The Paths of the Air

Three

The body had been savaged.

It was naked and the wounds were clear to see. There was a large lump on the forehead, and bruising and a couple of grazes on the jaw. There was a series of deep cuts across the chest and the right arm had been all but severed just above the wrist. It was as if the dead man had defended himself — with sword, with knife? — and his attacker, or more likely attackers, had gone for the right arm to prevent the defensive blade thrust.

The belly had been sliced open, allowing the purplish-white folds of the guts to push out. This would have undoubtedly killed him but his murderers had been merciful. They had slit his throat.

Not just slit it; they had carved out a wide slice from jaw to larynx, leaving a terrible gash in the shape of the young moon.

Dear God, Josse thought.

In front of him Dickon and Brother Augustus had stopped. Josse and Brother Saul drew level and all four stood staring. Josse glanced at Dickon, pale as new snow beside him. ‘Go and stand on the track down there where it curves round to the right,’ he ordered. ‘Stop anyone coming along the path.’

Dickon’s look of gratitude was eloquent reward. Not only was he excused from going any nearer to that terrible thing under the trees but in addition Josse had saved his pride by giving him a job to do.

Leaving the lay brothers on the path, Josse approached the bloody body. There was a cloaked figure standing some distance beyond it, next to two mules tethered to a tree. The man hurried forward.

‘You are from Hawkenlye Abbey?’ he called.

‘Aye,’ Josse said. ‘I am Josse d’Acquin. The brethren with the hurdle are Brothers Saul and Augustus.’

The man nodded. ‘I am Guiot of Robertsbridge, on my way to Tonbridge with nutmegs and cloves for the market. That’s my lad Dickon. He’s a tad lacking in the wits but he’s willing and he has a way with a heavily laden mule that I’ve rarely seen bettered.’ Having thus identified himself — a wise notion, Josse reflected, when standing over a mutilated corpse — Guiot of Robertsbridge dropped his voice and muttered, ‘Someone had it in for this poor fellow.’

Josse had crouched down over the body. ‘Aye.’

‘I’ve been wondering if-’ began Guiot. But, evidently sensing that Josse would prefer silence, abruptly he shut his mouth and stepped back a pace.

Slowly and steadily Josse took in the details of the dead man, from the top of his head to his pale, bare feet. His shoulder-length hair was so dark that it looked black, lying slick and smooth on his skull. His eyes, partly open, were also dark; having noted this detail, Josse gently lowered the lids. The man’s nose was sharp and the cheekbones were set high, giving a hawkish look to the face. The skin was olive in tone. His chest was well muscled and he was broad-shouldered, with a toned belly and long legs with sturdy thighs. The penis, flaccid below the smooth black body hair, had been circumcised.

Josse looked up at Guiot. ‘Any sign of his clothing?’

‘No. This is exactly how he was when the lad and I stumbled across him: mother-naked, unarmed and no pack, purse or wallet.’ Unable to curb his curiosity, he added, ‘Robbery, do you think? Some wretch jumping out on a man travelling alone in the early hours of the morning?’

Intrigued, Josse said, ‘How do you know he was attacked in the early hours?’

Guiot looked smug. ‘Because Dickon and I left home around dawn and Dickon had been up some time before that getting the mule packed. He pointed out that it was a good thing we didn’t set out earlier because we’d have been caught in the downpour we’d just had.’ The smile spreading, Guiot went on, ‘The body’s wet, so it was lying here when the rain fell, but the ground under the body is dry, so he must have fallen just before the rain shower.’

Josse was impressed. But he could see a slight flaw in the argument: ‘Could there not have been another shower earlier in the night?’

‘No,’ Guiot said firmly. ‘I’m a light sleeper and I’d have heard rain on the roof. D’you reckon it was a robber killed him?’ he persisted. ‘Seems likely, since whoever did for him took his belongings and every stitch of clothing.’

‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. He was not really listening; he was trying to make up his mind about something.

It was difficult to say with certainty, for with the clothing and the satchel missing there was nothing to go by. The face was exposed, that was true, but then Josse had nothing with which to make a comparison. Still, the height and the general build were right, as was the swarthy skin tone.

And the man he was thinking of was, after all, missing…

Making up his mind, Josse stood up. He looked at Guiot and said, ‘We must take him to the Abbey and prepare his body for burial.’

