Faithful Dead

17

In the morning, waking to the sheer normality of Yves yawning and stretching beside him, laughing at some light-hearted remark made by Brother Saul as he brought them mugs of some hot, pleasant-tasting drink, Josse wondered if the experiences of the previous night had been a dream.

In some ways, he would have been relieved if they had been. But he knew better. And, besides, his cloak was still soaking wet from the drenching he had received as he saw the Magister safely back to the Abbey gates.

In retrospect, surely it had been unnecessary for a man armed only with a knife to presume to safeguard a powerful magician. Dee, Josse was quite sure, was more than capable of looking after himself.

But the old man had accepted Josse’s gesture with grace and a courteous ‘Thank you’. He had even deigned to take Josse’s proffered arm as they climbed up the slippery path.

I like the man, Josse decided, blowing on his herbal drink to cool it. If indeed man is what he is. .

But that thought was disturbing, even in the sunshine of early morning. He put it aside, instead announcing to Yves that they must go and seek an audience with the Abbess because he had something important to tell her.

Helewise, once over the shock of learning that Josse had been abroad in the night and consorting with a sorcerer, discovered that she was not surprised that John Dee had declared himself for Josse. Watching his earnest, honest face as he repeated to her what Dee had said, she thought, I, too, would place my trust in dear Josse over the Prince. What a pity it is that Josse cannot ascend the throne if King Richard leaves it vacant.

But that thought, she was well aware, was treasonable. She said a quick and silent apology, and turned her full attention back to Josse.

‘We have, if nothing else, now managed to identify the poor young man murdered in the Vale,’ she observed when, after quite some time, he finally finished all that he had to say. ‘An agent of Prince John’s, did Dee say?’

‘Aye, he did. And-’ Josse frowned, apparently thinking hard, but, after a moment, gave up and said with a shrug, ‘There was something else he said, but I can’t seem to bring it to mind. Something about the young man not standing a chance. .’ Turning to Yves and then back to Helewise, he added, half-apologetically, ‘It’s an odd experience, talking to a sorcerer. He — well, you get the feeling that he makes sure you only recall what he wants you to recall.’

Yves made a faint sound of awe. Helewise, managing to control her reaction, merely said, ‘He is a powerful man, this John Dee.’

‘That he is,’ Josse agreed fervently. ‘And knowledgeable! Why, he told me things about this Eye of Jerusalem that only the very wise could know!’

‘Yes, you said,’ Helewise interrupted. Fascinated though she had been with Josse’s tale of the Eye’s history according to John Dee, she did not want to hear it all over again. ‘And he is going to ensure that the jewel comes to you, its rightful owner.’

‘That’s what he said, aye. And I believe him.’ Josse stuck his chin up.

‘I am sure you are quite right to do so,’ she said soothingly. ‘Although, of course, that presupposes that the Magister is right and the Eye is indeed on its way to you.’

‘All this talk,’ Yves put in, sounding as if he had had to steel himself to speak, ‘it unnerves me.’ He addressed his brother: ‘Josse, you make it sound as if this here Eye has a mind of its own. As if — as if-’ With a shrug, he gave up. ‘I don’t know. But, like I say, I’m — well, I’m afraid. We seem to be dealing with matters outside the normal, everyday world that I know.’

Helewise could feel his unease, and she both understood and sympathised. ‘Do not forget, Yves,’ she said gently, ‘that your brother here has spent the night in the company of a great magician. Fortunately for Sir Josse — indeed, for all of us here — it seems that Dee approves of the family of Acquin, and means them no harm. Whether or not Dee does in fact have power, I think we can be fairly confident that he does not intend to turn it against us.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ Yves said, bowing to her. ‘Your words reassure me. But if this Eye turns up, what then?’

‘I suggest,’ she said, as calmly as she could, ‘that we worry about that when, and if, it happens. Now, Sir Josse, to return to the matter of the poor dead young man. Did Dee supply a name?’

‘No, he said he did not know it, but he promised to speak to Prince John this morning. I think, my lady, that, come evening, we shall have an identity for the body buried out there.’

‘I am glad of it,’ she replied. She was silent for a moment as she thought, then she said, ‘I don’t know if you agree, but to me it seems likely that the Prince’s man must have picked up the trail of Galbertius Sidonius and followed him here to Hawkenlye. Perhaps he intended to steal the Eye from him, perhaps he was merely intending to report back to the Prince that Galbertius was here, and await further instructions.’

‘I imagine his instructions were quite clear,’ Josse put in. ‘The Prince probably said, find the man, steal the stone and bring it to me.’

Helewise watched him. He was, she thought, becoming quite possessive about the Eye of Jerusalem. Which, although in many ways understandable, did not entirely seem to accord with what she knew of his generous, open-hearted nature.

It was, perhaps, something to watch out for. ‘If that is so,’ she said, ‘then we can only assume that someone else was already on the Prince’s man’s trail. And that he killed him before he could carry out his intention of stealing the Eye.’

