by Alys Clare
‘A sound plan,’ the Prince said, ‘but for one thing. We have never met Sidonius either.’
‘We––?’
The Prince gave a tsk! of exasperation. ‘The Magister and I.’
‘But the Magister told me he was old! Ancient, in fact! I thought that meant he must know him!’ Josse exclaimed.
The Magister spoke. ‘No. I do not.’
‘Then how do you know he is ancient?’ Josse demanded, turning to glare at Dee.
‘There are ways,’ Dee murmured. ‘One receives . . . an impression.’
As if he did not want the Magister to proceed with that line, the Prince spoke sharply. ‘You said you have a question for us, Sir Josse. You may ask it.’
Helewise was almost sure, judging by the long pause, that Josse had forgotten what he had wanted to know. She was about to whisper a reminder when he said, ‘Aye. I would ask you, Sire, how you come to know of Galbertius Sidonius.’
Once more, there was a brief exchange between Prince John and the Magister. Then the Prince said, with credible nonchalance, ‘The story of your father and his jewel was well-known in court circles, d’Acquin. The returning crusaders brought home many tales, and the one of the modest and unassuming knight who rescued a little boy and was awarded a valuable prize was ever a favourite.’ He leaned forward, stopping whatever Josse had been about to say before he could begin. ‘You may like to know that the little boy grew up into a warrior who begat many bellicose sons and who is still a much-respected military authority in his own land. My brother and his knights have not always been entirely happy that his life was saved; a considerable number of Christian soldiers would still be alive today if your father had left Azamar where he was.’
‘He was a child,’ Josse said softly. ‘Surely it is not in God’s orders that we kill children.’
The Prince shrugged. ‘War is unpleasant, d’Acquin. Do you not recall?’
Josse made no reply, but Helewise felt the anger ripple through him. Thinking that he might be glad of a moment to get himself under control, she said, ‘May I speak, Sire?’
The Prince waved a hand heavy with rings. ‘Of course, my lady.’
‘I wondered how you came to connect the tale of Geoffroi d’Acquin and his jewel with Galbertius Sidonius. Geoffroi’s family remember that his father always referred to his friend as the Lombard, and I was curious to know how you managed to identify him with the man you seek.’
The Prince stared at her. It was not, she discovered, a pleasant experience; against her will – she was determined not to be cowed – stories of his famous temper came to mind. I am Abbess here, she told herself. He is sitting in my chair, and I am not going to stand here before him quaking like some child postulant caught out in a minor misdemeanour.
She straightened her shoulders and stared back.
From behind the Prince, she heard John Dee emit a brief, soft chuckle.
As if the small sound had broken some contest going on between the Prince and the Abbess, the Prince relaxed, smiled and said, ‘My lady, these things happen, do they not? A man’s deeds are mentioned, someone says, oh, you mean old so-and-so, and there you are, an unknown person suddenly has an identity. Is that not so?’
She wondered why she should feel so strongly that he very much wanted her to swallow this explanation, which was so flimsy as to be almost non-existent. She said meekly, ‘Yes, Sire. Indeed it is.’
She caught Dee’s eyes on her; even if the Prince thought she believed him, John Dee certainly did not.
She went on staring at Dee.
Was it her imagination, or did she sense a warmth from him, a sense that he meant her no harm? That – surely this was taking it too far! – he just might be on her side. Which, since she and Josse stood shoulder to shoulder, made it Josse’s side, too.
In the face of the power that seemed to come in waves off the person of the Prince, to have the Magister as an ally seemed something greatly to be desired.
16
Josse retired to bed that night feeling exhausted. He had told Yves every last detail of the interview with the Prince and John Dee, and they had talked it over for a long time. The problem is, he thought as he lay trying to relax sufficiently for sleep, that, for all those words that were exchanged, we are no nearer to a resolution to this puzzle. Nor – far more importantly – any closer to finding what hand, or hands, was behind those two murders.
As he lay there in the darkness of the shelter, he hoped fervently that both killings had been carried out by the same man. The thought of having two cold, professional killers around was just too awful.
