The Paths of the Air

Eleven

W hen Josse finally got to his bed he was exhausted and fell asleep quickly. But some time later he was awakened; his soldier’s reactions warned him there had been a sound that did not belong among the safe night noises. He lay on his back with his eyes open, staring out into the darkness of the low room. The door and the two small windows were closed, the fold of leather in place keeping out the moonlight and the starlight. The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers.

He listened.

Then he heard it.

From the far corner where they had put Akhbir came the sound of softly muttered but urgent words; it seemed that Akhbir was pleading with his God.

Barely pausing to think about it, Josse was out of his bedroll and padding across the cold, hard floor. Akhbir sounded as if he was in despair. He was all alone in a foreign land, the man who had been his senior and his companion had just died, he still had a mission to fulfil and he probably had no idea how to go about it. All of which was good enough reason for despair.

But desperate men tend to talk, Josse reasoned. Especially in the dark hours before dawn when courage and optimism are at their lowest ebb and when so many of the dying slip away to death. He knelt down beside Akhbir, who lay curled up with his face to the wall, and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. Akhbir jumped in alarm, twisting round to look up into Josse’s face.

‘Do not be afraid; I wish to help you.’ Josse pitched his voice low. Akhbir had been put in this far corner well away from the sleeping lay brethren, but Josse was aware that one or more of the brothers would wake if he spoke aloud. Even worse, one of the two guards that Gervase had sent up from Tonbridge might hear.

‘You cannot help,’ Akhbir hissed back.

Josse considered how to proceed. It depended on Akhbir’s mood; there was so much that he needed to know, but Akhbir would only be likely to talk if he truly believed there was no hope for him.

‘You will not be ill-treated when they take you down to the prison cell,’ he began, choosing his words carefully. ‘You will be put on trial for murder but the sheriff may speak for you if he believes that it was Kathnir and not you who killed the Turk.’

‘What happen to me if not?’

‘If they think you were equally guilty? You’ll hang.’

A sob escaped Akhbir. ‘I want to go home,’ he whispered mournfully.

Home. I wonder, Josse thought.

‘Would you be able to find your way back to Outremer?’

‘Yes.’ There was no doubt in Akhbir’s voice.

‘But what of your mission? What of the treasure your master sent you to recover?’

Akhbir said something in his own tongue; it sounded faintly disparaging. Then: ‘I not know about treasure. Kathnir know; Kathnir not tell secret to me.’ Then, in case Josse was still in any doubt: ‘Kathnir my master. I serve him all my life but he dead now.’

Josse saw tears in his dark eyes, welling up and catching the dim light from the hearth.

‘Perhaps you truly do not know what the treasure is,’ Josse said softly. ‘But there are many things, Akhbir, that you do know; things that I should be very grateful to be told.’

The dark eyes slid to Josse’s. There was a calculating expression in them. ‘Very grateful?’

‘Very grateful indeed,’ Josse said. Firmly putting from his mind what Gervase was going to say, he took a deep breath and said, ‘Answer my questions and I’ll let you go.’

Akhbir’s teeth flashed in a brief smile. ‘Ask,’ he said simply.

Josse was ready and the first question shot out. ‘What is the name of the fat man who wanted Fadil returned to him?’

‘Hisham.’

‘He is wealthy and important?’

‘He is both.’

‘Is he a great landowner?’

‘He own much land. He is — merchant, of Tripoli, but also man of very great wisdom. He is-’ Akhbir appeared to struggle to find the word but then, giving up, said something in his own tongue that sounded like simyager.

‘And Fadil is his brother and heir?’ Josse thought he knew the answer already.

Akhbir sneered. ‘Not kin. Not heir. But beloved.’

Josse did not think he had ever heard the beautiful word spoken with such disdain and disgust. ‘I see,’ he murmured. ‘You told us that Hisham had lost that which he held most dear. Did you mean Fadil? Or did you mean whatever Hisham was offering to get him back?’

Akhbir narrowed his eyes and an expression of extreme cunning crossed his face. He watched Josse closely and Josse could almost hear his thoughts. Then the moment of resistance was gone. Akhbir gave a soft sigh and said, ‘I not sure but I believe he mean both.’

