The Paths of the Air

Nine

Josse was with the Abbess in the refectory finishing the noon meal. They were seated apart from the rest of the community, discussing Thibault’s story.

‘I keep returning to the conclusion that this runaway English Hospitaller and the Saracen whom Kathnir and Akhbir are hunting just have to be together,’ Josse said. ‘And I feel sure that the man calling himself John Damianos is Fadil.’

‘Fadil?’

‘The prisoner who was to be exchanged.’ He frowned. ‘Although I thought Fadil was a younger man.’

‘The meeting in the desert was two years ago,’ the Abbess pointed out. ‘Fear, privation and a hard road can greatly age a man in two years. And you never saw John Damianos’s face.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, then. For the time being, let us work on the principle that the runaway monk and his charge — Fadil, going under the name of John Damianos — have travelled all the way from the desert outside Margat to the south-east corner of England.’

‘Where are they going?’ Josse demanded. ‘Why would the Hospitaller bring the prisoner so far? The obvious thing to do was go straight back to Margat, return the prisoner and make a full report.’

She thought about this. Eventually she said, ‘Thibault suggested that the prisoner’s family might have tried to cheat the Hospitallers so that they went home with both Fadil and whatever they were offering in exchange for him. Is it not possible’ — she had softened her voice to a whisper — ‘that the Knights Hospitaller did the same?’

‘Gervase suggested something similar,’ he whispered back. ‘When I protested that the Hospitallers were renowned for their honesty and dependability, he replied that it only takes one man to instigate treachery.’

‘I agree,’ she said. ‘If the English monk knew that the tragedy in the desert had been caused because a senior Hospitaller had decided to cheat both his brethren and the prisoner’s family, then returning meekly to Margat and the monk who had sent his brethren into danger would have been the last thing he would do.’

‘It’s possible,’ Josse said reluctantly, ‘although I still find it hard to believe the great Order of the Knights Hospitaller would behave so shabbily.’

‘One of them might,’ she persisted. ‘Keep an open mind, Sir Josse. As to why the English monk made for England, why, I can think of two reasons. One: he is, as we keep saying, English — he went out to Outremer in a party of knights with an English lord who has kin in Antioch — so he could merely be coming home. Two: we have heard mention of the Order’s headquarters at Clerkenwell, so might our man be heading there? It is a very long way from Margat and he might think it is therefore a safe place to deliver his charge.’

‘Either is possible,’ Josse said. ‘But we cannot confirm anything until we see more clearly.’

‘Sir Josse?’ she said after a moment.

He turned to look at her. ‘You sound as if something has just occurred to you. Let’s hear it.’

‘It has,’ she said eagerly. ‘Why don’t we ask Thibault if he knows the name or the dwelling place of the English monk’s former lord? If he could provide either, then we can perhaps discover where the English monk came from.’

‘How would that help?’

She sighed. ‘Because he would very likely be making for the place,’ she said. ‘We could look for him there.’

‘Aye, so we could,’ he said slowly. Then: ‘John Damianos — Fadil — came to New Winnowlands. If his monk companion is also hiding out in the area, that suggests he might have come from around here.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Of course!’ she said. ‘Do you know of any families in the area with kin in Outremer?’

He grinned. ‘Not offhand, my lady, although I dare say I could find out.’ He wiped his platter with a crust of bread. ‘I’ll ride over to see Brice of Rotherbridge; he knows most of the big households of this corner of England, by reputation if not personally.’

He had just put the bread in his mouth when Sister Martha came to tell him that Will was looking for him. Hastily standing up, he chewed and swallowed his mouthful and said to the Abbess, ‘Excuse me, my lady.’

‘Of course, Sir Josse,’ she replied. ‘Hurry — he would not have come to find you unless it was important.’

Josse ran to the gates where Will, dismounted and holding on to his horse’s rein, was waiting for him.

‘Will, what has happened?’

Will touched his shapeless bag of a hat and gave him a sketchy bow. ‘Those two foreigners have come back. One’s got an arrow sticking in his chest.’

He said two, Josse thought swiftly, so he must mean Kathnir and Akhbir. ‘The men who came before?’

‘Aye. It’s the one who did all the talking that’s been wounded. The other one is afeard for him — rightly, I’d say — and he brought him to New Winnowlands because it was the only place he knew. Reckon they must have been nearby,’ he added. ‘Stands to reason.’

‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. ‘Has anything been done for the wounded man?’

‘Not much,’ Will admitted. ‘Couple of the lads helped me and Ella get him into the hall and Ella’s keeping the fire fed. But none of us knows anything about arrows and we thought we’d do more harm than good.’

