Faithful Dead (27 page)

‘I did not imagine that you did,’ she murmured.

‘But should not that sheriff – what was his name?’

‘Harry Pelham,’ she said tonelessly.

‘Aye, Pelham. Should he not be hunting down this killer?’

‘He should, yes,’ she agreed. ‘But, Yves, if we sat back and waited for him to solve every crime that occurred in this region, we should still be waiting when the Last Trump sounds.’

‘He is not – oh. I see.’ Yves’ face reflected his comprehension. ‘That’s why Josse feels so driven?’

‘I imagine so, yes. He has helped us many times before, you know, Yves. We at Hawkenlye treasure him.’

‘Mmm, so I gather,’ Yves said. Then, as if he were afraid of saying more than he should, he firmly changed the subject and said, ‘If you will excuse me, I will go and see to my horse and, I think, perhaps follow Josse’s example and take him out for some exercise.’

With a low bow, he backed out of the room and closed the door carefully – and quietly – behind him.

Leaving Helewise to wonder just what Josse had told his family back at Acquin about Hawkenlye Abbey and what they made of the goings-on there.

In particular, what they made of the Abbess.

But such speculation was, she firmly told herself presently, both a waste of God’s good time and a temptation to vanity; getting up, she strode out of the room and headed off towards the church for some private prayer. We need your help, Lord, she thought as she hurried along the cloisters; we have a murderer at large, and we must bring him to justice.

Then not only those two dead men, but also the rest of us, may find some peace.

Josse, still angry and tense, was in no mood to appreciate the beauty of the great Wealden Forest in early October. He kicked Horace into a canter then, as the sweet autumn scents aroused the horse’s interest, allowed him to have his head and break into a gallop.

For some time they rode, fast, along the track that wound around the skirts of the forest. Josse knew better than to turn off and enter in under the trees; the Forest Folk might be miles away but, on the other hand, they might not. And, as Josse knew very well, they did not welcome intruders.

Horace’s pace had slowed to a comfortable canter and Josse, barely paying attention, was taken by surprise when the horse suddenly threw up his head and came to a shuddering stop.

Josse, keeping his seat with difficulty, shouted, ‘Hoi, Horace! What’s the matter?’

Horace snorted, shook his head until his mane flew and the metal of the harness jingled, then, as quickly as he had become frightened, calmed again. He stood quite still and, after a moment, jerked his head out of Josse’s control and bent his neck to crop at some dry, dying grass by the track.

Josse slid off his back and secured the reins to the branch of a tree.

Then he began to look around.

There was, at first sight, nothing apparent that could have alarmed as sensible and experienced a horse as Horace. Josse stared along the track ahead, then behind; nothing, as far as the eye could see, which was up to the next bend. He stared out across the quiet land that sloped gently down and away from the forest ridge; one or two figures could be made out in the distance, presumably working in the fields, but they were far too far away to have acted as a disturbance.

Which left only the forest.

Despite his knowledge of it and its people, despite his respect for the place that amounted almost to awe, if not fear, Josse was not going to allow himself to be a coward.

He checked that Horace was securely tied up, checked that his knife was in its scabbard, then straightened his tunic and arranged his cloak across his shoulders.

And, when he could come up with no more delaying tactics, he found a faint track that ran down the ditch and up the other side – made by a boar, perhaps, or by deer – and followed it. He scrambled over the top of the low bank, pushed aside the branches of a silver birch and made his way in beneath the trees.

The forest was very quiet.

It was autumn, aye, he thought, so you would expect to hear little in the way of animal activity.

But, as he had noticed before in the forest, the natural sounds of the world outside seemed not to penetrate in there. There was no breeze stirring the leaves, no distant cheery voice, no sound of human endeavour such as the regular thunk of an axe or the hee-haw of a saw.

Nothing.

He walked on, treading softly, his feet falling quietly on to the forest’s deep carpet. A thousand years of dead leaves down there under my boots, he thought.

But, far from being a comfort, the thought increased his apprehension. So
old
, this place! It was ever here, always will be here, of the world yet apart, its people and its very spirit a law unto themselves . . .

Stop that, he ordered. Are you a little child, to scare yourself silly with superstitious tales? No, you’re a grown man, with a job to do. Quite what that job was, and why whatever purpose he had was to be aided by creeping through the great forest, he did not stop to ask himself.

And, soon, he smelt smoke.

Striding on, refusing to allow fear to better him, he heard the small crackle of a campfire. He could see the smoke now, curling up gracefully into the soft, still forest air.

Caution finally winning out over bravado, he came to a halt behind a giant oak tree. Peering out from his shelter, he stared down into a glade. In its centre, where the smoke and the low flames would not reach overhanging branches, a little fire had been lit, the kindling and the small, neatly trimmed logs carefully retained within a circle of stones. A cairn of cut logs had been built, close enough to the hearth to be convenient but not so close that a stray spark might set light to it. Beside the fire was a bundle; it looked like a traveller’s pack, and had been partly unfastened. Over by the first of the encircling trees a rough shelter had been constructed, made from cut and trimmed branches covered with a thick layer of bracken, dead and rusty looking. Its neat appearance made it look like the work of someone who had made such shelters many times before and knew exactly what he was doing.

There was nobody there.

Edging out from behind his tree, Josse crept on down into the glade. He stared around him as he went. No, he had been right; nobody there. Which was strange, when the flesh of his back crawled and trembled as if unfriendly eyes were boring into it. As if, indeed, it might at any moment receive the assault of an arrow.

Or the strange, curved blade of a Saracen knife.

He strode out into the middle of the glade.