So it was true that the fat man was trying to cheat the Hospitallers, Josse thought. What did he do? Prepare a secret force to overcome the knights in that lonely desert spot? They all died — all except one — so it was likely. And it would have to have been quite a force; the Knights Hospitaller fought like cornered lions.

But Akhbir had leaned closer and was whispering again. ‘One monk get away. He take Fadil. My master say he also take treasure. My master call Kathnir, tell him, follow monk and Fadil. Bring back Fadil. Kill monk and take back treasure.’

‘You cannot do the second part of your mission now. You just said you do not know what the treasure is.’

‘No.’ A deep sigh. ‘No.’

Would Akhbir try to go after Fadil? Josse intended to keep his word and get Akhbir out of the lay brothers’ quarters and onto the road that led to the coast; but by doing so would he be putting Fadil — John Damianos — in danger? I liked the man, he thought. I will not put him in danger of being taken back to Outremer and whatever terrible life he had as the fat man’s sex slave.

Something did not feel quite right. He pictured John Damianos and tried to imagine him as the subject of an older man’s lust. It was all but impossible.

He recalled something the Abbess had said. It was when they began to believe that John Damianos was the name that Fadil had adopted; Josse told her he’d imagined Fadil to be a younger man and she replied that two years on the run would have aged him. Perhaps the experience had also hardened him from a rich old man’s plaything to a man who walked tall and strong.

A man who, from what Josse recalled of John Damianos, would be more than capable of dealing with the broken, lonely, grieving and homesick Akhbir.

But what about the runaway Hospitaller? Would a released Akhbir feel honour- and duty-bound to pursue him? He and Fadil seemed to have parted company — there had been no monk with John Damianos when he arrived at New Winnowlands — and Thibault appeared to have been searching for the runaway in the vicinity of Tonbridge.

Where was the runaway monk?

Where was Fadil?

Did Akhbir have any idea of the whereabouts of either? Because if so and if Josse followed him, then Akhbir just might lead him to one or both of them.

In the absence of a better one, it was quite a good plan…

‘Wait,’ he commanded Akhbir. Then he tiptoed back to his own bed, swiftly put on his outer garments, picked up his weapons and drew on his boots. Creeping back to Akhbir, he whispered, ‘Get up, put on your cloak and boots and collect your belongings together.’ Akhbir hastily obeyed. ‘Come with me — ’ Josse took hold of his arm — ‘this way.’

He put the Saracen directly behind him as he began to walk slowly and steadily along the room. One of the guards stirred and, looking up, said, ‘Sir Josse?’

Josse spread his arms, concealing Akhbir behind him. ‘Too much ale last night,’ he whispered with a grin. ‘I’m bursting.’

The guard gave a gap-toothed smile and lay down again, turning on his side away from Josse. Edging Akhbir round, Josse pushed him in front of him — the man walked soft-footed as a cat — and, prodding him to make him hurry, got him to the door. He opened it and Akhbir went out into the night, Josse on his heels.

He took the Saracen’s arm and, urging him to a fast pace, took him along the path that led along the Vale. There was a little-used track at the far end of the shallow valley that led up to the road. Josse hurried up it, Akhbir panting beside him. They stood side by side on the road. Dawn was not far off now and Josse said, ‘That way leads down to Tonbridge, where the sheriff has his cell waiting for you. That way — ’ he pointed — ‘skirts the forest and then turns south towards the coast.’

Akhbir stood quite still, as if he could hardly believe that Josse had really kept his word and was setting him free. ‘Go!’ Josse urged. ‘Hurry and get down to the sea, then take a boat for France and go home.’

Slowly Akhbir turned to stare at him. Then without a word he started to run down the track.

Josse watched him. He looked back once or twice, then he reached the turn in the road and vanished from sight.

Josse set off after him.

He discovered that it was possible to keep Akhbir in sight while remaining just beneath the cover of the forest fringe. Akhbir did not look back; he kept up a quick pace, his head down, sometimes turning to look to right or left as if checking for way markers. For two or three miles he kept to the main track. Then, when it veered off towards the south and the coast, Akhbir branched off to the right onto a smaller path around the edge of the forest. Now he — and Josse, in pursuit — walked with undergrowth and winter-bare trees on either side. After perhaps another mile and a half, Akhbir increased his pace. Then suddenly he wasn’t there.

