‘But-’
He overrode her. ‘And as to the perils of the forest, I cannot say that I believe Jerome and Meriel to be in danger.’ He hesitated, aware that he was venturing on to delicate ground. ‘Would you not say,’ he went on softly, ‘that such a pair would be more likely to meet with the Forest Folk’s approval than their enmity, given what you and I know of them and their ways?’
‘I-’ she began. And stopped. Slowly she nodded.
With relief, he hurried on to the second part of her news. ‘Now, to your mysterious pilgrim and his accusations. Do you believe him?’
For a moment, she seemed still to be thinking of Meriel and Jerome. Then, bringing herself back with an obvious effort, her eyes met Josse’s.
‘I do believe him, yes,’ she said. ‘He says Alba murdered the young man because she had been duped into believing him to be Jerome.’
‘And she could not bear to have one of her sisters seduced away from her,’ he concluded. ‘Presumably this pilgrim wishes to take Alba away to face the consequences of her action, back in East Anglia, where the crime happened?’
‘I suppose he must do,’ the Abbess whispered. ‘All that he has said so far is that I must not on any account release Alba, since if I do, she will find Meriel and Jerome and she will kill Jerome.’
‘As she well might, in the light of her previous behaviour,’ Josse said. A thought struck him. ‘Did you tell him that Jerome and Meriel had been living in hiding nearby? That they have now fled?’
‘For shame, Sir Josse!’ She managed a weak smile. ‘Mistrusting him as I did — as I still do — of course not!’
‘I apologise, Abbess.’
‘There is no need.’
‘Is he a sheriff, this pilgrim of yours?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so.’ She frowned. ‘I was so taken up in his tale that I confess I didn’t think to ask him.’ She paused. ‘He was — that is, he gave the air of being a man of quality. For all that he dresses as a pilgrim, he is not a poor man, nor an unimportant man. Of that I am quite certain.’ She met Josse’s eyes with a brief apologetic grimace. ‘I regret that I cannot substantiate my remark, Sir Josse. It is purely an impression.’
‘Your impressions, Abbess, are good enough for me,’ he said gallantly.
She smiled faintly, but it was clear her thoughts were elsewhere than on his little compliment. ‘He said something about his predecessors having made Alba’s father take responsibility for her when her mother died,’ she said. ‘She — Alba — was the child of a village prostitute; the younger girls’ mother was in fact her stepmother.’
‘I see.’ That explained quite a lot, Josse thought.
‘And he also referred to both Jerome and the friend who died being orphans, looked after by distant kin. They were cousins, and they were both Bastian’s nephews; one the son of his late sister, one of his dead brother.’
‘Bastian is the name of your stranger?’
‘Yes. Didn’t I say?’
‘No.’ He was thinking hard. ‘Abbess, what about this? Your Bastian, although he’s dressed as a poor pilgrim, is in fact in disguise. He is really a knight, with his own household. If he’s sufficiently rich and influential, he may well be responsible for law and order and the administration of justice in his area, as his forefathers were before him. That would explain why he said that it was his predecessors who arranged for the baby Alba’s placement with her father. It would also suggest that both his nephews might well have lived with him. That this place where they went to be cared for by distant kin was actually their uncle Bastian’s house. Does that tally with what he told you?’
She hesitated, clearly deep in thought. Then she said slowly, ‘I think it does. But. . ’
‘What is it?’
‘Oh, probably nothing. It’s just that I can’t see Bastian as a rich and influential knight. He’s too. . too. .’ Giving a helpless shrug, she trailed off.
This, Josse thought, was getting them nowhere. ‘Can you describe him?’ he suggested. ‘I think you’re going to have to try to put these impressions of yours into words. It might help you isolate exactly what it is about him that says he is not a knight.’
She gave him a grateful smile. ‘What a good idea.’ She closed her eyes as if picturing the stranger. Opening them again, she said, ‘Quite tall, slim, strong-looking. Dressed simply in a rough brown robe, worn over something quite bulky underneath. Bareheaded, with short cropped hair. Dark eyes, tanned face, bearded, and he has this way of bowing that reminds me of-’
But Josse had stopped listening. ‘Bearded?’
‘Yes. Like the pilgrim who was murdered in the Vale.’
‘He had a beard too? Why didn’t you tell me?’ Aye, he was thinking, aye! It all begins to fall into place!
‘. . cannot think why it was important,’ the Abbess was saying.
‘Eh? What did you say?’
‘I said that I expect I didn’t mention the dead man’s beard because I can hardly think it was relevant,’ she repeated rather frostily. ‘Really, Sir Josse, I can’t think why you’re being so-’
‘Abbess,’ he interrupted her, ‘in an age where the fashion for men is to wear their hair long and their faces clean-shaven, who, can you think, habitually go against the general tide? Who are well known for their cropped hair and their uncut beards?’
At first she shook her head in denial. ‘I don’t know who you mean!’ But then, as realisation dawned, she whispered, ‘The warrior monks!’
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘The Knights Templar. Your Bastian, Abbess, is a Templar, I’d bet a tidy sum on it. As was the fellow who was killed.’ Another thought struck him. If the dead pilgrim was indeed a Templar, then in all likelihood Bastian was not solely there to look after his nephew Jerome and make sure Alba did not attack him.
Bastian was also there because one of his brother monks was killed in the Vale.
‘There are Templars at Denney!’ the Abbess cried suddenly. ‘The monk whom I saw at Ely told me about them and, when Saul and Augustine and I were threatened by an approaching storm, we took shelter with them! We thought they were the Benedictine nuns,’ she said, with the air of one giving an explanation; her remark left Josse quite foxed. ‘Oh, let me think! What can I recall of them?’ She was wringing her hands together as she tried to remember.
She does not serve herself well by this near panic, Josse thought. Reaching out a steadying hand, he said, ‘Abbess, take it slowly. Someone at Ely directed you to this house, did they? Denney, was it?’
She stared at him for a moment. Then, as if realising what he was doing, she smiled faintly, visibly relaxing. ‘Yes, that’s right. The monk at Ely said there was a home for the insane at Denney, run by Benedictine nuns, and also a Templar preceptory. Running from the coming storm, Saul, Augustine and I ended up at the wrong place. The Templars put us up for the night, in some comfort, I should say.’ She was frowning, clearly thinking hard.
He waited.
After some time, she said, ‘We only saw two of the brethren. The young monk who saw to our needs said something about the members of the community being preoccupied with some serious trouble, and that was why more of the monks did not socialise with us. Then when we were leaving-’ She broke off. The sudden light in her eyes made him suspect she had thought of something important.
‘Abbess?’ he prompted gently.
‘I asked the young monk if he knew of Sedgebeck — that was Alba’s convent, if you recall?’ He nodded. ‘We were headed there next. He — the young brother — said he thought he knew the name, and he’d just remembered why he knew it when another, older monk came into the room and shooed him away.’ A wondering expression flooded her face. ‘As if, whatever it was he knew about Sedgebeck, the older man didn’t want him to reveal it!’
Catching her excitement, Josse said, ‘Can they have known about Alba?’