry, my lady, but it’s the best I can do.’
She smiled. ‘No, Sir Josse; I am sorry, for my bad mood. There is much that I need to think about. I do not mean to be mysterious and I will try to explain later, but for now I really do need to be alone.’
He studied her, his head on one side. After a moment – and she had the clear impression he knew exactly how she felt – he said, ‘Off you go, then, my lady. I’m going to return with Will and Ella to New Winnowlands. Send for me when you feel like some company.’
His low and respectful bow put Thibault’s to shame. Then he gave her a cheerful grin and strolled away.
Outremer, September 1194
He did not know at first why they had selected him for the mission. Initially he felt nothing but pride that he, not even among the fully professed, had been singled out for such an honour. It was only afterwards that he realized why: for two qualities that of all the company only he possessed . . .
The mission was a hostage exchange. Such things occurred quite frequently and often the brethren acted as escorts. As avowed men of God they were honest and impartial, and their presence ensured fair play by both sides. Moreover, sometimes the prisoner had been wounded in battle, in which case the brother who had cared for him would be in the escort. Saracen prisoners were exchanged both
for Frankish knights and for gold.
This time it was going to be different.
It was rumoured that the order had come from the Grand Master himself but the young man was used to the way gossip flared within the community and he wasn’t sure he believed it. As far as he was concerned, it was his superior who gave the instructions, and Thibault was a tight-lipped man who never wasted a word.
They sent for him in the night.
He fell into step behind five other Hospitallers, the senior monk leading the way. Despite the heat of the late summer night, all six were swathed in black surcoats, hoods drawn up over their heads and hiding their faces. Beneath the surcoats each man carried a sword and a knife.
They reached the stables, where the sergeants had prepared their mounts. The bridles were bound with twine to prevent noise; the smallest sound of jingling metal carried a long way in the still desert. Then the sergeant unbolted the door and they set off down the long covered passage to the outside world.
It was a fine night and the stars were dazzling in the black sky. The air retained much of the daytime heat although he – who had been in Outremer for nine long years – knew how quickly the temperature could plummet in the hours before dawn.
They had picked up the prisoner as they emerged from the vast gates. He was broad-shouldered for a Saracen, hooded and dressed in pale robes. He sat on a beautiful Arab gelding. His manacled wrists were attached by a short chain to the pommel of his saddle and two longer chains linked him to armed guards riding either side. Otherwise the man was treated with respect.
They rode for perhaps an hour. The land was so different by night – it smelt different, the sounds were not those of the day, and night vision had a way of playing tricks so that distant things seemed suddenly near and something apparently a stone’s throw away proved to be on the far horizon. Or perhaps, the young man thought with a shiver, there was magic in the air. In this distant land full of strange ways and secrets, that would hardly surprise him . . .
The first sign of their destination was the faint glimmer of a fire in the vast desert in front of him. He narrowed his eyes to see how far away it was, but with no other point of reference it was impossible to tell. They rode on and soon he began to make out shapes. A simple tent had been put up, and beside the fire there was a picket line to which ten horses had been tethered. As the party approached the campsite, two Saracens emerged from the tent and, with courteous bows, invited the monks and their charge to dismount and enter.
He was the last to go inside and what he saw took his breath away. The desert sand had been covered with rugs and carpets in delicate geometric patterns of purple, red and gold, and low divans, covered with gold and purple silk throws, had been set around the curving fabric walls. Light came from a series of iron lanterns from which candle flames shone through jewel-coloured panes of glass: amethyst, garnet, ruby and sapphire. A copper pot was bubbling on a small brazier, emitting a strong aroma of orange and cinnamon.
For the young Hospitaller standing awestruck by such opulence, this was the sole jarring note. As a child he had once gorged himself on marigold, saffron and cinnamon cakes and been violently sick. Ever since he had been unable to stomach the taste of cinnamon.
A very large man lay on one of the divans and as the prisoner was led into the tent his face lit up in a smile of welcome. The prisoner raised his manacled wrists and threw back his hood and the young monk saw a beautiful youth, tall, lithe and strong. The olive skin of his cheeks and jaw looked too smooth to require a razor, yet there seemed to be a sharpness to the bones of the face. With a couple of years’ more maturity, this man would look very different. The near-black eyes, set slightly on a slant, stared out from beneath a thick sweep of lashes and fine, gracefully curved eyebrows.
The fat man, staring intently at the prisoner, said how happy he was to be reunited with his beloved little brother. The Hospitaller, positioned as he was behind the prisoner and to his left, was in exactly the right place to see the long look that the fat man bestowed on him. And the young knight experienced one of those sudden flashes of sure but unlooked-for knowledge which, here in Outremer, occurred quite frequently. He knew that the beautiful youth was not the fat man’s brother but his catamite.
