The Paths of the Air by Alys Clare

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.
    â€˜We are hunting for a runaway monk,’ he said in a curiously expressionless tone. ‘He is an Englishman.’
    â€˜An English Hospitaller,’ she said. ‘And what does this man look like?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜And have any of my community or its visitors been able to help you?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I had thought of that, my lady.’ Thibault sounded as if he was speaking through clenched teeth.
    â€˜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?’
    Thibault raised his chin and squared his shoulders. ‘I do not know,’ he said.
    For an instant Helewise was blessed with additional perception and she knew without doubt that this was a lie. Then the moment passed.
    She glanced at Josse, watching the exchange with close attention, and drew him towards her. ‘This is Sir Josse d’Acquin,’ she said, ‘a King’s man and a loyal friend to Hawkenlye Abbey. Have you asked your question of him?’
    Thibault looked at Josse, who stared levelly back. ‘I have. Like you and your people, he says he knows nothing of a robed Hospitaller.’
    There was a very faint emphasis on says . Helewise felt her anger boil up. She waited until she had herself under control and then said quietly, ‘If that is what Sir Josse says, then, Thibault of Margat, it is the truth. If there is nothing else you want of me or my community, then allow me to wish you God’s speed.’
    She watched the protest rise and fall again in Thibault’s face. He is torn, she thought grimly. There is more – probably very much more – that he could tell us that would help us to identify this runaway monk, should he ever come this way. Yet this information is sensitive, for Thibault cannot bring himself to divulge