Yves said excitedly, ‘But then, before the killer could creep up on Galbertius and take the Eye, the old man died and his own servant stole the stone and made off with it!’

‘Then, for some reason, the lad was making his way back here when the killer caught up with him and murdered him!’ Josse cried. Then, the light fading from his face, he concluded, ‘So this skilful, brutal murderer now has the Eye.’

‘But Dee is convinced that the Eye will be brought to you,’ Helewise said. ‘Which can only mean that the killer, whoever he is, intends to redress the original theft of the Eye by the Lombard — or rather Galbertius, to call him by his name — and give it back to you, Sir Josse, whom he sees as its rightful owner.’

Josse’s eyes met hers, and his distress was evident even before he spoke. ‘If an assassin who can slay two innocent men wants to give me the Eye, I am not so sure I want it.’

It was exactly what Helewise had been thinking. But she said smoothly, ‘Wait and see, Sir Josse. We do not know the whole tale yet — far from it — and we should not prejudge.’

‘You speak sense, as always, Abbess Helewise,’ Josse said with a grunt. But, just the same. .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

Suddenly Yves said, ‘My lady, Josse told me that the first victim was killed with a Saracen knife.’

Helewise looked enquiringly at Josse. ‘Indeed? How so?’

‘My father had a similar knife, my lady,’ Josse explained. ‘I am certain that the murder weapon was of Outremer origin.’

She was thinking hard. Could her conclusion be right? There was little to support it, other than her strong feeling that she had hit on the truth. . Raising her head to look at the brothers, she said, ‘What if the killer did in fact acquire his knife in Outremer? Can we deduce that he, too, was on crusade with Sir Geoffroi and the Lombard? That he is driven simply by the desire to possess the Eye of Jerusalem, which he has followed all the way north to Acquin and thence here to Hawkenlye?’

Josse stared at her with his mouth open for a moment. Then he said, ‘Your proposal is sound, my lady, up to a point. But we must not forget that Dee says the Eye will come to me. Why should a former crusader go to such lengths — travel all that way, kill two men — to steal the jewel, then give it away?’

She shook her head. ‘You are right, Sir Josse. Why indeed.’ But the thought would not go away, even in the face of such a credible undermining; she said tentatively, ‘Unless there were some great compulsion, some higher motive. .’

‘We speak here of a killer, a cruel, efficient murderer,’ Yves put in. ‘Can such a man have a higher motive?’

She looked at him and smiled. ‘No, Yves. Probably not.’

‘But yet-’ Yves began, only to be interrupted by a vexed sound from Josse. ‘Josse? What ails you?’

‘I keep thinking that I am beginning to see this whole mystery clearly, that the solution is almost to hand, but then it seems as if a mist, or a fog, rises up suddenly and obscures my sight,’ he said, frustration evident in his angry voice. He shook his head violently. ‘I try and I try, but it’s as if that sorcerer has put an enchantment on me. As if his one desire is to make quite sure I do not see the solution.’ He glared furiously at Helewise but then, as if remembering where he was, abruptly dropped his eyes. ‘I apologise, my lady. And to you, Yves.’ He touched his brother’s shoulder. ‘I hate men who take out their bad temper on innocent bystanders.’

‘It’s all right, Josse, we understand,’ Yves said.

But Josse, who did not seem to have heard, spun on his heel and headed for the door. ‘I’m going out for a ride,’ he announced. ‘I’m bad company, I have no useful thoughts to add to this discussion, and I am a trial to those who would try to muster some up. Perhaps some fresh air will clear this accursed fog in my head!’

He was out of the door before either Helewise or Yves could say anything to detain him. As the echoes of a violently slammed door died away — it was fortunate, Helewise mused, that the door and its hinges were stout and strong — Yves said quietly, ‘Oh, dear.’

She looked up at him, feeling a genuine affection. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘he’ll soon be back.’

Yves gave her a grin. ‘Aye,’ he agreed. Then, more sombrely, ‘He drives himself hard, my lady. He takes everything on those broad shoulders of his, and carries responsibilities that in truth belong elsewhere.’ She was about to agree with him when, flushing slightly, he said, ‘I implied no criticism of you, Abbess Helewise.’

‘I did not imagine that you did,’ she murmured.

‘But should not that sheriff — what was his name?’

‘Harry Pelham,’ she said tonelessly.

‘Aye, Pelham. Should he not be hunting down this killer?’

‘He should, yes,’ she agreed. ‘But, Yves, if we sat back and waited for him to solve every crime that occurred in this region, we should still be waiting when the Last Trump sounds.’

‘He is not — oh. I see.’ Yves’ face reflected his comprehension. ‘That’s why Josse feels so driven?’

‘I imagine so, yes. He has helped us many times before, you know, Yves. We at Hawkenlye treasure him.’

