Alys Clare: The Paths of the Air

Not just slit it; they had carved out a wide slice from jaw to larynx, leaving a terrible gash in the shape of the young moon.

Dear God, Josse thought.

In front of him Dickon and Brother Augustus had stopped. Josse and Brother Saul drew level and all four stood staring. Josse glanced at Dickon, pale as new snow beside him. ‘Go and stand on the track down there where it curves round to the right,’ he ordered. ‘Stop anyone coming along the path.’

Dickon’s look of gratitude was eloquent reward. Not only was he excused from going any nearer to that terrible thing under the trees but in addition Josse had saved his pride by giving him a job to do.

Leaving the lay brothers on the path, Josse approached the bloody body. There was a cloaked figure standing some distance beyond it, next to two mules tethered to a tree. The man hurried forward.

‘You are from Hawkenlye Abbey?’ he called.

‘Aye,’ Josse said. ‘I am Josse d’Acquin. The brethren with the hurdle are Brothers Saul and Augustus.’

The man nodded. ‘I am Guiot of Robertsbridge, on my way to Tonbridge with nutmegs and cloves for the market. That’s my lad Dickon. He’s a tad lacking in the wits but he’s willing and he has a way with a heavily laden mule that I’ve rarely seen bettered.’ Having thus identified himself — a wise notion, Josse reflected, when standing over a mutilated corpse — Guiot of Robertsbridge dropped his voice and muttered, ‘Someone had it in for this poor fellow.’

Josse had crouched down over the body. ‘Aye.’

‘I’ve been wondering if-’ began Guiot. But, evidently sensing that Josse would prefer silence, abruptly he shut his mouth and stepped back a pace.

Slowly and steadily Josse took in the details of the dead man, from the top of his head to his pale, bare feet. His shoulder-length hair was so dark that it looked black, lying slick and smooth on his skull. His eyes, partly open, were also dark; having noted this detail, Josse gently lowered the lids. The man’s nose was sharp and the cheekbones were set high, giving a hawkish look to the face. The skin was olive in tone. His chest was well muscled and he was broad-shouldered, with a toned belly and long legs with sturdy thighs. The penis, flaccid below the smooth black body hair, had been circumcised.

Josse looked up at Guiot. ‘Any sign of his clothing?’

‘No. This is exactly how he was when the lad and I stumbled across him: mother-naked, unarmed and no pack, purse or wallet.’ Unable to curb his curiosity, he added, ‘Robbery, do you think? Some wretch jumping out on a man travelling alone in the early hours of the morning?’

Intrigued, Josse said, ‘How do you know he was attacked in the early hours?’

Guiot looked smug. ‘Because Dickon and I left home around dawn and Dickon had been up some time before that getting the mule packed. He pointed out that it was a good thing we didn’t set out earlier because we’d have been caught in the downpour we’d just had.’ The smile spreading, Guiot went on, ‘The body’s wet, so it was lying here when the rain fell, but the ground under the body is dry, so he must have fallen just before the rain shower.’

Josse was impressed. But he could see a slight flaw in the argument: ‘Could there not have been another shower earlier in the night?’

‘No,’ Guiot said firmly. ‘I’m a light sleeper and I’d have heard rain on the roof. D’you reckon it was a robber killed him?’ he persisted. ‘Seems likely, since whoever did for him took his belongings and every stitch of clothing.’

‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. He was not really listening; he was trying to make up his mind about something.

It was difficult to say with certainty, for with the clothing and the satchel missing there was nothing to go by. The face was exposed, that was true, but then Josse had nothing with which to make a comparison. Still, the height and the general build were right, as was the swarthy skin tone.

And the man he was thinking of was, after all, missing…

Making up his mind, Josse stood up. He looked at Guiot and said, ‘We must take him to the Abbey and prepare his body for burial.’

He turned and beckoned to the two lay brothers who, with no display of emotion save that their touch on the dead man’s body was noticeably gentle and respectful, loaded him onto the hurdle.

‘We can’t carry him into the Abbey like that,’ Josse said, gazing down at the corpse. He unfastened his cloak and was about to cover the body with it when Guiot said, ‘Wait.’ Then, looking slightly ashamed: ‘Pity to spoil a good cloak. Let me fetch a bit of sacking to absorb the blood, then your cloak can go on top of that.’

It made sense. Josse gave a curt nod, and the dead man, decently covered, was borne away to Hawkenlye Abbey.

‘I think,’ Josse said to Abbess Helewise, ‘that the victim may be John Damianos.’

‘I see,’ the Abbess said slowly. ‘You are not sure?’

‘I cannot be, my lady, for John Damianos wore a headdress that kept his brow, nose and mouth concealed and his eyes in shade. Our dead man was naked when he was found and his garments are missing.’

‘On what grounds, then, do you believe him to be this John Damianos?’

‘Right build, right height, same olive skin tone, and John Damianos is missing. Also the dead man was circumcised, which suggests he was possibly Muslim, and, as I told you, I believe the man who took refuge in my outbuilding was a servant brought home from Outremer.’

‘Yes, yes, so you did,’ she murmured. Then, frowning, ‘But is such scant information sufficient for us to bury him as John Damianos?’

Josse shrugged. ‘I do not know, my lady.’

Abruptly she stood up and, walking around her table, said, ‘Come, Sir Josse. Let us go and join Sister Euphemia.’

The corpse had been taken to the infirmary and Sister Caliste had washed it. Now, as the Abbess parted the curtains and led the way into the recess, both Sister Caliste and the infirmarer were bending over the dead man.

Sister Euphemia glanced up as they stepped inside and let the curtain fall behind them. She gave the Abbess a bow and said quietly, ‘I’ve tidied him up. I hope that was all right, Sir Josse, only…’ Her lips tightened.

Josse looked at the long, strong body lying on the cot. The guts had been pushed back into the abdomen, the flesh held together with a neat row of large stitches. A roll of linen had been placed beneath the head, so that the chin was tucked down against the upper chest, partly closing the awful wound in the throat. Meeting Sister Euphemia’s eyes, he nodded. ‘Aye. It was quite all right, Sister. I saw him by the road and I know what was done to him.’

The Abbess’s face was white. He could hear her soft mutter as she prayed for the dead man’s soul. When she had finished, she turned to Josse and said, in what he thought was an admirably controlled tone, ‘What can have prompted such savagery, Sir Josse? This man must have suffered agony.’

He hesitated, not because he had no answer but because that answer added more horror. But she was waiting. ‘My lady, to torture a man before killing him is usually done to extract something that it is believed he knows, or to inflict maximum punishment before the death blow.’

She nodded. Putting out a hand, she let her fingertips rest on the dead man’s shoulder in the lightest of touches. ‘Did he bear an awesome secret?’ she said softly. ‘Or had he done a wicked deed?’

Not sure whether the question was rhetorical — he would have had no answer even if it were not — Josse held his silence. After a moment, the Abbess said, ‘If indeed this man is your John Damianos, then we know he was going out secretly by night. He fled once his nocturnal habits were known. Were those not, Sir Josse, the actions of a fugitive with something to hide?’