The Paths of the Air

by Alys Clare

  ‘I don’t think you’d learn any more from him than you will from me,’ Josse said bluntly. ‘But it’s your decision and your man’s time you’ll be wasting.’

  ‘Very well,’ Gervase said meekly. Then: ‘I’m sorry you have to come back here. Clearly it’s upsetting you.’

  Josse shrugged but did not speak. Then both men quietly crouched down and, eyes fixed to the hard ground, began to search along the track and through the fringing undergrowth.

  The cramp in Josse’s damp knees suggested they had been at their task for long enough. Josse had not found a thing; from Gervase’s continuing silence, he guessed the sheriff had had no more success. Slowly Josse made his way back to the spot where the body had lain and, staring at the short, frosty grass at the edge of the track, he made out the large area where it had been flattened, first by the corpse and then by the booted feet of those who had come to bear it down to the Abbey. There were still a few smears of blood.

  Smears of blood . . .

  Josse straightened up. ‘Gervase, he wasn’t killed here!’

  Gervase hurried over. ‘There’s not enough blood,’ Josse said. ‘With those wounds – and assuming he was still alive when they cut his throat – he would have bled copiously. So where is it? Where’s the blood?’

  Gervase was now staring down as intently as Josse had done. ‘There’s some there.’ He pointed. ‘And there.’

  ‘Aye, but those patches are nothing but seepage from the dead body,’ Josse said. ‘When you cut into a man’s wrist – and the dead man’s hand was all but severed – the blood spurts out like a fountain.’

  Gervase was looking at him respectfully. ‘There, Josse, I must bow before your greater experience, for I have never seen a man’s hand cut off. Nor a throat being slit,’ he added, ‘and I pray I never shall.’ Then, as if deliberately steering his thoughts away from such horrors, he said, ‘So, if he wasn’t killed here, where? Is it worth our while looking around?’

  Josse was thinking. ‘If you are going to torture a man, you want to do so in an out-of-the-way spot.’

  ‘In the forest?’ Gervase suggested.

  ‘Aye, perhaps, although—’ Although the forest would not like it and would soon rid itself of your presence, he was going to say. Deciding it would sound impossibly whimsical to someone like Gervase, who had had very little experience of the Great Forest and all that went on within it, he said instead, ‘Although if the slaying was done deep within the trees, why did they not leave him there? No – I think they probably jumped him on the track, took him a short distance into the undergrowth and afterwards dragged his body back to this spot.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’ Gervase persisted. ‘If he was hidden in the bracken, why not leave him there?’

  It was a good question. Josse was considering it when, as if out of nowhere, the answer was in his head: We did not want the residue of such brutality within the forest. It was we who brought him out to the track.

  And then he knew.

  Would he be able to make Gervase believe him?

  He could but try.

  ‘The forest people put him here,’ he said simply. ‘They knew he would be found sooner or later, for the track is quite well used. They also knew he would end up at Hawkenlye Abbey.’

  Gervase was looking at him wonderingly. ‘You know that?’ Josse shrugged. Gervase took it as an affirmation. ‘Because of Joanna?’

  But Josse did not want to talk about Joanna. He shrugged again and then said, ‘I suggest we go along the track for a mile or so in each direction, looking for any spot where flattened grass or disturbed undergrowth points to a body having been dragged out of the forest. You go back towards the Abbey; I’ll go on that way.’

  Gervase, Josse noticed, had the puzzled frown of a man who wants to ask further questions but does not want to risk offence. With a private smile, he set off along the track and presently heard the sound of Gervase’s footfalls as he strode off the other way.

  It was Josse who found the place. Had he not been actively searching for it, he would probably have missed it, for the signs were faint: a heel print on the edge of a muddy puddle right off to the side of the track; a slim hazel branch that had been partially broken; and, when he hastened off the track and in under the trees, the shadow of a line through the dying bracken that might have been made by a boar or a deer but that, under the circumstances, Josse was absolutely sure was the work of human beings.

  He had gone perhaps a hundred paces. Hoping Gervase was still in earshot, he loped back to the track and yelled, ‘Gervase! Gervase! Here, to me!’

