Alys Clare - The Paths of the Air

But he wasn’t going to say so.

Gervase’s brow had creased in a frown. ‘I do not know, my lady. Apparently the trio were trying to find a runaway monk and they had based themselves there in the priory while they pursued their search. The canon who told me this added something odd: he said, “They were like hounds after the quarry, but it seems their quarry has turned round and bitten the hounds.”’

‘Then this canon too suspects that the fire was started deliberately?’ Josse asked.

And Gervase said simply, ‘Yes.’

The fire had been very particular in what it had consumed. The priory’s guest wing had been completely destroyed, leaving no more than one or two charred uprights and a strong smell of burning. The remaining buildings of the new foundation, for all that they were but a short distance away, had scarcely been singed; the wattle-and-daub walls and the reed thatching were intact.

As Josse and Gervase approached the smouldering ruin, Sister Euphemia and Sister Caliste riding behind them, Josse reflected that for once the priory’s proximity to the river had worked in its favour. When work had commenced on the foundation, locals had remarked pessimistically that it was nothing but folly to build on low-lying ground so close to the water, where the heavy clay was soggy for most of the year and where the yellowish mists brought a man nothing but colds, catarrh, coughs and consumption. When the rumours had spread that the canons had trouble singing the daily round of offices because at any time at least half of them were suffering from sore throats, the locals had nodded wisely and said, told you so.

Well, Josse thought, that might be the case. But before dawn this morning, the river that made the canons’ existence a permanently damp and rheumy one saved not only most of their new foundation but also their lives. If, that was, the fire had been an accident and not intended to burn down no more than the guest wing…

A short, stocky man dressed in a hooded black cloak over a white surplice was striding to meet them. Raising a hand to Gervase, he addressed Josse. ‘I am Canon Mark,’ he said. ‘Are you Sir Josse d’Acquin?’ Josse nodded. ‘Then glad I am to see you, for your reputation has gone ahead of you.’

‘Oh — er, thank you,’ Josse said.

‘And you have brought the nursing sisters!’ Canon Mark exclaimed, beaming up at the nuns.

‘Two of Hawkenlye’s finest,’ Josse confirmed. ‘This is Sister Euphemia, the infirmarer, and this is Sister Caliste.’

‘Ladies, gentlemen, please dismount and I will call someone to see to your horses.’ Mark looked around, spotted a brother apparently doing nothing but staring at the new arrivals and called him over. As the young canon led the horses away, Mark said, ‘Now, first let me take the two nuns to see their patients. Mistress Gifford is tending them with great skill but they are a sorry sight and I am sure she would welcome some support.’ Turning on his heel, he led the way to a low building only a few paces from the burned-out guest quarters. ‘We’ve put them in here because it was closest,’ he said over his shoulder. Then, ushering his visitors through the open door: ‘There they are.’

Josse saw a body lying on the ground, covered from head to toe with a muddy length of darned linen. Two other men lay on low cots. They were filthy, the remnants of their garments charred and sticking to their skin. Their faces were badly burned, swollen and unrecognizable. Both were asleep or unconscious.

Between them stood Sabin de Gifford.

Her eyes flew first to Josse and she murmured, ‘Josse, I am glad to see you.’ Then she moved to greet the two nuns, and Josse saw that Sister Euphemia put a concerned arm around the young woman’s waist as she muttered some urgent question. ‘I am quite all right,’ he heard Sabin reply. ‘Thank you for your concern, but I am neither overtaxed nor overtired.’

Word of her condition must have spread, Josse thought. With a surreptitious glance, he observed that any bump she might be showing would not be visible beneath her cloak and her voluminous white apron.

‘We hope to take the wounded men up to Hawkenlye,’ Josse said. ‘Are they fit to make the journey?’

He might have directed the question at Sabin but it was the infirmarer, bending down and studying the two men in turn, who answered. ‘Sabin has done a fine job,’ she announced. ‘What did you give them?’ she asked, and Sabin replied with a string of ingredients out of which Josse understood only poppy and monkshood. Lord, I thought monkshood was a deadly poison, he thought in alarm. But the infirmarer was nodding her approval; presumably Sabin knew what she was doing and whatever she had given the two Hospitallers had succeeded in sending them into a deep and hopefully pain-free sleep.

‘I think,’ Sister Euphemia was saying, ‘we may safely take them up to the infirmary and I suggest we make haste about it before the drugs wear off and they begin to feel their hurts once more.’

Canon Mark needed no further instruction. Already he was hurrying out and Josse heard him shouting to his brethren, issuing orders for the sheriff’s man and his cart to be brought up and for straw palliasses, pillows and blankets to be loaded onto it. Very shortly afterwards, the two unconscious men were tenderly carried out to the cart. The nuns volunteered to accompany them and a sister sat beside each of the patients to watch closely over them during the slow journey up to the Abbey. The man driving the horses was given final instructions to go as gently as road conditions allowed, and then they set off.

Gervase went to see Sabin home and Josse watched as he gave his wife a kiss and took her leather bag from her. Josse was about to go over to where the horses were tethered and organize leading reins for the two sisters’ mounts when Canon Mark caught his sleeve.

‘A word, Sir Josse, if I may,’ he said. ‘I wanted to speak to de Gifford as well, but he has gone…’

‘He is escorting his wife home,’ Josse said.

‘Ah, yes, of course.’

‘I will pass on to him anything that you tell me.’

Josse guessed that the canon was going to voice his suspicions about the fire and he was correct. ‘I am worried about how this blaze was started,’ he said quietly, lowering his voice and leaning close to Josse. ‘There is a suggestion being bandied about that it was caused by carelessness with a brazier, but this simply cannot be so because I take it upon myself to check that all the workmen’s braziers are dead at the end of each day.’ No wonder the poor man is so agitated, Josse thought; he senses that his own reputation is at stake. ‘I know the dangers of fire,’ the canon added, ‘as do we all, and as soon as the alarm went up, the fire drill that I myself devised was set in motion. All of us were ready with our buckets, forming a chain from the river bank. Canon John and I soaked our garments, covered our noses and mouths with wet cloths and dashed into the guest wing, where we were able to grab the two Hospitallers nearest to the door and drag them outside. But, Sir Josse — and this is what both puzzles and disturbs me — the fire showed no inclination to spread to neighbouring buildings! There we all stood, water at the ready, yet once it was done with the guest wing, the fire went out!’

‘Went out?’ Josse could not believe it. ‘Was it not rather that you and your men had already soaked the walls and roofs of the neighbouring buildings so that the fire could not take hold?’

‘No, no, no, there was no time for that!’ Mark insisted, agitated. ‘I was at the head of the chain and I swear to you that only I and perhaps a dozen others had thrown the contents of our pails before the flames died. What do you make of that, Sir Josse?’