Alys Clare - The Paths of the Air

Josse was with the Abbess in the refectory finishing the noon meal. They were seated apart from the rest of the community, discussing Thibault’s story.

‘I keep returning to the conclusion that this runaway English Hospitaller and the Saracen whom Kathnir and Akhbir are hunting just have to be together,’ Josse said. ‘And I feel sure that the man calling himself John Damianos is Fadil.’

‘Fadil?’

‘The prisoner who was to be exchanged.’ He frowned. ‘Although I thought Fadil was a younger man.’

‘The meeting in the desert was two years ago,’ the Abbess pointed out. ‘Fear, privation and a hard road can greatly age a man in two years. And you never saw John Damianos’s face.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, then. For the time being, let us work on the principle that the runaway monk and his charge — Fadil, going under the name of John Damianos — have travelled all the way from the desert outside Margat to the south-east corner of England.’

‘Where are they going?’ Josse demanded. ‘Why would the Hospitaller bring the prisoner so far? The obvious thing to do was go straight back to Margat, return the prisoner and make a full report.’

She thought about this. Eventually she said, ‘Thibault suggested that the prisoner’s family might have tried to cheat the Hospitallers so that they went home with both Fadil and whatever they were offering in exchange for him. Is it not possible’ — she had softened her voice to a whisper — ‘that the Knights Hospitaller did the same?’

‘Gervase suggested something similar,’ he whispered back. ‘When I protested that the Hospitallers were renowned for their honesty and dependability, he replied that it only takes one man to instigate treachery.’

‘I agree,’ she said. ‘If the English monk knew that the tragedy in the desert had been caused because a senior Hospitaller had decided to cheat both his brethren and the prisoner’s family, then returning meekly to Margat and the monk who had sent his brethren into danger would have been the last thing he would do.’

‘It’s possible,’ Josse said reluctantly, ‘although I still find it hard to believe the great Order of the Knights Hospitaller would behave so shabbily.’

‘One of them might,’ she persisted. ‘Keep an open mind, Sir Josse. As to why the English monk made for England, why, I can think of two reasons. One: he is, as we keep saying, English — he went out to Outremer in a party of knights with an English lord who has kin in Antioch — so he could merely be coming home. Two: we have heard mention of the Order’s headquarters at Clerkenwell, so might our man be heading there? It is a very long way from Margat and he might think it is therefore a safe place to deliver his charge.’

‘Either is possible,’ Josse said. ‘But we cannot confirm anything until we see more clearly.’

‘Sir Josse?’ she said after a moment.

He turned to look at her. ‘You sound as if something has just occurred to you. Let’s hear it.’

‘It has,’ she said eagerly. ‘Why don’t we ask Thibault if he knows the name or the dwelling place of the English monk’s former lord? If he could provide either, then we can perhaps discover where the English monk came from.’

‘How would that help?’

She sighed. ‘Because he would very likely be making for the place,’ she said. ‘We could look for him there.’

‘Aye, so we could,’ he said slowly. Then: ‘John Damianos — Fadil — came to New Winnowlands. If his monk companion is also hiding out in the area, that suggests he might have come from around here.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Of course!’ she said. ‘Do you know of any families in the area with kin in Outremer?’

He grinned. ‘Not offhand, my lady, although I dare say I could find out.’ He wiped his platter with a crust of bread. ‘I’ll ride over to see Brice of Rotherbridge; he knows most of the big households of this corner of England, by reputation if not personally.’

He had just put the bread in his mouth when Sister Martha came to tell him that Will was looking for him. Hastily standing up, he chewed and swallowed his mouthful and said to the Abbess, ‘Excuse me, my lady.’

‘Of course, Sir Josse,’ she replied. ‘Hurry — he would not have come to find you unless it was important.’

Josse ran to the gates where Will, dismounted and holding on to his horse’s rein, was waiting for him.

‘Will, what has happened?’

Will touched his shapeless bag of a hat and gave him a sketchy bow. ‘Those two foreigners have come back. One’s got an arrow sticking in his chest.’

He said two, Josse thought swiftly, so he must mean Kathnir and Akhbir. ‘The men who came before?’

‘Aye. It’s the one who did all the talking that’s been wounded. The other one is afeard for him — rightly, I’d say — and he brought him to New Winnowlands because it was the only place he knew. Reckon they must have been nearby,’ he added. ‘Stands to reason.’

‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. ‘Has anything been done for the wounded man?’

‘Not much,’ Will admitted. ‘Couple of the lads helped me and Ella get him into the hall and Ella’s keeping the fire fed. But none of us knows anything about arrows and we thought we’d do more harm than good.’

‘I’ll come back with you straight away,’ Josse said. ‘I’ll ask the Abbess if she’ll send a nursing nun with us. Go across to Sister Martha and get Horace ready for me, Will. We’ll leave as soon as we can.’

They reached New Winnowlands in good time. Sister Euphemia had ordered Sister Caliste to go and tend to the wounded man and, with a small leather pouch of medical equipment at her waist and mounted on the golden mare that had been left in the care of the Abbey, she rode as swiftly as Josse. They had soon left Will behind. The stable lad came out to meet them, staring at Sister Caliste as if he had never seen a nun before. He took the two horses and led them away to the stables.

Josse escorted Sister Caliste inside the house. Kathnir lay on a straw mattress by the fire. Akhbir was kneeling beside him as still as a statue, his eyes closed and his lips moving silently. Josse walked up to him and touched his shoulder. The man’s dark eyes flew open and he stared up at Josse. Then, still without speaking, he inclined his head in the direction of his fallen comrade.

Kathnir was on his back, breathing shallowly, the shaft of the arrow and its feathered end sticking up out of his chest about a hand and a half’s span from his shoulder. The arrow must have missed his heart but it was a good shot all the same. His garments were soaked with blood and his skin felt cool and clammy.

Sister Caliste was standing right beside Josse. ‘What should we do, Sir Josse?’ she asked in a calm voice. ‘I have never extracted an arrow before, although I did once deal with a spear wound.’

‘The problem is in getting the arrowhead out,’ he replied. ‘Too often men wrest at the shaft in panic and it breaks away. Then you have to probe around to make a path through the swollen tissue until you get to the arrowhead.’

He knelt down and heard the swish of Sister Caliste’s wide skirts as she did the same. He put a careful hand on to the arrow and Kathnir moved slightly. His face was ashen, his eyes closed. ‘He is far down in unconsciousness,’ Josse whispered. ‘Awake, even that small touch on the arrow would have hurt like fury.’

She was leaning forward, a small knife in her hand. ‘We should cut away his garments,’ she said. ‘It may be that the arrow has not penetrated deeply.’ She did so, and then laid back the cloth to expose the embedded arrow. They both looked. ‘Oh,’ she said.