He turned and beckoned to the two lay brothers who, with no display of emotion save that their touch on the dead man’s body was noticeably gentle and respectful, loaded him onto the hurdle.

‘We can’t carry him into the Abbey like that,’ Josse said, gazing down at the corpse. He unfastened his cloak and was about to cover the body with it when Guiot said, ‘Wait.’ Then, looking slightly ashamed: ‘Pity to spoil a good cloak. Let me fetch a bit of sacking to absorb the blood, then your cloak can go on top of that.’

It made sense. Josse gave a curt nod, and the dead man, decently covered, was borne away to Hawkenlye Abbey.

‘I think,’ Josse said to Abbess Helewise, ‘that the victim may be John Damianos.’

‘I see,’ the Abbess said slowly. ‘You are not sure?’

‘I cannot be, my lady, for John Damianos wore a headdress that kept his brow, nose and mouth concealed and his eyes in shade. Our dead man was naked when he was found and his garments are missing.’

‘On what grounds, then, do you believe him to be this John Damianos?’

‘Right build, right height, same olive skin tone, and John Damianos is missing. Also the dead man was circumcised, which suggests he was possibly Muslim, and, as I told you, I believe the man who took refuge in my outbuilding was a servant brought home from Outremer.’

‘Yes, yes, so you did,’ she murmured. Then, frowning, ‘But is such scant information sufficient for us to bury him as John Damianos?’

Josse shrugged. ‘I do not know, my lady.’

Abruptly she stood up and, walking around her table, said, ‘Come, Sir Josse. Let us go and join Sister Euphemia.’

The corpse had been taken to the infirmary and Sister Caliste had washed it. Now, as the Abbess parted the curtains and led the way into the recess, both Sister Caliste and the infirmarer were bending over the dead man.

Sister Euphemia glanced up as they stepped inside and let the curtain fall behind them. She gave the Abbess a bow and said quietly, ‘I’ve tidied him up. I hope that was all right, Sir Josse, only…’ Her lips tightened.

Josse looked at the long, strong body lying on the cot. The guts had been pushed back into the abdomen, the flesh held together with a neat row of large stitches. A roll of linen had been placed beneath the head, so that the chin was tucked down against the upper chest, partly closing the awful wound in the throat. Meeting Sister Euphemia’s eyes, he nodded. ‘Aye. It was quite all right, Sister. I saw him by the road and I know what was done to him.’

The Abbess’s face was white. He could hear her soft mutter as she prayed for the dead man’s soul. When she had finished, she turned to Josse and said, in what he thought was an admirably controlled tone, ‘What can have prompted such savagery, Sir Josse? This man must have suffered agony.’

He hesitated, not because he had no answer but because that answer added more horror. But she was waiting. ‘My lady, to torture a man before killing him is usually done to extract something that it is believed he knows, or to inflict maximum punishment before the death blow.’

She nodded. Putting out a hand, she let her fingertips rest on the dead man’s shoulder in the lightest of touches. ‘Did he bear an awesome secret?’ she said softly. ‘Or had he done a wicked deed?’

Not sure whether the question was rhetorical — he would have had no answer even if it were not — Josse held his silence. After a moment, the Abbess said, ‘If indeed this man is your John Damianos, then we know he was going out secretly by night. He fled once his nocturnal habits were known. Were those not, Sir Josse, the actions of a fugitive with something to hide?’

‘Aye, my lady.’

‘Then we must assume that those who sought him have found him.’ She sighed. ‘Is there any more to be gained from further study of the body?’

Josse met the infirmarer’s eyes. ‘Sister Euphemia? Have you completed your inspection?’

‘I have,’ she confirmed. ‘He was a man in his late twenties or early thirties, tall and broad and very well-muscled. I would say that he was a fighting man.’

‘Aye,’ Josse agreed.

‘His feet and legs in particular are powerful,’ the infirmarer continued, ‘suggesting that he did a great deal of walking. His skin is darker in tone than is common among us, indicating that he comes from a foreign land. His eyes are dark brown and his hair black. He suffered multiple wounds before his throat was cut.’ She looked quickly at the Abbess, then her eyes returned to Josse. ‘It wasn’t an easy death or a quick one.’

‘Thank you, Sister,’ the Abbess murmured. ‘Sir Josse? Have you anything to add?’