It was quiet, down there in the Vale. Josse and Yves were the only occupants of the pilgrims’ shelter that night; the monks and the lay brothers had their own quarters, a short distance away. And the Prince, despite his protestations that he would be quite happy to put up in the clean but basic lodgings in the Vale shelter, had changed his mind when the rain refused to let up. The Abbess had arranged an area of the chapter house as a makeshift guest chamber, organising the laying-out of shakedown beds and the provision of a small brazier, and there Prince John, the Magister and the Prince’s two personal attendants were, presumably, now enjoying a good night’s sleep.
Unlike me, Josse reflected.
It was no use; sleep was proving frustratingly elusive. He got up – quietly, so as not to disturb Yves – and, having made sure his knife was in its sheath on his belt, left the shelter.
It was still raining, although the downpour that had flattened anyone unwise enough to be out of doors in the late evening had moved off. The rainfall was soft now, and the wind had dropped. Hunching into his travelling cloak, Josse moved out from under the eaves of the shelter and strode off along the path that led down to the lake at the bottom of the valley.
Then, under a group of chestnut trees that stood a little way back from the track, he saw a light.
He stopped dead, staring at it. For it was in a place where surely no light should be . . .
Was it a lost group of travellers, making for Hawkenlye but overcome by the early falling darkness of an overcast, rainy night? Aye, perhaps so; and, poor souls, they were seeking comfort from the deep shadows with a lantern.
But the light did not look like that of a candle in a lantern; it had no soft, golden, flickering glow, but burned with a steady intensity and a faint bluish tinge.
Josse put his hand over the hilt of his knife. Fool that I am, he thought, why did I not bring my sword?
He had, as always when he visited, handed it over to Saul for safe keeping, out of respect for the holy ground of the Abbey and the Vale. It would have taken but a moment to slip into the monks’ quarters and retrieve it; Saul, knowing that Josse would not take his weapon unless he had dire need, had made no secret of where he had put it.
Josse was angry with himself. There was a trained killer around; he knew that full well. And there he was, armed only with his knife.
He drew it from its sheath. It was sharp, sturdy, and he was well used to wielding it. Ah, well, it would have to serve; curiosity had overcome him, and he was moving stealthily up towards the strange light even as he tightened his grip on his knife.
He crouched low as he approached the trees. He could see the light more clearly now; it came from a small ball of some substance that burned inside a small iron cup. The cup was set on top of a spike, stuck firmly into the ground.
Entranced, Josse crept closer. And closer. Until he was under the canopy of the chestnut tree, deep in the black shadow cast by the brilliant light.
He stopped, staring down at the unnatural steadiness of the flame; it seemed to be one flame, which burned with a fervour that almost hurt the eyes.
What, in God’s holy name, could it be?
As if he had asked the question out loud, a voice from the shadows answered softly, ‘It is known as Greek fire, my friend. Do not be alarmed, for it will not hurt you unless you touch it.’
Josse had spun round at the first w
ords, as swiftly as if a spark of the fire had indeed leapt out and burned him; now, holding his knife before him, he said, ‘Who are you? Come out and show yourself !’
And out of the darkness came John Dee.
His milky hair was partly concealed by a hood, but his beard seemed to glow silver in the light, merging into the luminous pallor of his face. The dark eyes, intense, deep, were fixed on Josse with a power that seemed to hold him still.
With an effort, as if breaking out of an enchantment, he said, ‘What are you doing out here in the rain, Magister?’
Dee, with a faint air of surprise, held out his long hands, palms uppermost. Josse caught a glint of brilliant pale blue as the light of the fire caught the large aquamarine. ‘But it is not raining,’ he observed.
‘Yes it is, I––’ But as Josse, too, put out a hand, he realised that it was staying quite dry.
But he could still hear the rain, hissing down out of the black sky, drumming down on the ground!
Dee laughed. ‘There is no magic involved in that, Sir Josse,’ he said. ‘We stand under the generous branches of a chestnut tree and, for all that it is autumn, she still has sufficient leaves to shelter us.’
