The Paths of the Air h-11 Read online

  It was horrible.

  But the horror was only just beginning.

  Eight

  In the afternoon, Gervase returned to Tonbridge. He said testily that he could not kick his heels at Hawkenlye waiting for Thibault to wake up. ‘In the meantime,’ he added, ‘the entire criminal population of the Medway valley may be thieving, raping, pillaging and looting, and nobody there to restrain them.’

  Josse, understanding Gervase’s frustration, walked over to the stable block with him. ‘Give my love to Sabin,’ he said, ‘and I’ll send word as soon as there’s anything to tell you.’

  ‘Very well,’ Gervase said. Then, with a grin, ‘I’m sorry, Josse. It’s just that-’ He broke off, apparently unable to put his thought into words.

  ‘I understand,’ Josse said feelingly. ‘All that we so badly want to know is beyond our reach behind the mist.’

  Gervase’s smile spread. ‘I would not have put it so poetically but yes, that’s it. Farewell, Josse — I hope to be back soon.’

  Josse watched him ride away. Then, for want of anything better to do, he strolled down to the Vale to pass the time of day with Brother Saul.

  Late in the evening, Sister Caliste came to inform him that Thibault was awake, his pain was less intense and he had drunk a bowl of broth. ‘Abbess Helewise is on her way to him,’ she added, ‘and asks that you join her.’

  Josse saw the improvement instantly. And Brother Otto was stirring, although the nursing nuns were keeping him sedated. Thibault watched with intent eyes as the Abbess and Josse went to stand on either side of his cot. Then he said, ‘You wish to hear about the fire. Since I awoke I have been thinking of nothing else. I have put my thoughts in order and I am ready to tell you.’

  Josse said, ‘We are ready to listen.’

  ‘It was the second night that we were lodging at the priory,’ Thibault began. ‘We went to bed very tired, for we had searched all that day for the runaway monk, asking questions in Tonbridge and the neighbouring hamlets. My two brethren fell asleep quickly and I soon followed. Then something disturbed me; I cannot say what. I lay quite still, but it was dark and I could see nothing. Then as my eyes adjusted I made out the small square of the window; a lighter patch in the blackness. I listened to see if whatever had awoken me would recur and, after a while, it did.’ He looked from one to the other of his listeners, making sure he had their full attention. ‘It was the latch being lifted very gently from its hook. I could not see, but I could hear, and I remembered that the door was a little stiff, so that even with the latch free, one still has to push the door quite hard to open it. The timber is new,’ he added, ‘and has probably swollen a little, so that it is tight in the door frame.’

  ‘Someone was trying to get in?’ Josse prompted.

  ‘Yes. I sensed the door opening and then I saw the outline of a figure pass in front of the little window. I felt a waft of air as he swiftly moved further into the room. Brother Jeremiah was sleeping closest to the door and thus he was the first of us that the intruder came to.’ His face fell and briefly his lips moved in a muttered prayer. ‘Then I heard a sort of rustling sound, as of a man stirring in his bed, and a sort of muffled cry, presumably from poor Brother Jeremiah. There was the swishing, whistling noise of something heavy moving rapidly through the air and then those two hideous thumps.’ He raised a bandaged hand and covered his eyes.

  ‘You are quite sure that what you heard was the assailant attacking Brother Jeremiah?’ Josse asked gently.

  Thibault lowered his hand and stared straight into Josse’s eyes. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Whoever came into our room murdered poor Jeremiah. That I will swear before God and before any court in the land.’

  ‘But you did not actually see the deed,’ the Abbess said. ‘Could the sounds have had another source?’

  Thibault looked at her. ‘No, my lady. I could make out more by then. Either my eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness or the dawn was lightening the sky; I cannot say. But I saw the outline of that raised arm and I knew without doubt the target of those dreadful blows.’

  ‘And then the fire started?’ Josse asked. It was clearly causing Thibault great distress to speak of his brother monk’s murder and it seemed charitable to move on. He was also aware of time passing; Sister Caliste would soon step forward and say in that soft but imperious voice, ‘Enough.’

