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ginger infusion. Then, turning to the two Saracens, he indicated that they should sit down on the bench opposite his chair. ‘Why do you seek this man?’ he demanded.
    Again, the swift exchange of glances. Then Kathnir said, ‘He has a – treasure that does not belong to him. We are commanded to find him, take back that which he stole and return it to our master.’
    â€˜I see.’ It was an empty comment, for Josse did not see at all. ‘You have come a long way, you said?’
    â€˜We come from Outremer,’ Kathnir said softly.
    â€˜Then what was stolen from your master must be priceless indeed,’ Josse observed.
    Neither man took up the clear invitation to elaborate. Neither, in fact, spoke at all.
    Josse was thinking hard. If the dead body at Hawkenlye was that of John Damianos and he was the man who had stolen the treasure, whatever it was, then Josse could dispatch these two tough and ruthless warriors in his direction with a clear conscience. Nobody could hurt him any more.
    â€˜What is the name of the man you seek?’ he asked.
    Kathnir eyed him, his face expressionless. ‘We do not know his name,’ he said. ‘We describe him by his appearance. After all’ – his smile seemed warmer now but Josse would have put a bag of gold on it being nothing more than a skilful act – ‘a man may change his name more easily than his raiment.’
    The Abbess, Josse reflected, had made a similar remark . . . A runaway Hospitaller and a thief. Both had fled to England from Outremer. Both were being pursued by men who were as relentless as hounds on a fresh scent. And surely it was too much of a coincidence to suggest that the monk and the Saracen thief were not connected?
    Ella appeared with a jug emitting clouds of fragrant steam and three earthenware mugs and, at a nod from Josse, she poured her ginger concoction. He was grateful for her arrival; it had given him some much-needed thinking time.
    When she had disappeared back down the passage, he raised his mug to the two Saracens and all three drank. With a small part of his attention he responded to their polite appreciation. The rest of his mind was working on what he was going to tell them.
    I liked John Damianos, he thought, perhaps only now appreciating the fact. He was evasive, mysterious, he told me nothing concerning himself or his business and he disappeared without a thank you, but there was something about him to which I warmed. If he is not the man who lies dead at Hawkenlye – and some irrational instinct told Josse that this was so – then I will not throw him to the dogs until I know a great deal more. Even then, I might choose to save him.
    He was in no doubt that the two men sitting calmly in his hall would not hesitate to kill the man who had stolen their master’s treasure if it proved necessary; perhaps even if it wasn’t necessary . . .
    He made up his mind.
    â€˜I do know of a man who answers the description of your thief,’ he said.
    Two pairs of very dark eyes shot to meet his own. It was, he thought, a little like facing a quartet of sword points. ‘You do?’ breathed Kathnir.
    â€˜Aye. But I warn you, the man I speak of was found stripped of garments and of possessions and it is only from the tone of his skin and the near black colour of his eyes that I deduce him to have been a Saracen.’
    â€˜Was found?’ Kathnir echoed quietly.
    â€˜Aye. He is dead: murdered close by Hawkenlye Abbey, half a day’s ride from here. You know of it?’
    â€˜We have heard tell,’ Kathnir said. He leaned towards Akhbir and the two men muttered in what Josse assumed was their own tongue. Then Kathnir said, ‘We do not believe this dead man to be our quarry.’
    â€˜You what ?’ Josse was astounded; he had been so sure that at last he was to have some answers to his many questions. ‘How can you be so sure? There