He’s seen me, Josse thought instantly, and his instinct was to break into a run, but his common sense held him back. If he was wrong and Akhbir did not know he was there, then his pounding feet on the frost-hard track would advertise his presence as clearly as if he’d yelled Here I am!

He crept on, barely breathing, his eyes fixed to the bracken and the tangle of bramble to his right. And his diligence was rewarded, for presently he came to a place where an animal track — boar or deer — broke away from the path.

It led right into the heart of the forest.

Without hesitation he set off along it.

After a while he felt he knew where they might be heading. He could see Akhbir now, perhaps eighty paces ahead, keeping to the narrow track and walking purposefully, like a man eager to reach his destination.

Josse tried to summon memories of the last time he had been here, if indeed he was right and this was the place that he had in mind. It was difficult because apart from the fact that one forest track looked very much like another, especially when the leaves were off the trees and everything seemed fast asleep, when he had been brought here for the first time he had been blindfolded.

Joanna had hidden in an old house in this area. The house had belonged to her great-aunt and uncle, and when she was small she had spent much time in their household. She had been cared for and taught by their house servant, Mag Hobson; it was many years later that Joanna learned who Mag really was. The house was modest, with a few ramshackle outbuildings. It belonged to Joanna now; not that she went there often, preferring to live in her little hut deep in the forest.

Had Kathnir and Akhbir stumbled on the old place and, finding it deserted, made themselves at home? Josse prayed that he was wrong, for he could imagine all too clearly what Joanna’s reaction would be if she paid one of her rare visits to the house and discovered a strange Saracen in her hall. She would attack and A smile spread over his face. Aye, Joanna might be a woman pitting herself against a warrior but she had a power about her now and ways of not only defending herself but also attacking her enemy that might come as quite a surprise to Akhbir.

But on a visit to the house she’d undoubtedly have Meggie with her…

Grim now, he pressed on.

The faint ribbon of track broadened into a well-defined path, then into a road wide enough for a horse and rider. Josse was certain now: the old house was about a quarter of a mile ahead. He had Akhbir in view as the Saracen climbed a slight rise and stepped out into the clearing, then hurried towards the paved courtyard, overgrown with tufts of grass and weeds.

Memories of being here with Joanna flooded Josse’s mind despite his efforts to keep them at bay. It was to this house, her secret hiding place, that she had brought him when he had been wounded. Here she had told him her poignant tale; here she had wept and he had taken her in his arms. Here, on fur rugs in front of the fire, he had intended only to comfort her but comfort had turned into mutual passion and they had made love for the first time.

Joanna.

He closed his eyes and suffered the mingled joy and pain of his memories. Then, ordering himself to get on with his present imperative task, he opened his eyes again. But memory was still in command. He thought he saw her, clad in her heavy, enveloping woollen cloak. Just for an instant she seemed to shimmer there on the path beside the house.

Then the vision was gone.

Less out of his sense of duty than to rid himself of the anguish of remembering, he took a calming breath and began to creep carefully forward.

It looked as if Akhbir and Kathnir had been living in the undercroft, for whereas the heavy wooden door to the hall was fast shut and had a strand of wild rose growing across it, the arched door beside the steps was ajar and there were signs that feet had been treading through the doorway.

There was a group of holly trees where the track joined the open space in front of the house and Josse crouched behind it. He was thinking hard. Someone was living here, or had been very recently. Had it been the two Saracens? Or did Akhbir know that someone else was here — Fadil, perhaps, or the runaway monk; both, maybe — and was he even now about to burst in on them?

He stood up and stared after Akhbir.

Whoever was in the house, Akhbir was wary of them; he had drawn his long, curved knife. He held it firmly in his raised right hand.

He broke into a run.

And then suddenly he stopped, skittered to a halt and collapsed on the ground, an arrow in his chest.

Josse broke cover and raced to the fallen man. The arrow had been fired at short range and the shot had been devastatingly accurate. The missile had gone straight through Akhbir’s body and its evil head was sticking a hand’s breadth out of his back.

He was dead.

Josse knelt by his side, Akhbir’s warm blood soaking into the cloth of his hose. He reached out a hand and gently closed the wide eyes. He muttered a prayer; although he had no idea what a Saracen would wish said over his dead body, Josse was familiar with the Christian ritual and he did his best.

