Free The Paths of the Air by Alys Clare Page B

Hawkenlye. They’ll be staying right here and as soon as they get the chance they’ll be creeping through my outbuildings like rats after corn searching for any sign my late guest might have left behind. His grin widened. And they won’t find a thing, because I’ve already looked.
    He sat by the fire a while longer.
    Then he sought out Will, informed him he was going back to Hawkenlye and, as soon as Horace was ready, hastened on his way.
    Outremer, September 1194
    He could feel the sweat of extreme anxiety running down his back and leaking from his armpits. When he drew breath he could smell himself.
    His superior had given him a totally unexpected order. As the urgently muttered words had sunk in, a detached part of his mind had thought: yes, I understand now why I was chosen for this mission. Although accurate, his understanding was, however, only part of the story.
    The fat man on the divan began to speak. The young monk strove to do his appointed task. In the flickering light of the coloured lanterns it was hard to see clearly and the effort added to the tension building up in his neck and shoulders. Soon his head was pounding like a battle drum. Eventually the fat man was done. With a wave of his hand, set with rings in which the huge stones twinkled in the lantern light, he commanded his servants to fill up the visitors’ glasses with the cinnamon-flavoured drink. The young monk hastily reached for his own glass and, pushing aside the edge of the rug, poured the contents into the sand, holding up the empty vessel with what he hoped was a winning and innocent smile. The glass was filled by a supercilious servant and, after another pretend sip, the young monk hid it out of sight. He was nauseated by the drink. Even the smell all but turned his stomach and, given the tension and the vivid sense of danger that thrummed and hummed in the air, this was no time to be crouched over, vomiting in the sand.
    The Hospitallers and the fat man were raising their glasses to each other’s health. The prisoner’s manacles were removed and the fat man, beaming, opened his arms in welcome. One of the guards leaned close and muttered something in the prisoner’s ear. The prisoner nodded.
    The young monk was watching him. He does not want to go, he realized suddenly. This night’s business is not his choice, for his time as a prisoner has removed him from the fat man’s spell. To return to his former state will be moving from one captivity to another, infinitely worse. It was as if the prisoner picked up the young monk’s flash of understanding. Slowly he turned his head on its long, graceful neck and his eyes stared straight into those of the young Hospitaller.
    The dark eyes held such a depth of anguish that the monk felt himself shrink away. As if the prisoner was making quite sure that the monk knew what he was going to have to endure, pictures began to form in the monk’s mind; alien pictures that he knew without a doubt had been put there by the prisoner, for the things they showed were not actions that he had ever envisaged. He saw the fat man, sweating, grunting, eyes closed as he approached the moment of ecstasy, the loose flesh of his swelling belly slap, slap, slapping against the beautiful youth’s lower back and round, firm buttocks. He saw the youth’s face, a rictus of horror and disgust. He felt the youth’s pain.
    The youth’s eyes slipped down to where the monk’s short but deadly sword lay beneath his habit, pushed awkwardly behind him as he sat on the low divan. It was as if the youth could see straight through the black cloth. And suddenly his voice spoke inside the monk’s head: Help me.
    How can I? the monk responded in silent anguish.
    Now the mental pictures were worse. The fat man was kissing and caressing the bare buttocks but then in a flash his mood changed and, with an expression of naked sexual desire and brutal savagery, viciously he