Mentally Josse ran through the many wounds on the body. The horror of the man’s death prevented him thinking about anything else, but he knew he must force his brain to work. ‘I am trying to recall anything I observed of my visitor that might help us to determine whether or not this is his body,’ he said. ‘But I have not come up with anything. John Damianos was most scrupulous in keeping his head and face covered and I just don’t know…’

There was a short silence. Then the Abbess said, ‘Will further contemplation of this poor, ruined man help you?’

He realized belatedly what she was asking him. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I am attempting the impossible, for I am trying to compare something I can see with something that was carefully kept from my eyes. The sooner we put this man in his grave’ — and out of our sight, he might have added — ‘the better.’

She nodded. ‘Very well. Sister Euphemia, if you will prepare the corpse, it shall be taken to the crypt to await burial.’ She was still staring down at the dead man, her eyes wide and dazed, and Josse could see that it was with some effort that finally she tore her gaze away.

She turned and strode out of the recess. Josse, with a quick smile to Sister Euphemia and Sister Caliste, hurried after her.

Helewise wanted more than anything to escape to her private room, close the door and bring herself under control. The dead body had disturbed her far more than she had let on and as she walked swiftly across the frost-hard ground, after-images of horror floated in front of her eyes. As she reached the cloister she was aware of someone hurrying after her — Josse, for sure — and, biting down her impatience, she turned.

It was not Josse; he was standing in the arched doorway to the infirmary, staring after her with a faint frown on his face. It was old Brother Firmin.

She forced a smile. ‘Brother Firmin, good day.’

‘I am sorry to detain you when I know you must yearn for a moment to yourself,’ he began — oh, dear Lord, she thought, how fast news travels in this community! — ‘but I fear I must tell you. It’s not only the other brethren and me — Sister Ursel and Sister Martha were asked too, and so were two of the refectory nuns, and I am told they were also seen outside the infirmary so they must have pursued their enquiries with the nursing sisters, and I — that is, we — just thought you ought to know, my lady.’

His honest eyes in the deeply creased old face were looking up at her anxiously and her irritation vanished as swiftly as it had come. ‘Of course, Brother Firmin,’ she said kindly. Taking his hand and tucking it under her arm, she added, ‘Come along to my room, where we shall be out of the draught, and you shall tell me what it is that troubles you.’

‘But-’

They had reached her door and she opened it and ushered the old monk inside. She seated herself in her chair. ‘Now, Brother.’ She folded her hands inside the opposite sleeves of her habit and gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile. He seemed to shrink in alarm so she relaxed her fierce expression a little. ‘What is the matter?’

Eyeing her nervously, he hesitated and then said in a rush, ‘Three men have been here asking questions. They are brethren of the Order of Knights Hospitaller and wear the white cross upon breast or sleeve.’

Her mind had leapt ahead as soon as Brother Firmin spoke his second sentence. Knights Hospitaller. Outremer. Returning knights and abandoned servants. Dead man with a secret. John Damianos.

Brother Firmin was looking at her warily.

‘Go on!’ she snapped. Then, instantly penitent, ‘I am sorry, Brother Firmin. Please excuse my impatience. These men were asking questions, you said?’

‘Yes, my lady. They spoke to the monks and pilgrims down in the Vale, then like I say they came up here and spoke to the sisters in the refectory and the-’

‘Yes, quite,’ she interrupted. ‘What did they want to know?’

Brother Firmin’s eyes widened like a storyteller approaching the most dramatic point of his tale. ‘They’re after a runaway!’ he breathed.

‘Really?’ She felt her own excitement rising. ‘From where and what has this man fled?’

‘I cannot say, my lady,’ the old monk admitted, ‘save that the knights implied their chase had been most arduous and lengthy.’

Had they trailed their quarry all the way from Outremer? she wondered. Was it likely that three warrior monks would follow a runaway all that distance? Was it even possible to dog a man’s footsteps for all those hundreds and hundreds of miles over both land and sea…?

‘They did say,’ Brother Firmin added darkly, ‘that the runaway was an English monk.’

‘Did they?’ She was not sure why she was surprised. Wouldn’t it be the obvious thing, for an English fugitive to run for home? But then she realized that her surprise was because she was still obsessed with the body of the dark stranger: he, clearly, was no Englishman, and consequently she was now faced with the fact that her instant conclusion — that the runaway Knight Hospitaller was the man in her infirmary — could not be the right one. ‘I see,’ she finished lamely.

