The Paths of the Air Read online

  ‘Aye, my lady. I should have explained, only I was overcome with my need to know whether it was too late. I apologize.’

  ‘No need for apologies. What do you hope to find?’

  He told her about the two Saracens. ‘Somehow I have the feeling,’ he said, rubbing his jaw, ‘that we are not going to get anywhere until we know if the man who was brought to the infirmary is John Damianos.’

  ‘But why is that so vital?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. Then, with a rueful grin, he added, ‘Perhaps the reason won’t become clear until we’ve got the answer.’

  She got to her feet. ‘Your instincts, Sir Josse, have served both of us very well in the past and I for one am happy to indulge you. Come along.’

  She swept out of her little room and he followed in her wake.

  The infirmary was busy, the nursing nuns and some of the refectory nuns dishing out supper and warm drinks. Sister Euphemia gave the Abbess a deep bow of reverence and said, ‘My lady? You wished to see me? Good evening, Sir Josse.’

  ‘Good evening, Sister.’

  ‘We have come to view the dead man once more,’ the Abbess said in a low voice. ‘Is he still here?’

  ‘He’s over in the crypt,’ the infirmarer replied quietly. ‘Let me fetch a light and I’ll show you. You didn’t say, my lady, but I thought it best under the circumstances to lock the door down to the crypt.’

  ‘That was wise, Sister,’ the Abbess said gravely.

  ‘I can’t explain it,’ the infirmarer muttered as she held the door of the infirmary for the Abbess and Josse and then fell into step beside them, ‘and I know it’s silly, but I keep thinking someone’s watching us and I’ll bet we’ve not seen the end of all this yet.’

  ‘I’m afraid you may be right, Sister,’ Josse agreed. He too had the repeated feeling that watchful eyes were constantly on him. The funny thing was, however, that he was not at all sure they were hostile, which really made no sense at all.

  The infirmarer led the way into the church and unlocked a small door to the left of the altar. Inside, she took a torch from a bracket on the wall and, lighting it from the candle in her lantern, handed it to Josse. One by one they made their careful way down the narrow spiral steps, the infirmarer and Josse holding up their lights.

  Stepping out into the crypt, Josse saw that the body on its bier had not been abandoned to the darkness. Surrounding it was a semicircle of tallow lamps. He felt uneasy. The crypt was bone-achingly cold and smelt of death.

  He sensed the Abbess shiver. ‘I will make haste to do what I came to do, my lady,’ he said.

  She nodded but did not speak. Sister Euphemia stood close beside her, as if drawing comfort from her presence, and the swift smile which Josse saw the Abbess bestow on the infirmarer as she tucked Sister Euphemia’s arm under her own suggested the comforting might go both ways. He advanced to the bier and, folding back the linen covering the face, stood looking down at the dead man. Who are you? he asked silently. Are you the man who sought refuge at New Winnowlands? Are you the man whom those two Saracen warriors sought? Are the two identities one and the same?

  Of all of us here, he thought, only I have seen both men. He had an idea. The sheet draped over the body was generously sized and, careful not to disturb the body any more than he had to, he arranged it in an approximation of the headdress that John Damianos had worn. He worked away silently for a few moments and then stepped back to look.

  It was hard to tell; John Damianos’s face had been animated with the movement and the vitality of the living. Josse stared at the deep eye sockets. I really don’t know, he thought. I don’t think this is the same man, but I just cannot be certain.

  Sister Euphemia cleared her throat nervously and said, ‘Sir Josse, what are you doing? Can I help you?’

  He spun round. He had almost forgotten the two nuns. ‘Sister, I should have explained,’ he said. ‘A stranger was lodging with me at New Winnowlands shortly before this poor soul was found dead on the track. There are similarities between this man and my lodger and I am trying to decide whether they are one and the same.’

  ‘You know the name of your former guest?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And if this were him,’ the infirmarer said eagerly, ‘then we should have a name by which to bury him.’

  ‘Indeed. But I don’t know—’ He broke off to glance down at the corpse. ‘The man who came to New Winnowlands was clothed in garments that enveloped him closely from throat to feet and he wore a dark headdress that covered all but his eyes, and they were ever in deep shadow.’