  ‘The fire; yes, the fire,’ Thibault breathed. ‘The two things seemed to happen simultaneously, although I do not see how a man can commit murder and set a blaze at the same time.’ Josse could see one very obvious answer but, not wanting to interrupt, he kept his peace. ‘I smelt the smoke,’ Thibault was saying, ‘and I heard the sound of kindling crackling. Then there was a whoosh and a great sheet of flame leapt up just outside the door.’

  ‘Where was the murderer?’ the Abbess asked. ‘Could you see him in the light of the fire?’

  ‘I saw a cloaked shape, black against the light,’ Thibault replied. ‘His hood was over his head and face and I caught no more than an impression as he whipped round and shot out through the open door.’

  Knowing that the fire was about to start, Josse thought, the man had probably wetted his cloak and wrapped a soaked cloth around his nose and mouth. Thus prepared, he would have been able to dash through a sheet of flame with reasonable safety.

  ‘I got out of bed and threw on my robe,’ Thibault said. ‘Brother Otto was on his feet and yelling at the top of his voice; well, until he breathed in the smoke and began to choke. He sings bass baritone, you know, and I think that may have saved us, for he has a good loud voice. We gathered up poor Brother Jeremiah and began to drag him towards the door, but already two of the walls and the roof were ablaze and burning reed straw was falling all around us. We put up our hoods but very soon our garments were singeing and beginning to burn. The canons had evidently heard Brother Otto’s cries for help for they came running, and Canon Mark burst into the room through the fire and helped us pull Brother Jeremiah outside, where we laid him on the ground. The rest of the canons had formed a chain with buckets of water but before many had been thrown the fire went out.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Canon Mark told me!’ Josse exclaimed. He still found it barely credible. ‘You just said, Thibault, that the fire had taken hold of the walls and the roof. How, if there was still combustible material to be consumed, can it possibly have gone out?’

  ‘There was in fact little left of the guest wing to burn, but the fire did not spread to neighbouring buildings,’ Thibault corrected. ‘Why, I do not know.’ He spoke somewhat stiffly. ‘All I can tell you is what happened.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Josse said instantly. ‘I do not doubt your word but I’ve never known a fire behave like that.’

  ‘Neither have I,’ Thibault agreed. He appeared mollified by Josse’s apology. Then, thoughtfully, he added, ‘Have you ever seen a fire-eater at the fair? That’s what it was like, as if someone had lit their outward breath and, as soon as it had all been consumed, the fire went out.’

  ‘Then it was some sort of a trick?’ Josse asked.

  Thibault shrugged. ‘I do not know.’ He sighed deeply. ‘It took the life of one of my brethren, whatever it was.’

  Josse met the Abbess’s eyes. He was torn between the need to ask further vital questions and the desire to give Thibault a few moments to mourn the dead monk. Presently the Abbess gave a very small nod; taking this as encouragement, Josse said, ‘Thibault, you say that Brother Jeremiah was not of your original company but that you encountered him on your way up from the coast?’

  ‘That is correct,’ Thibault said wearily. ‘It was just after Robertsbridge. Brother Jeremiah was, as I said, bound for Clerkenwell and fell into step with Brother Otto and me. He had never left his native land — he was only a young man — and he was eager to hear our tales of Outremer and our long journey over land and sea. The good Lord filled his heart with zeal and after only a day or so he had made up his mind to ask permission to go on
crusade himself.’ He sighed again. ‘That will not now come to pass,’ he said sadly.

  Josse knew what he must ask next. ‘Thibault,’ he began, ‘you said that since Brother Jeremiah was sleeping in the bed closest to the door, it was he whom the murderer came to first. Do you think that is the only reason why he attacked Brother Jeremiah? Or do you think he deliberately targeted the poor young man?’

  Slowly Thibault shook his head. ‘I have asked myself that same question over and over again,’ he muttered. ‘If the assailant wished to kill Jeremiah — and I cannot for the life of me see why — then it would not have been difficult to discover which bed he slept in. As I told you, we had already spent one night at the priory and anyone could have looked in and seen which bed each of us occupied. We go early to our rest and we sleep deeply. Not one of us would have been aware of someone spying.’

