The Paths of the Air (23 page)

Before his courage could desert him, he went straight to the spot where Akhbir had fallen. There was a little blood, and he could make out crushed areas of grass, as if footprints had passed to and fro. He tried to detect a trail. It was faint but it was there. Akhbir's body had been dragged across the courtyard and into the woods. Breaking into a trot, Josse went in under the trees and presently came to a spot where the earth had been disturbed. The area of bare soil was roughly man-shaped. He had found Akhbir's burial place. Slowly and thoughtfully he walked back to the house.

The low door of the undercroft was closed and bolted. He pushed back the bolts. The door did not open; it must be locked. It made sense, he thought, that the undercroft could be bolted to keep livestock in and also locked to keep intruders out. But where was the key?

Whoever had been camping there had not broken down the door, for it showed no sign of damage. It was highly unlikely that they had been given the key – did Joanna even possess one? – so it must be concealed somewhere. Where, Josse mused, would I hide a key?

He looked around. He picked at one or two loose corners on the paving slabs close to the door but found nothing other than a handful of woodlice. He saw a crack in the wall, but his probing fingers found nothing inside. He frowned, turning in a slow circle, searching.

The rose that grew across the hall door at the top of the steps had its roots in the soft soil between their base and the side of the house. In the thick tangle of the rose's intertwining stems there was a blackbird's nest. The strong, dense cup of grass, roots, moss and twigs was lined with dried mud, and as Josse reached into it his fingers closed on the cold, hard shape of a key. He put it in the lock of the undercroft door. It turned easily, as if it had been recently used, and the door opened.

He pushed the door fully open to admit the light and then stepped cautiously inside. There was a short flight of half a dozen shallow steps. Slowly he descended. Despite the open door it was dim down there, for the undercroft had no windows. He waited while his eyes adjusted, then looked up at the vaulted ceiling. The room was well built and, despite the house having stood empty for so long, felt sound and dry.

He lowered his gaze and inspected the stone floor. There was a ring of hearthstones, encircling an area blackened with ash, soot and smoke. The makeshift fireplace had been swept clean; nearby was a neat stack of logs and kindling. Other than that, the room was bare.

Kneeling, he put his hand on the hearthstones. He detected warmth. There had been a fire there not long ago. But they had gone, that fugitive pair who had come so far; Akhbir's arrival, with Josse on his heels, had sent them running.

Slowly he straightened up, mounted the steps out of the undercroft, closed, bolted and locked the door and returned the key to its place in the blackbird's nest.

Sent them running . . . Were they on foot or did they have horses? Making his way to the stables, he pushed the door open and went in. He looked inside the short row of stalls and at first saw no sign of recent occupation. But then he discovered that, unlike the others, the two stalls furthest from the door had been recently mucked out. The floors were swept clean. He hurried out of the second, his searching eyes fixed to the ground.

Just inside the entrance he found what he was looking for: hoof prints. Two horses, one slightly bigger than the other, had recently passed out through the stable door.

He ran outside, closely examining the ground, and found more hoof prints leading out across the courtyard. But then he came to the line where stone gave way to grass and found no more. They have gone, then, he thought. The English Hospitaller fired those crossbow shots and then, once I had run off, yelled to Fadil that their hiding place had been discovered and they must leave without delay. Fadil, perhaps down in the undercroft preparing food over the hearth, stamped out the fire and threw his belongings in his pack. Perhaps he packed the monk's bag too, since his companion would have kept watch in the courtyard in case I came back. Then the pair of them raced round to the barn, saddled up the horses and fled.

Where to? Josse wondered. ‘Where did you go, John?' he said aloud.

But there was no answer.

Thirteen

O
n arriving back at Hawkenlye, Josse went straight to the Abbess to announce his safe return. He strode along to her room to discover Gervase was there, and interrupting him in mid-sentence – he was declaiming Josse's action as foolhardy and careless of his own safety – Josse said, ‘Thank you for your concern, Gervase, but as you see, I have survived without a blemish.' Gervase raised an eyebrow at the gentle irony. ‘I can report that whoever was out there has gone. They've left the undercroft clean and tidy, the stalls have been swept out and there is no sign save a little residual warmth in the hearthstones to say that anyone was there.'