  Presently he saw the sheriff coming running towards him. When he drew level, Josse said, ‘In there,’ and led the way back along the path through the bracken.

  They came to a patch of open ground where short turf grew in a space between birch and hazel. There were the ashes of a small fire on which some lengths of rope had been burned; their charred ends were still visible at the edges of the burned circle. Stuck in the ground beside the fire was a bow made of layers of horn and sinew. It was strangely shaped and instead of taking the form of a single shallow arc, it curved back on itself.

  It was broken.

  The ground in front of the fire was drenched in blood. It had congealed and in places had dried to a crust. This was the place of torment and death they had been searching for.

  Gervase had paled and Josse felt sure his own face must be just as white. He stared down at the blood. Had the ropes been used to tether the man? It seemed likely. Had whoever killed him tried to burn them to destroy the evidence of their brutality? But why do that, when the dead body spoke so eloquently?

  There was something about the clearing. Something to do with the fire, and that broken bow stuck in the earth . . .

  Gervase had stepped back from the blood and was standing beside the bow, staring hard at it as if trying to distract his mind from the horror behind him. ‘Josse, what is this?’ he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. ‘I don’t know—’

  The first arrow flew so close to Josse’s cheek that he felt the breeze. With a heavy clunk it struck an ash tree behind him, burying its head in the trunk; he reached up and wrested it free and quickly looked at it. The second arrow was for Gervase, who gave a cry of fear as it brushed his sleeve and flew on to lose itself in the underbrush. There came the faint creak of a large bow being drawn as the unseen archer prepared for another shot.

  ‘Come on!’ Josse grabbed Gervase’s arm and raced back through the bracken to the track, so conscious of the presence of that unseen archer that instinctively he weaved to and fro as he ran, pulling Gervase with him. For some terrible moments it seemed that, as hard as they were running, the track came no nearer, but then the spell broke and they burst out from beneath the trees. Without even a pause, Josse turned to the right and pelted on down the path towards Hawkenlye. Only when the Abbey buildings were in sight did he slacken the pace and, eventually, draw to a standstill.

  His lungs were burning, his chest heaving with exertion and the aftermath of danger. Gervase, bending over with his hands on his knees, was gasping for breath. When he could speak, he raised his scarlet, sweating face and said, ‘He tried to kill us! Why, Josse? Why?’

  Josse felt his racing heartbeat gradually returning to its normal rhythm. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Possibly we were about to stumble upon something that would have given away the killer’s identity. Perhaps he watches over that place purely for that reason: to scare off anyone who gets too close. Or . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  Perhaps he watches over that place.

  He saw again the fire with the partially burned ropes. The broken bow, sticking up out of the earth like a marker.

  He turned calmly to Gervase, for now he knew. ‘It’s a shrine,’ he said. ‘The dead man’s body may have been removed to a place out of the reach of his companions, but they have honoured him as best they can. They purified the tools of his torture – the ropes – by burning them, then they p
ut his broken weapon in the earth as a memorial to his courage.’

  ‘They, Josse?’ Gervase looked doubtful. ‘You refer to them, but how can you sound so certain? How can you know he had more than one companion? How do you know he had a companion at all?’

  ‘Because the arrows came from different directions.’

  ‘They almost killed us!’ Gervase’s face was suffused with anger. ‘That arrow came so close that I—’

  ‘No, Gervase. If they had wanted to kill us we would now be lying in that bloodstained clearing, as dead as the corpse at Hawkenlye. No – they merely wanted us to go away, for we were contaminating the sacred spot where they lost their companion.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It is what fighting men do, Gervase,’ Josse said patiently. ‘In an earlier age, a man’s broken weapon would have been buried with him as a mark of respect. These men are skilled fighters and, although I cannot speak for the others, the dead man at least was a Turk; one of the elite troops who use the recurved bow to such devastating effect.’

  ‘That thing stuck in the earth of the clearing?’

  ‘Aye. To use it well takes long training and the development of specific muscles. It’s a cavalry weapon and both its penetration and range exceed the longbow.’

