Alys Clare - The Paths of the Air

This time it was going to be different.

It was rumoured that the order had come from the Grand Master himself but the young man was used to the way gossip flared within the community and he wasn’t sure he believed it. As far as he was concerned, it was his superior who gave the instructions, and Thibault was a tight-lipped man who never wasted a word.

They sent for him in the night.

He fell into step behind five other Hospitallers, the senior monk leading the way. Despite the heat of the late summer night, all six were swathed in black surcoats, hoods drawn up over their heads and hiding their faces. Beneath the surcoats each man carried a sword and a knife.

They reached the stables, where the sergeants had prepared their mounts. The bridles were bound with twine to prevent noise; the smallest sound of jingling metal carried a long way in the still desert. Then the sergeant unbolted the door and they set off down the long covered passage to the outside world.

It was a fine night and the stars were dazzling in the black sky. The air retained much of the daytime heat although he — who had been in Outremer for nine long years — knew how quickly the temperature could plummet in the hours before dawn.

They had picked up the prisoner as they emerged from the vast gates. He was broad-shouldered for a Saracen, hooded and dressed in pale robes. He sat on a beautiful Arab gelding. His manacled wrists were attached by a short chain to the pommel of his saddle and two longer chains linked him to armed guards riding either side. Otherwise the man was treated with respect.

They rode for perhaps an hour. The land was so different by night — it smelt different, the sounds were not those of the day, and night vision had a way of playing tricks so that distant things seemed suddenly near and something apparently a stone’s throw away proved to be on the far horizon. Or perhaps, the young man thought with a shiver, there was magic in the air. In this distant land full of strange ways and secrets, that would hardly surprise him…

The first sign of their destination was the faint glimmer of a fire in the vast desert in front of him. He narrowed his eyes to see how far away it was, but with no other point of reference it was impossible to tell. They rode on and soon he began to make out shapes. A simple tent had been put up, and beside the fire there was a picket line to which ten horses had been tethered. As the party approached the campsite, two Saracens emerged from the tent and, with courteous bows, invited the monks and their charge to dismount and enter.

He was the last to go inside and what he saw took his breath away. The desert sand had been covered with rugs and carpets in delicate geometric patterns of purple, red and gold, and low divans, covered with gold and purple silk throws, had been set around the curving fabric walls. Light came from a series of iron lanterns from which candle flames shone through jewel-coloured panes of glass: amethyst, garnet, ruby and sapphire. A copper pot was bubbling on a small brazier, emitting a strong aroma of orange and cinnamon.

For the young Hospitaller standing awestruck by such opulence, this was the sole jarring note. As a child he had once gorged himself on marigold, saffron and cinnamon cakes and been violently sick. Ever since he had been unable to stomach the taste of cinnamon.

A very large man lay on one of the divans and as the prisoner was led into the tent his face lit up in a smile of welcome. The prisoner raised his manacled wrists and threw back his hood and the young monk saw a beautiful youth, tall, lithe and strong. The olive skin of his cheeks and jaw looked too smooth to require a razor, yet there seemed to be a sharpness to the bones of the face. With a couple of years’ more maturity, this man would look very different. The near-black eyes, set slightly on a slant, stared out from beneath a thick sweep of lashes and fine, gracefully curved eyebrows.

The fat man, staring intently at the prisoner, said how happy he was to be reunited with his beloved little brother. The Hospitaller, positioned as he was behind the prisoner and to his left, was in exactly the right place to see the long look that the fat man bestowed on him. And the young knight experienced one of those sudden flashes of sure but unlooked-for knowledge which, here in Outremer, occurred quite frequently. He knew that the beautiful youth was not the fat man’s brother but his catamite.

The fat man indicated that the Hospitallers and the prisoner should sit on the remaining divans. Then they were offered glass cups of the drink that had been simmering on the fire. The young monk accepted his with a polite bow. While everyone else drank to a satisfying outcome for the night’s business, he held his breath so as not to inhale the scent of cinnamon and only pretended to sip. Then he put his glass down out of sight beside his feet.

Swiftly the fat man on the divan put the courtesies aside. His expression suddenly serious, he began to speak, so rapidly that the young Hospitaller had to use all his wits to keep up. When he had finished the senior monk replied, speaking the same tongue but in a more controlled manner. There was a further exchange of terms and then, both parties apparently satisfied, a toast to seal the agreement.

Then to the young knight’s amazement his superior turned to him and gave him a curt order.

It was only then that he realized that this was no ordinary hostage exchange.

As he prepared to do as he had been commanded, his eyes ran around the Saracens in the tent. There were four servants. Including the fat man, that made five.

Why, then, were there ten horses tethered outside?

The first chill finger of fear slid up his spine.

In the course of the ride back to New Winnowlands, Josse was very relieved to find that Ella appeared to be herself again. Not that it was easy to tell, for she was a diffident woman. But Will, Josse thought, seemed far more relaxed and happy than he had done for days. The Hawkenlye magic had worked, then. Maybe he would suggest that she cook him a particularly toothsome dinner today to celebrate her recovery.

Presently his thoughts snapped guiltily away from gravy-rich, steaming pies and back to the worrying subject of the mutilated corpse. The Abbess had been deeply disturbed, even though she had striven not to show it. But then we were all disturbed, he thought. No decent human being could fail to react to such savagery. It was no wonder she had been so eager to seek out a little solitude. There was no need for me to have taken offence, Josse told himself firmly; none whatsoever. No matter how distressed she might be, she was constricted both by her position and her own proud and self-reliant nature and she was not a woman who habitually took comfort in the arms of a dear old friend.

More’s the pity, he thought morosely.

She had been angry with him because he could not be more definite as to the identity of the dead man and he understood well enough why that was: she disliked sending an unnamed, unknown man to meet his maker. But there was nothing I could do! Josse cried silently. For the life of me, I just don’t know if the dead man was the man who lived for almost a fortnight in my outbuilding!

Now he too was feeling angry. Dear Lord, he thought, but she can be an unreasonable woman!

They were nearing New Winnowlands now and he heard the rare sound of Ella laughing. Well, the mission had achieved its purpose and that was something to be glad about.

He rode into the courtyard and slipped down off Horace’s back. In the hall a fire was blazing; he went across to the hearth and held out his hands to its warmth. She’ll send for me if she needs me, he thought. If those Knights Hospitaller return and start giving her trouble, she knows she can call on me. I’ll be here, eager and waiting and more than ready to go to her aid.