She nodded. ‘Very well. Sister Euphemia, if you will prepare the corpse, it shall be taken to the crypt to await burial.’ She was still staring down at the dead man, her eyes wide and dazed, and Josse could see that it was with some effort that finally she tore her gaze away.
She turned and strode out of the recess. Josse, with a quick smile to Sister Euphemia and Sister Caliste, hurried after her.
Helewise wanted more than anything to escape to her private room, close the door and bring herself under control. The dead body had disturbed her far more than she had let on and as she walked swiftly across the frost-hard ground, after-images of horror floated in front of her eyes. As she reached the cloister she was aware of someone hurrying after her — Josse, for sure — and, biting down her impatience, she turned.
It was not Josse; he was standing in the arched doorway to the infirmary, staring after her with a faint frown on his face. It was old Brother Firmin.
She forced a smile. ‘Brother Firmin, good day.’
‘I am sorry to detain you when I know you must yearn for a moment to yourself,’ he began — oh, dear Lord, she thought, how fast news travels in this community! — ‘but I fear I must tell you. It’s not only the other brethren and me — Sister Ursel and Sister Martha were asked too, and so were two of the refectory nuns, and I am told they were also seen outside the infirmary so they must have pursued their enquiries with the nursing sisters, and I — that is, we — just thought you ought to know, my lady.’
His honest eyes in the deeply creased old face were looking up at her anxiously and her irritation vanished as swiftly as it had come. ‘Of course, Brother Firmin,’ she said kindly. Taking his hand and tucking it under her arm, she added, ‘Come along to my room, where we shall be out of the draught, and you shall tell me what it is that troubles you.’
‘But-’
They had reached her door and she opened it and ushered the old monk inside. She seated herself in her chair. ‘Now, Brother.’ She folded her hands inside the opposite sleeves of her habit and gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile. He seemed to shrink in alarm so she relaxed her fierce expression a little. ‘What is the matter?’
Eyeing her nervously, he hesitated and then said in a rush, ‘Three men have been here asking questions. They are brethren of the Order of Knights Hospitaller and wear the white cross upon breast or sleeve.’
Her mind had leapt ahead as soon as Brother Firmin spoke his second sentence. Knights Hospitaller. Outremer. Returning knights and abandoned servants. Dead man with a secret. John Damianos.
Brother Firmin was looking at her warily.
‘Go on!’ she snapped. Then, instantly penitent, ‘I am sorry, Brother Firmin. Please excuse my impatience. These men were asking questions, you said?’
‘Yes, my lady. They spoke to the monks and pilgrims down in the Vale, then like I say they came up here and spoke to the sisters in the refectory and the-’
‘Yes, quite,’ she interrupted. ‘What did they want to know?’
Brother Firmin’s eyes widened like a storyteller approaching the most dramatic point of his tale. ‘They’re after a runaway!’ he breathed.
‘Really?’ She felt her own excitement rising. ‘From where and what has this man fled?’
‘I cannot say, my lady,’ the old monk admitted, ‘save that the knights implied their chase had been most arduous and lengthy.’
Had they trailed their quarry all the way from Outremer? she wondered. Was it likely that three warrior monks would follow a runaway all that distance? Was it even possible to dog a man’s footsteps for all those hundreds and hundreds of miles over both land and sea…?
‘They did say,’ Brother Firmin added darkly, ‘that the runaway was an English monk.’
‘Did they?’ She was not sure why she was surprised. Wouldn’t it be the obvious thing, for an English fugitive to run for home? But then she realized that her surprise was because she was still obsessed with the body of the dark stranger: he, clearly, was no Englishman, and consequently she was now faced with the fact that her instant conclusion — that the runaway Knight Hospitaller was the man in her infirmary — could not be the right one. ‘I see,’ she finished lamely.
Brother Firmin waited to see if she was going to speak again and when she did not, he ventured tentatively, ‘We all thought it was very strange, my lady.’
‘What was?’
‘That these men should creep about asking questions of just about everybody except for the person they ought to have approached.’ His frown expressed his disapproval. ‘They are vowed monks and they ought to know how such things are done.’
‘You mean they should have asked me first?’
‘Indeed they should, my lady! Why, we all assumed they had your permission to interview us! Had we known that this was not the case, we should have refused!’ His very body language spoke of his indignation. ‘I do hope that no harm has been done?’
‘No, Brother; none at all.’ She got to her feet. ‘Do you know where they are now? Because I think it is about time that I too heard what they have to say.’
The three Hospitallers, she discovered as she crossed the cloister with Brother Firmin panting along by her side, had found Josse. Or perhaps, she thought with a smile, Josse had found them. Either way, they were all standing in the lee of the long infirmary building and Josse appeared to be giving the oldest of the trio a considerable piece of his mind.
‘… not the way things are done here, however you might carry on in Outremer. Here it is considered good manners to speak to the Abbess first, and only proceed when and if she says you can!’
He and Brother Firmin must have been taught the same rules. Suppressing her smile, she glided up to the group and said, ‘I am Abbess Helewise. May I help?’
Two of the three knights had the grace to look abashed. The third — a lean, pale man whose extreme thinness gave an illusory impression of height — stared straight at her with hazel eyes that did not look down as he gave a perfunctory bow. ‘I am Thibault of Margat, of the Order of the Knights of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem,’ he intoned. ‘These — ’ he indicated the other two with a wave of his hand that was almost insulting in its indifference — ‘are Brother Otto and, er…’ he paused, frowning, ‘Brother Jeremiah.’
Helewise wondered which was which, for their superior did not deign to enlighten her. All three were dressed in dark robes that were dusty, mud-spattered and very well worn. She waited for Thibault to continue.
‘We are hunting for a runaway monk,’ he said in a curiously expressionless tone. ‘He is an Englishman.’
‘An English Hospitaller,’ she said. ‘And what does this man look like?’
‘He will be dressed as we are,’ Thibault said, ‘in a dark robe and black cloak — ’ he held out a fold of his own cloak — ‘or scapular — ’ he pointed to one of the brothers — ‘marked with the distinctive white cross of our Order.’
Slowly she shook her head. ‘I have seen no such man,’ she said. Then, for Thibault’s look of disdain was profoundly irritating, she added, ‘I will ask my nuns and monks if they have noticed a man dressed as you describe. Unless, that is, you have already done so?’ She fixed Thibault with a hard stare.
His lips tightened. ‘We have asked both in the settlement down by the lake and here in the Abbey,’ he acknowledged.
‘And have any of my community or its visitors been able to help you?’
‘No.’ The single word was curt.
Although she knew it was unworthy, she was enjoying his discomfiture. ‘To describe a man simply by the garb he wears is not of much value,’ she said, forcing a helpful expression, ‘since it is the easiest thing to remove one garment and put on another.’
‘I had thought of that, my lady.’ Thibault sounded as if he was speaking through clenched teeth.
‘Can you not tell us more?’ she prompted. ‘What age is this runaway? What is his name? And what does he look like — is he fair or dark? Tall, short, fat, thin?’