“I’m suspicious, you know,” Artemisia advised him.
“Don’t be suspicious tonight.”
“I’ll save it til next time.” They lay down on the crumbly and rocky ground, shifting stones and wiggling until they could lie flat.
“What am I looking at?” Geoff didn’t ask. He commanded.
“We’re inside, looking out at God,” Artemisia said.
There was a silence, filled only by the wind.
“That’s beautiful,” Geoff finally said.
“It’s pretty much what people thought. Between us and God are all the planets and all the stars and the Moon and the Sun, but we’re in the middle of a giant, giant sphere, and God is everything outside that sphere.”
“They believed in a big universe, then.”
“Don’t sound surprised.”
“But I am. I may have to do some more reading.”
“I can find you something,” Artemisia promised and rolled over, ready to stand up for her descent into the caves again.
“No. Don’t,” and Geoff’s long arm snaked out and stopped her. “Tell me about zombies. Instead.”
Artemisia laughed. “You mean you lured me here to find out my Big Zombie Secret.”
“Yup,” Geoff said, complacently. “I also want to know about saints.”
“Now you’re just trying to butter me up.” He didn’t say anything. “OK, what do you want to know about saints?”
“You keep comparing them to zombies and ghosts. I can’t see it.”
“Look at that sky again,” she said, softly. “Look right out there. Look at how far God is.”
Geoff looked at the deep expanse. He felt he could smell the stars, cold beneath the summer fires. “A long, long way.”
“Yes. So the people here, the people now, think that God will hear them better if there’s someone who can traverse that great distance.”
“Saints.”
“And Mary. You know, it’s like us. We can hear the Middle Ages better from here. Much better than in the twenty-first century. Even with all the limitations Luke has put on me, I’ve learned more in this little time than I could in a lifetime back home.”
“Why are you so upset, then?”
“There’s so much more I could be learning. So much evidence I could be collecting. I’m not even allowed to record Guilhem’s speech, for goodness’ sake.”
“And yet you’re hearing the Middle Ages better than if you were in the twenty-first century.”
“It’s all a matter of data. Of evidence. Of how much we can know and how reliable the information is. Guilhem isn’t interpreting himself according to my cultural norms, but according to his own. The boots I wear aren’t a reconstruction, they’re the way he knows boots look.”
“I get that. I don’t get zombies.”
“Zombies will have to wait. You told Sylvia she could have the viewing area in an hour. She should be climbing the ladder any minute.”
“Damn Sylvia,” grumbled Geoff. He stood up and then held a hand to Artemisia. “Let’s meet her halfway down the ladder and cause a traffic jam.”
“You miss traffic jams?”
“Hoy!” Mac’s unmistakable voice came from the ladder. He poked his head up. “We have a small crisis in the kitchen. A matter of some smoke and a tiny explosion. It may or may not be due to certain unexpected chemicals that found their way into Doc’s big saucepan. Luke says to tell you two to stay up here until it’s clear.” And his head disappeared again, the lid put on it like a jack-in-the-box.
“Certain unexpected chemicals?” Geoff looked down at Artemisia.
“Mac remembered he had them. I wondered why he was so enthusiastic. He said he would get even with Pauline - blowing up her sanctum must’ve been his revenge. That young man likes explosions far too much. Let’s find our rocks again.”
“You’re avoiding telling me about zombies.”
“Didn’t I tell you about my Zombie Ancestry Theory of History?”
“People eating rotting food.”
“Yes, that. Doc’s ancestors were zombies and mine were human.”
“I’ll bite. Why?”
“Because Doc believes that when the peasants in this region are starving, they will disguise the flavour of the rotting meat with spices. I heard her telling Sylvia that, with much conviction. It’s a furphy.”
“Why is it a furphy?” Geoff was enchanted.
“Because the spices come from Java and other places far distant. Anyone who can afford enough to disguise that much flavour.”
“Can afford fresh meat.”
“Or cheese, or to hunt a few sparrows.”
“What do you do with this theory?”
“I hunt down examples of them and I put them in my little blue book.”
“Your little blue book of zombie history. Can I see it?”
“When we’re allowed back into the Underworld, of course you can. I’ll lend it to you for light bedtime reading, if you like. I’m certain the sadly moral tale of how a dinner party in England ended in many lives lost because the cook left the pan out overnight will give you appropriate dreams.”
“Why did that kill them?”
“It was a copper pan and the tin had worn thin. You can do the science, seeing as you’re a scientist.”
“I shall look into it,” he promised.
“Then I shall lend you my precious zombie research.”
Very romantic, especially the zombie history, Geoff thought. He was about to point this out when a small dark furry creature jumped onto Artemisia’s lap.
“It’s a cat!” she said, and scratched it under the neck. It purred and rubbed against her.
“That’s Badass,” Geoff explained. “He has adopted us.”
“Badass.”
“Tony named it.”
“Tony named a cat ‘Badass’? That seems very out of character.”
“That’s why I love it,” and Geoff’s generous chuckle rose into the night.