Brother Firmin waited to see if she was going to speak again and when she did not, he ventured tentatively, ‘We all thought it was very strange, my lady.’

‘What was?’

‘That these men should creep about asking questions of just about everybody except for the person they ought to have approached.’ His frown expressed his disapproval. ‘They are vowed monks and they ought to know how such things are done.’

‘You mean they should have asked me first?’

‘Indeed they should, my lady! Why, we all assumed they had your permission to interview us! Had we known that this was not the case, we should have refused!’ His very body language spoke of his indignation. ‘I do hope that no harm has been done?’

‘No, Brother; none at all.’ She got to her feet. ‘Do you know where they are now? Because I think it is about time that I too heard what they have to say.’

The three Hospitallers, she discovered as she crossed the cloister with Brother Firmin panting along by her side, had found Josse. Or perhaps, she thought with a smile, Josse had found them. Either way, they were all standing in the lee of the long infirmary building and Josse appeared to be giving the oldest of the trio a considerable piece of his mind.

‘… not the way things are done here, however you might carry on in Outremer. Here it is considered good manners to speak to the Abbess first, and only proceed when and if she says you can!’

He and Brother Firmin must have been taught the same rules. Suppressing her smile, she glided up to the group and said, ‘I am Abbess Helewise. May I help?’

Two of the three knights had the grace to look abashed. The third — a lean, pale man whose extreme thinness gave an illusory impression of height — stared straight at her with hazel eyes that did not look down as he gave a perfunctory bow. ‘I am Thibault of Margat, of the Order of the Knights of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem,’ he intoned. ‘These — ’ he indicated the other two with a wave of his hand that was almost insulting in its indifference — ‘are Brother Otto and, er…’ he paused, frowning, ‘Brother Jeremiah.’

Helewise wondered which was which, for their superior did not deign to enlighten her. All three were dressed in dark robes that were dusty, mud-spattered and very well worn. She waited for Thibault to continue.

‘We are hunting for a runaway monk,’ he said in a curiously expressionless tone. ‘He is an Englishman.’

‘An English Hospitaller,’ she said. ‘And what does this man look like?’

‘He will be dressed as we are,’ Thibault said, ‘in a dark robe and black cloak — ’ he held out a fold of his own cloak — ‘or scapular — ’ he pointed to one of the brothers — ‘marked with the distinctive white cross of our Order.’

Slowly she shook her head. ‘I have seen no such man,’ she said. Then, for Thibault’s look of disdain was profoundly irritating, she added, ‘I will ask my nuns and monks if they have noticed a man dressed as you describe. Unless, that is, you have already done so?’ She fixed Thibault with a hard stare.

His lips tightened. ‘We have asked both in the settlement down by the lake and here in the Abbey,’ he acknowledged.

‘And have any of my community or its visitors been able to help you?’

‘No.’ The single word was curt.

Although she knew it was unworthy, she was enjoying his discomfiture. ‘To describe a man simply by the garb he wears is not of much value,’ she said, forcing a helpful expression, ‘since it is the easiest thing to remove one garment and put on another.’

‘I had thought of that, my lady.’ Thibault sounded as if he was speaking through clenched teeth.

‘Can you not tell us more?’ she prompted. ‘What age is this runaway? What is his name? And what does he look like — is he fair or dark? Tall, short, fat, thin?’

Thibault raised his chin and squared his shoulders. ‘I do not know,’ he said.

For an instant Helewise was blessed with additional perception and she knew without doubt that this was a lie. Then the moment passed.

She glanced at Josse, watching the exchange with close attention, and drew him towards her. ‘This is Sir Josse d’Acquin,’ she said, ‘a King’s man and a loyal friend to Hawkenlye Abbey. Have you asked your question of him?’

Thibault looked at Josse, who stared levelly back. ‘I have. Like you and your people, he says he knows nothing of a robed Hospitaller.’

There was a very faint emphasis on says. Helewise felt her anger boil up. She waited until she had herself under control and then said quietly, ‘If that is what Sir Josse says, then, Thibault of Margat, it is the truth. If there is nothing else you want of me or my community, then allow me to wish you God’s speed.’