‘What of Akhbir?' Gervase asked.

‘There's a new grave out in the woods. Whoever shot him has buried him.'

Gervase regarded him, his expression grave. ‘This is not the end of the matter, Josse. Akhbir should have been arrested and made to answer for his crime. To shoot him dead is a criminal act in itself, and I must now find this mysterious crossbow man and question him.'

‘It is not a crime if you kill a man who would otherwise kill you, is it, Gervase?' the Abbess asked.

‘No, my lady,' he said courteously. ‘The law recognizes a man's right to kill in self-defence.'

‘Thank you. So, if the man hiding in the house in the woods saw Akhbir approach—'

‘Wielding his sword,' Josse put in helpfully.

‘– with his sword in his hand,' she went on, ‘then, knowing what Kathnir and Akhbir did to the dead Turk, would he not be perfectly justified in shooting Akhbir?'

‘Yes, very probably,' Gervase said, ‘but he must give me an account of these events himself! I am not unreasonable and neither is the system of justice in which I am involved. I will not send a man to be hanged if he killed in self-defence. You have my word on it.'

‘I did not think that you would,' the Abbess said gently. Then, addressing Josse: ‘Sir Josse, you have undertaken the search for the missing Hospitaller on Thibault's behalf while he lies abed.'

‘Aye, my lady.'

‘I propose that we visit him now and ask if we are right in our supposition that Fadil is travelling with the English monk; moreover, if he has heard any rumour that Fadil has adopted the name John Damianos. You reason, Sir Josse, that it is Fadil who has been living at the house in the woods. Since you only missed him there by a hair's breadth, it would be reasonable to say that you have been doing your best to carry out your mission. In all fairness, I think we may now demand a little more frankness from Thibault.'

Josse grinned. ‘We may demand it, my lady. Whether or not it will be forthcoming, I would not like to say.'

She had risen to her feet and was sweeping across the room towards the door. ‘I shall at least try,' she said. ‘Come along! Gervase, you had better accompany us.'

Gervase and Josse exchanged a glance. Then they meekly fell into step behind her.

Helewise did not intend to let either Josse or Gervase question Thibault. As Sister Euphemia ushered her into the small recess, she positioned herself very firmly by the bed so that neither of them could stand in front of her. Then, smiling down at Thibault – who, she could not help noticing, was regarding her with a certain amount of apprehension – she said, ‘Thibault, you asked Sir Josse to search for your missing monk. This morning he has, on your behalf, made a dangerous journey. He believes he knows where your runaway has been hiding. He further believes that this man's companion earlier took refuge at Sir Josse's own manor of New Winnowlands.' She paused to let that sink in.

‘Sir Josse has—' Thibault looked past her at Josse. ‘You already knew of this man that I seek? Yet you did not mention this to me?'

‘You did not tell us his name,' Josse said. ‘All you revealed was that your man was dressed like you and your companions. The man who came to New Winnowlands was not your monk for he was a Saracen, dressed in the traditional style. But he was in the habit of going out secretly at night and' – as Helewise watched, a sort of brightness lit up his face – ‘I would guess that his excursions might well have been to meet up with his long-time travelling companion. Your monk,' he added, in case it was not sufficiently clear.

‘You believe that this man who stayed with you was Fadil?' Thibault looked astounded.

‘Aye.'

But Helewise was watching Thibault's face and she could see that for some reason he found this suggestion laughable. ‘Why should Fadil come to England?' he asked.

‘Your monk brought him,' Josse said eagerly. ‘When the exchange in the desert went so fatally wrong, your man believed that for some reason he could not take his prisoner back to Margat. As the only surviving Hospitaller of the group, he took – or had put on him – the duty of getting the prisoner Fadil and the ransom to safety. Which he is still trying to do.'

Thibault had put his head back and seemed to be staring at the ceiling. ‘It is absurd,' he said flatly.

Helewise, stung on Josse's behalf, said coolly, ‘Thibault, you ask for Sir Josse's aid and yet, far from giving him any assistance, you seem to go out of your way to increase the mists of mystery that surround this matter. What is your monk's name? What does he look like? Can you not at least answer these questions?'