  ‘You mean they fire these things from horseback?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then they are skilled fighters indeed,’ Gervase whispered. Meeting Josse’s eyes, he said, ‘I would not be in the boots of whoever killed that Turk. If his companions ever find him, his fate does not bear thinking about.’

  Josse straightened up. ‘Then, my friend, we had better make sure we find him before they do.’

  Seven

  Helewise was awake early the next morning. Very quietly she dressed and left her bed in the long dormitory, treading softly so as not to disturb her sleeping sisters. In the silent church she knelt before the altar and prayed for help in unravelling the many strands of the trouble that had fallen into the community’s lap.

  A man tortured and killed; a fire started deliberately in an attempt to disguise the murder of a Knight Hospitaller. Josse and Gervase had stayed in her room for a long time the previous evening and she was aghast to learn of the manner of Brother Jeremiah’s death. When they told her about their discovery in the forest and of the warning shots that had sent them running for safety, she was horrified at the peril in which they had placed themselves.

  The three of them talked for hours but they came nowhere near any sort of conclusion. The dead Turk had known something, or perhaps possessed something, that his killers had tried to extract from him. A man named John Damianos was on the run and had taken shelter with Josse. Three Knights Hospitaller had come all the way from Outremer after a runaway English monk. One of the trio was now dead and the others badly hurt; I knew that Thibault of Margat would return here to Hawkenlye, she thought now, but I did not anticipate the dreadful circumstances under which it would happen. Two Saracen warriors, searching for a man who answered the description of John Damianos, had followed him all the way to New Winnowlands; they had known without having seen the body that the dead man at Hawkenlye was not the one they sought. Their quarry had been involved in some fatal incident in Outremer. Josse proposed that the runaway monk and the Saracen sought by the warriors Kathnir and Akhbir – whether or not this man was John Damianos, although they all felt it most likely that he was – must surely be connected. Perhaps they had travelled together on the long road from Outremer? Perhaps they had in some way both been involved in that mysterious incident?

  Helewise frowned in concentration, all but oblivious to the ache in her knees on the cold, hard stone. If Josse is right, then perhaps one or other of the surviving Hospitallers – Thibault probably, for he is the senior – will know something of whatever it was that happened. Oh, but I do hope that Thibault—

  She arrested the thought. She had been about to pray for Thibault of Margat not for the poor man’s own sake but because of her own desperate need to find answers. Humbly she bowed her head over her clasped hands and asked to be forgiven. Only then did she compose the suitable words that prayed for Thibault and Brother Otto’s swift recovery and release from their pain.

  She made herself wait until after tierce before going to the infirmary. She knew that Sister Euphemia would have sent for her had either of the Hospitallers been ready to speak, but nevertheless she burned with impatience to go and see for herself. She offered up the suppression of her intense desire as penance for her earlier fault.

  The morning sun was shining on the frosty ground as she walked to the infirmary. Sister Euphemia came to greet her. ‘The older monk is stirring,’ she said. ‘He has slept well and his colour is a little better. I am going to try to get him to drink, perhaps even to accept a mouthful of broth if his throat can take it. Then I think that if he is agreeable you may speak to him. Should I, my lady, send word down to the Vale to summon Sir Josse and the sheriff?’

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ Helewise said. ‘They should be here if poor Thibault can manage a few words.’

  Sister Euphemia nodded and, catching the eye of one of her young nursing novices, whispered to the girl and sent her off. Then the infirmarer disappeared inside the recess where the two monks lay, Sister Caliste following her and bearing a laden tray.

  Helewise stood quite still and waited.

  A few moments after Josse and Gervase had arrived in the infirmary, Sister Caliste put her head around the curtain and beckoned all three of them over.

  ‘Can they talk?’ Josse hissed urgently.

  ‘One can,’ Sister Caliste replied. ‘The senior monk has been asking repeatedly to speak to you. Sister Euphemia is occupied with her duties and she has left the care of both monks in my charge. My lady, Sir Josse, my lord sheriff, please come in.’ Bowing, she held the curtain back.

  Helewise stared at the two monks. The younger one still lay motionless beneath the crisp sheet, its slow and steady rise and fall the only sign that he was still alive. Thibault, however, was propped up on pillows and his eyes glittered with pain and anxiety in his burned face.