  Sister Euphemia had gone very still. ‘When did this man arrive on your doorstep, Sir Josse?’

  ‘Oh – it must be more than a fortnight ago.’ He felt a twitch of excited apprehension. ‘Why do you ask?’

  She did not answer immediately. He guessed she realized the import of what she was about to say. Then: ‘Such a man came here about two weeks back. He was clad just as you describe and he was most reluctant to remove even sufficient folds of his clothing for me to treat him. He carried a leather satchel and he kept the strap slung across him even while he was in the safety of my treatment room.’

  Josse let out his breath. ‘It sounds exactly like John Damianos,’ he said. ‘He could have been treated here, gone on his way and later, when he could go no further, sought out the first house that he came to asking for lodgings.’ He remembered something. ‘He was exhausted,’ he murmured. ‘I do not think that he could have gone any further; he was on the verge of collapse.’

  Sister Euphemia was nodding vigorously. ‘Yes, yes, as was my patient!’ she exclaimed. ‘I could see how weak he was and I offered him a bed for the night. He needed rest and sustenance, for I could tell that both had been in short supply for him of late.’ She sighed. ‘But try as I might, I could not persuade him and he left that same evening.’

  ‘And then he happened to pass by New Winnowlands,’ Josse said, ‘where he—’

  But the Abbess interrupted. ‘I am not sure that he happened to do any such thing, Sir Josse,’ she said. Her face broke into an affectionate smile. ‘Is it not more likely that he sought you out deliberately?’

  ‘Why in the Lord’s name should he do that?’ Josse demanded. ‘He did not know who I was any more than I knew who he was!’

  The Abbess turned to the infirmarer. ‘Sister Euphemia, how did you come to treat this man?’

  ‘He presented himself with the sick and the ailing late one afternoon,’ she said. ‘He was at the end of the queue and, if my memory serves me right, he was the last patient to be treated.’

  ‘Last in the queue,’ the Abbess said. ‘Which would have given him ample time to listen to the chatter around him, both among the nursing nuns and also among those seeking their help.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ Josse asked.

  The Abbess looked at him. ‘That among the names bandied about, yours probably featured quite prominently,’ she said. ‘You had recently been with us and, dear Sir Josse, you make an impression on people. They remember you and they talk about you.’

  He felt himself blushing. ‘Do they?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her smile widened. ‘In the most favourable of terms, I might add. Do you not agree, Sister?’

  ‘I do,’ Sister Euphemia said stoutly. ‘A good friend to us you are, Sir Josse, and I for one do not hesitate to say so.’

  ‘Oh,’ he responded lamely. The awkward sensation of being the subject of the two nuns’ approval was interrupted – much to his relief – by a sudden exclamation from Sister Euphemia.

  With a swift ‘May I?’ directed at the Abbess, who, frowning in puzzlement, nodded, the infirmarer stepped up to the bier and gently removed the makeshift linen headdress from the dead man’s face and throat. She stood looking down at him for some time, compassion in her face. Then, turning back to Josse and the Abbess, she said, ‘This is not the man whom I treated.’

  ‘How can you be s
ure?’ the Abbess demanded.

  ‘Because the man I saw had a frightful wound on the underside of his jaw, extending down his neck,’ the infirmarer answered firmly. She laid a tender hand on the dead man’s shoulder. ‘Although this poor soul’s throat has been savagely carved out, I can see from the flesh on either side of the gash that there is no sign of the wound I treated for our mysterious stranger. That wound was extensive and suppurating. I bathed it with lavender oil and then put some of my special ointment on it and I hurt the poor man so much that, for all he never made a sound, he all but fainted when I was done.’

  ‘What had caused such an injury?’ Josse asked.

  ‘It looked like a burn. A bad burn, going right down deep into his flesh, as if someone had lit a pitch-soaked brand and held it flaming under his chin.’

  ‘He was a Saracen,’ Josse said slowly, ‘or, at least, that is what I surmised from his dress, his speech and his mannerisms.’ He met the eyes of the Abbess. ‘I am thinking of how they burn heretics in Europe. Could the man have been a member of a fanatical sect whose preaching antagonized some overzealous French bishop?’