Thibault looked at her and she was sure she read regret and, strangely, pity in his expression. ‘I am sorry but I cannot, my lady,' he said. ‘As another of the avowed, you will appreciate that it is not for us to make independent decisions when we have been given clear orders to follow.'

Oh, yes, she thought. I appreciate that all right. And how very convenient for Thibault to be able to produce such an unbreakably sound reason for not telling us what we so much want to know.

Josse was addressing Thibault. She made herself listen.

‘Your monk,' he was saying, ‘is a fighting man?'

‘He is,' Thibault replied warily.

‘He uses which weapons?'

‘Lance and sword.'

‘Can he shoot a bow?'

‘Most men can shoot a bow.'

‘Aye. I am asking if he is a good shot.'

Thibault shrugged. ‘Average, perhaps. I cannot say.'

‘And if a Knight Hospitaller such as he were to use a bow, of what type would it be?'

‘Probably the longbow.'

‘So you do not think it likely that your runaway is a deadly shot with the crossbow?'

‘If he is, I never heard tell of it,' Thibault said decisively. ‘And if he were as good as that, then those in charge of his training would have discovered the talent and put it to use.'

‘Thank you,' Josse said.

Helewise shot him a quick look; he raised his eyebrows at her and she nodded.

He had just established that if the shots that had killed Akhbir and driven Josse off had been fired by the fugitive monk and his Saracen prisoner, then the bowman had to have been Fadil.

For the first time Gervase spoke. ‘Thibault, I have taken note of all you have said and I am inclined to believe that your monk did not fire the shot that killed Akhbir. However, we – that is, my lady Abbess, Sir Josse and I – are convinced that he is involved in all four of the deaths that have recently occurred in this area. I will join forces with Sir Josse in our hunt for your runaway. If he is found, he will have to answer to the law of this land before he can be called to account by your Order.'

Helewise could see that Thibault objected to this statement. Perhaps Gervase realized it too for, before Thibault could say a word, he had turned smartly on his heel and could be heard marching away out of the infirmary.

Josse appeared to be concentrating very hard on Thibault. Helewise wondered why; the question was answered as Josse spoke. ‘I am going hunting,' he announced. ‘First I shall ride over to New Winnowlands, keeping my eyes open and asking anyone I meet if they have seen two strangers, one dressed in a Saracen's garb and the other in the robes of a Knight Hospitaller.' Thibault regarded him steadily. ‘Then,' he went on, ‘I shall go to Robertsbridge and speak to Gerome de Villières.'

If Josse's intention was to provoke a reaction, Helewise thought admiringly, he had succeeded surely beyond his wildest hopes. Thibault paled and shot out a bandaged hand, grasping at Josse's sleeve as if he would detain him by force if he had to. But his self-control was excellent and his turmoil was not evident in his tone of voice: ‘I would not bother going there,' he said calmly. ‘Brother Otto and I spoke to Gerome de Villières, as I told you. The man whom we seek is not there and there is no likelihood at all that he will visit in the future.' There was a small and, Helewise thought, telling pause. ‘There was a dispute,' Thibault went on. Then, grudgingly: ‘The runaway caused grave distress to the family's household out in Antioch. The lady Aurelie, a distant cousin of Gerome, had cause to report in the most reproachful terms to her English kinsman. Believe me,' he concluded earnestly, ‘you would be wasting your time, Sir Josse, if you went there.'

Josse nodded. ‘Thank you for that advice.' Helewise noticed – and she was quite sure Thibault did too – that Josse did not say whether or not he was going to take it.

‘We will leave you to rest, Thibault,' she said. She glanced down at Brother Otto, who was looking at her out of dazed eyes. ‘You too, Brother,' she added softly. She touched his shoulder very gently with her fingertips and the monk gave her a smile. ‘How are you feeling?' she whispered, bending down over his bed.

Brother Otto tried to say something, but all that emerged was the whistling sound of air passing out through his lips.

‘His throat was burned,' Thibault said. ‘He cannot speak.'