I must get his body away and back to Hawkenlye, he thought. I cannot carry him. I shall have to hurry back and fetch help. But before I go I must find something to cover him. Akhbir’s cloak was bunched up beneath his body and Josse began to roll the corpse from side to side to free it. He pulled out a section of the hem and was just attempting to move the body again when he heard a whistling sound above him.

He looked up to see a second arrow flying in a lobbed trajectory high over his head. Losing momentum, it fell to earth and embedded itself in the ground about a foot from where he knelt.

Hurriedly he shoved Akhbir off his cloak, then draped the cloth over the dead man’s face and chest. Another arrow struck the ground, slightly closer to him. With a cry of alarm, he grabbed at it, wrested it free and leapt to his feet. His hands and arms covering his head in a futile gesture of self-defence, he ran for the path that led away under the trees.

The longer track that ran around the forest might have been the wiser road to take but Josse had received a bad scare and, in addition, he knew he had to face Gervase as quickly as he could with the news that the sheriff’s prisoner was dead. Consequently he took the direct route that led straight through the old forest.

He muttered under his breath as he hurried along, a random string of words such as please and sorry and short little sentences such as I would not intrude but for dire necessity. He was not quite sure who he was addressing: the forest people; the trees; the numinous presence that dwelt in the heart of this strange place. Whoever it was, it heard him and he was not only left alone but, as if by magic, he found his way along the swiftest tracks and paths without one wrong turning.

All too soon he was back at the Abbey.

The community was emerging from the church after tierce. The Abbess saw him and walked up to him. Wordlessly he inclined his head in the direction of her room and, with a nod, she led the way there.

‘Akhbir is dead,’ he said without preamble. ‘I let him go in the hope that he would lead me to either Fadil or the runaway monk.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘And did he?’

‘He led me to someone,’ Josse answered grimly. ‘That someone shot Akhbir through the heart and warned me off with two more equally well-aimed shots.’

‘It is exactly what happened when you and Gervase found the makeshift shrine to the dead Turk!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whoever shot at you then has already murdered Kathnir and now they have killed Akhbir too.’

‘But-’ he began.

‘I shall send word immediately for Gervase,’ she announced, striding over to the door. ‘Sister Ursel!’ she called loudly. ‘Sister!’ She hurried out into the cloister and Josse, following, saw the porteress run towards her. There was a brief conversation, Sister Ursel nodded then hurried away in the direction of the stables.

‘One of the young lay brothers is mucking out for Sister Martha,’ the Abbess explained as she came back into the room. ‘Sister Ursel is going to dispatch him down to Tonbridge immediately.’ She looked sympathetically at Josse. ‘Have you had breakfast?’ He shook his head. ‘Then come with me to the refectory, and while we wait for Gervase I shall order food and a warming drink for you.’

When he had finished Sister Basilia’s excellent breakfast and expressed his thanks, he and the Abbess returned to her room. She seemed disinclined to question him further until the sheriff was with them, and as they settled down to wait he said, ‘Someone has made a temporary camp out at the old house where Joanna’s great-aunt and uncle lived.’

She knew straight away why he had told her that. ‘Any sign of her?’ she asked quietly.

‘No. The door into the hall looked as if it hadn’t been opened in months. Whoever is living there is using the undercroft.’

‘I wonder why?’ She was, he thought, doing her best to distract him from thoughts of Joanna by presenting a small puzzle. ‘If you’re going to borrow someone’s house without permission, why not do it in style? He — or they — could have lit a fire in the hall and there must be furs and rugs and so on and-’

She must have noticed his expression. He had very precious and extremely intimate memories of fur rugs and a roaring fire in Joanna’s hall.

‘Well, it’s odd to use the undercroft instead,’ she hurried on. Her cheeks had flushed a little, as if she were aware of her error. ‘Perhaps whoever it is knew they were doing wrong and were keen to keep the offence to a minimum…’

Silence fell. Although Josse was not keen to face Gervase and explain why he had released Akhbir and positively encouraged him to run away, still he found himself almost looking forward to the confrontation. Anything would be better, he thought miserably, than sitting here feeling the Abbess’s sympathy coming at him in waves and being unable to do what he longed to do.

