The Paths of the Air by Alys Clare Page A

gravely.
    â€˜I can’t explain it,’ the infirmarer muttered as she held the door of the infirmary for the Abbess and Josse and then fell into step beside them, ‘and I know it’s silly, but I keep thinking someone’s watching us and I’ll bet we’ve not seen the end of all this yet.’
    â€˜I’m afraid you may be right, Sister,’ Josse agreed. He too had the repeated feeling that watchful eyes were constantly on him. The funny thing was, however, that he was not at all sure they were hostile, which really made no sense at all.
    The infirmarer led the way into the church and unlocked a small door to the left of the altar. Inside, she took a torch from a bracket on the wall and, lighting it from the candle in her lantern, handed it to Josse. One by one they made their careful way down the narrow spiral steps, the infirmarer and Josse holding up their lights.
    Stepping out into the crypt, Josse saw that the body on its bier had not been abandoned to the darkness. Surrounding it was a semicircle of tallow lamps. He felt uneasy. The crypt was bone-achingly cold and smelt of death.
    He sensed the Abbess shiver. ‘I will make haste to do what I came to do, my lady,’ he said.
    She nodded but did not speak. Sister Euphemia stood close beside her, as if drawing comfort from her presence, and the swift smile which Josse saw the Abbess bestow on the infirmarer as she tucked Sister Euphemia’s arm under her own suggested the comforting might go both ways. He advanced to the bier and, folding back the linen covering the face, stood looking down at the dead man. Who are you? he asked silently. Are you the man who sought refuge at New Winnowlands? Are you the man whom those two Saracen warriors sought? Are the two identities one and the same?
    Of all of us here, he thought, only I have seen both men. He had an idea. The sheet draped over the body was generously sized and, careful not to disturb the body any more than he had to, he arranged it in an approximation of the headdress that John Damianos had worn. He worked away silently for a few moments and then stepped back to look.
    It was hard to tell; John Damianos’s face had been animated with the movement and the vitality of the living. Josse stared at the deep eye sockets. I really don’t know, he thought. I don’t think this is the same man, but I just cannot be certain.
    Sister Euphemia cleared her throat nervously and said, ‘Sir Josse, what are you doing? Can I help you?’
    He spun round. He had almost forgotten the two nuns. ‘Sister, I should have explained,’ he said. ‘A stranger was lodging with me at New Winnowlands shortly before this poor soul was found dead on the track. There are similarities between this man and my lodger and I am trying to decide whether they are one and the same.’
    â€˜You know the name of your former guest?’
    â€˜Aye.’
    â€˜And if this were him,’ the infirmarer said eagerly, ‘then we should have a name by which to bury him.’
    â€˜Indeed. But I don’t know —’ He broke off to glance down at the corpse. ‘The man who came to New Winnowlands was clothed in garments that enveloped him closely from throat to feet and he wore a dark headdress that covered all but his eyes, and they were ever in deep shadow.’
    Sister Euphemia had gone very still. ‘When did this man arrive on your doorstep, Sir Josse?’
    â€˜Oh – it must be more than a fortnight ago.’ He felt a twitch of excited apprehension. ‘Why do you ask?’
    She did not answer immediately. He guessed she realized the import of what she was about to say. Then: ‘Such a man came here about two weeks back. He was clad just as you describe and he was most reluctant to remove even sufficient folds of his clothing for me to treat him. He carried a leather satchel and he kept the strap slung across him even while he was in the safety of