Faithful Dead (24 page)

Finding a quiet moment to speak to Josse, she found that he was as tense as she was. ‘He probably enjoys seeing us stew,’ he growled. ‘What’s he up to? He
must
be aware that we know as well as he does why he’s here. Why doesn’t just he get on with it?’

‘He will,’ she said soothingly. ‘In the meantime, why not come and pray with us?’

To her faint surprise, he did.

They received word in the late evening that the Prince wished to speak with them. The Prince, who had been offered the use of the Abbess’s private room and instantly accepted, had installed himself in Helewise’s chair. As Helewise and Josse entered the room – only the two of them, it appeared, had been summoned – the Prince sat at his ease, John Dee positioned at his shoulder.

Standing side by side with Josse, Helewise found she was holding her breath.

Don’t be absurd, she told herself firmly. He is but a man, like any other. Being born royal does not turn a man into a god.

She lifted her chin and looked the Prince right in the face.

She saw a faint smile cross his face. Then, turning to Josse, he said, ‘We discommode the lady Abbess by our presence, and so I will come to the point of our visit straight away.’

Since he spoke the truth, she did not contradict him.

He noticed that, as well; there was a definite edge of amusement to his voice as he went on, ‘Sir Josse, when last we met, I asked you if you had come across a man named Galbertius Sidonius. A few days later, you came to seek out the Magister here’ – he indicated John Dee – ‘who reported to me that you wanted to discover if a dead man found here at Hawkenlye could be the man we seek. It was decided that he could not be, since the dead man was younger than Sidonius.’

He paused. Josse, apparently thinking he was expected to respond, said, ‘Aye, Sire. All of that is so.’

The Prince stared at him. Eventually he said, ‘You see, Sir Josse, the problem is this. We are no nearer to finding Sidonius, and you are still our only lead.’

‘But I don’t – that is, I have never met the man!’ Josse protested. ‘Why, Sire, are you so certain that I can help you?’

The Prince, who had been relaxing in his seat and idly inspecting the nails of his right hand as if finding the whole business impossibly tedious, suddenly shot upright, turned the lazy hand into a fist and banged it down hard on the arm of the chair. ‘Because you know exactly who he is and why he will come seeking you out!’ he cried. Eyes blazing, he added in a tone that could have frozen wine, ‘Do not play with me, d’Acquin.’

Helewise sensed Josse’s reaction. Far from being frightened into submission, he was, she knew quite well, almost as furious as the Prince.

‘I have a suspicion that I do know the identity of this Galbertius Sidonius,’ he said, his voice tightly under control. ‘And, although a suspicion is not a certainty, nevertheless I was on the point of setting out to find you, Sire, to tell you what I know, when your party arrived this morning. As the Abbess Helewise here will verify, and she does not lie.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ the Prince murmured. ‘And so? Tell me, if you please, what tidings you were bringing me.’

But, to Helewise’s surprise and admiration, Josse stood his ground. ‘I will, Sire, but may I have leave to ask a question, too?’

She thought the Prince might flare up in a rage. But instead he gave a bark of laughter and said, ‘Very well. But you must answer me first.’

‘We believe Sidonius to be a man who fought and travelled with my late father, Geoffroi d’Acquin,’ Josse began. ‘My father knew him as the Lombard, and they were good friends. Or so my father believed. The Lombard returned to Acquin with my father when they came back from Outremer and, when he finally set off for his own home, stole a precious object from my father. Earlier this year, my family at Acquin received a visit from an old man and a boy. The old man was seeking my father, and expressed a wish to keep faith with him. The boy was overheard referring to his master by name; it appeared he called him Galbertius Sidonius. The old man came here, to Hawkenlye, seeking the healing waters, but he died before the monks could help him. His servant had disappeared, but has recently been found dead. His body even now lies in the crypt awaiting burial.’

The Prince, who had been listening intently, now turned to John Dee. They murmured together for some time; once or twice Dee shook his head emphatically. The Prince did not look pleased.

Eventually, Prince John turned back to face Josse. ‘You believe the old man to be Sidonius,’ he said, his tone giving nothing away. ‘Can you prove it?’

‘I believe so, Sire,’ Josse said eagerly. ‘Although, as I said, I never met him, others did. My brother, Yves, for one, who is at present here in Hawkenlye. Some of the monks in the Vale, too, encountered the old man. Perhaps if they were to describe him to you, in as much detail as possible, you could say whether we speak, indeed, of the same man.’

‘A sound plan,’ the Prince said, ‘but for one thing. We have never met Sidonius either.’

‘We––?’

The Prince gave a tsk! of exasperation. ‘The Magister and I.’

‘But the Magister told me he was old! Ancient, in fact! I thought that meant he must know him!’ Josse exclaimed.

The Magister spoke. ‘No. I do not.’

‘Then how do you know he is ancient?’ Josse demanded, turning to glare at Dee.

‘There are ways,’ Dee murmured. ‘One receives . . . an impression.’

As if he did not want the Magister to proceed with that line, the Prince spoke sharply. ‘You said you have a question for us, Sir Josse. You may ask it.’

Helewise was almost sure, judging by the long pause, that Josse had forgotten what he had wanted to know. She was about to whisper a reminder when he said, ‘Aye. I would ask you, Sire, how
you
come to know of Galbertius Sidonius.’

Once more, there was a brief exchange between Prince John and the Magister. Then the Prince said, with credible nonchalance, ‘The story of your father and his jewel was well-known in court circles, d’Acquin. The returning crusaders brought home many tales, and the one of the modest and unassuming knight who rescued a little boy and was awarded a valuable prize was ever a favourite.’ He leaned forward, stopping whatever Josse had been about to say before he could begin. ‘You may like to know that the little boy grew up into a warrior who begat many bellicose sons and who is still a much-respected military authority in his own land. My brother and his knights have not always been entirely happy that his life was saved; a considerable number of Christian soldiers would still be alive today if your father had left Azamar where he was.’

