‘Yes. Right.’ He seemed to be having some difficulty in gathering his thoughts together but, after a moment, said, ‘Well, Father used to talk of a sorcerer who lived back in those days, a man also by the name of Dee, so I imagine he was an ancestor of the Prince’s John Dee. Maybe the role gets passed down from father to son, I don’t know. Anyway, Father used to say the old magician could look into a sphere made of black glass and see things that were happening far away, and it set me to wonder if Prince John’s man — they call him Magister, by the way — has something similar. Perhaps the same sphere, even, inherited from his forebears. And that, staring into it, he sort of saw the Eye of Jerusalem.’ Suddenly he shook his head, quite violently, and said, ‘I apologise. I am getting carried away and mired down in pagan superstition, and I am talking utter nonsense.’
As the echoes of his raised, angry voice died away, Helewise said quietly, ‘Sir Josse, I do not think that I have ever heard you talk nonsense.’
‘But far-seeing glass spheres, Abbess! In heaven’s name, how could they possibly work?’
‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘Although I am told there is evidence that they may do. We should not always strive to understand the how, Sir Josse,’ she pressed on, overriding his protest, ‘for many things in this world are known only to God. It is how He has ordered it.’
The two brothers were staring at one another now, and she was amused to see that Yves still wore his shocked face, as if an Abbess who expressed interest in such wild, outlandish and frighteningly heathen things as sacrificial kings and far-seeing spheres had no business being in charge of such a grand foundation as Hawkenlye Abbey.
She knew she should not tease them further, but she could not resist it; she said helpfully, ‘Those spheres you speak of are known as scrying glasses, you know.’
Yves opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it again, then, as if at a loss to know quite what to do, gave her another of his little bows. Josse made a sound that seemed to indicate a mixture of surprise and disbelief.
She said, ‘Gentlemen, if you lived here as we do, so close to the ancient Wealden Forest that when we rise in the dawn we can smell its very airs, you might not be so shocked to hear a Christian woman, an Abbess, indeed, speak of pagan things.’ She fixed her eyes on to Josse’s. ‘There are folk within the forest’s wide boundaries who see life very differently from the way in which we do, and who hold very different beliefs.’
Josse gave a faint nod, as if to say, I understand what you say. Then, turning to his brother, he murmured something that Helewise didn’t catch; she thought she heard ‘. . not quite the same, here in England. .’ and then there was another brief sentence. Whatever it was, it served to reassure Yves; turning to her, he said with great courtesy, ‘My lady Abbess, I would not question anything you said.’
‘That is magnanimous of you,’ she murmured, resisting the urge to add, almost dangerously so. Then, once again directing their thoughts back to the matter in hand, she said, ‘So, Sir Josse, you suggest that this John Dee is using his ancestor’s scrying ball one day when he sees a wonderful jewel called the Eye of Jerusalem, borne by one Galbertius Sidonius who is apparently searching for someone of the family of Acquin. Understandingthe powers of the stone, he informs his lord, Prince John, and they set off to find it. Or, failing that, to seek out this man d’Acquin and keep a watch on him until someone brings the Eye to him. Yes?’
‘I told you I was speaking rubbish,’ Josse growled. ‘It is hardly likely, now, is it, Abbess Helewise? Far more sensible to go back to our original thought, that the Prince knows of Father, of the Eye, and of Galbertius because of the gossip of returning crusaders.’
‘You must, of course, believe what makes most sense to you,’ she replied, refusing to be drawn. ‘But I urge you to consider seeking out Prince John, not only to aid me in identifying our unknown dead man, but also to help you find the Eye. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go. There are matters awaiting my attention.’ She stood up.
Instantly the two men remembered their manners, thanking her profusely for giving up her time to listen to them, for her helpful comments, for offering them Hawkenlye’s hospitality. Almost falling over himself, Yves rushed to open the door for her, and Josse gave her a low bow.
As she walked out of the room between them, she asked, ‘So, you will go to seek out the Prince and tell him what you now know?’
After the briefest of pauses, they both said, ‘Aye.’
They set out from the Abbey a little later. They had eaten a good meal before leaving; Sister Basilia, the nun in charge of the refectory, told them they must fortify themselves against whatever they might meet, which sounded quite ominous. As they rode off, Yves said with a rueful grin, ‘She is all that you said of her and more.’
‘Who is?’ Josse asked, although he knew very well.
‘Your Abbess Helewise.’
‘Hmm.’
He heard Yves laugh softly. ‘I know that sound,’ he remarked. ‘It means you are not going to say another word on the matter.’
‘Quite right. I’m not.’
They were just starting on the descent down Castle Hill towards Tonbridge and the river crossing when they saw a party of travellers coming towards them.
As the two groups approached one another, Josse realised, with a sinking of the heart, that the other party was headed by Sheriff Pelham. As dishevelled and grim-faced as ever, he strode out in front of a quartet of men bearing between them a large piece of sacking, clearly containing something heavy. Each man held one corner of the sack, which dipped down almost to the ground as they lugged it along.
The four men were scarlet in the face and sweating from the effort of carrying their burden up the long slope. ‘How typical,’ Josse murmured, ‘that he does not help them.’
‘You know him?’ Yves asked.
‘Aye, I do. He is Harry Pelham, and he is the Sheriff of Tonbridge.’
‘You do not like him.’ Yves was certain enough to make it a statement.
‘I do not.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I will leave you to work that out for yourself. Good morning, Sheriff Pelham,’ he called. ‘What have you got there?’
The sheriff put up his hand and his men halted, instantly dropping the sacking down on to the muddy track and standing there puffing and blowing as they began to recover their breath.
Pelham was glaring up at Josse. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Mere curiosity, I admit,’ Josse said easily.
‘I know you!’ Pelham said accusingly. ‘You’re that Josse d’Acquin!’
‘I am,’ Josse agreed. ‘And this man is my brother.’
‘Your brother, eh?’ The sheriff appeared to be thinking whether there was some rude remark he could make in response, but he didn’t seem to be able to come up with one. ‘Well, Sir Josse, what d’you reckon to this?’ He gave one of his men a curt nod, at which the man drew back the sacking to reveal what was inside.
It was a body. And Josse thought that it was very probably dead.
He slid off his horse’s back, flinging the reins at Yves to hold. Hurrying forward, he knelt down on the track beside the body. He put his ear down over the mouth, at the same time touching his fingers against the cheek. There was neither the sound nor the feel of breath, and the cheek was icy.
He sat back on his heels and studied the corpse.
It was that of a youth, fourteen, fifteen years old. He was thin — almost skeletally thin — and his dirty body bore the sores, scratches and bruises suggestive of a life spent out in the open, without benefit of shelter or water to wash in.
He was naked.
Lifting the limbs one by one, brushing the long, tangled hair away from the face, Josse searched for some wound or injury that might indicate how the lad had met his end. Nothing. Then — with rather more trepidation — he looked for signs of disease; again, nothing.