‘Water’s coming out here. Could it be from the kitchen or the latrines?’
She paused for breath and gently straightened up until she was able to stand fully upright. He, on the other hand, still had to crouch. She, too, had been counting. ‘I’ve taken a hundred and twenty fairly hesitant steps, say a foot or so each, so yes, I suppose it could be from the kitchen. It’s not the latrines. The smell of them’s unmistakable. If it’s the kitchen, then we’ve passed right underneath the abbey church and are just about at the outer wall of the hospice.’ She sounded tense but in control and he was relieved at how well she was coping.
‘All right, then. Let’s keep going. Try to keep your feet out of the channel down the middle of the tunnel where the water’s running.’
They moved off down the passage into the current of air, which got steadily stronger and colder. Luc’s counting had reached two hundred and fifty when the narrow tunnel suddenly finished and they had to scramble with great difficulty down a slippery slope, part frozen waterfall, into a natural cave. Here, at least, it was possible to stand normally and he stretched his back gratefully.
‘What’s this? A cave, a bigger bit of tunnel or a building?’ Aimée could tell without seeing that the tunnel had finished. She cast about keenly, using her senses to work out where they might be. ‘The way out is to the left of us. I’m sure of it.’ She held out a pointing finger and, unhesitatingly, he guided her in that direction. After a few twists and turns the tunnel divided but, again, she knew without question which way to go. The floor of the cave sloped more steeply now and she clung to him with both hands as he picked his way down. Then a flurry of snow carried by the swirling wind told them both that they had reached the outside. It was then that he relayed to her the news that they were supposed to travel the next part of their journey by sledge.
‘A sledge?’ There was incredulity and horror in her voice. ‘Where’s it supposed to be, this… sledge?’ Her tone made quite clear what she thought of the idea.
‘It’s by the coal store. Apparently there’s a shed round here somewhere. They bring the coal up here in the summer on a big flat sledge, which is dragged by a team of horses. The good news is that there is a fairly well-marked track for us to follow, always assuming that we can find the shed and the sledge in the first place.’ At that moment the torch flickered weakly and expired, leaving them in a featureless world of darkness, broken only by flurries of snow borne down on them by the gusty wind. He could see nothing, but to her it didn’t matter. The realization struck him that he now found himself in the same state she would have to face for the rest of her life. His heart went out to her for what she had endured and for the boundless courage she had shown. He wondered just how he would have reacted if the roles had been reversed, but there was no time now for introspection. They needed to get away.
‘Did you say coal?’ She tugged at his sleeve and he bent towards her to hear better above the constant battering of the wind. ‘I think I can smell coal over here. I might be wrong but I’m sure I… Yes, there it is again, there’s definitely coal over this way.’ With that, she took his hand and led him out of the cave mouth and down through the snow. In places it was waist deep and the treacherous ice underneath made it almost impossible to move. He hoped fervently that she had got it right. Otherwise their mission, not to mention their lives, would stall right here.
‘Can you see the coal shed?’ She was shouting to make herself heard. ‘It’s definitely here somewhere close by.’ As she spoke he imagined more than saw a solid square building to one side of them and pulled her to it. They slumped against the stone wall, temporarily sheltered from the wind, and rested. He pulled her head towards him and shouted joyfully in her ear: ‘You’re a wonder, I’d never have found this place without you.’
The door was mercifully unlocked and inside there was a strong smell of coal, although little of it appeared to be left after the long winter months. Most importantly, the promised sledge was there. Now that his eyes were no longer dazzled by the flaming torch he was beginning to see a bit more clearly. The carpet of snow outside the door was distinctly lighter than the shadows of the coal store so he heaved the heavy wooden sledge out of the doors to take a clearer look at it.
‘What’s it like?’ Her voice was deeply suspicious. He looked across at her and saw that she was shivering. There was no time to lose. He turned back to the sledge and worked out that there were wooden posts, for all the world like oars, protruding from the rear. He lifted the heavy construction onto its side and saw that these would act as brakes and even a primitive form of steering if pressure were applied to them by the people on the sledge. He was very dubious about their efficiency and the ability of one man to make them work properly, but the die was now cast. Straight in front of them was a faint V shape in the snowy slope, which he took to be the track to follow. He took a deep breath.
‘Here, climb on and hang onto this for dear life. I can see what looks like the track dead ahead and I think I’ve worked out how to steer.’ He helped her into the bottom of the sledge, near the front, wedging her between its raised sides. He crammed his bag in alongside her, murmured a heartfelt prayer and then pushed off. The hill sloped quite sharply and the sledge started to run so quickly that he almost missed his footing while scrambling on.
