It is as I thought, Helewise said to herself. Then, rising, she walked slowly around her table until she was standing right in front of him. Again moving unhurriedly, her movements smooth and steady, she raised her hands and began to unfasten the headdress.
There was no reaction.
She unwound what seemed like yards of cloth from around the head and presently the smooth, honey-coloured hair came into view. Then she drew the folds away from the lower face and chin. Finally, she pulled the last length of the material from where it was tucked into the top of the robe.
She looked at what she had uncovered. And, with a wry smile, a green-eyed, dark blonde and rather beautiful young woman looked back at her.
Josse left the home of Gerome de Villieres early the next morning. He had been right in predicting that Gerome would not refer again to the matter that had taken Josse so urgently to his house; however, he and his womenfolk entertained Josse to such an enjoyable evening that he could not complain. Indeed, as he settled for sleep on a luxurious feather mattress with sheets of finest linen and thick, warm woollen blankets, replete after an excellent meal and some even better French wine, he realized that it had been a relief to have a few hours’ rest from his abiding preoccupations. Then, of course, he felt guilty because others — Abbess Helewise, for instance — would not have been given any such respite. They certainly wouldn’t have enjoyed that delicious meal and the wonderfully soft, warm bed.
As he left, Gerome came out to the courtyard to see him off. ‘I wish you good luck, Josse,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to hope for in the case of Brother Ralf. In a way he’s damned if the Hospitallers catch up with him and damned if they don’t.’
‘Damned?’
Gerome waved a hand. ‘Not literally, or at least I pray not! No; I merely meant that if they find him they’ll punish him, but if he manages to evade capture then he’ll be on the run for as long as there are people out there who know what he’s done.’
‘Tell me what he’s done!’ Josse said.
But Gerome shook his head. ‘I cannot. I-’ He made a face. ‘I wish to live here in peace,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, Josse, and no doubt you think me weak, but this house has seen enough of tragedy and I will not willingly invite it back to my door.’
‘But I could-’
‘Go, Josse!’ Gerome exclaimed with a short laugh. Then, as Josse gave him a valedictory salute and edged Horace off towards the gates, he called out, ‘Come and see us again!’
‘I shall!’ Josse called back. ‘Farewell!’
He was keen to get back to Hawkenlye to tell the Abbess what he had discovered and he set Horace off at a good pace. The morning was warmer than the previous few days and the white frost that had held the earth in its hard grip had melted, except on the verges of the track that did not receive sunshine. As Horace cantered along, Josse noticed the prints of his hooves going in the other direction. He was reflecting what huge feet Horace had when he noticed something: alongside Horace’s hoof prints there was another set. They were considerably smaller and their spacing suggested a horse with a shorter stride.
As he rode to Robertsbridge, somebody had been following him.
It could be innocent. Many people used that road and it was likely that another rider had been travelling behind him, bound on some independent quest. He reached the place where the narrower and lesser-used track from New Winnowlands joined the road and rode along it. Again, he found Horace’s prints; again, that smaller horse had been following him, perhaps all the way from his own home…
He was torn. He wanted to get back to the Abbey but his curiosity was piqued. He was also perturbed. There were violent men about, and he was alone. He told himself firmly not to be a coward. Then he dismounted and, leading Horace, he retraced their journey of the day before until, about two miles from New Winnowlands, he found what he was looking for.
There were Horace’s prints. And there, coming in from a path to the right of the road, were those of his pursuer. Without hesitation he mounted and turned Horace onto the path.
It did not seem to be going anywhere. He was very close to the borders of his own land yet, ashamed, he admitted to himself that he had never been this way before. It began to rain. He drew his hood up over his hat, pulling it forward to shield his face.
Open ground gave way to woodland and presently he rode through a beech grove. Giant slabs of golden-yellow sandstone stood out from the leaf-covered ground and the breeze stirred the bare branches of the trees high above him. He could not see the horse’s prints and he hoped that he had not missed the place where they joined the path. Then he came to a muddy stretch of track and there they were once again.
He looked ahead and could see no dwelling; not so much as a tumbledown hovel, hut or outbuilding. Should he give up the chase? It was tempting. He might ride all morning and find nothing and he had business elsewhere.
He pulled Horace up, turned him and set off back the way he had come.
It happened as he entered the beech grove.
There was no warning, or if there was it came all but instantaneously with the sudden dread as someone jumped down from the trees onto Horace’s back, put an arm around Josse’s neck and said, in a surprisingly normal voice, ‘Do not go for your knife for mine is already at your throat.’
Josse made himself relax. He could sense Horace tensing as he felt this new weight on his back and he reached out to pat the strong neck.
‘Be still!’ his assailant said.
‘I am calming my horse,’ Josse replied.
‘Very well. But remember my blade.’
Josse felt pressure on the flesh just over his windpipe. ‘I will.’
‘Why are you following me?’ the man demanded.
‘Why were you following me?’ Josse countered.
The blade was removed from his throat. There was a brief pause, then: ‘Who are you? Remove your hood and let me see your face.’
He did as he was ordered. The man behind him craned forward and Josse turned to look at him.
He was staring at a man perhaps in his late twenties. He wore a faded and mud-stained robe and at his side there was a leather satchel, its strap across his chest. His light brown hair had a reddish tinge and his eyes were grey-blue. He was lean-faced, clean-shaven and around his throat and jaw he wore a grimy bandage. Josse had never seen him before but he knew who he was. He had thought he recognized the voice and now the bandage made the man’s identity certain.
Which was odd, for he had been convinced that John Damianos was a Saracen.
‘John Damianos,’ Josse said. On the man’s tunic there was the outline of a cross; the emblem had been torn off, leaving its shape in an unfaded area of the black cloth. And, as the few facts he thought he knew collapsed in little pieces around him, he added incredulously, ‘Also known as Brother Ralf.’
‘Sir Josse.’ John Damianos sheathed his knife and slipped down off Horace’s back. ‘I am sorry. I followed you yesterday to Robertsbridge and I was pretty certain it was you retracing our horses’ prints this morning. But you had covered your face and, although I recognized your horse, a man can steal another’s mount and pretend to be someone he is not. I cannot afford to be careless.’
‘I believe I understand that now,’ Josse replied.
John Damianos looked up at him, the beginnings of a smile on his face. ‘Won’t you dismount? It makes my throat hurt like the devil to stand staring up at you.’
‘Aye, I will.’
He got down and stood facing John on the soft ground of the beech grove. The rain had intensified. John said, ‘We should talk, Sir Josse. I badly need a friend and I am hoping that you are one.’
‘I make no promises,’ Josse warned. ‘I serve the purposes of both Abbess Helewise of Hawkenlye and Gervase de Gifford, sheriff of Tonbridge, and I am a King’s man.’