Fighting men.
He made up his mind. ‘Come into my hall,’ he said, ‘and, if you will, accept refreshments. My kitchen woman makes a tasty drink that warms the heart after a ride in the cold.’
‘We drink no intoxicating liquor,’ Akhbir said reprovingly.
Josse looked at him. ‘I was not offering you any,’ he replied coolly.
He nodded to Will, who took the reins of the two horses, then led the way up the steps and into the hall. He called to Ella and asked her to prepare a jug of her special ginger infusion. Then, turning to the two Saracens, he indicated that they should sit down on the bench opposite his chair. ‘Why do you seek this man?’ he demanded.
Again, the swift exchange of glances. Then Kathnir said, ‘He has a — treasure that does not belong to him. We are commanded to find him, take back that which he stole and return it to our master.’
‘I see.’ It was an empty comment, for Josse did not see at all. ‘You have come a long way, you said?’
‘We come from Outremer,’ Kathnir said softly.
‘Then what was stolen from your master must be priceless indeed,’ Josse observed.
Neither man took up the clear invitation to elaborate. Neither, in fact, spoke at all.
Josse was thinking hard. If the dead body at Hawkenlye was that of John Damianos and he was the man who had stolen the treasure, whatever it was, then Josse could dispatch these two tough and ruthless warriors in his direction with a clear conscience. Nobody could hurt him any more.
‘What is the name of the man you seek?’ he asked.
Kathnir eyed him, his face expressionless. ‘We do not know his name,’ he said. ‘We describe him by his appearance. After all’ — his smile seemed warmer now but Josse would have put a bag of gold on it being nothing more than a skilful act — ‘a man may change his name more easily than his raiment.’
The Abbess, Josse reflected, had made a similar remark… A runaway Hospitaller and a thief. Both had fled to England from Outremer. Both were being pursued by men who were as relentless as hounds on a fresh scent. And surely it was too much of a coincidence to suggest that the monk and the Saracen thief were not connected?
Ella appeared with a jug emitting clouds of fragrant steam and three earthenware mugs and, at a nod from Josse, she poured her ginger concoction. He was grateful for her arrival; it had given him some much-needed thinking time.
When she had disappeared back down the passage, he raised his mug to the two Saracens and all three drank. With a small part of his attention he responded to their polite appreciation. The rest of his mind was working on what he was going to tell them.
I liked John Damianos, he thought, perhaps only now appreciating the fact. He was evasive, mysterious, he told me nothing concerning himself or his business and he disappeared without a thank you, but there was something about him to which I warmed. If he is not the man who lies dead at Hawkenlye — and some irrational instinct told Josse that this was so — then I will not throw him to the dogs until I know a great deal more. Even then, I might choose to save him.
He was in no doubt that the two men sitting calmly in his hall would not hesitate to kill the man who had stolen their master’s treasure if it proved necessary; perhaps even if it wasn’t necessary…
He made up his mind.
‘I do know of a man who answers the description of your thief,’ he said.
Two pairs of very dark eyes shot to meet his own. It was, he thought, a little like facing a quartet of sword points. ‘You do?’ breathed Kathnir.
‘Aye. But I warn you, the man I speak of was found stripped of garments and of possessions and it is only from the tone of his skin and the near black colour of his eyes that I deduce him to have been a Saracen.’
‘Was found?’ Kathnir echoed quietly.
‘Aye. He is dead: murdered close by Hawkenlye Abbey, half a day’s ride from here. You know of it?’
‘We have heard tell,’ Kathnir said. He leaned towards Akhbir and the two men muttered in what Josse assumed was their own tongue. Then Kathnir said, ‘We do not believe this dead man to be our quarry.’
‘You what?’ Josse was astounded; he had been so sure that at last he was to have some answers to his many questions. ‘How can you be so sure? There aren’t many stray Saracens wandering through the countryside, I can tell you! Should you not at least go to Hawkenlye and ask to see the dead man before he is put in the ground?’
But instead of a reasoned response, Kathnir exclaimed, ‘You do not understand the gravity of the crime that this man committed! If you did, then you would help us!’
‘It makes no difference what I understand,’ Josse began, ‘for I-’ For I cannot tell you what I do not know, he was about to say.
He stopped himself. There was something he did know but that he had chosen not to tell the Saracens, but he had decided not to mention his former guest to this sinister and threatening pair.
Kathnir was still watching him intently and Josse had the uneasy feeling that the Saracen saw straight through the subterfuge. Forcing a grin and a shrug, he said, ‘You say I do not understand the gravity of what this man has done. Won’t you tell me?’
There was a long pause during which the two Saracens muttered to each other, their impatience and their frustration clearly evident even though Josse did not understand a word. Then Kathnir turned back to Josse and said, ‘My master’s younger brother was taken prisoner. He had been wounded in the fighting and he was taken to Margat.’ His mouth twisted into its wry smile. ‘Margat,’ he added, ‘is a fortress held by the Knights Hospitaller and even after the disarray that followed Hattin, the great Saladin did not succeed in taking it.’
‘I know,’ Josse said softly, ‘about Margat.’
And, he could have added, I heard the name only this morning. That was something he was going to have to think about very carefully.
But not now.
Kathnir was speaking and Josse made himself listen.
‘My master loves his little brother dearly,’ the Saracen said, ‘and it was against his wishes that Fadil — that is the brother’s name — went off to fight, for my master judged that he was too inexperienced.’
‘Where did the young man fight?’ Josse’s soldier’s soul was intrigued by this talk of war.
‘In Antioch and Tripoli, on the eastern borders of those territories,’ Kathnir said. ‘When Saladin signed the Peace of Ramla with the Frankish kings, we sent an arrow high in the sky to show our enemy that they need not fear the flying arrow.’ His lean face creased in an ironic smile. ‘But a treaty signed in Jaffa has little effect upon a war of attrition being waged two hundred miles to the north, and many of my master’s kinsmen joined those who fought to push the Franks back towards the coast.’
‘Aye, that I can understand,’ Josse murmured. He had heard tell of such skirmishes where, under the general aegis of fighting off the Christians, Muslim landowners took the opportunity to add to their territories.
‘My master prayed for Fadil’s safety every day of his absence,’ Kathnir continued. ‘His grief when he learned that Fadil had fallen in battle was limitless, as was his joy at being told that he was not dead but merely injured. He had been unhorsed by a lance thrust and a Frankish sword bit deep into his shoulder. He was taken prisoner but, because of the severity of his wound, he was given into the care of the Knights Hospitaller, first at Crac des Chevaliers and then in their fortress of Margat.’
‘And the Hospitallers nursed him back to health?’
‘They did.’ Kathnir’s acknowledgement was grudging, as if it pained him to praise the enemy for their skill. ‘But then during the monks’ time in Outremer they have learned much of medicine from Arab doctors.’
‘Aye, true,’ Josse agreed. Kathnir shot him a glance, surprise in his eyes. ‘Credit where credit is due,’ Josse murmured softly.