‘Here we go,’ he shouted as he reached for the wooden brakes. At first he only succeeded in making the sledge weave dangerously, but quite quickly he got the idea and was gratified to feel them slow as the brakes dug in. The track twisted and turned from side to side as it dropped down the hillside and somehow he managed to keep them on course. The further down the hillside they travelled, the better the visibility became as the wind dropped and the snowfall slowed. Still they followed the track as they came down into the first trees. The snow-covered track was simpler to see and follow through the dark backdrop of trees and his spirits rose. He shouted encouragement to the little figure huddled at the front, but was unable to hear if she responded.
In fact, as she crouched down low, hanging on for dear life, Aimée was lost in her thoughts. All her married life she had had eyes for no other man than Bertrand and she had loved him dearly. She had so badly wanted to bear him children, but fate had decreed otherwise. She had met many of his fellow Templar knights, but none had appealed to her as much as this big, generous, brave man with her now. She remembered tales told by Bertrand of their exploits in battle together, of feats of bravery about which he never boasted. She could remember Luc’s appearance with complete clarity, his broad shoulders, his unruly mop of hair and his deep green eyes that could be warm and friendly with her, but then hard and ruthless in the face of danger. Now, Bertrand was gone and she found herself tied to Luc as closely – well, she admitted to herself, almost as closely – as she had been tied to Bertrand. Her life and Luc’s, she now realised, were inextricably bound together. Only death would part them, or at least, that was the way she felt. As the sledge bumped and swayed down the hill, she murmured prayers for the soul of her dead husband, for herself and now also for this wonderful man who had come to save her.
They slipped on down the hill, in and out of the trees, crossing open fields, before plunging back into the dark of the forest again. Finally, unspectacularly, their ride came to an end as the track, after crossing a stream in a gully, for the first time started to go uphill and they slid to a gentle stop.
The first impression was one of relief that they had somehow managed to do it. The second was one of silence down here where the wind had disappeared so completely that it required a conscious effort to remember that it was blowing ferociously just a short distance above them. The third was a strong smell of wood smoke.
‘Can you smell it?’ His voice sounded disbelieving.
Aimée was gradually uncurling herself, equally relieved and not a little surprised to have got off the mountain in one piece. She got to her feet and Luc steadied her with his hand. He thought for a moment and then slid the sledge to the
side of the track and over the edge into the dark forest below. Hopefully, this would conceal their escape at least for a while.
‘But does the smoke come from a friendly fire?’ he thought aloud. As he did so, he looked down at her pale face, made even paler by the reflection of the snow. Although he was still sweating from his exertions, she was shivering, so he clutched her to him, wrapping her into his arms. He spared a grateful thought for the abbot who had insisted upon his taking the heavy leather cloak. Aimée snuggled against him but still shivered uncontrollably and Luc realised they had to find warmth and shelter very quickly now. Under these circumstances it became a fairly academic question whether the fire they could smell had been lit by friends or enemies. If they were friends they would survive. If they were enemies they would die. But they would just as surely die here if they didn’t get shelter very soon.
‘Let’s go and find out.’ He spoke as cheerily as he could and shouldered his bag. She took his arm and they walked up over the side of the gully, the snow no more than ankle deep on the track. Rounding a corner, they were greeted by a wonderful sight.
‘God be praised.’ He hugged her to him. ‘There’s a whole village here with an inn. Come on, there really is an inn.’ He started off down the road at a jog and she hurried along with him, part carried by him as his speed increased. It was too dark to see the name of the inn, but the smell of stale wine was clear enough proof of its existence. He pushed the front door which, unsurprisingly at that time of night, was bolted, so he knocked hard on the carved wood until a light showed under the door and a voice shouted something in a language he had never heard before. He shouted back in French, hoping that the innkeeper’s multilingual clientele would have stirred some linguistic talent in him.
‘We’re pilgrims from Compostela on our way back to Toulouse. Can we stay here for the night? We’ll never get over the pass at this time of night.’
There was a silence when he feared they would be turned away, and then a jingling of keys as the door was thrown open by a sleepy looking man with bushy whiskers, a bald head and the sort of beer gut which only dedicated publicans can achieve.
‘What in the name of God are you doing on the road at this time of night, at this time of year, and in this weather?’ His French was good even though his tone quite clearly indicated his conviction that they were totally mad.
‘We’ve been hiding in a cave until now so as to escape a bunch of bandits.’ The explanation came fairly easily to Luc’s lips, but he didn’t reckon on the amount of interest the innkeeper would show.
‘Bandits? Did you say bandits? Describe them to me.’ The man’s attitude was aggressive, clearly doubting Luc’s story. ‘We haven’t had bandits round here for months.’
Luc tried desperately to think of the description of a few shady customers he had seen in the past, but the strain on his nerves and body of the last few days had taken their toll and his mind went totally blank.