  Josse nodded. ‘Thank you, Thibault. So, Brother Jeremiah could very easily have been the intended victim and, as Canon Mark suggested, the fire was started in an attempt to hide the fact that he had already been murdered. But why should anyone want to kill him?’

  ‘He was eager, friendly, devout and, I believe, hard-working,’ Thibault affirmed. ‘I cannot imagine that in his young life he had done any harm to anyone.’ His face crumpled. ‘I grieve for him,’ he whispered. ‘God rest his soul.’

  ‘Amen,’ said the Abbess.

  Josse was looking down at the sleeping Brother Otto. He could hear the wheeze and rattle of air in the monk’s throat and chest. He sings bass baritone, Thibault had said. Would he ever sing again?

  ‘He won’t be ready to speak to you yet awhile,’ Thibault said, mistaking the reason for Josse’s interest. ‘And he won’t be able to tell you any more. He did not wake up until the flames started to roar.’

  Josse put a hand on Thibault’s shoulder; one of his few undamaged areas of flesh. ‘I am sorry,’ he said sincerely. ‘It must have been unspeakable.’

  Thibault nodded. ‘It was.’

  The Abbess was moving towards the gap in the curtains. ‘We have disturbed you for long enough,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Thibault, for going through your terrible experience again. It cannot have been easy.’

  ‘No, my lady, but it is done now.’ Thibault’s expression seemed to lighten and for a moment he was almost smiling. ‘It’s strange, but I feel better.’

  ‘I will make sure that Gervase de Gifford hears your story,’ Josse said. ‘We will do whatever we can to catch Brother Jeremiah’s killer; that I promise you.’

  Thibault eyed him. ‘It won’t bring him back,’ he said quietly.

  There was really no answer to that. With a brief bow, Josse left the recess and the Abbess followed him.

  He walked beside her to her room. She seemed deep in thought and it was with reluctance that he broke into her reverie.

  ‘My lady,’ he said tentatively, ‘Thibault said he did not see how the assailant could have slain Brother Jeremiah inside the guest room and set the fire outside at the same time, but-’

  ‘There must have been two of them,’ she interrupted calmly.

  ‘Aye, that was what I was about to say. Who were they? Why did they want poor Jeremiah to die?’

  ‘It has been occupying me since we knew the poor young man had been so cruelly killed,’ she said. ‘He seems to have lived a short and fairly limited life. What can he possibly have done to earn such retribution?’

  ‘We’ll have to find out more about him,’ Josse said glumly; he did not relish the prospect. ‘No doubt Thibault will be able to tell us where he was based and, perhaps, what business was taking him to Clerkenwell. We shall have to notify his brethren of his death.’

  ‘We shall,’ she repeated dully.

  He suddenly realized how tired he was. ‘I am going to bed,’ he announced. ‘My head is full of shadows and vague shapes that I feel I ought to recognize yet cannot. I will see more clearly after a good night’s sleep.’

  She turned to him and he saw that she looked as weary as he felt. ‘Sleep well, Sir Josse,’ she said. ‘I shall try to do likewise.’

  Josse slept deeply for many hours. But then he fell into a vivid and alarming dream in which he and Abbess Helewise rode on a huge white horse along a narrow dusty track, following two shadowy figures. One of them was dressed in the black habit of a Knight Hospitaller; the other wore a flowing brown robe and carried a leather satchel. There was a great sense of urgency, for the figures kept disappearing in mist and sometimes when he caught sight of them there was only one of them. The Abbess was urging him on, and he dug in his heels so that the horse leapt forward with such a violent lurch that he was all but unseated and had to fling his arms around her waist. She felt slim as a reed in his arms and then she was no longer the Abbess but Joanna, naked, twisting round with a smile on her face as she pressed her flesh against his and he began kissing her, caressing her, until Beside him in the lay brothers’ sleeping quarters somebody began to snore.

  And Josse, flinging himself over onto his back, clutched the covers around him against the cold of the night and wondered how long it was until morning.

  He must have dozed and when he woke again, Brother Augustus was stirring a pot of porridge over the hearth and whistling happily. Josse too felt happy; not as cheerful as Augustus perhaps, but with the quiet satisfaction of knowing his next step. Hurriedly he went to wash as much of himself as the cold morning and the even colder water allowed — which amounted to his hands, face and neck — and he joined Gussie, Brother Saul and old Brother Firmin for breakfast. Then he took his leave of them and hurried to suggest to the Abbess that they ask Thibault about the runaway monk whom they had come so far to find.