‘I’ll come back with you straight away,’ Josse said. ‘I’ll ask the Abbess if she’ll send a nursing nun with us. Go across to Sister Martha and get Horace ready for me, Will. We’ll leave as soon as we can.’

They reached New Winnowlands in good time. Sister Euphemia had ordered Sister Caliste to go and tend to the wounded man and, with a small leather pouch of medical equipment at her waist and mounted on the golden mare that had been left in the care of the Abbey, she rode as swiftly as Josse. They had soon left Will behind. The stable lad came out to meet them, staring at Sister Caliste as if he had never seen a nun before. He took the two horses and led them away to the stables.

Josse escorted Sister Caliste inside the house. Kathnir lay on a straw mattress by the fire. Akhbir was kneeling beside him as still as a statue, his eyes closed and his lips moving silently. Josse walked up to him and touched his shoulder. The man’s dark eyes flew open and he stared up at Josse. Then, still without speaking, he inclined his head in the direction of his fallen comrade.

Kathnir was on his back, breathing shallowly, the shaft of the arrow and its feathered end sticking up out of his chest about a hand and a half’s span from his shoulder. The arrow must have missed his heart but it was a good shot all the same. His garments were soaked with blood and his skin felt cool and clammy.

Sister Caliste was standing right beside Josse. ‘What should we do, Sir Josse?’ she asked in a calm voice. ‘I have never extracted an arrow before, although I did once deal with a spear wound.’

‘The problem is in getting the arrowhead out,’ he replied. ‘Too often men wrest at the shaft in panic and it breaks away. Then you have to probe around to make a path through the swollen tissue until you get to the arrowhead.’

He knelt down and heard the swish of Sister Caliste’s wide skirts as she did the same. He put a careful hand on to the arrow and Kathnir moved slightly. His face was ashen, his eyes closed. ‘He is far down in unconsciousness,’ Josse whispered. ‘Awake, even that small touch on the arrow would have hurt like fury.’

She was leaning forward, a small knife in her hand. ‘We should cut away his garments,’ she said. ‘It may be that the arrow has not penetrated deeply.’ She did so, and then laid back the cloth to expose the embedded arrow. They both looked. ‘Oh,’ she said.

It was no minor wound that they were dealing with. Josse said, ‘Sister, have you any tool with which to hold the sides of the wound apart?’

She opened her pouch and looked. ‘Yes,’ she replied, holding up an instrument like a pair of tongs, about the length of her hand and formed of a U-shaped band of metal whose two blades had narrow, slightly flattened ends. ‘If I hold the two blades tightly against each side of the arrow shaft and push them inside the wound, I can lever them apart when I reach the arrowhead so that perhaps we shall be able to see how it is lying. If I then open the pincers along the wide side of the arrowhead, you will have an unimpeded channel through which to pull it out.’

It sounded appalling. But he could think of no better idea and she, after all, was the healer. ‘Very well,’ he said. He swallowed nervously.

She leaned down over the exposed shoulder and chest and very carefully inserted the ends of the pincers into the wound. Concentrating hard, she applied pressure and kept the two blades firmly placed against the shaft. Slowly they followed the arrow inside Kathnir’s flesh. Still he made neither sound nor movement; I am afraid, Josse thought, we are wasting our time. He watched to see if Kathnir was still breathing; the rise and fall of his chest was all but imperceptible.

He’s dying, Josse thought.

Sister Caliste gave a soft exclamation: ‘I can feel the arrowhead,’ she said. Very carefully she opened the blades of the pincers and began to move them around the arrow shaft. She frowned, then her face cleared. ‘Yes! I’ve got the shoulders.’ She changed her grip and pulled the pincers apart. There was a squelching sound and a great deal of blood flowed out.

Josse stared into the wound. He could see all the arrow and its head. The pincers were holding the wound open where the arrowhead flared out, giving it a clear and unimpeded route out of Kathnir’s flesh. Clutching the shaft as close to the arrowhead as he could, he tensed his arms and shoulders and tugged. The arrow resisted at first but then suddenly yielded and he fell over backwards with it in his hand.

He stared at it. He had seen one just like it not very long ago…

‘Sir Josse!’

He crouched beside her. The blood was flowing out of Kathnir like a flood, pulsing lazily with each beat of his heart.

Sister Caliste had grabbed a wad of linen from her pouch and was pressing it hard to the wound. It seemed she was stopping the flow for, after quickly soaking the cloth, it appeared to slow down. She removed the cloth.

The blood had stopped.

She put her fingers to Kathnir’s throat, just below his ear. Then she crouched down, her cheek to his slightly open mouth. She stayed like that for some time.

