The Paths of the Air Page 10

  ‘You mean they joined your Order?’ Josse asked.

  ‘No, not permanently, although they lived and fought alongside us and were subject to the same routine and regulations.’ He gave a small smile. ‘Even the Saracens respect the warrior monks, for the majority of our soldiers are not only vastly experienced and knowledgeable in how to pursue the fight against the enemy but also, because we are avowed monks and must obey, we are considerably better disciplined than most of the crusading troops.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘I am sorry; I am proud and boastful and that is not seemly.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Josse said, ‘but a little pride is deserved, Thibault, for your Order’s reputation is a fine one.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So, you were based at Crac des Chevaliers and your numbers were swelled by more soldiers after the defeat at Hattin,’ Gervase said. Helewise detected impatience in his tone.

  ‘Yes,’ Thibault agreed. ‘Then two years on our King Richard and Philip of France arrived and they regained Acre and consolidated the other possessions held by the Franks along the coast. It was success, I suppose, of a sort; although the great prize remained in Muslim hands. Both we and the Knights Templar counselled against an attack upon the Holy City, but kings are kings and they do not necessarily welcome good advice. Eventually King Richard and Saladin agreed to a truce and for the most part the fighting came to an end.’

  ‘Except for the persistent border skirmishes,’ Josse said softly.

  Thibault turned to look at him. ‘You are well versed in the history of the Holy Land, Sir Josse. The term border skirmishes describes exactly what they were, for the Peace of Ramla did not stop the Saracens from pursuing the enemy who were trying to settle on what they perceived as their land.

  ‘In the course of such fighting – in which my Order was sometimes called upon to take part – prisoners were taken by both sides. In the case of wealthy and influential knights and warriors, men whose families would do almost anything to have them back, there was always the possibility of an exchange. Usually the practice was for one or other party to come to us and express their interest in such an arrangement, offering in exchange either a prisoner of their own or a cash payment.’

  Rather, Helewise thought ironically, in the manner in which our own king was captured and then purchased back by his own poor, suffering people.

  ‘Such things are common in the aftermath of battle,’ Josse observed. ‘Go on, Thibault.’

  He shifted on his cot and the sheet covering him from the chest down slipped a little. Helewise saw that the burns extended over his ribs and stomach. Dear God, she thought, is any of him not affected? Sister Caliste squeezed out a clean piece of linen in a bowl of water – it must, Helewise realized, include lavender oil, for the clean, sharp smell pervaded the recess – and, with a hand as gentle as an angel’s, laid it on Thibault’s scarlet flesh. He gave her a smile of gratitude.

  She returned it. Then, turning to the Abbess, she said, ‘My lady, he should not go on much longer.’ She shot a concerned glance at her patient. ‘He needs to rest.’

  ‘I know, Sister,’ Helewise said gently. ‘Thibault? Would you like to finish later?’

  But Thibault seemed agitated at the suggestion. ‘No, my lady, I must tell you what I saw while it is fresh in my mind.’

  ‘Can you not move straight on to the events of yesterday?’ Gervase asked. ‘Surely that is what we need to hear about, and—’

  The Hospitaller shook his head. ‘I will tell my tale in my own way,’ he said firmly. ‘It is not from the pleasure of hearing my own voice that I am giving you this information.’

  It sounded like an admonition, Helewise thought, and for a moment she saw past the gravely wounded man to the authoritative warrior monk that stood beyond. He must, she reflected, have been an awesome man . . .

  ‘After the Peace of Ramla I was commanded to go to Margat, where I was to take up a senior position, and I began my new duties,’ Thibault said. His voice sounded stronger, as if, with the end of his tale at last in sight, he was drawing on his reserve strength. ‘In September two years ago I was summoned to my superior’s quarters and commanded to arrange a prisoner exchange. The man in question was a young Saracen who had taken a deep sword cut in an incident to the east of Crac des Chevaliers. Because his wound was infected he was given into the care of the Hospitallers and, after spending some months at Crac des Chevaliers, he was moved to Margat and he thus became my responsibility.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ Gervase burst out, ‘how one moment you can be fighting a man and presumably trying desperately to kill him, then the next be doing your best to keep him alive!’ Helewise saw Josse give a quick grin, as if the plain logic of the remark amused him. She waited to see what Thibault would say in reply.