  It was Josse who spoke first. ‘We are here to help,’ he said. ‘Abbess Helewise, Gervase de Gifford and I will do whatever we can.’

  Helewise, watching closely, saw the monk’s eyes go first to Josse, then to Gervase and finally to her. The antipathy – even the disapproval – that she had sensed at their earlier meeting seemed to have vanished. Now he looked like a man who was suffering deeply and who despaired because he could not continue his appointed task.

  To her faint surprise, he first addressed her. ‘My lady, you see me here punished for my arrogance in my treatment of you and your community,’ he said. ‘I thought to hunt for that which I seek within the walls of this Abbey; yet I skulked like a thief instead of coming openly to you and asking for your help. Well, I have been set low for my sins, and I beg you to forgive me and to listen to what I must tell you.’

  ‘Of course I forgive you,’ she said, ‘although I do not fully understand what there is to forgive.’ Nor, she thought, how anything could be so bad that the loving God I worship would punish a man so dreadfully. Thibault might have been under the influence of one of Sister Euphemia’s analgesic concoctions but it was plain to see that even so he was in severe pain. With burns like those, Helewise thought, her eyes moving involuntarily over the extensive red and blistered patches on the monk’s face, chest and upper arms, how could he not be?

  ‘You are charitable, my lady, and I am unworthy,’ murmured Thibault. ‘I must ask your indulgence, for still I am not able to – well, never mind.’ He frowned, as if he were having difficulty arranging his thoughts.

  ‘Tell us about the fire,’ Gervase said gently. ‘Can you remember anything?’

  Thibault turned his pain-darkened eyes to the sheriff. ‘Oh, yes,’ he whispered.

  There was a pause. Sister Caliste helped the monk to take a few sips from a cup she held to his lips. He thanked her a
nd after a few moments the taut lines in his face relaxed a little.

  Then he began to speak.

  ‘My tale does not start with the fire,’ he said. ‘It begins a long time before that and in another land.’ He coughed and Sister Caliste gave him another sip of the drink. ‘Originally I was based at our Order’s great fortress of Crac des Chevaliers, in Syria. I had served there for many years, a member of the garrison which held out against the great advance of the enemy following the defeat of the Frankish armies at the Battle of Hattin, in the summer of’86.’ His eyes met Josse’s. ‘Hattin broke the spirit of many who had seen themselves as invincible,’ he went on. ‘Groups of knights and their attendants who had come out to Outremer with such confidence and high hopes watched their dreams trickle away into the sand with the blood of the dead and the wounded. The Western forces gravely underestimated Saladin. It became evident very quickly that we just did not have sufficient manpower.’ He sighed. ‘After the defeat, most men with interests in Outremer scurried away to protect their own borders, and I suppose one cannot blame them. But the result was that our side was pushed back to the coast. Even northern states such as Antioch and Tripoli, which were well away from Saladin’s main thrust, lost lands on their eastern borders.’

  ‘Saladin took the Holy City,’ Josse said glumly. ‘And that led to the launch of King Richard’s crusade to recover it.’

  Thibault grimaced, an expression which, Helewise thought, stemmed more from remembering that disastrous episode than from any sudden stab of pain. ‘Indeed it did,’ he agreed. ‘For those of us still battling with the Saracens, it was a grim time. Although help came from an unexpected source.’

  ‘Which was?’ Gervase prompted.

  Thibault turned his eyes to the sheriff. ‘I said just now that most of the nobles fled to defend their own estates. However, many of those who fought under them felt a more pressing obligation to the greater cause. Having no property or possessions of their own out in Outremer meant, I suppose, that they did not have to judge between the conflicting needs of God and their own interests.’ There was, Helewise thought, a very faint suggestion of condemnation in the words. ‘Anyway, be that as it may, after Hattin both we and the Knights Templar found that many young knights and soldiers came to us wanting to continue the fight. Some were freshly arrived out in the Holy Land and eager to make a name for themselves. I cannot speak for the Templars but, as for us, we were delighted to receive them.’