The Paths of the Air (8 page)

He was in no doubt that the two men sitting calmly in his hall would not hesitate to kill the man who had stolen their master's treasure if it proved necessary; perhaps even if it
wasn't
necessary . . .

He made up his mind.

‘I do know of a man who answers the description of your thief,' he said.

Two pairs of very dark eyes shot to meet his own. It was, he thought, a little like facing a quartet of sword points. ‘You do?' breathed Kathnir.

‘Aye. But I warn you, the man I speak of was found stripped of garments and of possessions and it is only from the tone of his skin and the near black colour of his eyes that I deduce him to have been a Saracen.'

‘Was found?' Kathnir echoed quietly.

‘Aye. He is dead: murdered close by Hawkenlye Abbey, half a day's ride from here. You know of it?'

‘We have heard tell,' Kathnir said. He leaned towards Akhbir and the two men muttered in what Josse assumed was their own tongue. Then Kathnir said, ‘We do not believe this dead man to be our quarry.'

‘You
what
?' Josse was astounded; he had been so sure that at last he was to have some answers to his many questions. ‘How can you be so sure? There aren't many stray Saracens wandering through the countryside, I can tell you! Should you not at least go to Hawkenlye and ask to see the dead man before he is put in the ground?'

But instead of a reasoned response, Kathnir exclaimed, ‘You do not understand the gravity of the crime that this man committed! If you did, then you would help us!'

‘It makes no difference what I understand,' Josse began, ‘for I—' For I cannot tell you what I do not know, he was about to say.

He stopped himself. There was something he
did
know but that he had chosen not to tell the Saracens, but he had decided not to mention his former guest to this sinister and threatening pair.

Kathnir was still watching him intently and Josse had the uneasy feeling that the Saracen saw straight through the subterfuge. Forcing a grin and a shrug, he said, ‘You say I do not understand the gravity of what this man has done. Won't you tell me?'

There was a long pause during which the two Saracens muttered to each other, their impatience and their frustration clearly evident even though Josse did not understand a word. Then Kathnir turned back to Josse and said, ‘My master's younger brother was taken prisoner. He had been wounded in the fighting and he was taken to Margat.' His mouth twisted into its wry smile. ‘Margat,' he added, ‘is a fortress held by the Knights Hospitaller and even after the disarray that followed Hattin, the great Saladin did not succeed in taking it.'

‘I know,' Josse said softly, ‘about Margat.'

And, he could have added, I heard the name only this morning. That was something he was going to have to think about very carefully.

But not now.

Kathnir was speaking and Josse made himself listen.

‘My master loves his little brother dearly,' the Saracen said, ‘and it was against his wishes that Fadil – that is the brother's name – went off to fight, for my master judged that he was too inexperienced.'

‘Where did the young man fight?' Josse's soldier's soul was intrigued by this talk of war.

‘In Antioch and Tripoli, on the eastern borders of those territories,' Kathnir said. ‘When Saladin signed the Peace of Ramla with the Frankish kings, we sent an arrow high in the sky to show our enemy that they need not fear the flying arrow.' His lean face creased in an ironic smile. ‘But a treaty signed in Jaffa has little effect upon a war of attrition being waged two hundred miles to the north, and many of my master's kinsmen joined those who fought to push the Franks back towards the coast.'

‘Aye, that I can understand,' Josse murmured. He had heard tell of such skirmishes where, under the general aegis of fighting off the Christians, Muslim landowners took the opportunity to add to their territories.

‘My master prayed for Fadil's safety every day of his absence,' Kathnir continued. ‘His grief when he learned that Fadil had fallen in battle was limitless, as was his joy at being told that he was not dead but merely injured. He had been unhorsed by a lance thrust and a Frankish sword bit deep into his shoulder. He was taken prisoner but, because of the severity of his wound, he was given into the care of the Knights Hospitaller, first at Crac des Chevaliers and then in their fortress of Margat.'

‘And the Hospitallers nursed him back to health?'

‘They did.' Kathnir's acknowledgement was grudging, as if it pained him to praise the enemy for their skill. ‘But then during the monks' time in Outremer they have learned much of medicine from Arab doctors.'

‘Aye, true,' Josse agreed. Kathnir shot him a glance, surprise in his eyes. ‘Credit where credit is due,' Josse murmured softly.

Kathnir continued to stare at him for a moment. Then, resuming his narrative, he said, ‘For many long months there was no news of Fadil but then my master was notified that his little brother had been proposed for a hostage exchange.' Suddenly his black eyes lit up with fire and with fury in his voice he cried, ‘But from the outset it was—'

Akhbir dug him very hard in the ribs and abruptly he swallowed the words he had been about to say.

Josse bit back a curse. After a moment he said, ‘But from the outset, you were saying?'

‘There was a – a complication,' Kathnir said neutrally; he seemed to have regained control. ‘My master's brother disappeared and was almost certainly killed and my master barely escaped with his life.'

‘And it was during this complication that the Saracen whom you are seeking stole the treasure from your master?'

But Kathnir was not to be drawn. His dark eyes steady on Josse's, he said, ‘I do not know.'

Oh but you do, Josse thought. There is much more that you could tell me of this hostage exchange that went so disastrously wrong. Of Knights Hospitaller and Saracens involved in some
complication
that took a man's life and robbed another of a treasure so precious that he sent two tough and resourceful warriors thousands of miles to get it back.

