said. ‘We shall pray for him; for both of them.’
‘I did wonder if the other one – Symon – might have made his way here, but I imagine not, or you would have told me?’ He couldn’t help turning the statement into a question.
‘Indeed I would,’ the abbess agreed. ‘No, we have received no new admissions into the infirmary, either yesterday, overnight or this morning. And, among our existing patients, there is none with the sort of wounds inflicted when someone is trying to kill a man.’ Her lips moved silently, and Josse guessed she was praying.
Aye
, he thought, picturing the dead man and recalling his words:
It’s a horror that’s worthy of a prayer
. He glanced around the little room, feeling awkward about watching the abbess in prayer.
When at length he turned back to her, he found she was looking at him. ‘We do not have your missing man here, Sir Josse,’ she said, ‘but, nevertheless, I believe I may be able to offer you some assistance. Indeed, you are already aware of what I’m about to tell you, for I have mentioned it to you before.’
He stared at her. His mind raced back over all that had happened in the last day or so. Yesterday (only yesterday!) he’d come to see dear old Saul, and called in for a chat with the abbess on the way, and they’d spoken about Benedict de Vitré’s death, and she’d mentioned that there seemed to be rather a lot of important visitors to the area, and …
Aye. Of course!
Memory returned, vivid and powerful, and he couldn’t think why he had failed to make the connection before. Eyes on hers, he said, ‘Your two bright young men. You think one of those is our dead man, and the other, his cousin Symon.’
‘It is possible, Sir Josse.’ She got up. ‘Wait here, if you will, and I shall fetch the sister who actually saw the pair.’
He heard her hurrying footsteps as she hastened off along the cloister. Quite soon she returned, and with her was the nun who had admitted him through the abbey gates. She was in the middle years, tall and thin, and something about her suggested wiry strength. She watched him with steady hazel eyes, her face expressionless.
‘This is Sister Madelin,’ Abbess Caliste said, ‘who has recently finished her novitiate and joined the fully professed.’
One of those
, Josse thought,
who takes the veil later in life.
‘Sister, this is Sir Josse d’Acquin, a good and long-time friend of Hawkenlye.’
Sister Madelin ventured a quick smile, there and gone in an instant. ‘Sir Josse,’ she murmured.
‘Sister,’ he replied, bowing his head.
‘Please, Sister,’ the abbess said, ‘will you tell Sir Josse what you told me, concerning the two young men who asked you for directions?’
If Sister Madelin was surprised at the request, it did not show in her impassive face. She paused briefly, as if collecting her thoughts, then spoke. ‘It was the day before yesterday,’ she began, her voice low and pleasant to the ear. ‘Quite late in the day.’ She paused again, frowning slightly. ‘Some time after nones and a little before vespers.’
Still light, then
,
Josse thought,
but
not long to go before it began to get dark
. ‘I was watching the gate and, hearing the sound of horses approaching, I stepped outside on to the road,’ Sister Madelin continued. ‘There were two of them, both young men, mounted on fine animals. Bays,’ she added, ‘well-groomed and glossy-coated, and the saddles and bridles were of high quality. One horse had a star on its brow and a white off-front foot.’
An observant woman
, Josse mused. He wondered fleetingly what roads her life had led her down before she had come to Hawkenlye.
‘Both men were dressed in costly garments,’ the nun went on, ‘and I caught a glimpse of vividly coloured tunics beneath their heavy travelling cloaks. One man’s was light crimson, and the other’s was emerald green. Their cloaks were trimmed with fur and, the day being sunny, they had thrown back their
‘I did wonder if the other one – Symon – might have made his way here, but I imagine not, or you would have told me?’ He couldn’t help turning the statement into a question.
‘Indeed I would,’ the abbess agreed. ‘No, we have received no new admissions into the infirmary, either yesterday, overnight or this morning. And, among our existing patients, there is none with the sort of wounds inflicted when someone is trying to kill a man.’ Her lips moved silently, and Josse guessed she was praying.
Aye
, he thought, picturing the dead man and recalling his words:
It’s a horror that’s worthy of a prayer
. He glanced around the little room, feeling awkward about watching the abbess in prayer.
When at length he turned back to her, he found she was looking at him. ‘We do not have your missing man here, Sir Josse,’ she said, ‘but, nevertheless, I believe I may be able to offer you some assistance. Indeed, you are already aware of what I’m about to tell you, for I have mentioned it to you before.’
He stared at her. His mind raced back over all that had happened in the last day or so. Yesterday (only yesterday!) he’d come to see dear old Saul, and called in for a chat with the abbess on the way, and they’d spoken about Benedict de Vitré’s death, and she’d mentioned that there seemed to be rather a lot of important visitors to the area, and …
Aye. Of course!
Memory returned, vivid and powerful, and he couldn’t think why he had failed to make the connection before. Eyes on hers, he said, ‘Your two bright young men. You think one of those is our dead man, and the other, his cousin Symon.’
‘It is possible, Sir Josse.’ She got up. ‘Wait here, if you will, and I shall fetch the sister who actually saw the pair.’
He heard her hurrying footsteps as she hastened off along the cloister. Quite soon she returned, and with her was the nun who had admitted him through the abbey gates. She was in the middle years, tall and thin, and something about her suggested wiry strength. She watched him with steady hazel eyes, her face expressionless.
‘This is Sister Madelin,’ Abbess Caliste said, ‘who has recently finished her novitiate and joined the fully professed.’
One of those
, Josse thought,
who takes the veil later in life.
‘Sister, this is Sir Josse d’Acquin, a good and long-time friend of Hawkenlye.’
Sister Madelin ventured a quick smile, there and gone in an instant. ‘Sir Josse,’ she murmured.
‘Sister,’ he replied, bowing his head.
‘Please, Sister,’ the abbess said, ‘will you tell Sir Josse what you told me, concerning the two young men who asked you for directions?’
If Sister Madelin was surprised at the request, it did not show in her impassive face. She paused briefly, as if collecting her thoughts, then spoke. ‘It was the day before yesterday,’ she began, her voice low and pleasant to the ear. ‘Quite late in the day.’ She paused again, frowning slightly. ‘Some time after nones and a little before vespers.’
Still light, then
,
Josse thought,
but
not long to go before it began to get dark
. ‘I was watching the gate and, hearing the sound of horses approaching, I stepped outside on to the road,’ Sister Madelin continued. ‘There were two of them, both young men, mounted on fine animals. Bays,’ she added, ‘well-groomed and glossy-coated, and the saddles and bridles were of high quality. One horse had a star on its brow and a white off-front foot.’
An observant woman
, Josse mused. He wondered fleetingly what roads her life had led her down before she had come to Hawkenlye.
‘Both men were dressed in costly garments,’ the nun went on, ‘and I caught a glimpse of vividly coloured tunics beneath their heavy travelling cloaks. One man’s was light crimson, and the other’s was emerald green. Their cloaks were trimmed with fur and, the day being sunny, they had thrown back their
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