  The improvement in Thibault’s condition appeared to be continuing. Helewise thought, as she and Josse entered the recess, that his face had lost its deathly pallor and his eyes were brighter.

  ‘Thibault,’ she began, ‘when you came here before you said you were searching for a runaway monk from your Order; an Englishman. When I asked you to describe him or to tell us his name, you said you did not know these things. I realize,’ she added softly, ‘that you must have had very good reasons for your reticence, but I must confess I did not believe you; for how would it be possible for you to hunt for someone if you didn’t know what he looked like? And surely you must know his name as well as you know your own, for he was of your Order and, I presume, served with you in Outremer.’ She paused, watching Thibault’s face, from which he had carefully removed all expression. ‘I appreciate that those of us in holy orders must obey our superiors,’ she went on, ‘and I do not expect you to reveal information that you have been commanded to keep secret. However, the situation has changed now. A monk has been murdered and you and Brother Otto were badly burned. Will you not share your burden with us, Thibault? Can we not help you carry it for a while?’

  Thibault did not answer for some time but stared silently into her eyes. She read yearning in his, as if he longed to confide but knew that he could not. Eventually he said, ‘I appreciate the offer. There is little that I may tell you of why we hunt our runaway. However…’ He paused, as if testing his decision. ‘However, I feel that I may at least tell you something of the man’s life in Outremer.’

  She shot a glance at Josse, to discover that he was unsuccessfully suppressing the same excitement that she felt rise up in herself. She said calmly, ‘Very well, Thibault; if you are prepared to do so, then Sir Josse and I are listening.’

  Thibault glanced at Brother Otto in the next bed. Otto had his eyes open but Helewise did not think he was aware of them. He looked vacant and she suspected that he was still being dosed with the infirmarer’s sedative and analgesic mixture.

  Then Thibault began to speak. ‘The English monk was not a Hospitaller when he arrived in Acre. He came out to Outremer in a company of twenty-five knights and their attendants, all in the service of an English lord who was going to the support of his kinsman in Antioch. The kinsman was a wealthy landowner but h
is wife had given him only daughters and, hard pressed, he had sent home to England for help in defending his lands. The Englishman fought for his lord at the Battle of Hattin, and in the aftermath of the defeat his master retreated to his kinsman’s home in Antioch to lick his small wounds and recover his strength. According to the Englishman, his master had not enjoyed his experience of fighting and was not keen to repeat it. He had the excuse that his kinsman needed his and his knights’ help in defending his property, which was after all why the lord had come out to Outremer in the first place. Our Englishman, however, felt differently. He made his way from Antioch to Crac des Chevaliers where, in the early autumn of 1187, he was admitted to the Order of the Knights of the Hospital. He was strong and blessed with a fit and healthy body, and worked hard, training his less experienced brethren in the arts of war.’

  ‘I thought you said he was young?’ Josse asked. ‘How was he able to teach such skills?’

  Thibault smiled. ‘Young he might have been — he was eighteen or nineteen when first I met him — but in the year he had spent in Outremer he saw a great deal of action. Moreover, he had received the training that prepares a man for the life of a knight. There was much he had to teach and I observed that once the monks had overcome their disinclination to be drilled by a younger man, they learned to appreciate him. He was modest and he did not permit the role to inflate his sense of self-regard.’ For a moment Thibault stared into the distance. ‘Then,’ he resumed, ‘King Richard arrived and we began the next major onslaught against the enemy.’

  ‘You were in the fighting?’ Helewise asked.

  ‘Yes, my lady. I was in the army that took back the great fortress and port of Acre from the infidel and the English monk was of my company. We rode together on the march from Acre to Jaffa and we fought at the Battle of Arsuf, where the Hospitallers formed the rear guard; we and the Templars took it in turns to be the advance guard and that day it was their turn. Despite this, it was our Grand Master himself who led the charge.’ His face glowing, he added quietly, ‘The English monk and I rode side by side.’