He studied first Kathnir and then Akhbir. Their dark eyes in the bland, impassive faces stared right back and he knew they were not going to say another word until and unless they decided it was appropriate.

And hell will probably freeze over, Josse reflected, before
that
happens.

He needed to think. He wanted to race back to Hawkenlye and have another look at the dead man before they put him in the ground. He wanted to go all around the spot where the body had been found, on his hands and knees if necessary, to see if he could find something – some small, overlooked thing – that might help him start to unravel this mystery.

He wanted to talk it all through with the Abbess.

He stood up and immediately the two Saracens did the same. ‘I cannot be of further assistance to you,' he said flatly. ‘I have told you of the dead man found near Hawkenlye and I can only suggest that you go there. It is not too late to look at him before he is buried.'

‘But—' Akhbir began.

It was Kathnir's turn to stick an elbow into his companion's side. Smiling even as the abruptly silenced Akhbir winced, Kathnir said, ‘We are grateful for your help and for the most excellent ginger drink. Now we will be on our way.' He bowed.

Josse saw his visitors out into the courtyard and watched from the steps as the two men mounted, gave him a final valediction and rode out through the gates and onto the track.

Thoughtfully Josse went back to his chair. He was going to return to Hawkenlye as soon as he could, and he would have yelled for Horace there and then except that he did not want to ride out alongside the two Saracens. He would give them some time to get away, then he would be on his way.

There was no danger that he would catch up with them on the road to Hawkenlye, even if he could have urged old Horace to the sort of speed necessary to overtake a couple of light, swift Arab geldings; quite a big
if
, he thought with a grin.

Because the Saracens weren't going to Hawkenlye.

He had realized something as he stood watching them ride away; something that he ought to have worked out sooner. Those two men were first-rate trackers. They had followed their man all the way from Outremer and somehow they were aware that the corpse at Hawkenlye was not that of the man they hunted.
We do not believe this dead man to be our quarry.
There was no need for them to view it.

They might not know where their man was now but they knew perfectly well where he had been: they had tracked him to the exact spot where he had only recently been hiding.

New Winnowlands.

No, Josse thought, they won't be going to Hawkenlye. They'll be staying right here and as soon as they get the chance they'll be creeping through my outbuildings like rats after corn searching for any sign my late guest might have left behind. His grin widened. And they won't find a thing, because I've already looked.

He sat by the fire a while longer.

Then he sought out Will, informed him he was going back to Hawkenlye and, as soon as Horace was ready, hastened on his way.

Outremer, September 1194

He could feel the sweat of extreme anxiety running down his back and leaking from his armpits. When he drew breath he could smell himself.

His superior had given him a totally unexpected order. As the urgently muttered words had sunk in, a detached part of his mind had thought: yes, I understand now why I was chosen for this mission. Although accurate, his understanding was, however, only part of the story.

The fat man on the divan began to speak. The young monk strove to do his appointed task. In the flickering light of the coloured lanterns it was hard to see clearly and the effort added to the tension building up in his neck and shoulders. Soon his head was pounding like a battle drum. Eventually the fat man was done. With a wave of his hand, set with rings in which the huge stones twinkled in the lantern light, he commanded his servants to fill up the visitors' glasses with the cinnamon-flavoured drink. The young monk hastily reached for his own glass and, pushing aside the edge of the rug, poured the contents into the sand, holding up the empty vessel with what he hoped was a winning and innocent smile. The glass was filled by a supercilious servant and, after another pretend sip, the young monk hid it out of sight. He was nauseated by the drink. Even the smell all but turned his stomach and, given the tension and the vivid sense of danger that thrummed and hummed in the air, this was no time to be crouched over, vomiting in the sand.

The Hospitallers and the fat man were raising their glasses to each other's health. The prisoner's manacles were removed and the fat man, beaming, opened his arms in welcome. One of the guards leaned close and muttered something in the prisoner's ear. The prisoner nodded.

The young monk was watching him. He does not want to go, he realized suddenly. This night's business is not his choice, for his time as a prisoner has removed him from the fat man's spell. To return to his former state will be moving from one captivity to another, infinitely worse. It was as if the prisoner picked up the young monk's flash of understanding. Slowly he turned his head on its long, graceful neck and his eyes stared straight into those of the young Hospitaller.

The dark eyes held such a depth of anguish that the monk felt himself shrink away. As if the prisoner was making quite sure that the monk knew what he was going to have to endure, pictures began to form in the monk's mind; alien pictures that he knew without a doubt had been put there by the prisoner, for the things they showed were not actions that he had ever envisaged. He saw the fat man, sweating, grunting, eyes closed as he approached the moment of ecstasy, the loose flesh of his swelling belly slap, slap, slapping against the beautiful youth's lower back and round, firm buttocks. He saw the youth's face, a rictus of horror and disgust. He felt the youth's pain.

The youth's eyes slipped down to where the monk's short but deadly sword lay beneath his habit, pushed awkwardly behind him as he sat on the low divan. It was as if the youth could see straight through the black cloth. And suddenly his voice spoke inside the monk's head: Help me.

How can I? the monk responded in silent anguish.

Now the mental pictures were worse. The fat man was kissing and caressing the bare buttocks but then in a flash his mood changed and, with an expression of naked sexual desire and brutal savagery, viciously he brought a short, whippy cane down onto the olive-toned flesh. Once. Twice, three, four, five times, each stroke leaving a deep red welt that oozed blood.

Then the prisoner lowered his head and turned away and the horrific images faded.

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!