‘It makes no difference what I understand,’ Josse began, ‘for I-’ For I cannot tell you what I do not know, he was about to say.
He stopped himself. There was something he did know but that he had chosen not to tell the Saracens, but he had decided not to mention his former guest to this sinister and threatening pair.
Kathnir was still watching him intently and Josse had the uneasy feeling that the Saracen saw straight through the subterfuge. Forcing a grin and a shrug, he said, ‘You say I do not understand the gravity of what this man has done. Won’t you tell me?’
There was a long pause during which the two Saracens muttered to each other, their impatience and their frustration clearly evident even though Josse did not understand a word. Then Kathnir turned back to Josse and said, ‘My master’s younger brother was taken prisoner. He had been wounded in the fighting and he was taken to Margat.’ His mouth twisted into its wry smile. ‘Margat,’ he added, ‘is a fortress held by the Knights Hospitaller and even after the disarray that followed Hattin, the great Saladin did not succeed in taking it.’
‘I know,’ Josse said softly, ‘about Margat.’
And, he could have added, I heard the name only this morning. That was something he was going to have to think about very carefully.
But not now.
Kathnir was speaking and Josse made himself listen.
‘My master loves his little brother dearly,’ the Saracen said, ‘and it was against his wishes that Fadil — that is the brother’s name — went off to fight, for my master judged that he was too inexperienced.’
‘Where did the young man fight?’ Josse’s soldier’s soul was intrigued by this talk of war.
‘In Antioch and Tripoli, on the eastern borders of those territories,’ Kathnir said. ‘When Saladin signed the Peace of Ramla with the Frankish kings, we sent an arrow high in the sky to show our enemy that they need not fear the flying arrow.’ His lean face creased in an ironic smile. ‘But a treaty signed in Jaffa has little effect upon a war of attrition being waged two hundred miles to the north, and many of my master’s kinsmen joined those who fought to push the Franks back towards the coast.’
‘Aye, that I can understand,’ Josse murmured. He had heard tell of such skirmishes where, under the general aegis of fighting off the Christians, Muslim landowners took the opportunity to add to their territories.
‘My master prayed for Fadil’s safety every day of his absence,’ Kathnir continued. ‘His grief when he learned that Fadil had fallen in battle was limitless, as was his joy at being told that he was not dead but merely injured. He had been unhorsed by a lance thrust and a Frankish sword bit deep into his shoulder. He was taken prisoner but, because of the severity of his wound, he was given into the care of the Knights Hospitaller, first at Crac des Chevaliers and then in their fortress of Margat.’
‘And the Hospitallers nursed him back to health?’
‘They did.’ Kathnir’s acknowledgement was grudging, as if it pained him to praise the enemy for their skill. ‘But then during the monks’ time in Outremer they have learned much of medicine from Arab doctors.’
‘Aye, true,’ Josse agreed. Kathnir shot him a glance, surprise in his eyes. ‘Credit where credit is due,’ Josse murmured softly.
Kathnir continued to stare at him for a moment. Then, resuming his narrative, he said, ‘For many long months there was no news of Fadil but then my master was notified that his little brother had been proposed for a hostage exchange.’ Suddenly his black eyes lit up with fire and with fury in his voice he cried, ‘But from the outset it was-’
Akhbir dug him very hard in the ribs and abruptly he swallowed the words he had been about to say.
Josse bit back a curse. After a moment he said, ‘But from the outset, you were saying?’
‘There was a — a complication,’ Kathnir said neutrally; he seemed to have regained control. ‘My master’s brother disappeared and was almost certainly killed and my master barely escaped with his life.’
‘And it was during this complication that the Saracen whom you are seeking stole the treasure from your master?’
But Kathnir was not to be drawn. His dark eyes steady on Josse’s, he said, ‘I do not know.’
Oh but you do, Josse thought. There is much more that you could tell me of this hostage exchange that went so disastrously wrong. Of Knights Hospitaller and Saracens involved in some complication that took a man’s life and robbed another of a treasure so precious that he sent two tough and resourceful warriors thousands of miles to get it back.
He studied first Kathnir and then Akhbir. Their dark eyes in the bland, impassive faces stared right back and he knew they were not going to say another word until and unless they decided it was appropriate.
And hell will probably freeze over, Josse reflected, before that happens.
He needed to think. He wanted to race back to Hawkenlye and have another look at the dead man before they put him in the ground. He wanted to go all around the spot where the body had been found, on his hands and knees if necessary, to see if he could find something — some small, overlooked thing — that might help him start to unravel this mystery.
He wanted to talk it all through with the Abbess.
He stood up and immediately the two Saracens did the same. ‘I cannot be of further assistance to you,’ he said flatly. ‘I have told you of the dead man found near Hawkenlye and I can only suggest that you go there. It is not too late to look at him before he is buried.’
‘But-’ Akhbir began.
It was Kathnir’s turn to stick an elbow into his companion’s side. Smiling even as the abruptly silenced Akhbir winced, Kathnir said, ‘We are grateful for your help and for the most excellent ginger drink. Now we will be on our way.’ He bowed.
Josse saw his visitors out into the courtyard and watched from the steps as the two men mounted, gave him a final valediction and rode out through the gates and onto the track.
Thoughtfully Josse went back to his chair. He was going to return to Hawkenlye as soon as he could, and he would have yelled for Horace there and then except that he did not want to ride out alongside the two Saracens. He would give them some time to get away, then he would be on his way.
There was no danger that he would catch up with them on the road to Hawkenlye, even if he could have urged old Horace to the sort of speed necessary to overtake a couple of light, swift Arab geldings; quite a big if, he thought with a grin.
Because the Saracens weren’t going to Hawkenlye.
He had realized something as he stood watching them ride away; something that he ought to have worked out sooner. Those two men were first-rate trackers. They had followed their man all the way from Outremer and somehow they were aware that the corpse at Hawkenlye was not that of the man they hunted. We do not believe this dead man to be our quarry. There was no need for them to view it.
They might not know where their man was now but they knew perfectly well where he had been: they had tracked him to the exact spot where he had only recently been hiding.
New Winnowlands.
No, Josse thought, they won’t be going to Hawkenlye. They’ll be staying right here and as soon as they get the chance they’ll be creeping through my outbuildings like rats after corn searching for any sign my late guest might have left behind. His grin widened. And they won’t find a thing, because I’ve already looked.
He sat by the fire a while longer.
Then he sought out Will, informed him he was going back to Hawkenlye and, as soon as Horace was ready, hastened on his way.
Outremer, September 1194
He could feel the sweat of extreme anxiety running down his back and leaking from his armpits. When he drew breath he could smell himself.
His superior had given him a totally unexpected order. As the urgently muttered words had sunk in, a detached part of his mind had thought: yes, I understand now why I was chosen for this mission. Although accurate, his understanding was, however, only part of the story.
The fat man on the divan began to speak. The young monk strove to do his appointed task. In the flickering light of the coloured lanterns it was hard to see clearly and the effort added to the tension building up in his neck and shoulders. Soon his head was pounding like a battle drum. Eventually the fat man was done. With a wave of his hand, set with rings in which the huge stones twinkled in the lantern light, he commanded his servants to fill up the
