The Paths of the Air by Alys Clare Page A

it . . .
    As she waited for the Hospitaller to make up his mind she was struck forcibly with the thought that whatever the fugitive monk might or might not have done, she was on his side. But that was not a thought that a nun – an abbess, indeed – should entertain.
    Thibault must have been working out his parting remark. Now, sweeping his black cloak around him, he jerked his head at his two silent companions and they walked off towards the gates. Thibault, turning to look at first Helewise and then Josse, said, ‘We make now for Tonbridge, whence we shall set out for our Order’s English headquarters at the priory of St John in Clerkenwell.’ Then, in a voice of soft intensity, he added, ‘You will send word to me if the English monk comes here. We will not be hard to find for we make no secret of our comings and goings.’
    And that also is a lie, Helewise thought coolly.
    Thibault, after the briefest of reverences, strode away after the two brothers.
    She felt Josse stir beside her. ‘Not so much as a farewell,’ he muttered.
    Without thinking, she said, ‘He’ll be back.’
    Josse’s expression suggested that he was almost as surprised as she was by the remark. ‘My lady?’
    â€˜Oh – er, I just meant that here at Hawkenlye we have the biggest concentration of people for miles, so Brother Thibault is hardly likely to be satisfied with a few brief questions.’ It sounded unsatisfactory even to her ears.
    Josse went on staring at her and now he was looking decidedly suspicious. She gave him a smile – she could not have explained how she knew, even had she wanted to – and after a moment he muttered, ‘Have it your own way.’
    Her need for solitude had grown out of all proportion; a great deal had happened this morning and she urgently needed to think. Leaning close to Josse, she said softly, ‘I must send for Father Gilbert to arrange for the burial. I had thought that perhaps the man those Hospitallers are seeking might be our dead man, for I believe that the brethren do recruit soldiers from the native population in Outremer.’
    â€˜Indeed, my lady,’ Josse relied. ‘They are known as turcopoles, and the military orders put them on a horse, give them a bow and, after scant training, fling them into battle.’
    She hid a smile; evidently Josse did not approve of such practices. ‘But then they said the runaway is an Englishman,’ she said with a sigh, ‘so that was the end of that bright idea.’
    He was frowning, clearly thinking.
    â€˜Sir Josse?’ she prompted.
    â€˜Oh – I was thinking of John Damianos. If what I suspect is right and the dead man is him, then perhaps he accompanied the missing Hospitaller? He – John Damianos – might have been the monk’s body servant, brought to England and abandoned.’
    She considered the idea. Then, with an impatient shake of her head: ‘It’s all too vague, Sir Josse! Nothing but ifs and maybes.’
    He looked quite hurt. ‘I’m sorry, my lady, but it’s the best I can do.’
    She smiled. ‘No, Sir Josse; I am sorry, for my bad mood. There is much that I need to think about. I do not mean to be mysterious and I will try to explain later, but for now I really do need to be alone.’
    He studied her, his head on one side. After a moment – and she had the clear impression he knew exactly how she felt – he said, ‘Off you go, then, my lady. I’m going to return with Will and Ella to New Winnowlands. Send for me when you feel like some company.’
    His low and respectful bow put Thibault’s to shame. Then he gave her a cheerful grin and strolled away.
    Outremer, September 1194
    He did not know at first why they had selected him for the mission. Initially he felt nothing but pride that he, not even among the fully professed, had been singled out for such an honour. It was