The Paths of the Air (28 page)

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.'

‘I know both your credentials and your reputation, Sir Josse,' John said quietly. ‘Why do you think I sought refuge with you when I was in dire need?'

‘I – er, I'm glad that I could help,' Josse muttered.

‘I have a shelter nearby,' John said. ‘Let's get out of the rain.'

‘Very well.'

John set off back along the track and Josse followed, leading Horace. Soon John turned off to the left down a path that descended into the narrow valley of a stream and presently the path gave out. John pushed his way through the undergrowth and, not without difficulty, Josse and his horse followed. John, he noticed, was constantly alert, looking all around him and occasionally putting up a hand to stop them so that he could listen. Eventually they came to a clearing where a bend of the stream had all but cut off an apron of land. Close by there was a hollowed-out space in the sloping side of the valley. In it a chestnut horse was tethered.

Josse stared at the animal. It was a gelding, smaller than the large and heavy Horace and quite beautifully formed. John, observing the direction of Josse's fixed and fascinated stare, said, ‘His name is Cinnabar. He comes from a land a very long way away.'

‘You have ridden him all the way from Outremer?'

‘I have. Lead your horse into the shelter; there is water there and a place where you can tether him.'

Josse tied Horace's reins to a stout branch. ‘The human accommodation is in here,' John said, and Josse followed him to a deeper hollow, its roof formed by an outcrop of sandstone. At the entrance there was a circle of hearthstones and, just inside, firewood and a small cooking pot. There were other objects within but Josse could not make out what they were.

John indicated a couple of cross-sections of tree trunk and said, ‘Sit down. It's dry in here, at least.'

‘How did you know I would be there on the track?' Josse asked.

‘I didn't. I realized you were going to see Gerome yesterday and thought you would remain there. I keep a regular watch up in the beech grove when I use this shelter and you just happened to ride along.'

‘I saw your horse's prints following mine,' Josse said.

‘Yes, I know. I was careless.'

There were so many questions that Josse wanted to ask and he did not know where to start. Begin at the beginning, he thought.

‘When you came to New Winnowlands,' he said, ‘you were dressed differently and I took you for a Saracen.'

‘Among the men on my trail are a trio of Knights Hospitaller,' John said dryly. ‘I do not have many garments other than this tunic and my Saracen disguise. Given that I knew Thibault was close, I decided on the second.'

‘That decision could have cost your life,' Josse said. ‘Soon after you left us, a man dressed very similarly was tortured and killed close to Hawkenlye Abbey. I thought he was you.'

John had gone very still. ‘How did you discover you were wrong?'

‘I explained to the Hawkenlye infirmarer that I thought the dead man was John Damianos, who had come to lodge at New Winnowlands. She
had treated a man of similar appearance, and when she looked at the body she said this was not the man she had treated because
he
had a burn on his throat. So we concluded that you were the man she had treated and the dead man was someone else.'

‘His name was Touros,' John said, ‘and he was a Turkish mercenary. He and his two companions followed me from Antioch. Although Touros did not deserve to die in such a terrible way, it may be some consolation to you to know that had he and his companions caught me, they would have killed me without a qualm.'

‘Why did you flee from New Winnowlands?' Josse was not ready to comment on what John Damianos had just said.

‘Your serving woman, Ella, is Pandora reborn,' John replied. ‘Her curiosity about the man in the outbuilding got the better of her, and once she told you that I wasn't there and you concluded I was in the habit of going out at night – why else would I need to sleep all day? – then I could not stay.'

It was just as Josse had thought. He nodded.

‘I saw the woman approach the outbuilding,' John said thoughtfully. ‘I am sorry I scared her.'

‘She thought you were some sort of night spirit,' Josse said.

John laughed. ‘I have been many things, but not that. Yet,' he added.

‘Where did you go? What did you have to do every night?'

John looked at him. ‘I can't tell you. I hope I shall be able to, but for now it is too dangerous. What you don't know, Sir Josse, you can't tell.'

‘I would not betray you,' he protested.

‘You might,' John said. He must have seen Josse's reaction. ‘I am sorry. I mean no offence.'

