Alys Clare: The Paths of the Air

Two of the three knights had the grace to look abashed. The third — a lean, pale man whose extreme thinness gave an illusory impression of height — stared straight at her with hazel eyes that did not look down as he gave a perfunctory bow. ‘I am Thibault of Margat, of the Order of the Knights of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem,’ he intoned. ‘These — ’ he indicated the other two with a wave of his hand that was almost insulting in its indifference — ‘are Brother Otto and, er…’ he paused, frowning, ‘Brother Jeremiah.’

Helewise wondered which was which, for their superior did not deign to enlighten her. All three were dressed in dark robes that were dusty, mud-spattered and very well worn. She waited for Thibault to continue.

‘We are hunting for a runaway monk,’ he said in a curiously expressionless tone. ‘He is an Englishman.’

‘An English Hospitaller,’ she said. ‘And what does this man look like?’

‘He will be dressed as we are,’ Thibault said, ‘in a dark robe and black cloak — ’ he held out a fold of his own cloak — ‘or scapular — ’ he pointed to one of the brothers — ‘marked with the distinctive white cross of our Order.’

Slowly she shook her head. ‘I have seen no such man,’ she said. Then, for Thibault’s look of disdain was profoundly irritating, she added, ‘I will ask my nuns and monks if they have noticed a man dressed as you describe. Unless, that is, you have already done so?’ She fixed Thibault with a hard stare.

His lips tightened. ‘We have asked both in the settlement down by the lake and here in the Abbey,’ he acknowledged.

‘And have any of my community or its visitors been able to help you?’

‘No.’ The single word was curt.

Although she knew it was unworthy, she was enjoying his discomfiture. ‘To describe a man simply by the garb he wears is not of much value,’ she said, forcing a helpful expression, ‘since it is the easiest thing to remove one garment and put on another.’

‘I had thought of that, my lady.’ Thibault sounded as if he was speaking through clenched teeth.

‘Can you not tell us more?’ she prompted. ‘What age is this runaway? What is his name? And what does he look like — is he fair or dark? Tall, short, fat, thin?’

Thibault raised his chin and squared his shoulders. ‘I do not know,’ he said.

For an instant Helewise was blessed with additional perception and she knew without doubt that this was a lie. Then the moment passed.

She glanced at Josse, watching the exchange with close attention, and drew him towards her. ‘This is Sir Josse d’Acquin,’ she said, ‘a King’s man and a loyal friend to Hawkenlye Abbey. Have you asked your question of him?’

Thibault looked at Josse, who stared levelly back. ‘I have. Like you and your people, he says he knows nothing of a robed Hospitaller.’

There was a very faint emphasis on says. Helewise felt her anger boil up. She waited until she had herself under control and then said quietly, ‘If that is what Sir Josse says, then, Thibault of Margat, it is the truth. If there is nothing else you want of me or my community, then allow me to wish you God’s speed.’

She watched the protest rise and fall again in Thibault’s face. He is torn, she thought grimly. There is more — probably very much more — that he could tell us that would help us to identify this runaway monk, should he ever come this way. Yet this information is sensitive, for Thibault cannot bring himself to divulge it…

As she waited for the Hospitaller to make up his mind she was struck forcibly with the thought that whatever the fugitive monk might or might not have done, she was on his side. But that was not a thought that a nun — an abbess, indeed — should entertain.

Thibault must have been working out his parting remark. Now, sweeping his black cloak around him, he jerked his head at his two silent companions and they walked off towards the gates. Thibault, turning to look at first Helewise and then Josse, said, ‘We make now for Tonbridge, whence we shall set out for our Order’s English headquarters at the priory of St John in Clerkenwell.’ Then, in a voice of soft intensity, he added, ‘You will send word to me if the English monk comes here. We will not be hard to find for we make no secret of our comings and goings.’

And that also is a lie, Helewise thought coolly.

Thibault, after the briefest of reverences, strode away after the two brothers.

She felt Josse stir beside her. ‘Not so much as a farewell,’ he muttered.

Without thinking, she said, ‘He’ll be back.’

Josse’s expression suggested that he was almost as surprised as she was by the remark. ‘My lady?’

‘Oh — er, I just meant that here at Hawkenlye we have the biggest concentration of people for miles, so Brother Thibault is hardly likely to be satisfied with a few brief questions.’ It sounded unsatisfactory even to her ears.

Josse went on staring at her and now he was looking decidedly suspicious. She gave him a smile — she could not have explained how she knew, even had she wanted to — and after a moment he muttered, ‘Have it your own way.’

Her need for solitude had grown out of all proportion; a great deal had happened this morning and she urgently needed to think. Leaning close to Josse, she said softly, ‘I must send for Father Gilbert to arrange for the burial. I had thought that perhaps the man those Hospitallers are seeking might be our dead man, for I believe that the brethren do recruit soldiers from the native population in Outremer.’

‘Indeed, my lady,’ Josse relied. ‘They are known as turcopoles, and the military orders put them on a horse, give them a bow and, after scant training, fling them into battle.’

She hid a smile; evidently Josse did not approve of such practices. ‘But then they said the runaway is an Englishman,’ she said with a sigh, ‘so that was the end of that bright idea.’

He was frowning, clearly thinking.

‘Sir Josse?’ she prompted.

‘Oh — I was thinking of John Damianos. If what I suspect is right and the dead man is him, then perhaps he accompanied the missing Hospitaller? He — John Damianos — might have been the monk’s body servant, brought to England and abandoned.’

She considered the idea. Then, with an impatient shake of her head: ‘It’s all too vague, Sir Josse! Nothing but ifs and maybes.’

He looked quite hurt. ‘I’m sorry, my lady, but it’s the best I can do.’

She smiled. ‘No, Sir Josse; I am sorry, for my bad mood. There is much that I need to think about. I do not mean to be mysterious and I will try to explain later, but for now I really do need to be alone.’

He studied her, his head on one side. After a moment — and she had the clear impression he knew exactly how she felt — he said, ‘Off you go, then, my lady. I’m going to return with Will and Ella to New Winnowlands. Send for me when you feel like some company.’

His low and respectful bow put Thibault’s to shame. Then he gave her a cheerful grin and strolled away.

Outremer, September 1194

He did not know at first why they had selected him for the mission. Initially he felt nothing but pride that he, not even among the fully professed, had been singled out for such an honour. It was only afterwards that he realized why: for two qualities that of all the company only he possessed…

The mission was a hostage exchange. Such things occurred quite frequently and often the brethren acted as escorts. As avowed men of God they were honest and impartial, and their presence ensured fair play by both sides. Moreover, sometimes the prisoner had been wounded in battle, in which case the brother who had cared for him would be in the escort. Saracen prisoners were exchanged both for Frankish knights and for gold.