  The Hospitaller had turned offended eyes towards the sheriff. ‘You are not,’ he said, ‘a fighting man.’

  ‘I have taken part in no battle, I admit it.’

  Thibault nodded. ‘Then you cannot possibly understand. You, by contrast –’ he turned to Josse – ‘know full well how it is, do you not?’

  Josse, after an embarrassed glance at Gervase, said, briefly, ‘Aye.’

  It appeared that Thibault was not even going to attempt an explanation. ‘We used our skill to nurse our young patient and, in time, he began to recover,’ he went on. ‘It was not a quick healing and Brother Michael, who nursed the young man, felt almost that the patient did not want to get better. We have observed,’ he added, ‘that a man who desperately wants to resume his life will recover much more speedily than, say, a man who knows that some feared event awaits him. But, be that as it may, eventually the young man was well enough to leave us and almost immediately the question of exchanging him occurred.’

  ‘He was to be swapped for some Frankish knight?’ Gervase asked.

  ‘No. It was not as simple as that. The young man, it appeared, came from a very rich and powerful Saracen clan, a close and loving family who, because of their profound regard for him, badly wanted him home again. It was the young man’s elder brother who made the approach. He sent his representatives to my superior and negotiations were opened. I was commanded to select six of my brethren to act as escorts, and the prisoner would be closely watched by two of our guards.’ He paused, eyes unfocused. ‘The prisoner was manacled and chained and the party set out into the desert by night, heading for the place where the exchange was to be made. Then—’ Again, he stopped. ‘I was not there,’ he said, ‘and I cannot tell you exactly what happened. All I know is that something happened – there was perhaps treachery on behalf of the prisoner’s family and their men; possibly they tried to take both the prisoner and whatever they were offering in payment for him. I do not know and that is my best guess. A fight broke out, in the course of which the monks of the escort group and the two guards were attacked and cut down.’

  He looked round at his audience, briefly studying each face. ‘All but one of them perished out there in the desert. We sent out a search party at first light, when they had not returned, and I was ordered to lead it. We reached the place where our brethren were to have met the prisoner’s party and we found carnage. We guessed that many of the enemy had perished – our monks do not go down without a fight – but there must have remained sufficient of their number to bear the dead and the wounded away. They had left our brethren where they lay in their own blood. I who was first off my horse to kneel beside my brothers saw straight away that there was no hope. Six were already dead; one was dying. I crouched beside him – it was dear Brother James; such a devout, caring monk and no mean fighter – and he tried to tell me what had happened. He was choking on his own blood and I could hardly make out the words, but he managed to say that Brother—’ Abruptly he stopped, a shocked expression on his face as if horrified that he had nearly said something he shouldn’t. ‘He told me that one of the brothers had run away.’ His voice was hushed. ‘I could not understand, for it sounded as if Brother James was co
mmending the brother’s cowardly, shameful act! We do not run away whatever the danger, whatever the threat to our own lives. We stay and fight beside our brothers, and if they succumb, we battle on to our last breath at their side.’

  ‘And so you set out to follow the runaway?’ Helewise asked softly.

  Thibault turned to her, looking slightly surprised, as if he had forgotten she was there. ‘I returned to Margat first, my lady, and made my report,’ he replied. ‘Then, when we had tried to patch together a likely sequence of events, we realized that the monk who ran from the scene might by his desertion be responsible for the deaths of his brethren. My master declared that he must be apprehended and brought back to give an account of himself and face whatever punishment was deemed appropriate. I volunteered to lead the pursuit; Brother Otto and Brother Philip were selected to go with me.’ He gave the ghost of a smile. ‘We did not anticipate, when we set out all that time ago, just how long and how far the pursuit of our missing brother was going to take us.’