Feeling foolish, Josse bent his head and carefully put his knife away in its sheath. Then, raising his eyes and glaring at Dee, he said, ‘You did not answer my question. What are you doing out here?’
‘I am waiting for you,’ Dee replied calmly.
‘But how did you know that I would come out and find you?’
‘You did, didn’t you?’
‘Er – aye, I did.’
‘Well, then.’ Before Josse could make a comment – before, indeed, he had thought of one to make – Dee said, ‘I wanted to see you, Josse. May I address you so? Thank you. Yes, I wanted – needed – to speak to you privately, with no fear of being overheard.’ As he spoke, he turned and did something to the fire that quietened its brilliance to a gentle glow which, Josse reckoned, would scarcely be visible from the track. ‘There. The fire has done its job and brought you here. I have softened it so that it will not bring anyone else.’
Josse went to stand beside him. ‘Greek fire, you said?’ He was intrigued.
‘Yes. It is an invention of the Byzantines. They use it as a weapon, and it is a fearsome, terrifying one for, although when inert it has the appearance of a harmless lump of mud, it leaps into life when water touches it. Imagine, Josse, what that flame could do when stuck like a second skin to a man’s body.’
Josse preferred not to imagine that. ‘Fearsome,’ he muttered. ‘Aye, that it is.’
‘I have never used it to harm a living being,’ Dee said. ‘But I find that, as a light on a moonless night, it is incomparable. I have added a few ingredients of my own to the Byzantines’ formula,’ he went on, eagerness creeping into his voice, ‘and this modified fire suits me well.’ He waved a hand over the iron cup, and the flame quietened further. ‘Now. To business.’
He turned to face Josse, tucking his hands away in his wide sleeves; fleetingly, Josse was reminded of the Abbess. ‘What did you wish to say to me that must not be overheard?’ he asked.
The Magister studied him for a few moments. Then he said, ‘I admired your restraint when you asked your question of Prince John earlier. You merely wondered how he came to know of Sidonius. It displayed wise forbearance, if I may say so, not to have demanded what was really in your mind.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Why, how he knew about the Eye of Jerusalem, of course. You surely realise that it is the jewel he is after?’
With a long sigh, Josse said, ‘Aye. It does not take any great intelligence to work that out, when it is commonly said that the Prince is trying to raise cash and support against the likelihood that he becomes king.’ He scowled at Dee. ‘And I reckon I already know how he found out about the Eye.’ He hesitated for an instant – was it wise to hurl accusations at a sorcerer, out in a lonely valley with nobody about and a magical fire glowing steadily? But his anger burned more hotly than the fire; he leaned closer to Dee and said, ‘You told him about it. You use the scrying glass that your forefathers passed down to you – aye, I know about it, my own father used to tell us tales of the first two King Williams and their court magician – and you saw Galbertius Sidonius carrying the Eye into England, looking for me.’ He paused for breath, then went on, ‘That was why the Prince came seeking me out at New Winnowlands. When I said I had never heard of Sidonius, you knew I spoke the truth, and so you turned the search elsewhere. And, eventually, you came here.’
He heard the echo of his final words on the still air. The intensity of the Magister’s stare was disconcerting; for the first time, Josse felt the stirrings of fear.
But, as if he were aware of it, Dee put out a hand and lightly touched Josse’s arm. ‘I mean you no harm, Josse,’ he said. ‘You are an honest man, and I have no quarrel with one such as you. Indeed, I – But no.’ Briefly he shook his head, as if casting aside whatever he had been about to say. ‘In essence, you guess rightly,’ he said instead. ‘Although we had heard tell of a magical stone of power brought home from Outremer, there are many such tales and few are worth credence. However, the story of Geoffroi d’Acquin and the Eye of Jerusalem did seem particularly persistent, and the Prince suggested that inquiries should be made. Even the best of his spies, I’m afraid, came quickly to a dead end.’ He paused. Then added, compassion in his voice, ‘Literally to a dead end, I fear, in one instance. We are almost certain that the dead body that you told me about, the one discovered here in the Vale, was that of one of the Prince’s agents.’