Afraid though he was, it seemed a better option than skulking in the shadows, peering out nervously and waiting for someone to leap out and attack him. Besides, there was nobody there.

Was there?

He walked across to the shelter and glanced inside. There was a bedroll and what might have been a small supply of spare clothing, neatly folded. He wondered how this traveller had got there: on foot? On horseback?

Circling the glade, he looked for signs of a horse, or mule. Presently he came to a mound of horse droppings; they looked fairly fresh. It was beginning to look as if the visitor, whoever he was, had left his camp for the day, riding off on some pressing errand. Quite what that errand might be, Josse was not sure he wanted to know. Because, although it was but one possibility out of many, this man might be a killer. Might have murdered Prince John’s spy and old Galbertius’s servant, with swift, ruthless skill and no more compassion than if he had been slaughtering a pig to salt its flesh down for the winter.

Angry suddenly, Josse went to stand beside the campfire. He was on the point of shouting out, summoning whoever had made his camp here to show himself, when with no warning whatsoever there was a strong arm around his neck and the cold kiss of a blade at his throat.

A voice said, ‘Keep silent. If you try to call for help, I shall kill you.’

Josse made himself relax. ‘I will not call out,’ he said. ‘If you knew the forest as I do, you would let me yell all I want, because there is nobody to hear.’

‘You are wrong,’ the soft voice said. ‘But no matter.’

As he spoke, he removed the stranglehold on Josse’s neck and, with the blade still pressing in hard, was busy with his free hand tying Josse’s wrists behind his back. Then he exerted strong pressure on Josse’s shoulders and pushed him down to kneel on the forest floor.

With his prisoner thus disabled, finally the firm touch of the blade eased a little. Josse sensed the man move around behind him and, after a moment, he stood before him.

Josse stared up at his captor.

The man was swarthy-skinned, the flesh of his face an olive colour against the thick black beard. The hair of his head was also black, what could be seen of it; he wore a square of cloth over his head, held in place by more cloth wound into an elaborate turban. He was dressed in a heavy cloak of some deep-coloured material, fastened so as to hide whatever he wore beneath it. The eyes, dark, narrow, were heavily hooded and seemed to be elongated at the outer edges. Their expression was difficult to read; whatever the emotion they held, Josse was quite sure it was unfriendly. To say the least.

In his hand the man held a knife with a curved blade. Although slightly bigger than the one found lodged in the body of the dead spy, it was similar in shape and style.

‘What do you want of me?’ Josse asked. His voice, he was pleased to hear, sounded calm; his fear, he thought, did not show.

The man studied him for some moments. Then an expression of puzzlement crossed the dark face. His left hand – the hand not holding the knife – crept inside his cloak and, after some fumbling, seemed to close on an object concealed inside his garments. Wondering if he were about to draw out some weapon used for swift dispatch of victims, Josse closed his eyes and tried to pray.

It was interesting, he often thought afterwards, what sprang into a man’s mind when he was sure he was about to die. In Josse’s own case, the prayer was one of duty: dear Lord, of thy mercy and grace, help my brothers and my family and all at Acquin.

But that had not been what he had begged first. The swift instinctive prayer that had burst silently from him had been, please, Lord, protect Helewise.

But, this time, death had not come to claim him.

Feeling the blade busy at his wrists, cutting the cords that bound them, he opened his eyes. Just as the dark man, in front of him once more, fell to his knees and cried, ‘Forgive me, I beg you, forgive me! You should have said who you were, called out your name as soon as you came into the glade!’

Josse struggled to his feet. Disorientated, the relics of dread still close, he said simply, ‘Why?’

The man had pressed his face into the spongy leaf mould on the forest floor. Raising his head, he said, ‘Because you are the man I have been seeking! You are Josse, son of Geoffroi d’Acquin, and so far have I travelled to find you that my home is now but a dim memory.’

Josse held out a hand and helped the man to his feet. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘I have brought you what is yours.’

‘You bring––’ But Josse hesitated to mention the Eye. Instead he said, ‘I was warned that you sought me.’

‘Warned?’ The dark face creased into a frown. ‘There was no need of warning, for I mean you no harm.’ Then, suspicion clouding his eyes, the man said, ‘Who issued this warning?’

Josse was about to reply when the stranger, nodding his head, interrupted. ‘Do not trouble to tell me,’ he said coldly. ‘Save your breath, for I already know.’ Then, passionately, he went on, ‘He sees me, you know. He watches me, and I cannot escape his deep eyes. He knows that I come to you, he knows what it is I bear.’

‘John Dee,’ Josse breathed.

The dark man said, ‘I perceive not his name. But he allies himself with one who is important in your land, who bears power and ever seeks more. But, powerful though he is, he is accompanied by one yet greater than he, one who is a magus of rare ability.’ He paused. ‘One who is spoken of with awe even among the great sorcerers of my own land.’

‘Where is that land?’ Josse asked, feeling that he already knew.

The man said, ‘To you, my homeland is a part of the great region to the east of the Inland Sea, the area that you know as Outremer. But we call it Lebanon.’

The name was only vaguely familiar to Josse; he was ashamed of his ignorance, as if not to know of a man’s homeland were some sort of insult. He did not wish to dwell on the thought; hastening on, he said, ‘You did not know who I was at first, when you crept up on me. But then, quite suddenly, your attitude changed, as if you had been told who I was. What happened?’

Again the man slid his hand inside his cloak. ‘I knew,’ he replied. ‘Is that not enough?’

It wasn’t, not by a long way. But Josse felt that to pursue the matter would get him nowhere and might actually antagonise the stranger. He said quietly, ‘I see.’