The Prince waved a hand heavy with rings. ‘Of course, my lady.’
‘I wondered how you came to connect the tale of Geoffroi d’Acquin and his jewel with Galbertius Sidonius. Geoffroi’s family remember that his father always referred to his friend as the Lombard, and I was curious to know how you managed to identify him with the man you seek.’
The Prince stared at her. It was not, she discovered, a pleasant experience; against her will — she was determined not to be cowed — stories of his famous temper came to mind. I am Abbess here, she told herself. He is sitting in my chair, and I am not going to stand here before him quaking like some child postulant caught out in a minor misdemeanour.
She straightened her shoulders and stared back.
From behind the Prince, she heard John Dee emit a brief, soft chuckle.
As if the small sound had broken some contest going on between the Prince and the Abbess, the Prince relaxed, smiled and said, ‘My lady, these things happen, do they not? A man’s deeds are mentioned, someone says, oh, you mean old so-and-so, and there you are, an unknown person suddenly has an identity. Is that not so?’
She wondered why she should feel so strongly that he very much wanted her to swallow this explanation, which was so flimsy as to be almost non-existent. She said meekly, ‘Yes, Sire. Indeed it is.’
She caught Dee’s eyes on her; even if the Prince thought she believed him, John Dee certainly did not.
She went on staring at Dee.
Was it her imagination, or did she sense a warmth from him, a sense that he meant her no harm? That — surely this was taking it too far! — he just might be on her side. Which, since she and Josse stood shoulder to shoulder, made it Josse’s side, too.
In the face of the power that seemed to come in waves off the person of the Prince, to have the Magister as an ally seemed something greatly to be desired.
16
Josse retired to bed that night feeling exhausted. He had told Yves every last detail of the interview with the Prince and John Dee, and they had talked it over for a long time. The problem is, he thought as he lay trying to relax sufficiently for sleep, that, for all those words that were exchanged, we are no nearer to a resolution to this puzzle. Nor — far more importantly — any closer to finding what hand, or hands, was behind those two murders.
As he lay there in the darkness of the shelter, he hoped fervently that both killings had been carried out by the same man. The thought of having two cold, professional killers around was just too awful.
It was quiet, down there in the Vale. Josse and Yves were the only occupants of the pilgrims’ shelter that night; the monks and the lay brothers had their own quarters, a short distance away. And the Prince, despite his protestations that he would be quite happy to put up in the clean but basic lodgings in the Vale shelter, had changed his mind when the rain refused to let up. The Abbess had arranged an area of the chapter house as a makeshift guest chamber, organising the laying-out of shakedown beds and the provision of a small brazier, and there Prince John, the Magister and the Prince’s two personal attendants were, presumably, now enjoying a good night’s sleep.
Unlike me, Josse reflected.
It was no use; sleep was proving frustratingly elusive. He got up — quietly, so as not to disturb Yves — and, having made sure his knife was in its sheath on his belt, left the shelter.
It was still raining, although the downpour that had flattened anyone unwise enough to be out of doors in the late evening had moved off. The rainfall was soft now, and the wind had dropped. Hunching into his travelling cloak, Josse moved out from under the eaves of the shelter and strode off along the path that led down to the lake at the bottom of the valley.
Then, under a group of chestnut trees that stood a little way back from the track, he saw a light.
He stopped dead, staring at it. For it was in a place where surely no light should be. .
Was it a lost group of travellers, making for Hawkenlye but overcome by the early falling darkness of an overcast, rainy night? Aye, perhaps so; and, poor souls, they were seeking comfort from the deep shadows with a lantern.
But the light did not look like that of a candle in a lantern; it had no soft, golden, flickering glow, but burned with a steady intensity and a faint bluish tinge.
Josse put his hand over the hilt of his knife. Fool that I am, he thought, why did I not bring my sword?
He had, as always when he visited, handed it over to Saul for safe keeping, out of respect for the holy ground of the Abbey and the Vale. It would have taken but a moment to slip into the monks’ quarters and retrieve it; Saul, knowing that Josse would not take his weapon unless he had dire need, had made no secret of where he had put it.
Josse was angry with himself. There was a trained killer around; he knew that full well. And there he was, armed only with his knife.
He drew it from its sheath. It was sharp, sturdy, and he was well used to wielding it. Ah, well, it would have to serve; curiosity had overcome him, and he was moving stealthily up towards the strange light even as he tightened his grip on his knife.
He crouched low as he approached the trees. He could see the light more clearly now; it came from a small ball of some substance that burned inside a small iron cup. The cup was set on top of a spike, stuck firmly into the ground.
Entranced, Josse crept closer. And closer. Until he was under the canopy of the chestnut tree, deep in the black shadow cast by the brilliant light.
He stopped, staring down at the unnatural steadiness of the flame; it seemed to be one flame, which burned with a fervour that almost hurt the eyes.
What, in God’s holy name, could it be?
As if he had asked the question out loud, a voice from the shadows answered softly, ‘It is known as Greek fire, my friend. Do not be alarmed, for it will not hurt you unless you touch it.’
Josse had spun round at the first words, as swiftly as if a spark of the fire had indeed leapt out and burned him; now, holding his knife before him, he said, ‘Who are you? Come out and show yourself!’
And out of the darkness came John Dee.
His milky hair was partly concealed by a hood, but his beard seemed to glow silver in the light, merging into the luminous pallor of his face. The dark eyes, intense, deep, were fixed on Josse with a power that seemed to hold him still.
With an effort, as if breaking out of an enchantment, he said, ‘What are you doing out here in the rain, Magister?’
Dee, with a faint air of surprise, held out his long hands, palms uppermost. Josse caught a glint of brilliant pale blue as the light of the fire caught the large aquamarine. ‘But it is not raining,’ he observed.
‘Yes it is, I-’ But as Josse, too, put out a hand, he realised that it was staying quite dry.
But he could still hear the rain, hissing down out of the black sky, drumming down on the ground!
Dee laughed. ‘There is no magic involved in that, Sir Josse,’ he said. ‘We stand under the generous branches of a chestnut tree and, for all that it is autumn, she still has sufficient leaves to shelter us.’
Feeling foolish, Josse bent his head and carefully put his knife away in its sheath. Then, raising his eyes and glaring at Dee, he said, ‘You did not answer my question. What are you doing out here?’
‘I am waiting for you,’ Dee replied calmly.
‘But how did you know that I would come out and find you?’
‘You did, didn’t you?’
‘Er — aye, I did.’
‘Well, then.’ Before Josse could make a comment — before, indeed, he had thought of one to make — Dee said, ‘I wanted to see you, Josse. May I address you so? Thank you. Yes, I wanted — needed — to speak to you privately, with no fear of being overheard.’ As he spoke, he turned and did something to the fire that quietened its brilliance to a gentle glow which, Josse reckoned, would scarcely be visible from the track. ‘There. The fire has done its job and brought you here. I have softened it so that it will not bring anyone else.’