  ‘Brother Philip?’ Josse asked, frowning. ‘I thought the third monk’s name was Jeremiah?’

  Thibault’s eyes were unfocused again. He was clearly tiring rapidly now and he appeared to be staring back into the past. ‘Brother Philip died,’ he muttered. ‘He took sick of a fever soon after we left Constantinople and Otto and I were unable to save him.’

  ‘Then – was Brother Jeremiah not originally of your company?’

  Thibault’s eyelids were drooping. ‘We met Brother Jeremiah on the road up from the coast.’

  ‘The coast? Which coast?’ Gervase rapped out.

  The shadow of a smile played on Thibault’s lips. ‘Yours,’ he replied. ‘Brother Otto and I recognized by his habit that he was a brother Hospitaller and Otto asked where he was bound. Jeremiah said he was heading for Clerkenwell, and that being our eventual destination too, we decided to join up and travel together. It’s safer –’ he gave a huge yawn – ‘to travel in company.’ Slowly his eyes closed.

  ‘Then—’ Gervase began.

  But Sister Caliste stood up. Considering how slight she was, Helewise thought, watching the young nun, there was a considerable presence about her. She knew very well what Sister Caliste was going to say and, with a secret smile, she watched to see how she would set about it.

  ‘My lord,’ she began quietly, ‘enough. My patient is very tired and he must sleep.’

  ‘Sister Caliste, I am investigating not only the death of the man found on the forest track but also that of his own companion, this Brother Jeremiah!’ Gervase protested in an angry hiss. ‘I must hear what he has to say of the fire in the priory.’

  Sister Caliste stood her ground. ‘I understand that, my lord,’ she said. ‘Nevertheless, you cannot hear it now.’ She lowered her voice. ‘We have not yet told him of Brother Jeremiah’s death, although of course he may already know, and it would be better if you wait until he is stronger before you discuss such a tragic matter with him.’ She added, with quiet dignity, ‘I have been put in charge of this man –’ she looked down and bestowed upon her patient a kind and loving glance – ‘and I will not allow you to endanger his recovery by keeping him awake when his body is pressing him to sleep.’

  ‘You—’ Gervase looked furious.

  Sister Caliste stepped forward towards him and, well-mannered man that he was, even when angry, he moved back. Sister Caliste pressed on and Gervase was soon outside the recess. Helewise slipped out beside him and Josse did the same. Sister Caliste drew the curtains closed and held them together behind her back. Smiling sweetly up at Gervase, she said, ‘I will watch over him as he sleeps. If he says anything, I will tell you. When he is awake and can speak to you, I will send word.’

  With that she gave a low reverence to Helewise, slightly more perfunctory bows to Josse and the sheriff, and vanished back inside the recess.

  The Abbess led the way back to her little room. Once the three of them were inside and the door closed, Josse burst out, ‘It is the same event that the two Saracen warriors described!’

  ‘Saracen warriors?’ Gervase queried.

  Josse turned to him. ‘Aye. I had a visit from them –’ he paused, calculating when it had been; so much had happened that it came as quite a surprise to realize that it had only been two days ago – ‘the day before yesterday. They gave their names as Kathnir and Akhbir and they said they were hunting for one of their own.’

  ‘Another Saracen? Then surely the man they seek must be the dead man who was brought here!’

  Josse sighed. ‘No, Gervase. He isn’t. That was what I suggested and they were sure he was not their man.’ He looked across at the Abbess. ‘I am sorry, my lady, to repeat what you already know but it is important to explain matters fully to Gervase.’

  ‘Hmm?’ She seemed to be deep in thought and it seemed to Josse that she had barely heard him. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said vaguely.

