The young monk tried to shake off the echoes of the prisoner’s despair. There is nothing I can do, he told himself. Nothing. He forced himself back to the present; soon we shall be finished here, he thought, and we’ll be outside in the night and riding off in the darkness. Then, as soon as we are safe within our own fortress, they will send for me.
Will I be ready? Will I be able to justify their faith in me and give them what they want?
He hoped he had achieved what had been asked of him, but it seemed wise to think over what he had just done. There was a great deal of excited chatter going on around him — the fat man was arranging an entertainment, it seemed — and while everyone else was preoccupied, the young monk took a few moments of quiet reflection.
And then the sounds around him grew distant and faint as, for the first time, he thought he understood what this meeting in the tent was truly about. Could he be right? No — oh, no; surely he had made a mistake? They could not even consider something so terrible, so barbarous!
Could they?
Perhaps they could…
The feverish heat died out of him and his sweat cooled on his skin.
He sat in the gaudy, glittering luxury of the tent, eyes wide in horror, and his blood turned to ice in his veins.
Five
Josse reached Hawkenlye, with some relief, just before the early November darkness descended. It wasn’t that he was afraid; not exactly. But images of the mutilated body kept coming unbidden into his mind and that brutal slaying had, after all, occurred not far from the track on which he now rode.
He handed Horace into Sister Martha’s care and made straight for the Abbess’s room. After the courtesies, he said — and it sounded rather too demanding — ‘I need to know if you’ve put him in the ground yet.’
She stared back at him, her face expressionless. Then he caught the smallest twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth. ‘No, Sir Josse. Father Gilbert is coming tomorrow.’
‘Thank God,’ he said.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you think to extract some more information from the poor man’s body?’
‘Aye, my lady. I should have explained, only I was overcome with my need to know whether it was too late. I apologize.’
‘No need for apologies. What do you hope to find?’
He told her about the two Saracens. ‘Somehow I have the feeling,’ he said, rubbing his jaw, ‘that we are not going to get anywhere until we know if the man who was brought to the infirmary is John Damianos.’
‘But why is that so vital?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. Then, with a rueful grin, he added, ‘Perhaps the reason won’t become clear until we’ve got the answer.’
She got to her feet. ‘Your instincts, Sir Josse, have served both of us very well in the past and I for one am happy to indulge you. Come along.’
She swept out of her little room and he followed in her wake.
The infirmary was busy, the nursing nuns and some of the refectory nuns dishing out supper and warm drinks. Sister Euphemia gave the Abbess a deep bow of reverence and said, ‘My lady? You wished to see me? Good evening, Sir Josse.’
‘Good evening, Sister.’
‘We have come to view the dead man once more,’ the Abbess said in a low voice. ‘Is he still here?’
‘He’s over in the crypt,’ the infirmarer replied quietly. ‘Let me fetch a light and I’ll show you. You didn’t say, my lady, but I thought it best under the circumstances to lock the door down to the crypt.’
‘That was wise, Sister,’ the Abbess said gravely.
‘I can’t explain it,’ the infirmarer muttered as she held the door of the infirmary for the Abbess and Josse and then fell into step beside them, ‘and I know it’s silly, but I keep thinking someone’s watching us and I’ll bet we’ve not seen the end of all this yet.’
‘I’m afraid you may be right, Sister,’ Josse agreed. He too had the repeated feeling that watchful eyes were constantly on him. The funny thing was, however, that he was not at all sure they were hostile, which really made no sense at all.
The infirmarer led the way into the church and unlocked a small door to the left of the altar. Inside, she took a torch from a bracket on the wall and, lighting it from the candle in her lantern, handed it to Josse. One by one they made their careful way down the narrow spiral steps, the infirmarer and Josse holding up their lights.
Stepping out into the crypt, Josse saw that the body on its bier had not been abandoned to the darkness. Surrounding it was a semicircle of tallow lamps. He felt uneasy. The crypt was bone-achingly cold and smelt of death.
He sensed the Abbess shiver. ‘I will make haste to do what I came to do, my lady,’ he said.
She nodded but did not speak. Sister Euphemia stood close beside her, as if drawing comfort from her presence, and the swift smile which Josse saw the Abbess bestow on the infirmarer as she tucked Sister Euphemia’s arm under her own suggested the comforting might go both ways. He advanced to the bier and, folding back the linen covering the face, stood looking down at the dead man. Who are you? he asked silently. Are you the man who sought refuge at New Winnowlands? Are you the man whom those two Saracen warriors sought? Are the two identities one and the same?
Of all of us here, he thought, only I have seen both men. He had an idea. The sheet draped over the body was generously sized and, careful not to disturb the body any more than he had to, he arranged it in an approximation of the headdress that John Damianos had worn. He worked away silently for a few moments and then stepped back to look.
It was hard to tell; John Damianos’s face had been animated with the movement and the vitality of the living. Josse stared at the deep eye sockets. I really don’t know, he thought. I don’t think this is the same man, but I just cannot be certain.
Sister Euphemia cleared her throat nervously and said, ‘Sir Josse, what are you doing? Can I help you?’
He spun round. He had almost forgotten the two nuns. ‘Sister, I should have explained,’ he said. ‘A stranger was lodging with me at New Winnowlands shortly before this poor soul was found dead on the track. There are similarities between this man and my lodger and I am trying to decide whether they are one and the same.’
‘You know the name of your former guest?’
‘Aye.’
‘And if this were him,’ the infirmarer said eagerly, ‘then we should have a name by which to bury him.’
‘Indeed. But I don’t know-’ He broke off to glance down at the corpse. ‘The man who came to New Winnowlands was clothed in garments that enveloped him closely from throat to feet and he wore a dark headdress that covered all but his eyes, and they were ever in deep shadow.’
Sister Euphemia had gone very still. ‘When did this man arrive on your doorstep, Sir Josse?’
‘Oh — it must be more than a fortnight ago.’ He felt a twitch of excited apprehension. ‘Why do you ask?’
She did not answer immediately. He guessed she realized the import of what she was about to say. Then: ‘Such a man came here about two weeks back. He was clad just as you describe and he was most reluctant to remove even sufficient folds of his clothing for me to treat him. He carried a leather satchel and he kept the strap slung across him even while he was in the safety of my treatment room.’
Josse let out his breath. ‘It sounds exactly like John Damianos,’ he said. ‘He could have been treated here, gone on his way and later, when he could go no further, sought out the first house that he came to asking for lodgings.’ He remembered something. ‘He was exhausted,’ he murmured. ‘I do not think that he could have gone any further; he was on the verge of collapse.’
Sister Euphemia was nodding vigorously. ‘Yes, yes, as was my patient!’ she exclaimed. ‘I could see how weak he was and I offered him a bed for the night. He needed rest and sustenance, for I could tell that both had been in short supply for him of late.’ She sighed. ‘But try as I might, I could not persuade him and he left that same evening.’