visitors’ glasses with the cinnamon-flavoured drink. The young monk hastily reached for his own glass and, pushing aside the edge of the rug, poured the contents into the sand, holding up the empty vessel with what he hoped was a winning and innocent smile. The glass was filled by a supercilious servant and, after another pretend sip, the young monk hid it out of sight. He was nauseated by the drink. Even the smell all but turned his stomach and, given the tension and the vivid sense of danger that thrummed and hummed in the air, this was no time to be crouched over, vomiting in the sand.
The Hospitallers and the fat man were raising their glasses to each other’s health. The prisoner’s manacles were removed and the fat man, beaming, opened his arms in welcome. One of the guards leaned close and muttered something in the prisoner’s ear. The prisoner nodded.
The young monk was watching him. He does not want to go, he realized suddenly. This night’s business is not his choice, for his time as a prisoner has removed him from the fat man’s spell. To return to his former state will be moving from one captivity to another, infinitely worse. It was as if the prisoner picked up the young monk’s flash of understanding. Slowly he turned his head on its long, graceful neck and his eyes stared straight into those of the young Hospitaller.
The dark eyes held such a depth of anguish that the monk felt himself shrink away. As if the prisoner was making quite sure that the monk knew what he was going to have to endure, pictures began to form in the monk’s mind; alien pictures that he knew without a doubt had been put there by the prisoner, for the things they showed were not actions that he had ever envisaged. He saw the fat man, sweating, grunting, eyes closed as he approached the moment of ecstasy, the loose flesh of his swelling belly slap, slap, slapping against the beautiful youth’s lower back and round, firm buttocks. He saw the youth’s face, a rictus of horror and disgust. He felt the youth’s pain.
The youth’s eyes slipped down to where the monk’s short but deadly sword lay beneath his habit, pushed awkwardly behind him as he sat on the low divan. It was as if the youth could see straight through the black cloth. And suddenly his voice spoke inside the monk’s head: Help me.
How can I? the monk responded in silent anguish.
Now the mental pictures were worse. The fat man was kissing and caressing the bare buttocks but then in a flash his mood changed and, with an expression of naked sexual desire and brutal savagery, viciously he brought a short, whippy cane down onto the olive-toned flesh. Once. Twice, three, four, five times, each stroke leaving a deep red welt that oozed blood.
Then the prisoner lowered his head and turned away and the horrific images faded.
The young monk tried to shake off the echoes of the prisoner’s despair. There is nothing I can do, he told himself. Nothing. He forced himself back to the present; soon we shall be finished here, he thought, and we’ll be outside in the night and riding off in the darkness. Then, as soon as we are safe within our own fortress, they will send for me.
Will I be ready? Will I be able to justify their faith in me and give them what they want?
He hoped he had achieved what had been asked of him, but it seemed wise to think over what he had just done. There was a great deal of excited chatter going on around him — the fat man was arranging an entertainment, it seemed — and while everyone else was preoccupied, the young monk took a few moments of quiet reflection.
And then the sounds around him grew distant and faint as, for the first time, he thought he understood what this meeting in the tent was truly about. Could he be right? No — oh, no; surely he had made a mistake? They could not even consider something so terrible, so barbarous!
Could they?
Perhaps they could…
The feverish heat died out of him and his sweat cooled on his skin.
He sat in the gaudy, glittering luxury of the tent, eyes wide in horror, and his blood turned to ice in his veins.
Five
Josse reached Hawkenlye, with some relief, just before the early November darkness descended. It wasn’t that he was afraid; not exactly. But images of the mutilated body kept coming unbidden into his mind and that brutal slaying had, after all, occurred not far from the track on which he now rode.
He handed Horace into Sister Martha’s care and made straight for the Abbess’s room. After the courtesies, he said — and it sounded rather too demanding — ‘I need to know if you’ve put him in the ground yet.’
She stared back at him, her face expressionless. Then he caught the smallest twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth. ‘No, Sir Josse. Father Gilbert is coming tomorrow.’
‘Thank God,’ he said.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you think to extract some more information from the poor man’s body?’
‘Aye, my lady. I should have explained, only I was overcome with my need to know whether it was too late. I apologize.’
‘No need for apologies. What do you hope to find?’
He told her about the two Saracens. ‘Somehow I have the feeling,’ he said, rubbing his jaw, ‘that we are not going to get anywhere until we know if the man who was brought to the infirmary is John Damianos.’
‘But why is that so vital?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. Then, with a rueful grin, he added, ‘Perhaps the reason won’t become clear until we’ve got the answer.’
She got to her feet. ‘Your instincts, Sir Josse, have served both of us very well in the past and I for one am happy to indulge you. Come along.’
She swept out of her little room and he followed in her wake.
The infirmary was busy, the nursing nuns and some of the refectory nuns dishing out supper and warm drinks. Sister Euphemia gave the Abbess a deep bow of reverence and said, ‘My lady? You wished to see me? Good evening, Sir Josse.’
‘Good evening, Sister.’
‘We have come to view the dead man once more,’ the Abbess said in a low voice. ‘Is he still here?’
‘He’s over in the crypt,’ the infirmarer replied quietly. ‘Let me fetch a light and I’ll show you. You didn’t say, my lady, but I thought it best under the circumstances to lock the door down to the crypt.’
‘That was wise, Sister,’ the Abbess said gravely.
‘I can’t explain it,’ the infirmarer muttered as she held the door of the infirmary for the Abbess and Josse and then fell into step beside them, ‘and I know it’s silly, but I keep thinking someone’s watching us and I’ll bet we’ve not seen the end of all this yet.’
‘I’m afraid you may be right, Sister,’ Josse agreed. He too had the repeated feeling that watchful eyes were constantly on him. The funny thing was, however, that he was not at all sure they were hostile, which really made no sense at all.
The infirmarer led the way into the church and unlocked a small door to the left of the altar. Inside, she took a torch from a bracket on the wall and, lighting it from the candle in her lantern, handed it to Josse. One by one they made their careful way down the narrow spiral steps, the infirmarer and Josse holding up their lights.
Stepping out into the crypt, Josse saw that the body on its bier had not been abandoned to the darkness. Surrounding it was a semicircle of tallow lamps. He felt uneasy. The crypt was bone-achingly cold and smelt of death.
He sensed the Abbess shiver. ‘I will make haste to do what I came to do, my lady,’ he said.
She nodded but did not speak. Sister Euphemia stood close beside her, as if drawing comfort from her presence, and the swift smile which Josse saw the Abbess bestow on the infirmarer as she tucked Sister Euphemia’s arm under her own suggested the comforting might go both ways. He advanced to the bier and, folding back the linen covering the face, stood looking down at the dead man. Who are you? he asked silently. Are you the man who sought refuge at New Winnowlands? Are you the man whom those two Saracen warriors sought? Are the two identities one and the same?
