The Paths of the Air by Alys Clare

brought a short, whippy cane down onto the olive-toned flesh. Once. Twice, three, four, five times, each stroke leaving a deep red welt that oozed blood.
    Then the prisoner lowered his head and turned away and the horrific images faded.
    The young monk tried to shake off the echoes of the prisoner’s despair. There is nothing I can do, he told himself. Nothing. He forced himself back to the present; soon we shall be finished here, he thought, and we’ll be outside in the night and riding off in the darkness. Then, as soon as we are safe within our own fortress, they will send for me.
    Will I be ready? Will I be able to justify their faith in me and give them what they want?
    He hoped he had achieved what had been asked of him, but it seemed wise to think over what he had just done. There was a great deal of excited chatter going on around him – the fat man was arranging an entertainment, it seemed – and while everyone else was preoccupied, the young monk took a few moments of quiet reflection.
    And then the sounds around him grew distant and faint as, for the first time, he thought he understood what this meeting in the tent was truly about. Could he be right? No – oh, no; surely he had made a mistake? They could not even consider something so terrible, so barbarous!
    Could they?
    Perhaps they could . . .
    The feverish heat died out of him and his sweat cooled on his skin.
    He sat in the gaudy, glittering luxury of the tent, eyes wide in horror, and his blood turned to ice in his veins.

Five
    J osse reached Hawkenlye, with some relief, just before the early November darkness descended. It wasn’t that he was afraid; not exactly. But images of the mutilated body kept coming unbidden into his mind and that brutal slaying had, after all, occurred not far from the track on which he now rode.
    He handed Horace into Sister Martha’s care and made straight for the Abbess’s room. After the courtesies, he said – and it sounded rather too demanding – ‘I need to know if you’ve put him in the ground yet.’
    She stared back at him, her face expressionless. Then he caught the smallest twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth. ‘No, Sir Josse. Father Gilbert is coming tomorrow.’
    â€˜Thank God,’ he said.
    She raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you think to extract some more information from the poor man’s body?’
    â€˜Aye, my lady. I should have explained, only I was overcome with my need to know whether it was too late. I apologize.’
    â€˜No need for apologies. What do you hope to find?’
    He told her about the two Saracens. ‘Somehow I have the feeling,’ he said, rubbing his jaw, ‘that we are not going to get anywhere until we know if the man who was brought to the infirmary is John Damianos.’
    â€˜But why is that so vital?’ she asked.
    He shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. Then, with a rueful grin, he added, ‘Perhaps the reason won’t become clear until we’ve got the answer.’
    She got to her feet. ‘Your instincts, Sir Josse, have served both of us very well in the past and I for one am happy to indulge you. Come along.’
    She swept out of her little room and he followed in her wake.
    The infirmary was busy, the nursing nuns and some of the refectory nuns dishing out supper and warm drinks. Sister Euphemia gave the Abbess a deep bow of reverence and said, ‘My lady? You wished to see me? Good evening, Sir Josse.’
    â€˜Good evening, Sister.’
    â€˜We have come to view the dead man once more,’ the Abbess said in a low voice. ‘Is he still here?’
    â€˜He’s over in the crypt,’ the infirmarer replied quietly. ‘Let me fetch a light and I’ll show you. You didn’t say, my lady, but I thought it best under the circumstances to lock the door down to the crypt.’
    â€˜That was wise, Sister,’ the Abbess said