The fat man indicated that the Hospitallers and the prisoner should sit on the remaining divans. Then they were offered glass cups of the drink that had been simmering on the fire. The young monk accepted his with a polite bow. While everyone else drank to a satisfying outcome for the night’s business, he held his breath so as not to inhale the scent of cinnamon and only pretended to sip. Then he put his glass down out of sight beside his feet.
Swiftly the fat man on the divan put the courtesies aside. His expression suddenly serious, he began to speak, so rapidly that the young Hospitaller had to use all his wits to keep up. When he had finished the senior monk replied, speaking the same tongue but in a more controlled manner. There was a further exchange of terms and then, both parties apparently satisfied, a toast to seal the agreement.
Then to the young knight’s amazement his superior turned to him and gave him a curt order.
It was only then that he realized that this was no ordinary hostage exchange.
As he prepared to do as he had been commanded, his eyes ran around the Saracens in the tent. There were four servants. Including the fat man, that made five.
Why, then, were there ten horses tethered outside?
The first chill finger of fear slid up his spine.
Four
In the course of the ride back to New Winnowlands, Josse was very relieved to find that Ella appeared to be herself again. Not that it was easy to tell, for she was a diffident woman. But Will, Josse thought, seemed far more relaxed and happy than he had done for days. The Hawkenlye magic had worked, then. Maybe he would suggest that she cook him a particularly toothsome dinner today to celebrate her recovery.
Presently his thoughts snapped guiltily away from gravy-rich, steaming pies and back to the worrying subject of the mutilated corpse. The Abbess had been deeply disturbed, even though she had striven not to show it. But then we were all disturbed, he thought. No decent human being could fail to react to such savagery. It was no wonder she had been so eager to seek out a little solitude. There was no need for me to have taken offence, Josse told himself firmly; none whatsoever. No matter how distressed she might be, she was constricted both by her position and her own proud and self-reliant nature and she was not a woman who habitually took comfort in the arms of a dear old friend.
More’s the pity, he thought morosely.
She had been angry with him because he could not be more definite as to the identity of the dead man and he understood well enough why that was: she disliked sending an unnamed, unknown man to meet his maker. But there was nothing I could do! Josse cried silently. For the life of me, I just don’t know if the dead man was the man who lived for almost a fortnight in my outbuilding!
Now he too was feeling angry. Dear Lord, he thought, but she can be an unreasonable woman!
They were nearing New Winnowlands now and he heard the rare sound of Ella laughing. Well, the mission had achieved its purpose and that was something to be glad about.
He rode into the courtyard and slipped down off Horace’s back. In the hall a fire was blazing; he went across to the hearth and held out his hands to its warmth. She’ll send for me if she needs me, he thought. If those Knights Hospitaller return and start giving her trouble, she knows she can call on me. I’ll be here, eager and waiting and more than ready to go to her aid.
And that, he reflected as he sank down into his big carved chair, was the trouble.
The next day Josse experienced a strange sense of events repeating themselves. In the late morning Will announced there was someone wishing to speak to him. Josse leapt up, quite convinced that the visitor must be John Damianos; that he had come to apologize for running off in the night, to offer belated thanks and to explain himself. Which would all be splen
did because then Josse could gallop over to Hawkenlye and tell the Abbess that the dead man certainly was not John Damianos.
These thoughts ran through Josse’s head in the time it took him to hurry out of the hall and down the steps into the yard.
Where it instantly became clear that he was wrong.
He had not one visitor but two. Both were Saracens and wore headdresses of elaborately wound cloth, immaculately white, folds of which passed beneath their chins and around their necks. They were clad in warm travelling cloaks over well-worn but fine-quality tunics whose fabric must once have been dazzlingly bright, and their scuffed boots were of expensive leather. They were mounted on small but beautiful Arab horses and attached to the saddle of each was a round shield. Both men bore a short, curved sword.
Josse approached them. ‘You wish to speak to me?’
The elder of the pair responded. His dark eyes, deep-set under strong brows, were intent on Josse and he said in accented French, ‘You are Sir Josse d’Acquin?’ Josse nodded. ‘Then yes, we do.’
Josse felt wary. Instead of immediately issuing the expected invitation to dismount and come inside, he said, ‘Who are you and what is your business here?’
The two men exchanged a glance. Then the elder said, ‘I am Kathnir and my companion is Akhbir.’ Both men touched their fingers to their lips, their brows and their hearts, bowing their heads as they did so. ‘We seek a man. We ask whether you have seen or heard of him. We have followed our quarry for many hundreds of miles and now –’ the man gave a wry smile – ‘he will be as dusty and as travel-worn as we are. He wears a long brown robe and an enveloping headdress that conceals most of his face and overshadows his eyes and he carries a leather satchel that he is always most careful never to let out of his sight.’
The description perfectly fitted John Damianos.
Josse took his time in replying. ‘This man is a Saracen like yourselves?’
Kathnir hesitated. Then: ‘Yes.’