She watched the protest rise and fall again in Thibault’s face. He is torn, she thought grimly. There is more — probably very much more — that he could tell us that would help us to identify this runaway monk, should he ever come this way. Yet this information is sensitive, for Thibault cannot bring himself to divulge it…

As she waited for the Hospitaller to make up his mind she was struck forcibly with the thought that whatever the fugitive monk might or might not have done, she was on his side. But that was not a thought that a nun — an abbess, indeed — should entertain.

Thibault must have been working out his parting remark. Now, sweeping his black cloak around him, he jerked his head at his two silent companions and they walked off towards the gates. Thibault, turning to look at first Helewise and then Josse, said, ‘We make now for Tonbridge, whence we shall set out for our Order’s English headquarters at the priory of St John in Clerkenwell.’ Then, in a voice of soft intensity, he added, ‘You will send word to me if the English monk comes here. We will not be hard to find for we make no secret of our comings and goings.’

And that also is a lie, Helewise thought coolly.

Thibault, after the briefest of reverences, strode away after the two brothers.

She felt Josse stir beside her. ‘Not so much as a farewell,’ he muttered.

Without thinking, she said, ‘He’ll be back.’

Josse’s expression suggested that he was almost as surprised as she was by the remark. ‘My lady?’

‘Oh — er, I just meant that here at Hawkenlye we have the biggest concentration of people for miles, so Brother Thibault is hardly likely to be satisfied with a few brief questions.’ It sounded unsatisfactory even to her ears.

Josse went on staring at her and now he was looking decidedly suspicious. She gave him a smile — she could not have explained how she knew, even had she wanted to — and after a moment he muttered, ‘Have it your own way.’

Her need for solitude had grown out of all proportion; a great deal had happened this morning and she urgently needed to think. Leaning close to Josse, she said softly, ‘I must send for Father Gilbert to arrange for the burial. I had thought that perhaps the man those Hospitallers are seeking might be our dead man, for I believe that the brethren do recruit soldiers from the native population in Outremer.’

‘Indeed, my lady,’ Josse relied. ‘They are known as turcopoles, and the military orders put them on a horse, give them a bow and, after scant training, fling them into battle.’

She hid a smile; evidently Josse did not approve of such practices. ‘But then they said the runaway is an Englishman,’ she said with a sigh, ‘so that was the end of that bright idea.’

He was frowning, clearly thinking.

‘Sir Josse?’ she prompted.

‘Oh — I was thinking of John Damianos. If what I suspect is right and the dead man is him, then perhaps he accompanied the missing Hospitaller? He — John Damianos — might have been the monk’s body servant, brought to England and abandoned.’

She considered the idea. Then, with an impatient shake of her head: ‘It’s all too vague, Sir Josse! Nothing but ifs and maybes.’

He looked quite hurt. ‘I’m sorry, my lady, but it’s the best I can do.’

She smiled. ‘No, Sir Josse; I am sorry, for my bad mood. There is much that I need to think about. I do not mean to be mysterious and I will try to explain later, but for now I really do need to be alone.’

He studied her, his head on one side. After a moment — and she had the clear impression he knew exactly how she felt — he said, ‘Off you go, then, my lady. I’m going to return with Will and Ella to New Winnowlands. Send for me when you feel like some company.’

His low and respectful bow put Thibault’s to shame. Then he gave her a cheerful grin and strolled away.

Outremer, September 1194

He did not know at first why they had selected him for the mission. Initially he felt nothing but pride that he, not even among the fully professed, had been singled out for such an honour. It was only afterwards that he realized why: for two qualities that of all the company only he possessed…

The mission was a hostage exchange. Such things occurred quite frequently and often the brethren acted as escorts. As avowed men of God they were honest and impartial, and their presence ensured fair play by both sides. Moreover, sometimes the prisoner had been wounded in battle, in which case the brother who had cared for him would be in the escort. Saracen prisoners were exchanged both for Frankish knights and for gold.

This time it was going to be different.

It was rumoured that the order had come from the Grand Master himself but the young man was used to the way gossip flared within the community and he wasn’t sure he believed it. As far as he was concerned, it was his superior who gave the instructions, and Thibault was a tight-lipped man who never wasted a word.

They sent for him in the night.

