Alys Clare: The Paths of the Air

But he had been there only a couple of weeks back on the flimsy excuse that perhaps they’d like help in raking up the leaves. They had accepted his offer with gracious kindness and given him a besom and a rake, and for four or five happy days he had worked alongside the lay brothers in cheerful companionship.

Abbess Helewise must have realized that it was Samhain and that he visited Joanna and Meggie around the time of the festivals. She had been too tactful to mention it.

He did not want to risk going back to the Abbey so soon. If he kept turning up there like a puppy wanting attention they would see the underlying neediness. He really didn’t want them — oh, all right, he didn’t want her — feeling sorry for him.

He took a long pull at his ale. I’m no use to anyone, he thought mournfully, I’m idle, I’m miserable, I’m full of self-pity and I’m His ruthless catechism of faults might well have run on for some time, but Will tapped at the door and announced that there was a stranger at the gate and would Sir Josse come out to see if it was all right to let him in?

It did not take Josse long to leap out of his chair, put his mug discreetly out of sight, brush down his tunic and wipe a hand across his beery lips. He hurried out through the door and down the steps. Beside him Will muttered, ‘There he is, sir. Wasn’t sure I liked the look of him.’

‘I see,’ Josse murmured.

‘Fellow looks as if he could do with some Christian charity, though,’ Will observed piously. ‘Never seen a man so weary and still on his feet.’

Josse had to agree. The stranger was tall, wide in the shoulder and ought to have had the confident stance of one well able to take care of himself. Instead he was trembling with exhaustion. He wore a travel-stained brown tunic that reached almost to the ground, held in at the waist with a leather belt. His satchel of soft leather must have cost a pretty penny but was scratched and battered. The skirts of the brown tunic were generous; if the man were carrying a sword, it was concealed and, Josse thought grimly, it would take him a moment or two to extract it.

Josse had a long knife in a sheath on his belt. He did not expect to use it but it was reassuring to know it was there.

What could be seen of the stranger’s skin, between the hem of the headdress low over his eyes and the fold that covered his mouth and nose, was a sort of brownish-olive shade. Might he be from Outremer? Former crusaders often returned accompanied by servants they had picked up and it was all too common for these poor souls to be cast off once their masters were safely home. As Josse gave the stranger a tentative smile, the man put his right hand over his heart and bowed. The gesture was so alien, so unlike anything a native Briton would offer, that Josse decided his guess was right.

‘I am Josse d’Acquin and you have arrived at my estate of New Winnowlands,’ he announced, speaking loudly and clearly. Keeping his tone friendly, he added, ‘What do you want of me?’

The man lowered his eyelids and dropped his chin. ‘I seek shelter, master,’ he said huskily.

‘I see.’ Josse was playing for time.

‘I work,’ the stranger said eagerly, risking a brief bashful upward glance. ‘I chop wood, I sweep floors.’

He looked as if he could hardly even hold an axe or a broom, never mind wield them. ‘I have all the men and women I need for such tasks,’ Josse said.

The stranger seemed to sink into himself. ‘Very well, master,’ he muttered. ‘Thank you for your time.’

He turned to go.

‘Wait!’ Josse called. ‘Come back. You may sleep in an outhouse and we will feed you.’ Beside him he sensed Will stiffen. He plunged on regardless. ‘Rest here with us,’ he urged, ‘build up some strength and, when you are restored, go on your way.’

The man spun round to face Josse once more, already sunk low in a bow. ‘May God bless you,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. God, Josse noted, not Allah; perhaps the man had adopted the faith of the master who had brought him so far from his homeland? ‘May he rain down gifts on you, on your sons and on the sons of your sons,’ the stranger was adding, ‘even until the tenth generation.’

‘Aye, well, I don’t know about all that,’ Josse said, embarrassed. ‘Come in, and Will here shall see about feeding you.’ Will sucked air through his teeth, a sound so eloquent of disapproval that Josse sighed in exasperation. ‘Won’t you, Will?’ he added pointedly.

‘Aye, sir.’ Will looked the stranger up and down. ‘You’d better follow me,’ he said grudgingly.

Josse watched the two of them walk away. Will was heading for one of the outbuildings that were used to store surplus produce in the late summer. It was now empty and it smelt pleasantly of apples. It had a rudimentary hearth so the stranger would be able to have a small fire. He could Something occurred to Josse; something he should have thought of earlier. Running to catch up with Will and the stranger, he called out, ‘You’d better tell me your name.’

The man stopped, turned and, looking Josse coolly in the eye, said, ‘I am John Damianos.’

The presence of a strange foreigner sleeping in his outbuilding disturbed Josse far more than he had anticipated. As much as he had thought about it — which was not very much at all — he would have said that he’d probably have forgotten all about the man after a couple of days, leaving Will and Ella to see to the stranger’s well-being.

But it did not happen like that at all.

Will and Ella certainly looked after him well enough. Despite his initial misgivings, Will seemed to want the foreigner to regain his health and strength as quickly as possible. This might have been with the aim of seeing the back of the fellow but Josse thought not. He concluded that Will was concerned with the reputation of New Winnowlands and, indeed, of Josse himself. It was as if it was up to Josse’s household to respond to the man’s faith in them and do their utmost to provide that which he had humbly come seeking.

Ella, who normally did no more than silently obey whatever orders were issued to her, also seemed affected by this generosity of spirit. Josse noticed the sudden variety in the dishes that were brought to his table; they all seemed to have the most delicious and mouth-watering smells. Josse checked with Will, who confirmed that the same dishes were being sent to the outbuilding. ‘Hope it’s all right with you, sir, only you did say as to feed him up.’

‘Aye, Will, of course it’s all right,’ Josse assured him. ‘I had-’ I had never imagined Ella to be such an imaginative cook, was what he nearly said. But since it was hardly kind or flattering to the mild and chronically unselfconfident Ella, he held back.

But Will seemed to understand. ‘Makes a change from pie, sir,’ he observed in an undertone.

‘Nothing wrong with Ella’s pies,’ Josse said stoutly. Then, grinning, ‘But aye, it does.’

Will’s contribution to the stranger’s comfort was to furnish the outbuilding. He had knocked together a crude bed frame from old hurdles and stout pieces of wood and stuffed some sacks with straw for a mattress. He — or perhaps Ella — had provided woollen blankets. To help keep the night chill at bay, he had repaired the hearth, adding more stones to its circle, and he kept the stranger well supplied with firewood.

With regular and nourishing meals and a warm place in which to sleep, the stranger ought to have recovered some strength. Which made it all the more peculiar that instead of rising in the morning with the rest of the household and offering to help with the chores — even a relatively weak convalescent could have done something — John Damianos continued to sleep through the short November days as if all the food and rest had no effect at all.