‘Mmm, so I gather,’ Yves said. Then, as if he were afraid of saying more than he should, he firmly changed the subject and said, ‘If you will excuse me, I will go and see to my horse and, I think, perhaps follow Josse’s example and take him out for some exercise.’

With a low bow, he backed out of the room and closed the door carefully — and quietly — behind him.

Leaving Helewise to wonder just what Josse had told his family back at Acquin about Hawkenlye Abbey and what they made of the goings-on there.

In particular, what they made of the Abbess.

But such speculation was, she firmly told herself presently, both a waste of God’s good time and a temptation to vanity; getting up, she strode out of the room and headed off towards the church for some private prayer. We need your help, Lord, she thought as she hurried along the cloisters; we have a murderer at large, and we must bring him to justice.

Then not only those two dead men, but also the rest of us, may find some peace.

Josse, still angry and tense, was in no mood to appreciate the beauty of the great Wealden Forest in early October. He kicked Horace into a canter then, as the sweet autumn scents aroused the horse’s interest, allowed him to have his head and break into a gallop.

For some time they rode, fast, along the track that wound around the skirts of the forest. Josse knew better than to turn off and enter in under the trees; the Forest Folk might be miles away but, on the other hand, they might not. And, as Josse knew very well, they did not welcome intruders.

Horace’s pace had slowed to a comfortable canter and Josse, barely paying attention, was taken by surprise when the horse suddenly threw up his head and came to a shuddering stop.

Josse, keeping his seat with difficulty, shouted, ‘Hoi, Horace! What’s the matter?’

Horace snorted, shook his head until his mane flew and the metal of the harness jingled, then, as quickly as he had become frightened, calmed again. He stood quite still and, after a moment, jerked his head out of Josse’s control and bent his neck to crop at some dry, dying grass by the track.

Josse slid off his back and secured the reins to the branch of a tree.

Then he began to look around.

There was, at first sight, nothing apparent that could have alarmed as sensible and experienced a horse as Horace. Josse stared along the track ahead, then behind; nothing, as far as the eye could see, which was up to the next bend. He stared out across the quiet land that sloped gently down and away from the forest ridge; one or two figures could be made out in the distance, presumably working in the fields, but they were far too far away to have acted as a disturbance.

Which left only the forest.

Despite his knowledge of it and its people, despite his respect for the place that amounted almost to awe, if not fear, Josse was not going to allow himself to be a coward.

He checked that Horace was securely tied up, checked that his knife was in its scabbard, then straightened his tunic and arranged his cloak across his shoulders.

And, when he could come up with no more delaying tactics, he found a faint track that ran down the ditch and up the other side — made by a boar, perhaps, or by deer — and followed it. He scrambled over the top of the low bank, pushed aside the branches of a silver birch and made his way in beneath the trees.

The forest was very quiet.

It was autumn, aye, he thought, so you would expect to hear little in the way of animal activity.

But, as he had noticed before in the forest, the natural sounds of the world outside seemed not to penetrate in there. There was no breeze stirring the leaves, no distant cheery voice, no sound of human endeavour such as the regular thunk of an axe or the hee-haw of a saw.

Nothing.

He walked on, treading softly, his feet falling quietly on to the forest’s deep carpet. A thousand years of dead leaves down there under my boots, he thought.

But, far from being a comfort, the thought increased his apprehension. So old, this place! It was ever here, always will be here, of the world yet apart, its people and its very spirit a law unto themselves. .

Stop that, he ordered. Are you a little child, to scare yourself silly with superstitious tales? No, you’re a grown man, with a job to do. Quite what that job was, and why whatever purpose he had was to be aided by creeping through the great forest, he did not stop to ask himself.

And, soon, he smelt smoke.

Striding on, refusing to allow fear to better him, he heard the small crackle of a campfire. He could see the smoke now, curling up gracefully into the soft, still forest air.

Caution finally winning out over bravado, he came to a halt behind a giant oak tree. Peering out from his shelter, he stared down into a glade. In its centre, where the smoke and the low flames would not reach overhanging branches, a little fire had been lit, the kindling and the small, neatly trimmed logs carefully retained within a circle of stones. A cairn of cut logs had been built, close enough to the hearth to be convenient but not so close that a stray spark might set light to it. Beside the fire was a bundle; it looked like a traveller’s pack, and had been partly unfastened. Over by the first of the encircling trees a rough shelter had been constructed, made from cut and trimmed branches covered with a thick layer of bracken, dead and rusty looking. Its neat appearance made it look like the work of someone who had made such shelters many times before and knew exactly what he was doing.

There was nobody there.

Edging out from behind his tree, Josse crept on down into the glade. He stared around him as he went. No, he had been right; nobody there. Which was strange, when the flesh of his back crawled and trembled as if unfriendly eyes were boring into it. As if, indeed, it might at any moment receive the assault of an arrow.

Or the strange, curved blade of a Saracen knife.