‘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.