  The Abbess shook her head. ‘It is a large conclusion to draw from slight evidence, Sir Josse. And, besides, those who are condemned to the stake do not habitually escape it.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ He sighed deeply.

  ‘He’d had the burn for some time,’ Sister Euphemia volunteered. ‘Month or more, I’d say. The flesh was quite putrid around the margins of the wound and the pus—’

  ‘Thank you, Sister,’ the Abbess said softly.

  ‘Sorry, my lady. Just trying to be helpful.’

  Josse watched as the Abbess gave her infirmarer one of those generous, loving smiles that endeared her to her nuns and said, ‘You have, dear Euphemia; oh, you have.’ Turning back to Josse, eyes bright in the soft light, she added, ‘We have achieved our purpose, have we not? We might not know who this poor man is, but we do at least know who he is not.’

  ‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. And he thought: my instinct was right, then. John Damianos is still alive. Hard on the heels of that thought came another: where is he, then?

  Helewise was so glad to have Josse’s solid presence back at Hawkenlye that she insisted on seeing him as far as the track down to the Vale; he was going to seek out his usual overnight spot with the lay brothers. The visit down into the crypt had brought back all the horror she was trying to forget.

  Her common sense told her that there was no danger to anyone at Hawkenlye, for this was surely not a random killing. You did not torture a man if he was a stranger. If the motive was robbery – the likely cause of most random killings – then you would hit your victim over the head and make off with his purse or his horse, or both, without even going to the bother of stopping to see if he was still alive.

  No. Whoever had attacked the man on the forest track had known him and had wanted something from him.

  It was, in a way, a reassuring thought. But all the same, whether or not there was a direct threat to the Hawkenlye community, it felt good to have Josse with them. He was standing with his hand on the gate, looking at her with a faint frown. She knew him well enough to know that, far from suggesting he was frowning at her, this probably just meant he was deep in thought.

  ‘And so, Sir Josse, what next?’ she asked.

  ‘Hm?’ He came out of his reverie and she hid a smile. ‘Sorry, my lady, I was thinking.’

  ‘Yes, Josse,’ she murmured.

  But she didn’t think he heard. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘I’m going back to where the dead man was found. It’s unlikely I’ll find anything, because both that merchant fellow and the lay brothers had a good look round. Then,’ he added more decisively, ‘with your permission, my lady, I shall send for Gervase de Gifford and see what he makes of this.’

  ‘I have already done that,’ she said. ‘Brother Saul rode down to Tonbridge first thing today to tell him about the brutalized body and ask him to come up to the Abbey. Sabin told Saul that her husband was away from home and expected back late this evening, and she undertook to ask him to ride up here in the morning.’

  Josse was watching her, slowly shaking his head. ‘I should have realized,’ he said. ‘A foul murder so close to the Abbey? Of course you would inform the sheriff. I’m glad, my lady, for it means we shall have the benefit of Gervase’s wisdom all the sooner.’

  He had gone through the gate now and was closing it behind him. ‘Make sure you bolt it,’ he warned.

  ‘I am doing so.’ She shot the two heavy bolts home.

  ‘Until tomorrow,’ came his voice from the far side.

  ‘Sleep well.’

  She heard the jingle of his spurs as he hastened away down into the Vale. Then she turned and walked quickly back to her room.

  Josse watched Gervase de Gifford ride through the Abbey gates early the next morning.

  Gervase had married Sabin de Retz in the spring and Josse had danced at the wedding. It had been a joyful day, for Sabin and Gervase were deeply in love and, having taken the decision to stay in Tonbridge rather than return to her native Brittany, Sabin appeared to have every intention of throwing herself wholeheartedly into her new life. Her old grandfather had come to England with her. Like Sabin, he was an apothecary and he was going to continue to teach her as she set about practising her skill in Tonbridge.

  Josse had heard that Sabin was pregnant. He would have liked to congratulate the prospective father but now was hardly the time. It seemed wrong to celebrate the conception of a new life when one had just been so savagely brought to an end.

