Thibault raised his chin and squared his shoulders. ‘I do not know,’ he said.
For an instant Helewise was blessed with additional perception and she knew without doubt that this was a lie. Then the moment passed.
She glanced at Josse, watching the exchange with close attention, and drew him towards her. ‘This is Sir Josse d’Acquin,’ she said, ‘a King’s man and a loyal friend to Hawkenlye Abbey. Have you asked your question of him?’
Thibault looked at Josse, who stared levelly back. ‘I have. Like you and your people, he says he knows nothing of a robed Hospitaller.’
There was a very faint emphasis on says. Helewise felt her anger boil up. She waited until she had herself under control and then said quietly, ‘If that is what Sir Josse says, then, Thibault of Margat, it is the truth. If there is nothing else you want of me or my community, then allow me to wish you God’s speed.’
She watched the protest rise and fall again in Thibault’s face. He is torn, she thought grimly. There is more — probably very much more — that he could tell us that would help us to identify this runaway monk, should he ever come this way. Yet this information is sensitive, for Thibault cannot bring himself to divulge it…
As she waited for the Hospitaller to make up his mind she was struck forcibly with the thought that whatever the fugitive monk might or might not have done, she was on his side. But that was not a thought that a nun — an abbess, indeed — should entertain.
Thibault must have been working out his parting remark. Now, sweeping his black cloak around him, he jerked his head at his two silent companions and they walked off towards the gates. Thibault, turning to look at first Helewise and then Josse, said, ‘We make now for Tonbridge, whence we shall set out for our Order’s English headquarters at the priory of St John in Clerkenwell.’ Then, in a voice of soft intensity, he added, ‘You will send word to me if the English monk comes here. We will not be hard to find for we make no secret of our comings and goings.’
And that also is a lie, Helewise thought coolly.
Thibault, after the briefest of reverences, strode away after the two brothers.
She felt Josse stir beside her. ‘Not so much as a farewell,’ he muttered.
Without thinking, she said, ‘He’ll be back.’
Josse’s expression suggested that he was almost as surprised as she was by the remark. ‘My lady?’
‘Oh — er, I just meant that here at Hawkenlye we have the biggest concentration of people for miles, so Brother Thibault is hardly likely to be satisfied with a few brief questions.’ It sounded unsatisfactory even to her ears.
Josse went on staring at her and now he was looking decidedly suspicious. She gave him a smile — she could not have explained how she knew, even had she wanted to — and after a moment he muttered, ‘Have it your own way.’
Her need for solitude had grown out of all proportion; a great deal had happened this morning and she urgently needed to think. Leaning close to Josse, she said softly, ‘I must send for Father Gilbert to arrange for the burial. I had thought that perhaps the man those Hospitallers are seeking might be our dead man, for I believe that the brethren do recruit soldiers from the native population in Outremer.’
‘Indeed, my lady,’ Josse relied. ‘They are known as turcopoles, and the military orders put them on a horse, give them a bow and, after scant training, fling them into battle.’
She hid a smile; evidently Josse did not approve of such practices. ‘But then they said the runaway is an Englishman,’ she said with a sigh, ‘so that was the end of that bright idea.’
He was frowning, clearly thinking.
‘Sir Josse?’ she prompted.
‘Oh — I was thinking of John Damianos. If what I suspect is right and the dead man is him, then perhaps he accompanied the missing Hospitaller? He — John Damianos — might have been the monk’s body servant, brought to England and abandoned.’
She considered the idea. Then, with an impatient shake of her head: ‘It’s all too vague, Sir Josse! Nothing but ifs and maybes.’
He looked quite hurt. ‘I’m sorry, my lady, but it’s the best I can do.’
She smiled. ‘No, Sir Josse; I am sorry, for my bad mood. There is much that I need to think about. I do not mean to be mysterious and I will try to explain later, but for now I really do need to be alone.’
He studied her, his head on one side. After a moment — and she had the clear impression he knew exactly how she felt — he said, ‘Off you go, then, my lady. I’m going to return with Will and Ella to New Winnowlands. Send for me when you feel like some company.’
His low and respectful bow put Thibault’s to shame. Then he gave her a cheerful grin and strolled away.
Outremer, September 1194
He did not know at first why they had selected him for the mission. Initially he felt nothing but pride that he, not even among the fully professed, had been singled out for such an honour. It was only afterwards that he realized why: for two qualities that of all the company only he possessed…
The mission was a hostage exchange. Such things occurred quite frequently and often the brethren acted as escorts. As avowed men of God they were honest and impartial, and their presence ensured fair play by both sides. Moreover, sometimes the prisoner had been wounded in battle, in which case the brother who had cared for him would be in the escort. Saracen prisoners were exchanged both for Frankish knights and for gold.
This time it was going to be different.
It was rumoured that the order had come from the Grand Master himself but the young man was used to the way gossip flared within the community and he wasn’t sure he believed it. As far as he was concerned, it was his superior who gave the instructions, and Thibault was a tight-lipped man who never wasted a word.
They sent for him in the night.
He fell into step behind five other Hospitallers, the senior monk leading the way. Despite the heat of the late summer night, all six were swathed in black surcoats, hoods drawn up over their heads and hiding their faces. Beneath the surcoats each man carried a sword and a knife.
They reached the stables, where the sergeants had prepared their mounts. The bridles were bound with twine to prevent noise; the smallest sound of jingling metal carried a long way in the still desert. Then the sergeant unbolted the door and they set off down the long covered passage to the outside world.
It was a fine night and the stars were dazzling in the black sky. The air retained much of the daytime heat although he — who had been in Outremer for nine long years — knew how quickly the temperature could plummet in the hours before dawn.
They had picked up the prisoner as they emerged from the vast gates. He was broad-shouldered for a Saracen, hooded and dressed in pale robes. He sat on a beautiful Arab gelding. His manacled wrists were attached by a short chain to the pommel of his saddle and two longer chains linked him to armed guards riding either side. Otherwise the man was treated with respect.
They rode for perhaps an hour. The land was so different by night — it smelt different, the sounds were not those of the day, and night vision had a way of playing tricks so that distant things seemed suddenly near and something apparently a stone’s throw away proved to be on the far horizon. Or perhaps, the young man thought with a shiver, there was magic in the air. In this distant land full of strange ways and secrets, that would hardly surprise him…
The first sign of their destination was the faint glimmer of a fire in the vast desert in front of him. He narrowed his eyes to see how far away it was, but with no other point of reference it was impossible to tell. They rode on and soon he began to make out shapes. A simple tent had been put up, and beside the fire there was a picket line to which ten horses had been tethered. As the party approached the campsite, two Saracens emerged from the tent and, with courteous bows, invited the monks and their charge to dismount and enter.