He was the last to go inside and what he saw took his breath away. The desert sand had been covered with rugs and carpets in delicate geometric patterns of purple, red and gold, and low divans, covered with gold and purple silk throws, had been set around the curving fabric walls. Light came from a series of iron lanterns from which candle flames shone through jewel-coloured panes of glass: amethyst, garnet, ruby and sapphire. A copper pot was bubbling on a small brazier, emitting a strong aroma of orange and cinnamon.
For the young Hospitaller standing awestruck by such opulence, this was the sole jarring note. As a child he had once gorged himself on marigold, saffron and cinnamon cakes and been violently sick. Ever since he had been unable to stomach the taste of cinnamon.
A very large man lay on one of the divans and as the prisoner was led into the tent his face lit up in a smile of welcome. The prisoner raised his manacled wrists and threw back his hood and the young monk saw a beautiful youth, tall, lithe and strong. The olive skin of his cheeks and jaw looked too smooth to require a razor, yet there seemed to be a sharpness to the bones of the face. With a couple of years’ more maturity, this man would look very different. The near-black eyes, set slightly on a slant, stared out from beneath a thick sweep of lashes and fine, gracefully curved eyebrows.
The fat man, staring intently at the prisoner, said how happy he was to be reunited with his beloved little brother. The Hospitaller, positioned as he was behind the prisoner and to his left, was in exactly the right place to see the long look that the fat man bestowed on him. And the young knight experienced one of those sudden flashes of sure but unlooked-for knowledge which, here in Outremer, occurred quite frequently. He knew that the beautiful youth was not the fat man’s brother but his catamite.
The fat man indicated that the Hospitallers and the prisoner should sit on the remaining divans. Then they were offered glass cups of the drink that had been simmering on the fire. The young monk accepted his with a polite bow. While everyone else drank to a satisfying outcome for the night’s business, he held his breath so as not to inhale the scent of cinnamon and only pretended to sip. Then he put his glass down out of sight beside his feet.
Swiftly the fat man on the divan put the courtesies aside. His expression suddenly serious, he began to speak, so rapidly that the young Hospitaller had to use all his wits to keep up. When he had finished the senior monk replied, speaking the same tongue but in a more controlled manner. There was a further exchange of terms and then, both parties apparently satisfied, a toast to seal the agreement.
Then to the young knight’s amazement his superior turned to him and gave him a curt order.
It was only then that he realized that this was no ordinary hostage exchange.
As he prepared to do as he had been commanded, his eyes ran around the Saracens in the tent. There were four servants. Including the fat man, that made five.
Why, then, were there ten horses tethered outside?
The first chill finger of fear slid up his spine.
Four
In the course of the ride back to New Winnowlands, Josse was very relieved to find that Ella appeared to be herself again. Not that it was easy to tell, for she was a diffident woman. But Will, Josse thought, seemed far more relaxed and happy than he had done for days. The Hawkenlye magic had worked, then. Maybe he would suggest that she cook him a particularly toothsome dinner today to celebrate her recovery.
Presently his thoughts snapped guiltily away from gravy-rich, steaming pies and back to the worrying subject of the mutilated corpse. The Abbess had been deeply disturbed, even though she had striven not to show it. But then we were all disturbed, he thought. No decent human being could fail to react to such savagery. It was no wonder she had been so eager to seek out a little solitude. There was no need for me to have taken offence, Josse told himself firmly; none whatsoever. No matter how distressed she might be, she was constricted both by her position and her own proud and self-reliant nature and she was not a woman who habitually took comfort in the arms of a dear old friend.
More’s the pity, he thought morosely.
She had been angry with him because he could not be more definite as to the identity of the dead man and he understood well enough why that was: she disliked sending an unnamed, unknown man to meet his maker. But there was nothing I could do! Josse cried silently. For the life of me, I just don’t know if the dead man was the man who lived for almost a fortnight in my outbuilding!
Now he too was feeling angry. Dear Lord, he thought, but she can be an unreasonable woman!
They were nearing New Winnowlands now and he heard the rare sound of Ella laughing. Well, the mission had achieved its purpose and that was something to be glad about.
He rode into the courtyard and slipped down off Horace’s back. In the hall a fire was blazing; he went across to the hearth and held out his hands to its warmth. She’ll send for me if she needs me, he thought. If those Knights Hospitaller return and start giving her trouble, she knows she can call on me. I’ll be here, eager and waiting and more than ready to go to her aid.
And that, he reflected as he sank down into his big carved chair, was the trouble.
The next day Josse experienced a strange sense of events repeating themselves. In the late morning Will announced there was someone wishing to speak to him. Josse leapt up, quite convinced that the visitor must be John Damianos; that he had come to apologize for running off in the night, to offer belated thanks and to explain himself. Which would all be splendid because then Josse could gallop over to Hawkenlye and tell the Abbess that the dead man certainly was not John Damianos.
These thoughts ran through Josse’s head in the time it took him to hurry out of the hall and down the steps into the yard.
Where it instantly became clear that he was wrong.
He had not one visitor but two. Both were Saracens and wore headdresses of elaborately wound cloth, immaculately white, folds of which passed beneath their chins and around their necks. They were clad in warm travelling cloaks over well-worn but fine-quality tunics whose fabric must once have been dazzlingly bright, and their scuffed boots were of expensive leather. They were mounted on small but beautiful Arab horses and attached to the saddle of each was a round shield. Both men bore a short, curved sword.
Josse approached them. ‘You wish to speak to me?’
The elder of the pair responded. His dark eyes, deep-set under strong brows, were intent on Josse and he said in accented French, ‘You are Sir Josse d’Acquin?’ Josse nodded. ‘Then yes, we do.’
Josse felt wary. Instead of immediately issuing the expected invitation to dismount and come inside, he said, ‘Who are you and what is your business here?’
The two men exchanged a glance. Then the elder said, ‘I am Kathnir and my companion is Akhbir.’ Both men touched their fingers to their lips, their brows and their hearts, bowing their heads as they did so. ‘We seek a man. We ask whether you have seen or heard of him. We have followed our quarry for many hundreds of miles and now — ’ the man gave a wry smile — ‘he will be as dusty and as travel-worn as we are. He wears a long brown robe and an enveloping headdress that conceals most of his face and overshadows his eyes and he carries a leather satchel that he is always most careful never to let out of his sight.’
The description perfectly fitted John Damianos.
Josse took his time in replying. ‘This man is a Saracen like yourselves?’
Kathnir hesitated. Then: ‘Yes.’
Josse watched the pair steadily. With another smile, Kathnir said, ‘May we dismount?’
Josse nodded. Kathnir slipped down from his horse and Akhbir did the same. They bowed again, this time more deeply, and as they straightened up Josse noted absently that they were both short men. Short but wiry and strongly muscled.