  He stepped forward to greet Gervase as he dismounted. The two men embraced and Josse muttered, ‘It is good to see you, Gervase. A dreadful thing has happened and—’

  ‘Josse, I am sorry but I bring more bad tidings. Shall we find the Abbess?’ He glanced at Sister Ursel, hovering close by, and at Sister Martha, holding out her hand for the reins.

  Understanding, Josse led the way to the Abbess’s private room. She was seated at her big table and she got up to greet the sheriff. ‘Gervase, thank you for coming. We—’

  ‘Something else has happened, my lady,’ Josse said. He glanced at Gervase, whose handsome face wore a sombre expression. ‘Gervase?’

  ‘In the early hours of this morning there was a fire in the new guest quarters of the priory at Tonbridge,’ he said baldly. ‘They are still busy with building work and it is suggested that the fire may have started in a brazier left smouldering when the workmen left the site last night.’

  Josse thought that it sounded unlikely, since for one thing, braziers did a good job of containing fires, even fierce ones, and for another, workmen were fully aware of the risk of fire to timber-framed buildings and were extremely careful with it. He heard the Abbess ask the question which he too should have thought of first: she said, ‘Was anyone hurt?’

  ‘One man killed, my lady. Two injured, one very badly. There were but the three of them in the guest accommodation last night.’

  ‘Are the wounded men well enough to be brought here? My infirmarer has great skill and undoubtedly she could help them, unless transporting them is impossible?’

  ‘I was hoping that perhaps Sister Euphemia might come down to Tonbridge,’ Gervase replied. ‘My initial thought was indeed that the survivors would be best off here at Hawkenlye, but I would prefer to have a healer look at them before they are moved.’

  ‘Sister Euphemia is skilled in the use of analgesics,’ the Abbess said. ‘It would be best to dull their pain before attempting to move them.’

  The ghost of a tender smile crossed Gervase’s face. ‘Sabin has already administered one of her concoctions,’ he said. ‘Both men are now sleeping.’

  ‘Thank God for your Sabin,’ the Abbess exclaimed warmly.

  ‘Amen,’ murmured Gervase.

  ‘I will ask Sister Euphemia to accompany you back to Tonbridge,’ the Abbess announced, walking towards the door. ‘Do you need me to send some lay bro
thers to help bring the men back here?’

  ‘No, my lady, thank you. One of my men is already organizing a cart.’ Gervase opened the door and then turned to Josse, standing silent by his side. ‘Will you come with me, Josse? I am disturbed by this fire, which so neatly destroyed only the guest accommodation.’

  ‘You don’t suspect it was started deliberately?’

  ‘It is a convenient way of killing someone,’ Gervase answered. ‘And we both know of another fire, in another land, where the motive was murder, although that time the murderer did not succeed.’

  ‘Aye,’ Josse said. He knew that Gervase referred to an episode in Sabin’s past. ‘It is a grave accusation.’

  Gervase shrugged. ‘I will say no more now. Come and see for yourself, Josse.’

  They turned to hurry away but the Abbess called them back. ‘I do not wish to detain you, Gervase,’ she said, ‘but is the identity of these three men known?’

  ‘Yes, my lady. Neither survivor is in a condition to speak, but I asked the canon in charge of the guest quarters. He told me they are Knights Hospitaller and their leader’s name is Thibault of Margat.’

  ‘Then they are the trio who came here!’ she cried. ‘They arrived a couple of days ago and were going on to Tonbridge and then to their Order’s headquarters at Clerkenwell. Why did they not ask to stay here with us? We have excellent facilities in our guest quarters or, if they preferred something simpler, they could have put up with the brethren down in the Vale. Either way, we would have made them welcome! Oh, if they had done so, this tragedy would have been avoided!’

  Josse pitied her anguish. He knew why the Hospitallers had elected to stay with the canons at Tonbridge rather than the Hawkenlye community: because at the priory there were no women. Thibault of Margat, Josse had observed, was a misogynist whose revulsion for the female sex appeared to extend to nuns.

  But he wasn’t going to say so.

  Gervase’s brow had creased in a frown. ‘I do not know, my lady. Apparently the trio were trying to find a runaway monk and they had based themselves there in the priory while they pursued their search. The canon who told me this added something odd: he said, “They were like hounds after the quarry, but it seems their quarry has turned round and bitten the hounds.”’