He fell into step behind five other Hospitallers, the senior monk leading the way. Despite the heat of the late summer night, all six were swathed in black surcoats, hoods drawn up over their heads and hiding their faces. Beneath the surcoats each man carried a sword and a knife.

They reached the stables, where the sergeants had prepared their mounts. The bridles were bound with twine to prevent noise; the smallest sound of jingling metal carried a long way in the still desert. Then the sergeant unbolted the door and they set off down the long covered passage to the outside world.

It was a fine night and the stars were dazzling in the black sky. The air retained much of the daytime heat although he — who had been in Outremer for nine long years — knew how quickly the temperature could plummet in the hours before dawn.

They had picked up the prisoner as they emerged from the vast gates. He was broad-shouldered for a Saracen, hooded and dressed in pale robes. He sat on a beautiful Arab gelding. His manacled wrists were attached by a short chain to the pommel of his saddle and two longer chains linked him to armed guards riding either side. Otherwise the man was treated with respect.

They rode for perhaps an hour. The land was so different by night — it smelt different, the sounds were not those of the day, and night vision had a way of playing tricks so that distant things seemed suddenly near and something apparently a stone’s throw away proved to be on the far horizon. Or perhaps, the young man thought with a shiver, there was magic in the air. In this distant land full of strange ways and secrets, that would hardly surprise him…

The first sign of their destination was the faint glimmer of a fire in the vast desert in front of him. He narrowed his eyes to see how far away it was, but with no other point of reference it was impossible to tell. They rode on and soon he began to make out shapes. A simple tent had been put up, and beside the fire there was a picket line to which ten horses had been tethered. As the party approached the campsite, two Saracens emerged from the tent and, with courteous bows, invited the monks and their charge to dismount and enter.

He was the last to go inside and what he saw took his breath away. The desert sand had been covered with rugs and carpets in delicate geometric patterns of purple, red and gold, and low divans, covered with gold and purple silk throws, had been set around the curving fabric walls. Light came from a series of iron lanterns from which candle flames shone through jewel-coloured panes of glass: amethyst, garnet, ruby and sapphire. A copper pot was bubbling on a small brazier, emitting a strong aroma of orange and cinnamon.

For the young Hospitaller standing awestruck by such opulence, this was the sole jarring note. As a child he had once gorged himself on marigold, saffron and cinnamon cakes and been violently sick. Ever since he had been unable to stomach the taste of cinnamon.

A very large man lay on one of the divans and as the prisoner was led into the tent his face lit up in a smile of welcome. The prisoner raised his manacled wrists and threw back his hood and the young monk saw a beautiful youth, tall, lithe and strong. The olive skin of his cheeks and jaw looked too smooth to require a razor, yet there seemed to be a sharpness to the bones of the face. With a couple of years’ more maturity, this man would look very different. The near-black eyes, set slightly on a slant, stared out from beneath a thick sweep of lashes and fine, gracefully curved eyebrows.

The fat man, staring intently at the prisoner, said how happy he was to be reunited with his beloved little brother. The Hospitaller, positioned as he was behind the prisoner and to his left, was in exactly the right place to see the long look that the fat man bestowed on him. And the young knight experienced one of those sudden flashes of sure but unlooked-for knowledge which, here in Outremer, occurred quite frequently. He knew that the beautiful youth was not the fat man’s brother but his catamite.

The fat man indicated that the Hospitallers and the prisoner should sit on the remaining divans. Then they were offered glass cups of the drink that had been simmering on the fire. The young monk accepted his with a polite bow. While everyone else drank to a satisfying outcome for the night’s business, he held his breath so as not to inhale the scent of cinnamon and only pretended to sip. Then he put his glass down out of sight beside his feet.

Swiftly the fat man on the divan put the courtesies aside. His expression suddenly serious, he began to speak, so rapidly that the young Hospitaller had to use all his wits to keep up. When he had finished the senior monk replied, speaking the same tongue but in a more controlled manner. There was a further exchange of terms and then, both parties apparently satisfied, a toast to seal the agreement.

Then to the young knight’s amazement his superior turned to him and gave him a curt order.

It was only then that he realized that this was no ordinary hostage exchange.

As he prepared to do as he had been commanded, his eyes ran around the Saracens in the tent. There were four servants. Including the fat man, that made five.

Why, then, were there ten horses tethered outside?

The first chill finger of fear slid up his spine.