Alys Clare - The Paths of the Air

‘I understand,’ she said. ‘God bless you, and return to us soon and safe,’ she murmured.

‘Amen.’ He gave her a swift bow, then turned and strode off towards the stables. Her heart heavy and with a strange sense of foreboding, she returned to her room.

Josse made good time to New Winnowlands; Horace seemed to appreciate the crisp, sharp air and the frost-hardened ground under his big feet. The ride was exhilarating and as the familiar landscape came into view, Josse felt as if he had been given some powerful elixir that stepped up his brain function and encouraged him to action. He had seen few people on the way and those whom he had questioned had to a man — and a woman — shaken their heads and said no, they had seen neither a black-robed monk nor a swathed Saracen. Even the series of negative replies had not discouraged Josse. He told himself that he would have been most surprised if anyone had seen either of the men he was searching for. They were just too good at hiding.

Will greeted him with his usual total lack of surprise. He went with Josse into the hall, called out to Ella that master was home, hungry, cold and thirsty. As Ella bustled about stoking up the fire and preparing food and drink, Josse explained why he had come back and asked Will if there had been any sign of their former guest.

‘No,’ Will replied. Then, lowering his voice and with a quick glance to make sure Ella was not in earshot, he said, ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, could you not ask the same question of Ella? She’s well over that business now and it’d be a shame to bring it all up and set her to fretting and worrying again.’

‘Aye, it would indeed,’ Josse agreed, ‘and I won’t mention it, Will.’ There was no point, he thought. If Ella had any idea that the man she knew as John Damianos might return, she would be plunged back into the agitated state she had exhibited before. He was content to take Will’s word for it.

When Ella, having deposited a tray laden with bread, cheese, strips of dried pork, some berries and a jug of spiced wine, disappeared off in the direction of her kitchen, Josse indicated that Will should stay.

‘Where would you go, Will,’ he asked, ‘if you needed a safe refuge in the winter?’

Will gave the question considerable thought. ‘I’d go to a trusted friend.’

‘Supposing you did not dare trust anyone? If, for instance, you carried with you something of great value that you had to keep safe?’

Will frowned. ‘If there was not one single person I could ask for help, I reckon I’d find some out of-the-way place and build a shelter. I’d cut stout poles,’ he went on, warming to his theme, ‘and fix bracken and branches of evergreen over them to keep out the rain and the wind. I’d find stones and make a hearth, then I’d scour the land for firewood. I’d risk a bit of poaching to feed myself and when night fell I’d barricade myself in and hope for the best.’

It was a long speech from the usually taciturn Will and, amused at the romantic, imaginative streak in his servant that had created such a colourful and optimistic image of life in the wilds, Josse hid a smile. ‘You may be right, Will,’ he said seriously. ‘Perhaps our former guest has done just that.’

‘You’ll never find him if he has,’ said Will sagely. ‘There’s a whole forest full of out-of-the-way places not five miles from here. If he’s gone to ground in there, that’ll be that.’

Josse sighed. Although it was an unwelcome conclusion, he had a suspicion that Will might well be right.

Will excused himself and went back outside. Josse finished his food and drained the jug of wine and as the nourishment and the fire’s warmth relaxed him, he found his optimism beginning to creep back.

Fadil and the monk might well have done what Will suggested and hidden themselves away deep inside the forest. But they could not stay there for ever. If they were going to hide for the rest of their lives they could have done so out in Outremer. No: the monk had a clear purpose in coming to England, a purpose that was not going to be fulfilled by sleeping rough in the depths of the Great Wealden Forest. If Josse was right, the Hospitaller was aiming to get both his prisoner and the ransom safely to the headquarters of his Order at Clerkenwell. While he waited for them to emerge, there were other things that he could do and he intended to set about one of them immediately.

He stood up, brushed down his tunic and gathered up his cloak from where Ella had spread it to warm in front of the fire. Wrapping it round him with a dramatic flourish, he went outside, called for his horse and set off for Robertsbridge.

As he rode Josse thought how best to make his approach to Gerome de Villieres. If Thibault had been telling the truth about a dispute between Gerome’s erstwhile knight and the de Villieres family out in Antioch — and, unless this was a ruse to keep Josse away from the Robertsbridge manor, there was no reason for him to lie — then there was no point in posing as a friend or relative of the missing monk. If they were not prepared to receive the man himself, they would not welcome one of his relatives. It was not much of an idea in any case, Josse decided, since the subterfuge would become evident as soon as they asked him what his supposed kinsman’s name was or what he looked like, Josse having absolutely no idea of either.

I will say that I am from Hawkenlye Abbey, he thought in the end, the appointed representative of the Abbess. That was the truth. He would say that two Knights Hospitaller had been badly burned and were in the infirmary; that too was true. He would explain how he had offered to take on the Hospitallers’ search for a missing monk but he would make out that he did not know Thibault had already visited the de Villieres family. He would give the impression that Thibault could barely speak. He would let Gerome de Villieres assume that enquiries were being made at every manor in the vicinity, implying that he did not know of Gerome’s connection with the runaway.

Satisfied, he kicked Horace into a canter.

He obtained directions for the de Villieres manor and found it quite easily. The house was generously sized and attractive, set in a fold of land to the west of Robertsbridge. Tree-clad slopes sheltered it from the prevailing south-westerly winds and orchards grew on south-facing hillsides. The huddles of peasant dwellings seemed in good condition and the bare earth in the fields looked fertile and rich.

The house and courtyard were enclosed by a stone wall in which there was an arched gateway. Riding in, Josse called out and almost immediately a lad came to take his horse and an older man to ask his name and his business. He listened to Josse’s carefully prepared reply and invited him to come up into the house. Josse was ushered into an imposing hall with a wide central hearth and a raised dais on which there were a long table, two chairs and a couple of benches. A thin-faced woman of perhaps forty sat at the table, an embroidery hoop in her hand; a younger woman of about twenty sat beside her.

They watched as he approached the table and bowed. The older one said politely, ‘My brother will be with us presently. Will you take some refreshment?’

‘Aye, my lady, thank you.’

She nodded to the serving man who had brought Josse in and he bowed and went out through a doorway at the far end of the hall. Josse, beginning to feel slightly awkward beneath the two women’s scrutiny, gave a diffident smile and said, ‘Lovely bright day, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ the older woman agreed. She did not venture any further remark that might have picked up the conversation and helped it along. It was a relief when the sound of footsteps came from the passage and the manservant and his master came into the hall. While the servant poured mugs of wine, the master strode up to Josse and said, ‘I am Gerome de Villieres. This is my sister, the lady Maria, and this is my daughter Editha.’ The younger woman gave Josse a shy smile. ‘How can I help you?’