The two then sat, silently, and spoiled the cat and let the wind whistle past until Mac gave them the all clear to return. The whole cave system smelled slightly of brimstone.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Affiliations
Fiz was in the cloisters, running a message. He hopped from foot to foot, restless. He stared at the long boned carvings with their flowing robes and wished they would flow just a little more, like water, and join the Verdus. Better that than staring at him like a piece of ordure. He did not belong here, and he knew it. The statues and carvings and curved walls all rubbed it in. The paintings over the archway were better, but not much. All reds and browns. He had no idea what they were for, but suspected hellfire. He hoped no-one was going to tell him to become a monk again: he wasn’t cut out for it. Next time, someone else could run the message to the abbot.
* * *
September was the month for bird migration and that month was nearly past. The whole team was outdoors, observing what was possibly the last of it.
The whole team being outdoors at once meant that Luke and Ben and Sylvia had sorted out a whole new series of permissions. These took several members of the team into plain sight of the village. Artemisia’s objections were registered, but not acted upon. Artemisia worried, but, given that all her views had been meticulously recorded before being ignored, there was nothing much she could do except fret. And it was hard to fret in the sunshine, lazily watching the sky.
Sylvia was surprisingly good. She stayed within her allocated space. In her mind, she was recalling the golden eyes of that wolf.
When Artemisia had done her required time in observation, her lonely figure slowly made its way down the slope and went to her regular meeting place. She was early. Rather than rejoin the others, she waited by the bush. Badasse frutescens, Tony would have told her. She stripped it of its accumulated ribbons. The activity helped fill her empty brain and drive away thoughts of Lucia, dying. The long stalks that carried them were battered and bent.
<
br /> Also while she was waiting, Artemisia carefully filled her head with her favourite William and how he handled loneliness. He had been out-manoeuvred after his retirement and sent on a shopping trip. His fellow monks had expected that it would be fatal. He had taken an ass and spent the money and returned to Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert through an isolated mountain pass.
Robbers had descended from the hills. Robbers loved the woody and lonely country that bordered on the Cevennes.
William had no weapon so he (according to Medieval story) ripped a leg from his ass. Using it as a weapon, he attacked the bandits until, one by one, they fell into the ravine beneath. Then he calmly returned the hind leg to the ass and went on his way. When he was back at the monastery, several monks were missing.
“How was the journey?” the remaining monks asked.
“Uneventful,” said the saint.
When Guilhem arrived, Artemisia reminded him of the story of his namesake and the bandits. Guilhem smiled, a bit distractedly, and warned the historian.
“The townsfolk talk,” he said. “Walls breed idle chatter. Tell your friends to take care what they do and where they go.”
Artemisia felt a little humiliated by the reminder. It was worse because she knew Guilhem was right. All of the cave-dwellers were guilty of bad science and bad manners and all kinds of bad things each and every time their lives impacted on the locals.
From there the conversation turned to horses. Guilhem explained that he had only one real riding horse with him. There were good horses at the castle and even at the abbey, but he couldn’t use them. His best horse had been hired out from under him twice now. The people who took care of his animals had no compunctions about such behaviour. Also, each and every time he wanted to travel, he had to retrieve his animals. If they were there. He wished the high town walls enclosed more space for beasts. He missed the closeness between man and his horse.
Before Artemisia could respond, Guilhem changed the topic. “You need to talk to your people again.” He changed the topic abruptly. “Ask them to stop taking things.”
“They want to collect small things to take home, for understanding.”
“Tell me what small things?”
“Linen, pots, charcoal, wine, bread — anything.”
“I will bring you linen and pots and charcoal and wine and bread and anything. In return, your people will stay clear of mine.”
“I will ask our lord to order it. I promise.”
“Riens n’est qui vaille bon ami,” said Guilhem, with careless affection. This silenced Artemisia very effectively for three minutes as she tried to work out what the proverb meant. She thought he was simply valuing her friendship, but there had been a look to his eyes as he darted a glance across. His moods were vagrant.
She stood up too quickly and tripped and fell over him. Guilhem laughed, but Artemisia felt a sharp stabbing pain in her leg. She rolled over onto the ground and found that her dress was stained with red.
“My spurs,” said Guilhem, all contrition. “Let me help.”
“No, we have a doctor. I can be home quickly.”
She made her leave hurriedly, and staggered a bit getting back to the cave. Pauline patched her up quickly enough, and gave her a tetanus boost for good measure. She also took pictures of the wound, and measurements. “A spur, you say? This can be my scientific data for our next report.”
* * *
Guilhem had been wearing his favourite new spurs because he was on his way to Pézenas just as soon as he left Artemisia. He was going to spend a day or so there, contemplating becoming a brother-knight. He wanted to show off and let the brother knights recognise the new spur design and wonder at his equipment. No-one else knew a thing, not even his triple-idiot page.
A very useful bit of information had appeared, concerning the town of Pézenas, and Guilhem had decided to test it after he had finished with his duty. It might take his mind off the lady from under the hill and the sweetness of her smell. Like a saint, he thought, and smiled as he remembered how soft she was when she had tumbled and how very delicate her scent.
Then he turned his mind to Bernat and his order. Each time Guilhem reported to the Templars, the abbey and castle both sought to find out what the Templars were up to. They wanted Guilhem’s information, but not his affiliations. Reporting, therefore, was becoming very uncomfortable. This visit would be no better than the last.