Then she straightened up and said, ‘He’s dead. I’m sorry.’ Respectfully and as if this were still a living, sentient man, she removed her pincers, wiped them on the cloth and put them back in her pouch.

Akhbir had maintained his stone-still, silent pose. Now, starting slowly and quickly escalating, a moan rose up out of him. He threw himself down beside Kathnir’s body, his arms around the shoulders and his face against the deathly pale cheek.

Josse caught Sister Caliste by the hand. Squeezing it gently, he whispered, ‘Best leave him be, Sister. We’ll step away and presently he’ll come and find us.’

She wiped her eyes, nodded and allowed Josse to lead her outside into the chilly sunshine.

Akhbir came out to them quite a long time later. They had left the courtyard and were seated by the fire in the kitchen. Ella, shy with strangers, had made herself scarce and she and Will could be heard from their own little room off the kitchen exchanging the occasional remark in low, awed voices.

Akhbir bowed very formally to them both in turn and said, ‘You try. I thank you. I am grateful.’

‘I am sorry we could not save him,’ Josse said.

The ghost of a smile crossed Akhbir’s thin face. ‘He say no use. When arrow go in he say he feel something very bad, very deep. He say leave me, bury me here but I put him on horse and come here.’ His face crumpled. ‘I do my best. But no good.’

There was so much that Josse wanted to ask. So much that, he was sure, Akhbir could tell him. But the man was grieving and in shock; he needed food, drink and rest. Josse stepped towards him and put an arm across his narrow shoulders. Akhbir flinched, then relaxed.

‘We will look after you,’ Josse said. ‘Tell us what you want to do with the body and we will carry out your wishes. Then we will give you food and drink and a place to sleep.’

Akhbir was crying now. Covering his face with his hands, he said, ‘You are good people. I stay for now.’

Sister Caliste went to stand on his other side and together she and Josse escorted him slowly back along the passage and into the hall.

They buried Kathnir in a corner of the orchard at New Winnowlands that caught the westering sun; before the last of the light fell below the horizon, he was in his grave. Josse, Will and a couple of labourers who had helped Akhbir dig the grave and bear out the body stayed with bowed heads for a little while and then they crept away and left Akhbir to his grief.

Josse insisted that Sister Caliste accept his bed and he had Ella make it up with fresh linen. He set out shakedown beds for himself and Akhbir in the hall. A long time after he had settled down for the night, he heard Akhbir come in. He had neither eaten nor drunk, although food and drink had been offered. He had stayed out there alone in the cold night beside his companion’s grave.

As he lay down, Josse could hear him sobbing.

Josse and Sister Caliste returned to Hawkenlye the next morning and Akhbir borrowed Will’s horse and rode with them. He was silent, deathly pale and the flesh around his dark eyes looked bruised. Sister Caliste, watching him anxiously, asked Josse in a whisper if he had accepted anything to eat. Josse shook his head.

As they covered the miles to the Abbey, he wondered what on earth they were going to do with the poor man.

On arrival, his half-hearted suggestion that he take Akhbir to the Abbess so that she and Josse could ask him a few questions was met with a shake of the head from Sister Caliste. ‘I am sorry to contradict you, Sir Josse,’ she said, ‘but Akhbir is not fit to answer questions, no matter how gently put. I fear he is very near collapse.’

‘Is he ill?’ Josse asked. He was quite relieved that Sister Caliste was being so decisive; asking delicate questions of a man so obviously in shock was not a prospect he relished.

‘I do not think so,’ Sister Caliste answered. ‘He has neither eaten nor drunk, you tell me, and he has suffered the terrible strain of seeing his companion wounded and trying, unsuccessfully, to save his life. He needs to rest in a quiet and safe place. Once he is himself again, then you may speak to him.’

‘May I make a suggestion, Sister?’

She was already blushing; he guessed, at having given what amounted to an order to someone who greatly outranked her. She lowered her eyes. ‘Of course, Sir Josse.’

‘It is possible that Akhbir and his late companion may have some involvement in the death of the man out on the forest track. There is also the matter of the fire at the priory, which it seems was deliberately set. Two of the victims of that act lie in the infirmary; their brother monk died in the fire. I suggest that-’

‘That we do not house Akhbir anywhere near the two Hospitallers,’ she finished for him. ‘I will ensure that he is kept well away.’ She looked across to the infirmary and then her gaze went on past it. ‘He does not need any treatment, other than someone making sure he drinks and eats,’ she mused. ‘Should we ask the lay brethren in the Vale to look after him?’

