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‘And then he happened to pass by New Winnowlands,’ Josse said, ‘where he-’

But the Abbess interrupted. ‘I am not sure that he happened to do any such thing, Sir Josse,’ she said. Her face broke into an affectionate smile. ‘Is it not more likely that he sought you out deliberately?’

‘Why in the Lord’s name should he do that?’ Josse demanded. ‘He did not know who I was any more than I knew who he was!’

The Abbess turned to the infirmarer. ‘Sister Euphemia, how did you come to treat this man?’

‘He presented himself with the sick and the ailing late one afternoon,’ she said. ‘He was at the end of the queue and, if my memory serves me right, he was the last patient to be treated.’

‘Last in the queue,’ the Abbess said. ‘Which would have given him ample time to listen to the chatter around him, both among the nursing nuns and also among those seeking their help.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Josse asked.

The Abbess looked at him. ‘That among the names bandied about, yours probably featured quite prominently,’ she said. ‘You had recently been with us and, dear Sir Josse, you make an impression on people. They remember you and they talk about you.’

He felt himself blushing. ‘Do they?’

‘Yes.’ Her smile widened. ‘In the most favourable of terms, I might add. Do you not agree, Sister?’

‘I do,’ Sister Euphemia said stoutly. ‘A good friend to us you are, Sir Josse, and I for one do not hesitate to say so.’

‘Oh,’ he responded lamely. The awkward sensation of being the subject of the two nuns’ approval was interrupted — much to his relief — by a sudden exclamation from Sister Euphemia.

With a swift ‘May I?’ directed at the Abbess, who, frowning in puzzlement, nodded, the infirmarer stepped up to the bier and gently removed the makeshift linen headdress from the dead man’s face and throat. She stood looking down at him for some time, compassion in her face. Then, turning back to Josse and the Abbess, she said, ‘This is not the man whom I treated.’

‘How can you be sure?’ the Abbess demanded.

‘Because the man I saw had a frightful wound on the underside of his jaw, extending down his neck,’ the infirmarer answered firmly. She laid a tender hand on the dead man’s shoulder. ‘Although this poor soul’s throat has been savagely carved out, I can see from the flesh on either side of the gash that there is no sign of the wound I treated for our mysterious stranger. That wound was extensive and suppurating. I bathed it with lavender oil and then put some of my special ointment on it and I hurt the poor man so much that, for all he never made a sound, he all but fainted when I was done.’

‘What had caused such an injury?’ Josse asked.

‘It looked like a burn. A bad burn, going right down deep into his flesh, as if someone had lit a pitch-soaked brand and held it flaming under his chin.’

‘He was a Saracen,’ Josse said slowly, ‘or, at least, that is what I surmised from his dress, his speech and his mannerisms.’ He met the eyes of the Abbess. ‘I am thinking of how they burn heretics in Europe. Could the man have been a member of a fanatical sect whose preaching antagonized some overzealous French bishop?’

The Abbess shook her head. ‘It is a large conclusion to draw from slight evidence, Sir Josse. And, besides, those who are condemned to the stake do not habitually escape it.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ He sighed deeply.

‘He’d had the burn for some time,’ Sister Euphemia volunteered. ‘Month or more, I’d say. The flesh was quite putrid around the margins of the wound and the pus-’

‘Thank you, Sister,’ the Abbess said softly.

‘Sorry, my lady. Just trying to be helpful.’

Josse watched as the Abbess gave her infirmarer one of those generous, loving smiles that endeared her to her nuns and said, ‘You have, dear Euphemia; oh, you have.’ Turning back to Josse, eyes bright in the soft light, she added, ‘We have achieved our purpose, have we not? We might not know who this poor man is, but we do at least know who he is not.’

‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. And he thought: my instinct was right, then. John Damianos is still alive. Hard on the heels of that thought came another: where is he, then?

Helewise was so glad to have Josse’s solid presence back at Hawkenlye that she insisted on seeing him as far as the track down to the Vale; he was going to seek out his usual overnight spot with the lay brothers. The visit down into the crypt had brought back all the horror she was trying to forget.

Her common sense told her that there was no danger to anyone at Hawkenlye, for this was surely not a random killing. You did not torture a man if he was a stranger. If the motive was robbery — the likely cause of most random killings — then you would hit your victim over the head and make off with his purse or his horse, or both, without even going to the bother of stopping to see if he was still alive.

No. Whoever had attacked the man on the forest track had known him and had wanted something from him.

It was, in a way, a reassuring thought. But all the same, whether or not there was a direct threat to the Hawkenlye community, it felt good to have Josse with them. He was standing with his hand on the gate, looking at her with a faint frown. She knew him well enough to know that, far from suggesting he was frowning at her, this probably just meant he was deep in thought.

‘And so, Sir Josse, what next?’ she asked.

‘Hm?’ He came out of his reverie and she hid a smile. ‘Sorry, my lady, I was thinking.’

‘Yes, Josse,’ she murmured.

But she didn’t think he heard. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘I’m going back to where the dead man was found. It’s unlikely I’ll find anything, because both that merchant fellow and the lay brothers had a good look round. Then,’ he added more decisively, ‘with your permission, my lady, I shall send for Gervase de Gifford and see what he makes of this.’

‘I have already done that,’ she said. ‘Brother Saul rode down to Tonbridge first thing today to tell him about the brutalized body and ask him to come up to the Abbey. Sabin told Saul that her husband was away from home and expected back late this evening, and she undertook to ask him to ride up here in the morning.’

Josse was watching her, slowly shaking his head. ‘I should have realized,’ he said. ‘A foul murder so close to the Abbey? Of course you would inform the sheriff. I’m glad, my lady, for it means we shall have the benefit of Gervase’s wisdom all the sooner.’

He had gone through the gate now and was closing it behind him. ‘Make sure you bolt it,’ he warned.

‘I am doing so.’ She shot the two heavy bolts home.

‘Until tomorrow,’ came his voice from the far side.

‘Sleep well.’

She heard the jingle of his spurs as he hastened away down into the Vale. Then she turned and walked quickly back to her room.

Josse watched Gervase de Gifford ride through the Abbey gates early the next morning.

Gervase had married Sabin de Retz in the spring and Josse had danced at the wedding. It had been a joyful day, for Sabin and Gervase were deeply in love and, having taken the decision to stay in Tonbridge rather than return to her native Brittany, Sabin appeared to have every intention of throwing herself wholeheartedly into her new life. Her old grandfather had come to England with her. Like Sabin, he was an apothecary and he was going to continue to teach her as she set about practising her skill in Tonbridge.

Josse had heard that Sabin was pregnant. He would have liked to congratulate the prospective father but now was hardly the time. It seemed wrong to celebrate the conception of a new life when one had just been so savagely brought to an end.

He stepped forward to greet Gervase as he dismounted. The two men embraced and Josse muttered, ‘It is good to see you, Gervase. A dreadful thing has happened and-’

‘Josse, I am sorry but I bring more bad tidings. Shall we find the Abbess?’ He glanced at Sister Ursel, hovering close by, and at Sister Martha, holding out her hand for the reins.