As they rode closer, Josse could make out a plan. The monks had hacked away trees, shrubs and undergrowth from the edges of what appeared to have been a pre-existing open space in deep woodland. Judging from the position of the sun, the monks had utilised the low hill for protection from the easterly winds, for the settlement was built to the west of it. Their foundation consisted of a wide central cloister surrounded by cells on the west side and gardens on the east, the latter tucked under the lee of the hill and exposed to the south to gain maximum sunshine. The communal buildings were small and built of roughly shaped wooden planks infilled with wattle and daub. A stream winding round the base of the hill had been diverted so that little channels ran through the vegetable and herb gardens; presumably the site had been selected because of proximity to the stream.
To the right of the monks’ buildings and some two hundred paces along a track leading into the forest, Josse could just make out the outlines of another small group of dwellings; probably stables, farm buildings and workshops. They would be invisible from the abbey, he realised, once the trees and bushes were in leaf.
Perhaps that was the idea.
A low wooden fence with a gate, at present standing open, surrounded the monks’ buildings; the fence would not have deterred a determined intruder and Josse guessed that it was probably intended to keep out livestock or the wild animals of the forest.
He led the way through the open gate. All was still and quiet — the monks must either be at prayer or out somewhere supervising the work on their lands — but nevertheless he felt quite sure that he was being watched.
He and Augustus drew rein just inside the gate and Josse called out, ‘Halloa the Abbey! We have come from Hawkenlye and would have speech with you!’
For a moment nothing happened; Josse thought he caught a snatch of whispered conversation but decided that it was probably his imagination, stimulated by the susurration of the wind in the bare branches of the trees. Then out of a long, low building to the left, roofed with thatch and totally unadorned, a man appeared. He was clad in a simple white habit of coarse wool tied at the waist with a length of rope.
He walked over to Josse, staring up at him out of bright, round eyes that reminded Josse of those of an inquisitive bird. He said, ‘I am Stephen. What do you wish to speak to me about?’ As Josse hesitated, he added, ‘Please, dismount, and your companion too.’ The shiny brown eyes turned to Augustus and Stephen gave the lad a nod of greeting.
‘I am Josse d’Acquin,’ Josse said, sliding down from Horace’s back, ‘and this is Brother Augustus of Hawkenlye.’
‘Good day to you both,’ Stephen said. Then, with a sudden radiant smile, ‘Welcome! I will see to your horses and then we shall take food and drink together; simple fare, I fear, but what we have you may freely share.’
Waving away Josse’s thanks, Stephen took the horses’ reins and led the animals in the direction of the track branching off towards the buildings in the forest; he called out, ‘Bruno! Come and take these horses and tend to them!’ A boyish figure dressed in brown appeared from behind the church where, to judge by the way he was brushing earth from his hands, he had been engaged in some gardening task. He gave Stephen a reverential bow, then took the horses and hastened off with them down the track, making a quiet sound in his throat that sounded remarkably like a horse’s soft whinny.
Stephen gazed after him, shaking his head. ‘Poor Bruno is short of wits,’ he said very softly, although the lad was too far away by now to have heard even a voice speaking at normal pitch. ‘He is dumb and cannot talk to his fellow man, but God has compensated by bestowing upon the boy the ability to communicate with animals and, if it does not sound too strange, with plants.’
‘Plants?’ Josse and Augustus said together.
Stephen smiled. ‘Aye. Bruno’s vegetables, herbs and flowers put those grown by the rest of us to shame. He treats his plants as if they were little creatures and we cannot but conclude that it is the boy’s very breath that encourages such extraordinary growth.’ Shaking his head at the vagaries of the natural world, Stephen led the way into the long, low building from which he had earlier emerged.
Josse saw that it was a very rudimentary refectory. The long tables were of plain wood and the benches either side of them so narrow that being seated on them must have been like sitting on top of a fence rail. The candlesticks were simply made, and of undecorated iron. Stephen had called out as he entered the room and in response another white-robed monk now appeared bearing a wooden tray on which were a pottery flagon, two tankards and some hunks of what looked like rather coarse bread.
‘Small beer is our usual beverage,’ Stephen said, filling the tankards. ‘And I fear the bread may be dry to your taste for we do not use animal fat.’
Josse, who had taken a mouthful of bread and was now trying to summon sufficient saliva to chew it, had to agree, but good manners made him say, as soon as the bread was under control, ‘We are grateful for your hospitality, Stephen, and the victuals are most welcome.’
Stephen nodded in satisfaction. He watched Josse and Augustus eat and drink and, when they had finished, he said, ‘You have ridden some distance to speak to us here. Now that you are refreshed, will you explain why?’
Josse had been rehearsing what he would say; monks and nuns were not, in his experience, people to waste time with unnecessary words and so he tried to be brief. ‘A young woman came asking for help at Hawkenlye Abbey,’ he said. ‘Her name is Sabin de Retz and she was in fact looking for a friend. She came to Hawkenlye because she had been told he had gone there. We — Augustus and I — rode to Newenden, the town where the young man, Nicol Romley, lived, and we discovered that Sabin had also been there asking for him. It was there that she was told he had gone to Hawkenlye.’
Josse had the distinct sense that he was making the explanation more complicated than it need be and was fleetingly surprised to see that Stephen was nodding his understanding. ‘Did she not speak to you at the Abbey?’ he asked.
‘No, for I was not there,’ Josse replied, ‘and, indeed, since she had not heard of me, she could not have asked for me by name. She did not find Nicol Romley either,’ he added. ‘In fact, Nicol is dead.’
‘Dead!’ The monk’s eyes widened dramatically. ‘Dear me!’
‘Ever since I learned that Sabin de Retz was looking for Nicol,’ Josse continued, ‘Augustus and I have been trying to find her. She’s not staying in Newenden nor, as far as we can ascertain, anywhere along the road to Hawkenlye, and it appears she’s not in Tonbridge either.’ Glancing at Augustus, he said, ‘Brother Augustus here had the bright idea that she might be enjoying the hospitality of a monastic house and, yours being the obvious choice, we have come here to ask you if you know of her or have had any word of her.’
There was quite a long pause. Then Stephen said, ‘She is not here, Sir Josse.’
Josse’s heart sank. It was not until he heard Stephen’s denial that he realised how much he had been banking on finding her here. ‘And-’ He swallowed and tried again. ‘You do not even recognise the name? She’s young, as I say, well-dressed, apparently, and mounted on a good mare.’
Stephen gave a shrug. Cursing monks for their habits of economy of speech, Josse turned away before Stephen could read his expression; it was not, he thought fairly, the monk’s fault that he could not provide the happy solution that Josse so badly wanted.
Stephen’s voice broke the uncomfortable silence. ‘You say that the young man is dead,’ he said. ‘Forgive my curiosity — very little happens in our daily life here, Sir Josse, and we enjoy the occasional scrap of news of the outside world — but how did he die?’