Which was to share with her the less personal of those precious memories. To open his heart and pour out all the pain that he was suffering.

But she was Abbess of Hawkenlye and they were trying to find out why two people — three now — had been murdered. He kept his peace.

When Gervase arrived, Josse gave him his reasons for having let Akhbir go succinctly and honestly. The sheriff was more surprised than angry. He said, ‘I respect your judgement, Josse, and in fact you didn’t do anything wrong since Akhbir wasn’t exactly under arrest, merely under guard. But he didn’t do what you expected, did he? He didn’t lead you either to Fadil or to the English Hospitaller. Instead he seems to have run straight into the same bowman who killed Kathnir.’

‘He didn’t,’ Josse said quietly.

‘He didn’t what?’ Gervase demanded.

‘It was not Kathnir’s killer who fired the shot.’

‘Josse, you’re asking us to believe that there are two expert archers out there hunting down stray Saracens!’ Gervase exclaimed, looking across at the Abbess with an exasperated smile. ‘That is stretching credibility, is it not, my lady?’

‘It would appear so,’ she said guardedly.

‘I have not told you it all yet,’ Josse said.

‘Then please do so!’ cried the sheriff.

‘Kathnir was killed with the same type of arrow that was fired at us, Gervase, as we stood at the spot where the Turk died, and we concluded that whoever killed Kathnir did so out of revenge for their fallen comrade. Also, that they did not want our presence at a spot that they revered like a shrine to the dead man.’

‘Yes,’ Gervase agreed.

‘I believe that someone else killed Akhbir,’ he said gravely, ‘for he was shot with a crossbow bolt.’

‘You are certain of that?’ Gervase demanded.

‘Aye. The bowman did not want me to linger over Akhbir’s body and he fired two more shots to warn me off. I brought one of them away with me. It’s in the gatehouse with my weapons.’

‘You of all men ought to know the difference between a longbow arrow and a crossbow bolt,’ Gervase admitted.

‘Aye. I do,’ Josse agreed.

‘Cannot a man be efficient with both?’ the Abbess asked. ‘Is not the crossbow a better weapon for short-range fire?’

Josse turned to look at her. It was a surprising piece of knowledge for a nun, but then, as he often reminded himself, she had not always been a nun. ‘That is so. As to whether a man can be as good a marksman with both weapons, I have not experienced such a thing. The two types of bow require different skills, use different muscles, and it is normal for a man to train in the use of one or the other. But it’s not impossible.’

‘Unlikely?’ the sheriff persisted.

‘Aye.’

‘So those who wished to avenge the Turk’s death by murdering the two Saracen warriors were not responsible for this morning’s death,’ the Abbess said. ‘Who was, then?’

Josse, who had the advantage over his companions of having known for very much longer how Akhbir had died, had given a great deal of thought to the question. ‘There are two obvious possibilities,’ he said. ‘Akhbir was involved in the mission to find Fadil and take him back to the fat man. He and Kathnir were also commanded to retrieve the stolen treasure with which the fat man intended to buy him back. We believe that Fadil and the English monk came to England together but that they have parted company. I suggest that either Fadil — John Damianos — is living out in the house in the forest alone, or else that he’s got the Hospitaller with him. One of them must have fired the shots that killed Akhbir and sent me running.’

‘You said that John Damianos was alone when he came to New Winnowlands,’ the Abbess observed.

‘Aye, I know. I thought of that too. But just because they had separated then does not necessarily mean they have not joined forces again now.’

Gervase was shaking his head. ‘What are they doing out there?’ he said. ‘Is it simply that, all too aware there are people hunting for them, they are lying low?’

‘There are fewer people on their trail now,’ the Abbess said. ‘The two Saracens are dead. Thibault of Margat and Brother Otto are lying in their beds here at the Abbey recovering from the effects of the fire.’

‘Aye, that is true, my lady,’ Josse agreed, ‘but we still face a third pursuing party which is perhaps the most dangerous of all.’

‘How so?’ asked Gervase.

Josse smiled grimly. ‘Because, except for these facts — that they originally had a Turkish bowman with them, that there are at least two of them and both are expert archers, and they appear to be involved in the pursuit of Fadil and the English monk — we know absolutely nothing about them.’