Alys Clare - The Paths of the Air

‘I am not yet prepared to say,’ Josse replied cautiously.

Mark tutted impatiently. ‘Then come and look at this,’ he said, grabbing Josse’s arm and dragging him back to the small room where the patients had been put. Striding across the floor, he drew back the linen that covered the dead man. ‘This one was Brother Jeremiah. God rest his soul,’ Mark said, and so great was his urgency that Josse decided the last four words were an afterthought. ‘Look, Sir Josse.’ Mark was turning the dead head on the muddy ground. ‘What do you say to this?’

Josse crouched beside him, staring down at the left side of the dead monk’s head where Mark was pointing.

‘I see nothing,’ he began, ‘and I-’

Mark tutted again. ‘Don’t look, feel.’ Grabbing Josse’s hand, he pushed the fingers down into the smooth, dark blond hair. ‘There!’

Under Josse’s fingers he felt a huge swelling.

Something — or someone — had struck Brother Jeremiah very hard behind his left ear. And that was not all: as Josse continued to probe, he felt a deep depression right in the middle of the back of the skull. Sickeningly, he detected sharp splinters of bone.

‘It could have happened as he tried to escape the flames,’ he said. ‘It was dark; he had been wakened from profound sleep. He probably panicked, tripped and fell.’

‘Think again, Sir Josse,’ Mark said darkly. ‘I was first into the guest room once it was possible to enter. Brother Jeremiah had not even sat up, never mind tried to get out. He lay dead in his bed and his poor smashed skull rested on nothing harder than his straw mattress.’ His eyes, round with horrified astonishment, met Josse’s. Just in case Josse had missed the point, Mark breathed solemnly, ‘He was dead before the fire began. Somebody murdered him and then started the fire in an attempt to hide what he had done.’

As Josse and Gervase rode briskly back up the road to Hawkenlye, Josse related to his companion everything that Canon Mark had told and shown him.

‘You agree that this dead Hospitaller was murdered?’ Gervase asked curtly.

‘Aye,’ Josse said. There was no other explanation for Brother Jeremiah’s staved-in skull.

‘And you do not think Canon Mark is inventing this tale in order to cover up his own negligence in allowing a fire to start in his guest wing?’

‘No,’ Josse said firmly. ‘I cannot vouch for Canon Mark’s honesty, having only just met him, although I must say that I gained the impression of a conscientious man who insists on things being done according to his own careful rules. If he says he always makes sure no fires are left smouldering at the end of the day, then I believe him. Also’ — and this, he thought, was what clinched it — ‘how else did Brother Jeremiah get those fatal wounds to his head unless by another’s hand? He cannot possibly have fallen, for he was found in his bed.’

‘We only have Canon Mark’s word for that.’

Josse’s irritation spilled over. ‘Well, go back and ask the others! I did not think to do it, Gervase, but Canon Mark didn’t fight that fire all by himself and I’m sure his companions will vouch for the truth of what he told me.’

Gervase grinned. ‘Sorry, Josse. Yes, you’re right; I’m just thinking around the problem.’ His expression becoming rueful, he added gloomily, ‘As if one violent murder wasn’t enough, now it seems we have another.’

Gervase and Josse had decided to speak to the surviving Hospitallers in the hope that they might have seen or heard something suspicious before the fire broke out. It seemed quite possible for, as Josse pointed out, the murderer must have hoped that his fire would kill all three of them — it was only thanks to the quick-thinking and courageous Canon Mark and his fire drill that two had been saved — and therefore there was a good chance that the killer had not bothered too much about keeping out of sight.

On reaching the Abbey in the early afternoon, Josse had asked Sister Ursel to send word to the Abbess that they were back and then they had gone straight to the infirmary, where Sister Euphemia had put the Hospitallers on adjacent cots in the curtained recess at the far end of the long ward. The patches of cloth had been sponged off their flesh and now both appeared to be naked, covered as far as the waist with clean white sheets. Their burns were red and shiny.

‘This man — ’ Sister Euphemia indicated the monk on the left, who Josse identified as Brother Otto — ‘is the more badly wounded and he breathes only with great difficulty. His burns are extensive and he would now be in agony were he conscious. I thank the merciful God for Sabin de Gifford’s skill.’

‘Amen,’ Josse muttered. Gervase, he noticed, gave a faint smile at this praise of his wife.

‘The other one — ’ the infirmarer turned to look at Thibault of Margat — ‘suffered less damage and I guess this is because he was pulled out first. His burns are not so deep, and although he has been coughing and wheezing, his condition is not as severe as his companion’s.’

‘How soon before he is able to talk?’ Gervase asked.

‘He is very sick. Although I said his condition is less severe, that is relative, for he too will be in a great deal of pain when he recovers consciousness and I shall do my best to keep him asleep for as long as I think fit.’

‘Sister, the monk who died did not perish in the fire,’ Gervase said in an urgent whisper. ‘He was murdered, and I must set about trying to find the man who killed him. These two lucky survivors — ’ he must have noticed her instinctive protest, for he held up his hand to silence her — ‘yes, I know full well they will suffer agonies before they are healed but at least they are alive! These two may have seen or heard something of the attacker who killed their brother, and the sooner I can speak to them, the sooner I can get on his trail!’

The infirmarer nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said quietly. ‘All I can promise is that I will monitor my patients’ condition when they wake up.’ She stared down sadly at Brother Otto. ‘I fear it is if he wakes up, in this poor soul’s case,’ she added. Then, her eyes returning to Gervase’s: ‘If I deem it suitable for you to speak to either of them before I sedate them again, be sure that I shall send for you.’

‘But-’ Gervase began.

The infirmarer put both her hands on his chest and pushed him out of the recess, Josse following. Once she had ensured that the curtains had fallen closed behind her, she looked at Gervase and said, her voice exasperated, ‘That’s the best I can offer you. Go and ask that pretty wife of yours about the treatment of badly burned patients and I’m sure she’ll tell you I’m doing the right thing. It’s the shock, you see — burns hurt so much that the pain alone can kill you even if whoever is caring for you manages to keep you clean so that you don’t suppurate to death.’

‘Oh,’ said Gervase. Josse felt quite sorry for him; he looked like a scolded child.

Sister Euphemia must have thought so too. She smiled and put a motherly arm around Gervase’s waist. ‘Just be patient,’ she said kindly. ‘The older monk is lean, wiry and tough as an oak tree. I’m not making any promises but I reckon it’ll take more than a few burns and some lungfuls of smoke to kill him off. We’ll see how he is in the morning. A good night’s sleep can do wonders, and we’ll all be praying for them both, so we’ll have the good Lord on our side.’ She nodded encouragingly, her face full of such trust that Josse was moved.

‘Come, Gervase,’ he said gently. ‘There’s nothing more we can do here. Everything the Hospitallers had with them, including the shifts they slept in, undoubtedly went up in flames, so we can’t even go through their belongings in the hope of finding some clue as to who wanted them dead. Let’s leave the nursing nuns to their task.’