‘Aye, Sister,’ Josse agreed. The suggestion suited him very well. Since his own accommodation was down in the Vale, he could make sure that, with Akhbir being housed there too, he was the first to know when the man was ready to talk. He could also put the word around that Akhbir was to be subtly watched; Gervase de Gifford would undoubtedly wish to interview him as soon as he was up to it. It was probably just as well for Akhbir, Josse reflected, that the sheriff was not there with them now because he would not be as considerate as Sister Caliste and Josse with a man suspected of being involved in two murders. ‘I will come with you to install him in the lay brothers’ quarters,’ he added.

‘Should we not first ask the Abbess?’

‘I will report back to her as soon as Akhbir is comfortable,’ he assured her. ‘You have my word.’

His word was, apparently, good enough; Sister Caliste gave a relieved smile and, with Josse trying to form the words of a simple explanation to inform the stunned and silent Akhbir what was happening, they set off for the Vale.

‘The arrow that killed Kathnir was of the same manufacture as the one I pulled out of the tree,’ Josse said to the Abbess a short time later. ‘Whoever killed him was one of the pair who aimed the warning shots at Gervase and me to drive us away from where their Turkoman companion died.’

‘You are certain?’

‘Aye, my lady.’

She raised her hands in a gesture of frustration. ‘What are we to make of it all, Sir Josse? We now have two bands of murderers in the area.’

‘It appears that they are busy killing off each other,’ he said grimly. ‘First one of the group of archers is tortured and killed, and his companions value him enough to return to the spot and make a simple sort of shrine. Then one of their arrows kills Kathnir, whom we already suspect of knowing about the death of the Turk and who might well have killed him. I think we can now be sure of that. Kathnir — the leader out of him and Akhbir — mistook the Turk for his real quarry, whom we believe to be Fadil, going under the name of John Damianos. Kathnir and Akhbir capture the Turk and try to extract from him the whereabouts of whatever it was that the runaway monk stole.’

‘They are surely aware that the English monk and Fadil are in league,’ the Abbess said. ‘They must be, since they assumed that Fadil knew where the treasure is hidden.’

‘Aye. So, Kathnir fails to extract the information he seeks — because the victim isn’t Fadil — and he murders him. The Turk’s companions find his body and they know who killed him. They bide their time and when the moment presents itself, one of them fires an arrow which finds its mark and kills Kathnir. Vengeance is done.’

‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,’ the Abbess quoted softly.

‘I do not think, my lady, that the Lord comes into this very much.’

There was a short silence. The Abbess broke it. ‘What of the man Akhbir?’

Josse shrugged. ‘He is broken, a soul in despair. Whatever he has done, he is suffering grievously. Sister Caliste said quite rightly that we should not attempt to question him yet.’

‘Sister Caliste is charitable,’ the Abbess said neutrally. ‘But Akhbir was present at a brutal scene of mutilation and death.’

‘Aye, my lady. I know.’ He paused. ‘I have the advantage over you in that I have met and spoken to Akhbir,’ he said diplomatically. ‘Had you too had that experience, I am sure you would agree that he is not a ruthless, vicious killer and that it is best to accord him time to absorb his grief and begin to recover himself.’

He watched her nervously and soon a slow smile spread over her face. ‘How tactful you are, Sir Josse,’ she murmured. ‘Very well.’

‘I will not hesitate to inform you when that time comes,’ Josse said, relieved. ‘My lady, we must send someone down to Tonbridge in the morning to tell Gervase what has happened. He will want to come straight here to speak to Akhbir, but we will instruct our messenger to explain that the man is unwell and that it would be better to wait for a day or so.’ Something occurred to him: there was another mission he had been going to pursue when Will brought news of the wounded Kathnir and drove everything else out of his mind… Ah yes! ‘I will go to see Brice of Rotherbridge and ask about local interests in Outremer. Unless, that is, you have anything from Thibault concerning the English monk’s lord?’

‘No,’ she answered. ‘I did ask him but he says he does not know.’

There was something in her tone that made him pause. ‘But?’

She smiled again. ‘But,’ she echoed. ‘Yes, Sir Josse; there is indeed a but.’ She drummed her fingers on her table and he could sense her impatience and tension. ‘I asked Thibault a very simple question: did he know the name and domicile of the English lord in whose company the runaway monk had gone out to Outremer?’ Her eyes met Josse’s. ‘I expected an equally simple answer: yes or no. It was not what I got.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He made a great show of appearing to think, but I am sure it was only to give himself the time to make up a credible lie. Then he said he hadn’t known the English monk that well and when they were together it was usually in the press of battle and they had never got round to talking of the past. It was,’ she added dismissively, ‘a shower of words that said precisely nothing. He knows the identity of this English lord perfectly well, Sir Josse; but for some reason he doesn’t want to tell us.’