Alys Clare - The Paths of the Air

‘Fadil made a deal with the monk, who wished to take him back to Margat. But Fadil knew that if this happened, it would only be a matter of time before Hisham made another attempt to buy him back. Fadil said he would give the monk a third of what he had stolen from Hisham in exchange for his freedom. The monk agreed.’

‘Why?’ Helewise cried. ‘Surely his orders were to guard the prisoner closely and return him to his cell?’

‘That is true,’ agreed the young man. ‘But the monk understood what was waiting for Fadil in Hisham’s house and in his bed and he did not wish to condemn him to such horror. What Hisham did to him is a sin,’ he added primly. ‘Besides, the monk knew that what he had in his pack was inestimably more valuable, both to his Order and to everyone else, than any number of prisoners.’

What he had in his pack… She burned to ask but the moment was not right. ‘What happened to Fadil?’

‘The monk took him as far as Constantinople, where they crossed the Bosporus together. There Fadil felt safe at last and they parted company. Fadil had distant family in Constantinople and he was in no doubt that they would take him in. He was a rich man now, remember, and wealth has a way of smoothing the road.’

‘It has,’ Helewise murmured. So Fadil didn’t come to England, she was thinking. Josse and I were wrong. The monk’s companion was not Fadil but this man who sits so calmly and self-assuredly before me. ‘So,’ she said, carefully, ‘the monk decided that whatever Hisham had offered as ransom for Fadil was too dangerous to take to Margat or any other fortress of the Order?’

‘That is true. It is- That is to say, there were good reasons why he knew he must bring it to England.’

‘To the English headquarters of the Knights Hospitaller at Clerkenwell?’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Yes.’

‘And how did you come to be travelling with him?’

‘I am his manservant.’ The young man bowed elegantly from the waist.

Helewise said nothing.

The young man raised his head and looked at her. She studied what she could see of the face and took in the green eyes in the smooth skin. She observed the graceful way in which he held his head. She remembered that pale, translucent skin on the inside of his wrist.

‘Stand up,’ she said.

Hesitantly, eyes on her all the time, he did so.

She was sure.

‘Before you knew who I am I told you that the Abbess of Hawkenlye was more inclined to mercy than to condemnation,’ she said quietly. ‘I also said that this Abbey offers sanctuary to those who flee. That beneficence is not in my gift, for it is the same in any religious house. Unless you have done or proceed to do something that I know to be a mortal sin, I shall not advertise your presence here to those who pursue you. Even if you were to confess that you have committed some crime, then it would be to our sheriff that I would give you up, and he is a just man.’

The man’s eyes had widened in alarm when Helewise had spoken of those who pursued him but as she concluded her short speech, he looked calmer. He said, ‘I have done wrong, but not without dire need.’

It is as I thought, Helewise said to herself. Then, rising, she walked slowly around her table until she was standing right in front of him. Again moving unhurriedly, her movements smooth and steady, she raised her hands and began to unfasten the headdress.

There was no reaction.

She unwound what seemed like yards of cloth from around the head and presently the smooth, honey-coloured hair came into view. Then she drew the folds away from the lower face and chin. Finally, she pulled the last length of the material from where it was tucked into the top of the robe.

She looked at what she had uncovered. And, with a wry smile, a green-eyed, dark blonde and rather beautiful young woman looked back at her.

Josse left the home of Gerome de Villieres early the next morning. He had been right in predicting that Gerome would not refer again to the matter that had taken Josse so urgently to his house; however, he and his womenfolk entertained Josse to such an enjoyable evening that he could not complain. Indeed, as he settled for sleep on a luxurious feather mattress with sheets of finest linen and thick, warm woollen blankets, replete after an excellent meal and some even better French wine, he realized that it had been a relief to have a few hours’ rest from his abiding preoccupations. Then, of course, he felt guilty because others — Abbess Helewise, for instance — would not have been given any such respite. They certainly wouldn’t have enjoyed that delicious meal and the wonderfully soft, warm bed.

As he left, Gerome came out to the courtyard to see him off. ‘I wish you good luck, Josse,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to hope for in the case of Brother Ralf. In a way he’s damned if the Hospitallers catch up with him and damned if they don’t.’

‘Damned?’

Gerome waved a hand. ‘Not literally, or at least I pray not! No; I merely meant that if they find him they’ll punish him, but if he manages to evade capture then he’ll be on the run for as long as there are people out there who know what he’s done.’

‘Tell me what he’s done!’ Josse said.

But Gerome shook his head. ‘I cannot. I-’ He made a face. ‘I wish to live here in peace,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, Josse, and no doubt you think me weak, but this house has seen enough of tragedy and I will not willingly invite it back to my door.’

‘But I could-’

‘Go, Josse!’ Gerome exclaimed with a short laugh. Then, as Josse gave him a valedictory salute and edged Horace off towards the gates, he called out, ‘Come and see us again!’

‘I shall!’ Josse called back. ‘Farewell!’

He was keen to get back to Hawkenlye to tell the Abbess what he had discovered and he set Horace off at a good pace. The morning was warmer than the previous few days and the white frost that had held the earth in its hard grip had melted, except on the verges of the track that did not receive sunshine. As Horace cantered along, Josse noticed the prints of his hooves going in the other direction. He was reflecting what huge feet Horace had when he noticed something: alongside Horace’s hoof prints there was another set. They were considerably smaller and their spacing suggested a horse with a shorter stride.

As he rode to Robertsbridge, somebody had been following him.

It could be innocent. Many people used that road and it was likely that another rider had been travelling behind him, bound on some independent quest. He reached the place where the narrower and lesser-used track from New Winnowlands joined the road and rode along it. Again, he found Horace’s prints; again, that smaller horse had been following him, perhaps all the way from his own home…

He was torn. He wanted to get back to the Abbey but his curiosity was piqued. He was also perturbed. There were violent men about, and he was alone. He told himself firmly not to be a coward. Then he dismounted and, leading Horace, he retraced their journey of the day before until, about two miles from New Winnowlands, he found what he was looking for.

There were Horace’s prints. And there, coming in from a path to the right of the road, were those of his pursuer. Without hesitation he mounted and turned Horace onto the path.

It did not seem to be going anywhere. He was very close to the borders of his own land yet, ashamed, he admitted to himself that he had never been this way before. It began to rain. He drew his hood up over his hat, pulling it forward to shield his face.

Open ground gave way to woodland and presently he rode through a beech grove. Giant slabs of golden-yellow sandstone stood out from the leaf-covered ground and the breeze stirred the bare branches of the trees high above him. He could not see the horse’s prints and he hoped that he had not missed the place where they joined the path. Then he came to a muddy stretch of track and there they were once again.