arms of a dear old friend.
More’s the pity, he thought morosely.
She had been angry with him because he could not be more definite as to the identity of the dead man and he understood well enough why that was: she disliked sending an unnamed, unknown man to meet his maker. But there was nothing I could do! Josse cried silently. For the life of me, I just don’t know if the dead man was the man who lived for almost a fortnight in my outbuilding!
Now he too was feeling angry. Dear Lord, he thought, but she can be an unreasonable woman!
They were nearing New Winnowlands now and he heard the rare sound of Ella laughing. Well, the mission had achieved its purpose and that was something to be glad about.
He rode into the courtyard and slipped down off Horace’s back. In the hall a fire was blazing; he went across to the hearth and held out his hands to its warmth. She’ll send for me if she needs me, he thought. If those Knights Hospitaller return and start giving her trouble, she knows she can call on me. I’ll be here, eager and waiting and more than ready to go to her aid.
And that, he reflected as he sank down into his big carved chair, was the trouble.
The next day Josse experienced a strange sense of events repeating themselves. In the late morning Will announced there was someone wishing to speak to him. Josse leapt up, quite convinced that the visitor must be John Damianos; that he had come to apologize for running off in the night, to offer belated thanks and to explain himself. Which would all be splendid because then Josse could gallop over to Hawkenlye and tell the Abbess that the dead man certainly was not John Damianos.
These thoughts ran through Josse’s head in the time it took him to hurry out of the hall and down the steps into the yard.
Where it instantly became clear that he was wrong.
He had not one visitor but two. Both were Saracens and wore headdresses of elaborately wound cloth, immaculately white, folds of which passed beneath their chins and around their necks. They were clad in warm travelling cloaks over well-worn but fine-quality tunics whose fabric must once have been dazzlingly bright, and their scuffed boots were of expensive leather. They were mounted on small but beautiful Arab horses and attached to the saddle of each was a round shield. Both men bore a short, curved sword.
Josse approached them. ‘You wish to speak to me?’
The elder of the pair responded. His dark eyes, deep-set under strong brows, were intent on Josse and he said in accented French, ‘You are Sir Josse d’Acquin?’ Josse nodded. ‘Then yes, we do.’
Josse felt wary. Instead of immediately issuing the expected invitation to dismount and come inside, he said, ‘Who are you and what is your business here?’
The two men exchanged a glance. Then the elder said, ‘I am Kathnir and my companion is Akhbir.’ Both men touched their fingers to their lips, their brows and their hearts, bowing their heads as they did so. ‘We seek a man. We ask whether you have seen or heard of him. We have followed our quarry for many hundreds of miles and now — ’ the man gave a wry smile — ‘he will be as dusty and as travel-worn as we are. He wears a long brown robe and an enveloping headdress that conceals most of his face and overshadows his eyes and he carries a leather satchel that he is always most careful never to let out of his sight.’
The description perfectly fitted John Damianos.
Josse took his time in replying. ‘This man is a Saracen like yourselves?’
Kathnir hesitated. Then: ‘Yes.’
Josse watched the pair steadily. With another smile, Kathnir said, ‘May we dismount?’
Josse nodded. Kathnir slipped down from his horse and Akhbir did the same. They bowed again, this time more deeply, and as they straightened up Josse noted absently that they were both short men. Short but wiry and strongly muscled.
Fighting men.
He made up his mind. ‘Come into my hall,’ he said, ‘and, if you will, accept refreshments. My kitchen woman makes a tasty drink that warms the heart after a ride in the cold.’
‘We drink no intoxicating liquor,’ Akhbir said reprovingly.
Josse looked at him. ‘I was not offering you any,’ he replied coolly.
He nodded to Will, who took the reins of the two horses, then led the way up the steps and into the hall. He called to Ella and asked her to prepare a jug of her special ginger infusion. Then, turning to the two Saracens, he indicated that they should sit down on the bench opposite his chair. ‘Why do you seek this man?’ he demanded.
Again, the swift exchange of glances. Then Kathnir said, ‘He has a — treasure that does not belong to him. We are commanded to find him, take back that which he stole and return it to our master.’
‘I see.’ It was an empty comment, for Josse did not see at all. ‘You have come a long way, you said?’
‘We come from Outremer,’ Kathnir said softly.
‘Then what was stolen from your master must be priceless indeed,’ Josse observed.
Neither man took up the clear invitation to elaborate. Neither, in fact, spoke at all.
Josse was thinking hard. If the dead body at Hawkenlye was that of John Damianos and he was the man who had stolen the treasure, whatever it was, then Josse could dispatch these two tough and ruthless warriors in his direction with a clear conscience. Nobody could hurt him any more.
‘What is the name of the man you seek?’ he asked.
Kathnir eyed him, his face expressionless. ‘We do not know his name,’ he said. ‘We describe him by his appearance. After all’ — his smile seemed warmer now but Josse would have put a bag of gold on it being nothing more than a skilful act — ‘a man may change his name more easily than his raiment.’
The Abbess, Josse reflected, had made a similar remark… A runaway Hospitaller and a thief. Both had fled to England from Outremer. Both were being pursued by men who were as relentless as hounds on a fresh scent. And surely it was too much of a coincidence to suggest that the monk and the Saracen thief were not connected?
Ella appeared with a jug emitting clouds of fragrant steam and three earthenware mugs and, at a nod from Josse, she poured her ginger concoction. He was grateful for her arrival; it had given him some much-needed thinking time.
When she had disappeared back down the passage, he raised his mug to the two Saracens and all three drank. With a small part of his attention he responded to their polite appreciation. The rest of his mind was working on what he was going to tell them.
I liked John Damianos, he thought, perhaps only now appreciating the fact. He was evasive, mysterious, he told me nothing concerning himself or his business and he disappeared without a thank you, but there was something about him to which I warmed. If he is not the man who lies dead at Hawkenlye — and some irrational instinct told Josse that this was so — then I will not throw him to the dogs until I know a great deal more. Even then, I might choose to save him.
He was in no doubt that the two men sitting calmly in his hall would not hesitate to kill the man who had stolen their master’s treasure if it proved necessary; perhaps even if it wasn’t necessary…
He made up his mind.
‘I do know of a man who answers the description of your thief,’ he said.
Two pairs of very dark eyes shot to meet his own. It was, he thought, a little like facing a quartet of sword points. ‘You do?’ breathed Kathnir.
‘Aye. But I warn you, the man I speak of was found stripped of garments and of possessions and it is only from the tone of his skin and the near black colour of his eyes that I deduce him to have been a Saracen.’
‘Was found?’ Kathnir echoed quietly.
‘Aye. He is dead: murdered close by Hawkenlye Abbey, half a day’s ride from here. You know of it?’
‘We have heard tell,’ Kathnir said. He leaned towards Akhbir and the two men muttered in what Josse assumed was their own tongue. Then Kathnir said, ‘We do not believe this dead man to be our quarry.’
‘You what?’ Josse was astounded; he had been so sure that at last he was to have some answers to his many questions. ‘How can you be so sure? There aren’t many stray Saracens wandering through the countryside, I can tell you! Should you not at least go to Hawkenlye and ask to see the dead man before he is put in the ground?’
But instead of a reasoned response, Kathnir exclaimed, ‘You do not understand the gravity of the crime that this man committed! If you did, then you would help us!’
