what he was looking for.
There were Horace’s prints. And there, coming in from a path to the right of the road, were those of his pursuer. Without hesitation he mounted and turned Horace onto the path.
It did not seem to be going anywhere. He was very close to the borders of his own land yet, ashamed, he admitted to himself that he had never been this way before. It began to rain. He drew his hood up over his hat, pulling it forward to shield his face.
Open ground gave way to woodland and presently he rode through a beech grove. Giant slabs of golden- yellow sandstone stood out from the leaf-covered ground and the breeze stirred the bare branches of the trees high above him. He could not see the horse’s prints and he hoped that he had not missed the place where they joined the path. Then he came to a muddy stretch of track and there they were once again.
He looked ahead and could see no dwelling; not so much as a tumbledown hovel, hut or outbuilding. Should he give up the chase? It was tempting. He might ride all morning and find nothing and he had business elsewhere.
He pulled Horace up, turned him and set off back the way he had come.
It happened as he entered the beech grove.
There was no warning, or if there was it came all but instantaneously with the sudden dread as someone jumped down from the trees onto Horace’s back, put an arm around Josse’s neck and said, in a surprisingly normal voice, ‘Do not go for your knife for mine is already at your throat.’
Josse made himself relax. He could sense Horace tensing as he felt this new weight on his back and he reached out to pat the strong neck.
‘Be still!’ his assailant said.
‘I am calming my horse,’ Josse replied.
‘Very well. But remember my blade.’
Josse felt pressure on the flesh just over his windpipe. ‘I will.’
‘Why are you following me?’ the man demanded.
‘Why were you following me?’ Josse countered.
The blade was removed from his throat. There was a brief pause, then: ‘Who are you? Remove your hood and let me see your face.’
He did as he was ordered. The man behind him craned forward and Josse turned to look at him.
He was staring at a man perhaps in his late twenties. He wore a faded and mud-stained robe and at his side there was a leather satchel, its strap across his chest. His light brown hair had a reddish tinge and his eyes were grey-blue. He was lean-faced, clean-shaven and around his throat and jaw he wore a grimy bandage. Josse had never seen him before but he knew who he was. He had thought he recognized the voice and now the bandage made the man’s identity certain.
Which was odd, for he had been convinced that John Damianos was a Saracen.
‘John Damianos,’ Josse said. On the man’s tunic there was the outline of a cross; the emblem had been torn off, leaving its shape in an unfaded area of the black cloth. And, as the few facts he thought he knew collapsed in little pieces around him, he added incredulously, ‘Also known as Brother Ralf.’
‘Sir Josse.’ John Damianos sheathed his knife and slipped down off Horace’s back. ‘I am sorry. I followed you yesterday to Robertsbridge and I was pretty certain it was you retracing our horses’ prints this morning. But you had covered your face and, although I recognized your horse, a man can steal another’s mount and pretend to be someone he is not. I cannot afford to be careless.’
‘I believe I understand that now,’ Josse replied.
John Damianos looked up at him, the beginnings of a smile on his face. ‘Won’t you dismount? It makes my throat hurt like the devil to stand staring up at you.’
‘Aye, I will.’
He got down and stood facing John on the soft ground of the beech grove. The rain had intensified. John said, ‘We should talk, Sir Josse. I badly need a friend and I am hoping that you are one.’
‘I make no promises,’ Josse warned. ‘I serve the purposes of both Abbess Helewise of Hawkenlye and Gervase de Gifford, sheriff of Tonbridge, and I am a King’s man.’
‘I know both your credentials and your reputation, Sir Josse,’ John said quietly. ‘Why do you think I sought refuge with you when I was in dire need?’
‘I — er, I’m glad that I could help,’ Josse muttered.
‘I have a shelter nearby,’ John said. ‘Let’s get out of the rain.’
‘Very well.’
John set off back along the track and Josse followed, leading Horace. Soon John turned off to the left down a path that descended into the narrow valley of a stream and presently the path gave out. John pushed his way through the undergrowth and, not without difficulty, Josse and his horse followed. John, he noticed, was constantly alert, looking all around him and occasionally putting up a hand to stop them so that he could listen. Eventually they came to a clearing where a bend of the stream had all but cut off an apron of land. Close by there was a hollowed- out space in the sloping side of the valley. In it a chestnut horse was tethered.
Josse stared at the animal. It was a gelding, smaller than the large and heavy Horace and quite beautifully formed. John, observing the direction of Josse’s fixed and fascinated stare, said, ‘His name is Cinnabar. He comes from a land a very long way away.’
‘You have ridden him all the way from Outremer?’
‘I have. Lead your horse into the shelter; there is water there and a place where you can tether him.’
Josse tied Horace’s reins to a stout branch. ‘The human accommodation is in here,’ John said, and Josse followed him to a deeper hollow, its roof formed by an outcrop of sandstone. At the entrance there was a circle of hearthstones and, just inside, firewood and a small cooking pot. There were other objects within but Josse could not make out what they were.
John indicated a couple of cross-sections of tree trunk and said, ‘Sit down. It’s dry in here, at least.’
‘How did you know I would be there on the track?’ Josse asked.
‘I didn’t. I realized you were going to see Gerome yesterday and thought you would remain there. I keep a regular watch up in the beech grove when I use this shelter and you just happened to ride along.’
‘I saw your horse’s prints following mine,’ Josse said.
‘Yes, I know. I was careless.’
There were so many questions that Josse wanted to ask and he did not know where to start. Begin at the beginning, he thought.
‘When you came to New Winnowlands,’ he said, ‘you were dressed differently and I took you for a Saracen.’
‘Among the men on my trail are a trio of Knights Hospitaller,’ John said dryly. ‘I do not have many garments other than this tunic and my Saracen disguise. Given that I knew Thibault was close, I decided on the second.’
‘That decision could have cost your life,’ Josse said. ‘Soon after you left us, a man dressed very similarly was tortured and killed close to Hawkenlye Abbey. I thought he was you.’
John had gone very still. ‘How did you discover you were wrong?’
‘I explained to the Hawkenlye infirmarer that I thought the dead man was John Damianos, who had come to lodge at New Winnowlands. She had treated a man of similar appearance, and when she looked at the body she said this was not the man she had treated because he had a burn on his throat. So we concluded that you were the man she had treated and the dead man was someone else.’
‘His name was Touros,’ John said, ‘and he was a Turkish mercenary. He and his two companions followed me from Antioch. Although Touros did not deserve to die in such a terrible way, it may be some consolation to you to know that had he and his companions caught me, they would have killed me without a qualm.’
‘Why did you flee from New Winnowlands?’ Josse was not ready to comment on what John Damianos had just said.
‘Your serving woman, Ella, is Pandora reborn,’ John replied. ‘Her curiosity about the man in the outbuilding got the better of her, and once she told you that I wasn’t there and you concluded I was in the habit of going out at night — why else would I need to sleep all day? — then I could not stay.’
It was just as Josse had thought. He nodded.
‘I saw the woman approach the outbuilding,’ John said thoughtfully. ‘I am sorry I scared her.’
