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track down there where it curves round to the right,’ he ordered. ‘Stop anyone coming along the path.’
    Dickon’s look of gratitude was eloquent reward. Not only was he excused from going any nearer to that terrible thing under the trees but in addition Josse had saved his pride by giving him a job to do.
    Leaving the lay brothers on the path, Josse approached the bloody body. There was a cloaked figure standing some distance beyond it, next to two mules tethered to a tree. The man hurried forward.
    â€˜You are from Hawkenlye Abbey?’ he called.
    â€˜Aye,’ Josse said. ‘I am Josse d’Acquin. The brethren with the hurdle are Brothers Saul and Augustus.’
    The man nodded. ‘I am Guiot of Robertsbridge, on my way to Tonbridge with nutmegs and cloves for the market. That’s my lad Dickon. He’s a tad lacking in the wits but he’s willing and he has a way with a heavily laden mule that I’ve rarely seen bettered.’ Having thus identified himself – a wise notion, Josse reflected, when standing over a mutilated corpse – Guiot of Robertsbridge dropped his voice and muttered, ‘Someone had it in for this poor fellow.’
    Josse had crouched down over the body. ‘Aye.’
    â€˜I’ve been wondering if—’ began Guiot. But, evidently sensing that Josse would prefer silence, abruptly he shut his mouth and stepped back a pace.
    Slowly and steadily Josse took in the details of the dead man, from the top of his head to his pale, bare feet. His shoulder-length hair was so dark that it looked black, lying slick and smooth on his skull. His eyes, partly open, were also dark; having noted this detail, Josse gently lowered the lids. The man’s nose was sharp and the cheekbones were set high, giving a hawkish look to the face. The skin was olive in tone. His chest was well muscled and he was broad-shouldered, with a toned belly and long legs with sturdy thighs. The penis, flaccid below the smooth black body hair, had been circumcised.
    Josse looked up at Guiot. ‘Any sign of his clothing?’
    â€˜No. This is exactly how he was when the lad and I stumbled across him: mother-naked, unarmed and no pack, purse or wallet.’ Unable to curb his curiosity, he added, ‘Robbery, do you think? Some wretch jumping out on a man travelling alone in the early hours of the morning?’
    Intrigued, Josse said, ‘How do you know he was attacked in the early hours?’
    Guiot looked smug. ‘Because Dickon and I left home around dawn and Dickon had been up some time before that getting the mule packed. He pointed out that it was a good thing we didn’t set out earlier because we’d have been caught in the downpour we’d just had.’ The smile spreading, Guiot went on, ‘The body’s wet, so it was lying here when the rain fell, but the ground under the body is dry, so he must have fallen just before the rain shower.’
    Josse was impressed. But he could see a slight flaw in the argument: ‘Could there not have been another shower earlier in the night?’
    â€˜No,’ Guiot said firmly. ‘I’m a light sleeper and I’d have heard rain on the roof. D’you reckon it was a robber killed him?’ he persisted. ‘Seems likely, since whoever did for him took his belongings and every stitch of clothing.’
    â€˜Aye,’ Josse agreed. He was not really listening; he was trying to make up his mind about something.
    It was difficult to say with certainty, for with the clothing and the satchel missing there was nothing to go by. The face was exposed, that was true, but then Josse had nothing with which to make a comparison. Still, the height and the general build were right, as was the swarthy skin tone.
    And the man he was thinking of was, after all, missing . . .
    Making up his mind, Josse stood up. He looked at Guiot and said, ‘We must take him to the Abbey and