He admitted to himself that he liked the lifestyle. Thirteen paternosters at Matins, without fail. Every morning. All the Hours in prayer, every day, without question or interruption. It was immensely consoling. It also meant that he could stop thinking and worrying . He could live in a perpetual present of prayer.
Wine and bread and the rest of it. That was what the Templars would give him. Both the physical sustenance and the religious. The sacraments, the healing, the everyday, laid out neatly for him with no effort. His aunt was a clever woman and knew just how tempting this would be.
The reality was less tempting. No-one, for instance, remarked upon his spurs.
Guilhem ate at the Commander’s table. This night was uncomfortable. One of the brother-knights was in disgrace for treating his horse badly. He was being punished in the usual way, eating from the floor, not permitted to push away the dogs sniffing after his meal. Guilhem found the humiliation uncomfortable. Maybe life at Pézenas wasn’t for him. If the Church was the rock of Peter, then the Templars were not made of solid rock, nor was this fortress they held truly sacred ground.
None of them gave a toss about Guilhem’s decision or what he did with his life. Ultimately, they would rather he were gone.
They could turn, Guilhem realised, just as my family did. There is no loyalty in this world. This reinforced the resolve he had made on his way to Pézenas. He found the town brothel and re-made the acquaintance of one Raynalda, who owned it. He said, “Whores here should always be called Raynalda - such a pleasant name.” She slapped him very lightly and he gave her extra money.
* * *
“You should take the pilgrim’s road. It will be good for your soul and give you a rest from the interminable problems of this place,” said Peire.
“And who would shoe horses while I am gone?”
They watched Guilhem-the-smith walk his horse slowly down the street. Stupid - he would have to walk it back out again, once he had unloaded. Why didn’t he just ask for help?
* * *
Guilhem was finally back from his journey. Artemisia was surprised to find that she had missed him. She had also missed her travels outside the caves. Those Gaudi walls could become very claustrophobic after a few days. Artemisia always dealt best with Sylvia and Pauline after she’d been outside.
Today there was no breeze. The sun fell on the garrigue, turning the rocks and shrub and herbs each into heat traps that reflected the molten scents of summer.
He looked pleased. An I-have-a-secret kind of pleased. After a few minutes of small talk, he opened a little cloth parcel and showed Artemisia its contents. “My little cousin sent me this - it was waiting for me at the Commanderie.”
“What is it?”
“She bought it at the Great Fair of Champagne. I have no use for it. Here. Take it.” Guilhem handed over a long piece of silk braid, brocaded with silver thread. “It glitters,” he said, helpfully.
“I thought,” said Artemisia, “that you were a monk. Or a Knight Templar. Chastity. Eschewing worldly goods.”
“I think about taking the oaths, but, truly, I have not taken orders yet. Not even an acolyte.”
“And this?” She flourished the elegant braid. Guilhem smiled. Artemisia shook her head vehemently. She did not want consequences.
“Nothing, I promise,” said Guilhem.
“No more gifts. I was brought up to avoid the deadly sins. No greed. No lust. None of them.” Artemisia hoped that firmness would sort this out. Also the wimple she was wearing. Wimples didn’t look at all sexy, she hoped. Especially not ones that went wonky. She
wondered if she could give back that braid without issues, but suspected not. She tried to look motherly. Guilhem smiled again.
On her return, Artemisia logged the braid and deposited it. She also logged her continuing concerns about Guilhem and marked the note for Luke’s attention.
* * *
Vintage was still not arrived and it was the dying days of September. The village complained to Guilhem about the delay. Other years they would complain to the abbot, blaming God or the monks’ poor behaviour. This year, however, they blamed the folks under the hill. Guilhem pointed out it had been a cool summer and the representatives of the two parishes went away, partly placated.
* * *
“Ben, can I borrow you for a second?” Luke sounded as if his life was full of burdens.
“Those forms again?” Ben guessed. Luke nodded.
“A discrepancy. Harvey wrote you down as Jewish on another set of forms. I want to get them right this time.”
“I’m only Jewish according to some definitions,” Ben explained, sitting down on Luke’s guest chair. He tried for a relaxed look, but he was nervous. “Harvey only put it down for the historians, in case there were issues.”
“Either you’re Jewish or you’re not Jewish.” Luke was adamant.
“My family is Jewish, but most of it comes from Germany,” Ben was wondering how soon he could escape.
“So you’re not practising?”
“Not at all. My mother wanted us to, but it was too difficult.”
“How difficult could it be? You’re a Yank. Lots of Yids there. I studied with them, I should know. Good people, too. Some fine scientists.”
Oh God, thought Ben. Not that kind of bias. Please, God, not someone who has a best friend who is Jewish but doesn’t actually know a thing about Judaism. Not someone who knows the Jews who he has worked with, but knows sod-all about Jewish history.
“Luke,” he said, trying to speak slowly and remain collected, “My family was German Jewish. Half of it escaped before the war, and the other half...”
“Was in concentration camp. I get that. It’s not easy for the children and grandchildren. My father…”
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