‘The rotting corpse with the knife stuck in his ribs?’ As soon as he had said the words, Josse regretted their bluntness. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I speak of a rotting corpse, whereas you, Magister, perhaps knew the living man, and regret his death.’
‘I knew him, yes, a little,’ Dee said. ‘And I do indeed regret his death, both for its brutality and for the fact that it was a sheer waste.’
‘A waste?’
‘The young man did not stand a chance,’ Dee murmured. Then, once again, he stared into Josse’s eyes. Instantly Josse had the sense that what they had just been speaking of was now obscured by a cloud of smoke; although he tried, he could not remember what it was.
Dee said firmly, ‘But we were discussing your father. I was explaining how it was known that Geoffroi set out from Outremer to head for home, but nobody seemed to be able to say whether or not he made it. Except that there was you.’ The dark eyes held Josse’s.
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Your name was known – are you not a King’s man? Did not Richard give you a task to do, and award you the manor of New Winnowlands in gratitude?’
‘Aye, that he did.’
‘So. Josse d’Acquin, who came from northern France. You see how the assumption was made, that you could very well be of Geoffroi’s line?’
‘Aye. Which led to the conclusion that he must have got home, married, and had a son.’
‘Exactly!’ The Magister looked pleased. ‘So, assuming that Geoffroi returned to Acquin, we further guessed that he brought the Eye with him. And then, when you came to see me that day, you told me that your father was dead.’
‘You already knew.’
‘Did I?’ There was a definite twinkle in Dee’s eyes. ‘Perhaps I did. As I was saying, knowing that your father was dead, it was natural to reason that the man you call Sidonius would bring the Eye to you, his heir, and so––’
‘You did know that Father was dead!’ Josse interrupted. ‘You came to New Winnowlands to ask me about Sidonius several days before I told you! You would only have done so had you known full well that I now hold the Acquin title!’
‘Very well, then.’ Dee sounded amused. ‘Yes, I knew of your father’s summertime death, and I regret to say that I guided the Prince’s steps to you.’ Sounding serious now, he went on, ‘I serve the Crown, as John Dee has always done and will always do, as long
as his services are required. King Richard, however, has no time for my talents; his brother is a different matter. My master’s need, Josse, is for wealth; as his loyal servant, is it not my duty to assist him in its acquisition?’
‘Perhaps.’ Josse was not going to be seduced into an unreserved agreement. ‘But what if Prince John acquiring wealth means stealing things from other people?’
Dee made no answer for a moment. Then, eyeing Josse steadily, he said, ‘There you have it. My dilemma, as bluntly expressed as any man could wish.’
Josse, wanting to be entirely sure that he had understood, said slowly, ‘Let me be clear about this, Magister. You knew of the Eye, you told the Prince it was valuable, you tracked it to the house of Acquin, you brought the Prince to me. You aim to help steal it from me, but the problem is that I do not have it.’
‘I know that, Josse. I can see full well that the Eye has not come to you. But that is not the problem, for I assure you that the stone is on its way. My problem is that I no longer believe the Prince should relieve you of it.’
Stunned, Josse could only manage, ‘Why not?’
‘Because you are an honest man,’ Dee replied simply, ‘like your father before you. And as powerful a tool as the Eye of Jerusalem is will ever be safer in the hands of those whose moral fibre is straight, strong and incorruptible.’
‘I don’t know about all that,’ Josse began. But then, realising what Dee’s comment implied about his master the Prince, he stopped. Confused, vaguely uneasy, he did not know what to say.
‘I see much that the Prince is not aware that I see,’ Dee said, his voice taking on a hypnotic tone. ‘I see that he is clever – oh, yes, highly intelligent – and that he has some fine qualities. But I also see what seethes below the surface; he has all the energy and thrust of his redoubtable parents but, perhaps typically of a last-born, he has a strong sense of survival. He is able, I believe, to put aside what he knows to be right and best for the majority in favour of what is right and best for himself. He is not’ – now the voice spoke out clearly – ‘the right guardian of the Eye. And you are.’