  Swiftly Josse related to Gervase the tale that the two Saracens had told him. ‘And during this exchange out in the desert,’ he concluded, ‘something happened and their master’s young brother – who must be the Hospitallers’ prisoner – disappeared and was probably killed. Their master managed to escape, but the man they’re hunting stole some precious treasure from him.’

  ‘Did they not say what this treasure was?’ demanded Gervase.

  ‘No,’ Josse replied shortly. ‘There was rather a lot that they did not say. Clearly they knew far more than they were admitting.’

  ‘Could they have been at the meeting in the desert?’ Gervase asked. ‘Their master trusts them enough to send them after the thief and the stolen treasure; might this not mean that they form part of his personal bodyguard?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Josse said. He gave a wry smile. ‘If so, then they are definitely holding back, for they would have witnessed the whole thing.’

  ‘What could the thief have taken? Something portable, for it appears that the two men who hunt him expect to recover it. Gold? Precious stones?’

  ‘Either is possible,’ Josse agreed. ‘My understanding of these hostage exchanges is that, if it’s not a simple swapping of one prisoner for another, then usually the payment is in coin.’

  Suddenly the Abbess spoke. ‘How did they know it wasn’t him?’

  Josse and Gervase exchanged a glance. ‘My lady?’ Josse said.

  ‘Your Saracens, Sir Josse. I’ve been puzzling over how they knew that our dead man here was not the man they sought. Was there anything in your description that would have enabled them to be so certain?’

  Josse thought back. ‘I told them I thought the dead man to be a Saracen, but that was solely on account of his colouring, since his clothes and possessions were missing.’

  ‘You did not give away some detail such as that the dead man had long black hair?’ she persisted.

  Josse concentrated very hard. Then: ‘I do not believe, my lady, that I mentioned any such detail.’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘Then they must have seen the dead man for themselves,’ she said simply, ‘for how else could they have been so certain?’

  ‘They might have caught sight of their quarry after the dead man was killed,’ Gervase pointed out.

  ‘Yes, that is so,’ the Abbess admitted.

  She did not, Josse thought, look very convinced. ‘My lady?’ he said. ‘Won’t you share your thoughts with us?’

  She looked slightly alarmed. ‘Oh – no, I do not think I should, for what I am thinking amounts to a terrible accusation, and if I’m wrong I would be blackening two men’s names for no reason.’

  ‘There are only the two of us to hear,’ Josse said softly. ‘We won’t repeat anything you say.’

  She was frowning. Then her face cleared and she said, ‘Very well. But bear in mind that I am probably right off the scent.’

  ‘We will,’ Josse and Gervase said in unison.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Well, when the two Saracens told you, Sir Josse, that they were hunting for a man like themselv
es, you instantly thought of the dead man, because he too was a Saracen and there are not many of them in these parts. I’m just wondering if they made the same swift judgement.’

  Josse waited to see if she would go on but she did not; she sat in her imposing chair watching the two of them eagerly, as if waiting for them to agree. ‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ Gervase said, ‘but I do not understand.’

  She clicked her tongue in irritation but it was at herself and not them. ‘I am sorry; I did not explain. What I am suggesting is that Sir Josse’s Saracens caught sight of someone whose manner of dress and general appearance were that of the man they had hunted for so long. They assumed he was their quarry and without pausing to check they—’

  ‘They jumped on him!’ Josse finished for her. ‘They believed he was the thief! They stripped him and searched through his pack and when they found nothing they tortured him to make him say where he had hidden it! When he did not tell them – he couldn’t, of course, because, not being the thief, he didn’t know – they killed him.’ After a moment’s reflection, he said, ‘It is indeed a grave accusation, my lady.’

  She looked anxious. ‘I realize that, and—’

  ‘Grave it may be,’ Gervase said, ‘but I think it is an accur ate one.’

  Josse looked at him. ‘You do?’

  Slowly Gervase nodded. ‘As you said, my lady –’ he smiled at the Abbess – ‘there just aren’t that many Saracens around here. It seems only logical that Josse’s pair thought the dead man was their thief.’