‘He was a
child
,’ Josse said softly. ‘Surely it is not in God’s orders that we kill children.’

The Prince shrugged. ‘War is unpleasant, d’Acquin. Do you not recall?’

Josse made no reply, but Helewise felt the anger ripple through him. Thinking that he might be glad of a moment to get himself under control, she said, ‘May I speak, Sire?’

The Prince waved a hand heavy with rings. ‘Of course, my lady.’

‘I wondered how you came to connect the tale of Geoffroi d’Acquin and his jewel with Galbertius Sidonius. Geoffroi’s family remember that his father always referred to his friend as the Lombard, and I was curious to know how you managed to identify him with the man you seek.’

The Prince stared at her. It was not, she discovered, a pleasant experience; against her will – she was determined not to be cowed – stories of his famous temper came to mind. I am Abbess here, she told herself. He is sitting in
my
chair, and I am not going to stand here before him quaking like some child postulant caught out in a minor misdemeanour.

She straightened her shoulders and stared back.

From behind the Prince, she heard John Dee emit a brief, soft chuckle.

As if the small sound had broken some contest going on between the Prince and the Abbess, the Prince relaxed, smiled and said, ‘My lady, these things happen, do they not? A man’s deeds are mentioned, someone says, oh, you mean old so-and-so, and there you are, an unknown person suddenly has an identity. Is that not so?’

She wondered why she should feel so strongly that he very much wanted her to swallow this explanation, which was so flimsy as to be almost non-existent. She said meekly, ‘Yes, Sire. Indeed it is.’

She caught Dee’s eyes on her; even if the Prince thought she believed him, John Dee certainly did not.

She went on staring at Dee.

Was it her imagination, or did she sense a warmth from him, a sense that he meant her no harm? That – surely this was taking it too far! – he just might be on her side. Which, since she and Josse stood shoulder to shoulder, made it Josse’s side, too.

In the face of the power that seemed to come in waves off the person of the Prince, to have the Magister as an ally seemed something greatly to be desired.

Josse retired to bed that night feeling exhausted. He had told Yves every last detail of the interview with the Prince and John Dee, and they had talked it over for a long time. The problem is, he thought as he lay trying to relax sufficiently for sleep, that, for all those words that were exchanged, we are no nearer to a resolution to this puzzle. Nor – far more importantly – any closer to finding what hand, or hands, was behind those two murders.

As he lay there in the darkness of the shelter, he hoped fervently that both killings had been carried out by the same man. The thought of having
two
cold, professional killers around was just too awful.

It was quiet, down there in the Vale. Josse and Yves were the only occupants of the pilgrims’ shelter that night; the monks and the lay brothers had their own quarters, a short distance away. And the Prince, despite his protestations that he would be quite happy to put up in the clean but basic lodgings in the Vale shelter, had changed his mind when the rain refused to let up. The Abbess had arranged an area of the chapter house as a makeshift guest chamber, organising the laying-out of shakedown beds and the provision of a small brazier, and there Prince John, the Magister and the Prince’s two personal attendants were, presumably, now enjoying a good night’s sleep.

Unlike me, Josse reflected.

It was no use; sleep was proving frustratingly elusive. He got up – quietly, so as not to disturb Yves – and, having made sure his knife was in its sheath on his belt, left the shelter.

It was still raining, although the downpour that had flattened anyone unwise enough to be out of doors in the late evening had moved off. The rainfall was soft now, and the wind had dropped. Hunching into his travelling cloak, Josse moved out from under the eaves of the shelter and strode off along the path that led down to the lake at the bottom of the valley.

Then, under a group of chestnut trees that stood a little way back from the track, he saw a light.

He stopped dead, staring at it. For it was in a place where surely no light should be . . .

Was it a lost group of travellers, making for Hawkenlye but overcome by the early falling darkness of an overcast, rainy night? Aye, perhaps so; and, poor souls, they were seeking comfort from the deep shadows with a lantern.

But the light did not look like that of a candle in a lantern; it had no soft, golden, flickering glow, but burned with a steady intensity and a faint bluish tinge.

Josse put his hand over the hilt of his knife. Fool that I am, he thought, why did I not bring my sword?

He had, as always when he visited, handed it over to Saul for safe keeping, out of respect for the holy ground of the Abbey and the Vale. It would have taken but a moment to slip into the monks’ quarters and retrieve it; Saul, knowing that Josse would not take his weapon unless he had dire need, had made no secret of where he had put it.

Josse was angry with himself. There was a trained killer around; he knew that full well. And there he was, armed only with his knife.

He drew it from its sheath. It was sharp, sturdy, and he was well used to wielding it. Ah, well, it would have to serve; curiosity had overcome him, and he was moving stealthily up towards the strange light even as he tightened his grip on his knife.

He crouched low as he approached the trees. He could see the light more clearly now; it came from a small ball of some substance that burned inside a small iron cup. The cup was set on top of a spike, stuck firmly into the ground.

Entranced, Josse crept closer. And closer. Until he was under the canopy of the chestnut tree, deep in the black shadow cast by the brilliant light.

He stopped, staring down at the unnatural steadiness of the flame; it seemed to be one flame, which burned with a fervour that almost hurt the eyes.

What, in God’s holy name, could it be?

As if he had asked the question out loud, a voice from the shadows answered softly, ‘It is known as Greek fire, my friend. Do not be alarmed, for it will not hurt you unless you touch it.’