It was an order, the young monk thought in anguish. I have been given a direct order by a senior monk. I must obey.
They had to get away…
He looked across to the prisoner, huddled on the sand with his thin arms clutched around his raised knees and moaning softly. He strode over and took him not ungently by the arm.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asked in Arabic. The boy shook his head. ‘Then we must leave.’
The boy stood up and trotted along at his side. Outside, all the horses had gone — the wounded servant must have cut them loose after he had grabbed mounts for himself and the fat man — but the young monk stood quite still and presently he heard the sound of a tentative neigh. He called out softly the words he had heard the native grooms use and out of the darkness a group of ten or twelve horses slowly appeared. Some of them were the Hospitallers’ mounts but he passed them over, instead selecting two of the smaller, lighter horses of the enemy which travelled so swiftly in desert conditions.
He told the youth to mount up. He put his hand on his leather pouch to make sure the contents were secure, then he patted the horse he had selected for himself, put his foot in the stirrup and mounted. He paused to lengthen the stirrup leathers — he was considerably longer in the leg than the animal’s former owner — and then, with one last look at the silken tent, kicked his heels into his horse’s sides and, with the youth at his side, galloped off into the night.
Part Three
Nine
Josse was with the Abbess in the refectory finishing the noon meal. They were seated apart from the rest of the community, discussing Thibault’s story.
‘I keep returning to the conclusion that this runaway English Hospitaller and the Saracen whom Kathnir and Akhbir are hunting just have to be together,’ Josse said. ‘And I feel sure that the man calling himself John Damianos is Fadil.’
‘Fadil?’
‘The prisoner who was to be exchanged.’ He frowned. ‘Although I thought Fadil was a younger man.’
‘The meeting in the desert was two years ago,’ the Abbess pointed out. ‘Fear, privation and a hard road can greatly age a man in two years. And you never saw John Damianos’s face.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, then. For the time being, let us work on the principle that the runaway monk and his charge — Fadil, going under the name of John Damianos — have travelled all the way from the desert outside Margat to the south-east corner of England.’
‘Where are they going?’ Josse demanded. ‘Why would the Hospitaller bring the prisoner so far? The obvious thing to do was go straight back to Margat, return the prisoner and make a full report.’
She thought about this. Eventually she said, ‘Thibault suggested that the prisoner’s family might have tried to cheat the Hospitallers so that they went home with both Fadil and whatever they were offering in exchange for him. Is it not possible’ — she had softened her voice to a whisper — ‘that the Knights Hospitaller did the same?’
‘Gervase suggested something similar,’ he whispered back. ‘When I protested that the Hospitallers were renowned for their honesty and dependability, he replied that it only takes one man to instigate treachery.’
‘I agree,’ she said. ‘If the English monk knew that the tragedy in the desert had been caused because a senior Hospitaller had decided to cheat both his brethren and the prisoner’s family, then returning meekly to Margat and the monk who had sent his brethren into danger would have been the last thing he would do.’
‘It’s possible,’ Josse said reluctantly, ‘although I still find it hard to believe the great Order of the Knights Hospitaller would behave so shabbily.’
‘One of them might,’ she persisted. ‘Keep an open mind, Sir Josse. As to why the English monk made for England, why, I can think of two reasons. One: he is, as we keep saying, English — he went out to Outremer in a party of knights with an English lord who has kin in Antioch — so he could merely be coming home. Two: we have heard mention of the Order’s headquarters at Clerkenwell, so might our man be heading there? It is a very long way from Margat and he might think it is therefore a safe place to deliver his charge.’
‘Either is possible,’ Josse said. ‘But we cannot confirm anything until we see more clearly.’
‘Sir Josse?’ she said after a moment.
He turned to look at her. ‘You sound as if something has just occurred to you. Let’s hear it.’
‘It has,’ she said eagerly. ‘Why don’t we ask Thibault if he knows the name or the dwelling place of the English monk’s former lord? If he could provide either, then we can perhaps discover where the English monk came from.’
‘How would that help?’
She sighed. ‘Because he would very likely be making for the place,’ she said. ‘We could look for him there.’
‘Aye, so we could,’ he said slowly. Then: ‘John Damianos — Fadil — came to New Winnowlands. If his monk companion is also hiding out in the area, that suggests he might have come from around here.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Of course!’ she said. ‘Do you know of any families in the area with kin in Outremer?’
He grinned. ‘Not offhand, my lady, although I dare say I could find out.’ He wiped his platter with a crust of bread. ‘I’ll ride over to see Brice of Rotherbridge; he knows most of the big households of this corner of England, by reputation if not personally.’
He had just put the bread in his mouth when Sister Martha came to tell him that Will was looking for him. Hastily standing up, he chewed and swallowed his mouthful and said to the Abbess, ‘Excuse me, my lady.’
‘Of course, Sir Josse,’ she replied. ‘Hurry — he would not have come to find you unless it was important.’
Josse ran to the gates where Will, dismounted and holding on to his horse’s rein, was waiting for him.
‘Will, what has happened?’
Will touched his shapeless bag of a hat and gave him a sketchy bow. ‘Those two foreigners have come back. One’s got an arrow sticking in his chest.’
He said two, Josse thought swiftly, so he must mean Kathnir and Akhbir. ‘The men who came before?’
‘Aye. It’s the one who did all the talking that’s been wounded. The other one is afeard for him — rightly, I’d say — and he brought him to New Winnowlands because it was the only place he knew. Reckon they must have been nearby,’ he added. ‘Stands to reason.’
‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. ‘Has anything been done for the wounded man?’
‘Not much,’ Will admitted. ‘Couple of the lads helped me and Ella get him into the hall and Ella’s keeping the fire fed. But none of us knows anything about arrows and we thought we’d do more harm than good.’
‘I’ll come back with you straight away,’ Josse said. ‘I’ll ask the Abbess if she’ll send a nursing nun with us. Go across to Sister Martha and get Horace ready for me, Will. We’ll leave as soon as we can.’
They reached New Winnowlands in good time. Sister Euphemia had ordered Sister Caliste to go and tend to the wounded man and, with a small leather pouch of medical equipment at her waist and mounted on the golden mare that had been left in the care of the Abbey, she rode as swiftly as Josse. They had soon left Will behind. The stable lad came out to meet them, staring at Sister Caliste as if he had never seen a nun before. He took the two horses and led them away to the stables.
Josse escorted Sister Caliste inside the house. Kathnir lay on a straw mattress by the fire. Akhbir was kneeling beside him as still as a statue, his eyes closed and his lips moving silently. Josse walked up to him and touched his shoulder. The man’s dark eyes flew open and he stared up at Josse. Then, still without speaking, he inclined his head in the direction of his fallen comrade.
Kathnir was on his back, breathing shallowly, the shaft of the arrow and its feathered end sticking up out of his chest about a hand and a half’s span from his shoulder. The arrow must have missed his heart but it was a good shot all the same. His garments were soaked with blood and his skin felt cool and clammy.