‘Those who murdered the Turk are both dead,' Josse said.

‘Yes, I know.'

‘Did you kill them?'

John turned to stare at Josse and his grey-blue eyes were clear and honest. ‘No.'

‘One was killed with a longbow. I think the shot was fired by one of Touros's companions and that it was in revenge for his death.'

John nodded. ‘That is very likely. The men who travelled with Touros are called William and Tancred. They are Franks from Outremer. They are in the employ of a ruthless and wealthy man who wants me dead. Touros was their best weapon. They will sorely miss his prowess.'

‘They made a shrine to him,' Josse said. ‘They did not have his body – he was buried at Hawkenlye – but they made a special place on the edge of the forest and stuck his broken bow in the ground.'

John shrugged. ‘Well, perhaps there was some sentiment there after all and Touros was more to them than a useful servant.'

‘They killed a man they believed was you,' Josse said softly.

‘The Hospitaller? Yes, I suspected it, and I am sorry. They must have thought Thibault had found me at Gerome's house and was taking me to Clerkenwell.'

‘They murdered the Hospitaller in his bed and then set fire to the place.' Josse was not sure whether or not this would be news to John Damianos; he seemed to be remarkably well informed.

‘They have their orders and they will not rest until those orders are carried out. They are commanded to hunt me down and kill me. They believed that poor, innocent monk was me and they do not waste time asking questions.'

‘Do you think they have discovered their mistake? Are you still in danger from them?'

‘I wish it were not so, but the answer to both of your questions is yes.'

‘How do you know?' Josse demanded.

John hesitated. Then he said, ‘Again, I am sorry, Sir Josse, but you will just have take my word for it. I can't tell you.'

Josse had had enough. With the Abbess's and Gerome's help, so many of the pieces of the puzzle had been fitted together. But he knew they had not reached the core of it. Thibault knew much that he was not telling them; so did Gerome; and now here was John Damianos, who seemed to be at the heart of it all, calmly saying,
I can't tell you.

‘You have led me quite a dance,' he said coolly. ‘I believed you to be a Saracen travelling in the company of the Knight Hospitaller sought by Thibault. I thought he was this runaway English monk who had been at the meeting in the desert, and that you – the Saracen – were Fadil, the prisoner who was being exchanged. Now I find that you are the English monk known as Brother Ralf.'

‘You called me that earlier,' John observed. ‘Did Gerome tell you the name?'

‘Aye. That was one of the few things he
did
tell me. Where's Fadil? He's here, isn't he? You've brought your prisoner all the way to England and you—'

‘I last saw my prisoner, as you call him, in Constantinople,' John interrupted. ‘Fadil wasn't my choice of a travelling companion and I was very glad to see the last of him.'

‘Why did you let him go? You should have taken him back to Margat or Crac des Chevaliers!'

‘I should indeed. But something strange happened out there in the desert. I had a sort of vision of what he would be going back to if we returned him to his master. I couldn't be responsible for forcing him back into that life, Sir Josse, so I took him to where he wished to go and then said goodbye.'

Josse was shaking his head. ‘This is all too deep for me. You were being hunted by three separate groups, one of which we may discount because both Kathnir and Akhbir are dead; another of which is out of action while Thibault of Margat and Brother Otto lie in the infirmary at Hawkenlye recovering from their burns. Only one of these groups therefore remains, and yet you—'

‘And yet I continue to be evasive and secretive and I refuse to satisfy your curiosity by telling you everything?' John's voice was bitterly angry. ‘Sir Josse, one group out of three may not sound much to you and, indeed, those who would have made me suffer torment before they killed me are in their graves. But do not dismiss these Frankish mercenaries. Their purpose in searching for me so doggedly and relentlessly is what I dread the most, for—' He stopped. He watched Josse intently for a moment and then, as if he read Josse's honesty and something in him yearned to confide, he gave in. ‘They are the most dangerous of my enemies, Sir Josse, because it is not only I whom they seek. There is another quarry; and if by so doing I could guarantee her life, I would willingly die.'