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unreasonable woman!
    They were nearing New Winnowlands now and he heard the rare sound of Ella laughing. Well, the mission had achieved its purpose and that was something to be glad about.
    He rode into the courtyard and slipped down off Horace’s back. In the hall a fire was blazing; he went across to the hearth and held out his hands to its warmth. She’ll send for me if she needs me, he thought. If those Knights Hospitaller return and start giving her trouble, she knows she can call on me. I’ll be here, eager and waiting and more than ready to go to her aid.
    And that, he reflected as he sank down into his big carved chair, was the trouble.
    The next day Josse experienced a strange sense of events repeating themselves. In the late morning Will announced there was someone wishing to speak to him. Josse leapt up, quite convinced that the visitor must be John Damianos; that he had come to apologize for running off in the night, to offer belated thanks and to explain himself. Which would all be splendid because then Josse could gallop over to Hawkenlye and tell the Abbess that the dead man certainly was not John Damianos.
    These thoughts ran through Josse’s head in the time it took him to hurry out of the hall and down the steps into the yard.
    Where it instantly became clear that he was wrong.
    He had not one visitor but two. Both were Saracens and wore headdresses of elaborately wound cloth, immaculately white, folds of which passed beneath their chins and around their necks. They were clad in warm travelling cloaks over well-worn but fine-quality tunics whose fabric must once have been dazzlingly bright, and their scuffed boots were of expensive leather. They were mounted on small but beautiful Arab horses and attached to the saddle of each was a round shield. Both men bore a short, curved sword.
    Josse approached them. ‘You wish to speak to me?’
    The elder of the pair responded. His dark eyes, deep-set under strong brows, were intent on Josse and he said in accented French, ‘You are Sir Josse d’Acquin?’ Josse nodded. ‘Then yes, we do.’
    Josse felt wary. Instead of immediately issuing the expected invitation to dismount and come inside, he said, ‘Who are you and what is your business here?’
    The two men exchanged a glance. Then the elder said, ‘I am Kathnir and my companion is Akhbir.’ Both men touched their fingers to their lips, their brows and their hearts, bowing their heads as they did so. ‘We seek a man. We ask whether you have seen or heard of him. We have followed our quarry for many hundreds of miles and now –’ the man gave a wry smile – ‘he will be as dusty and as travel-worn as we are. He wears a long brown robe and an enveloping headdress that conceals most of his face and overshadows his eyes and he carries a leather satchel that he is always most careful never to let out of his sight.’
    The description perfectly fitted John Damianos.
    Josse took his time in replying. ‘This man is a Saracen like yourselves?’
    Kathnir hesitated. Then: ‘Yes.’
    Josse watched the pair steadily. With another smile, Kathnir said, ‘May we dismount?’
    Josse nodded. Kathnir slipped down from his horse and Akhbir did the same. They bowed again, this time more deeply, and as they straightened up Josse noted absently that they were both short men. Short but wiry and strongly muscled.
    Fighting men.
    He made up his mind. ‘Come into my hall,’ he said, ‘and, if you will, accept refreshments. My kitchen woman makes a tasty drink that warms the heart after a ride in the cold.’
    â€˜We drink no intoxicating liquor,’ Akhbir said reprovingly.
    Josse looked at him. ‘I was not offering you any,’ he replied coolly.
    He nodded to Will, who took the reins of the two horses, then led the way up the steps and into the hall. He called to Ella and asked her to prepare a jug of her special