‘Um, they were dangerous-looking men. Sinister and dangerous…’ He knew it sounded weak but he was past caring. All he wanted now was a bed for the night.
‘Dangerous-looking, you say? That all?’ The innkeeper’s tone was even nastier. ‘We don’t like liars round here, do we Ignacio?’ From the shadows behind him a giant of a man emerged, a head taller than Luc with the shoulders of an ox. He, too, had obviously just been roused from sleep and he was clearly not in a good mood. His lips bared and a growl escaped from them. Wearily Luc began to realise that he might not get shelter from the cold here after all. Where else could they go? His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Aimée’s voice.
‘Five, no, four men. One a Moor with a curved dagger, one with a patch over his eye, and the leader…’ Aimée’s voice faltered for a moment. ‘The leader had a white horse and wore a leather cloak. Down the side of his face was a long white scar and he carried a studded whip looped onto his wrist. His eyes were black and cruel; you can’t imagine how cruel until you’ve looked into them…’ Her voice choked off into a sob.
The effect upon all three men was electric. The innkeeper’s aggressive expression was wiped from his face, to be replaced by a pasty look of fear. Behind him the giant edged back towards the shadows, his little eyes wide open and afraid. As for Luc, he was marvelling once again at her presence of mind and courage. The innkeeper stepped back, still with an expression of awe on his face, and beckoned them in. No sooner had they crossed the threshold than he slammed the door shut behind them, bolted it and scuttled off to the bar, to return with a bottle of aguardiente and a handful of clay mugs.
With a shaking hand he filled the mugs and pushed them across the table. Before they had even touched theirs he had upended his and refilled it. Luc handed one to Aimée and they both drank gratefully. The rough spirit burned as it went down, but the warming glow it spread through them was more than welcome. They both sat down on a long wooden bench, their backs to the smoking embers of the fire. The innkeeper muttered something and the giant obediently set about rekindling it. Within seconds, flames were already licking at the sticks he threw on, the heat along with the drink gradually returning them to normal. When the innkeeper started speaking, both of them listened intently.
‘The Whip. Oh dear God, the Whip’s back.’ His voice was little more than a whisper. ‘We thought, we dared to hope that he’d gone forever. Every winter he disappears and every spring he returns. Every winter we live in hope, which is then dashed as soon as the snows begin to melt. God have pity on us.’ He snuffled to himself and carried on with what was presumably intended as an apology. ‘We get lots of pilgrims who make up lurid stories so as to get sympathy. “Oh sir, I’ve lost everything to the bandits. Please give me board and lodging for nothing tonight. It’s your Christian duty.” Christian duty my foot. I kick them out as soon as they start to try it on. I thought you were like them.’ His tone was conciliatory, if not totally apologetic, but nothing could hide the fear in his eyes.
‘Have you seen this Whip, as you call him, yourself?’ Luc’s interest was aroused. ‘How is it you know what he looks like?’ This time the fear became even more visible as the publican swallowed hard before speaking.
‘Oh yes.’ His voice was a croak and he had to cough to clear his throat before continuing. ‘We’ve all seen him. He comes here with his men whenever he’s tired of the caves and forests. If I’m lucky he pays for what he eats and drinks.’ Absently he reached for a loaf and half a cheese, which he set before them. As the innkeeper resumed his tale, Luc tore the bread into pieces, slipped out his knife and sliced the cheese. He realised he was starving. ‘If I’m unlucky he doesn’t pay and if I’m really unlucky he smashes the place up.’
‘And his luck?’ Luc pressed a piece of bread and cheese into Aimée’s hand and raised it gently to her lips. She began to nibble although her attention was fully taken by the innkeeper’s tale. Luc wondered what memories were flashing behind her sightless eyes, and a rising wave of anger spread over him. ‘When does his luck run out, innkeeper? Is nobody here capable of putting an end to him and his friends? What about the army?’
The fat man laughed scornfully. ‘The army? Whose army would that be, sir? The French have soldiers to spare when they aren’t using them to kill their own people, but they don’t come over this side of the border. As for the King of Aragon, he has his work cut out keeping the Moors out of Saragossa and nobody to spare to help us. No sir, we’re at the mercy of any brigand who chooses to come up here.’ He refilled their glasses as well as his own and sipped the liquor sourly. The giant threw another armful of wood onto the fire and withdrew.
‘But surely there are enough people here to be able to see off a little gang of four or five men?’ He remembered battles in the Holy Land when they had been outmanned by twenty or thirty of the enemy to every Templar knight.
‘But not just ordinary men. Vicious killers and no mistake. No sir, it would take a massive force to take them.’
‘Or just a few with the stomach for
a fight.’ Luc’s eyes couldn’t help alighting on the innkeeper’s belly. ‘You can’t turn the other cheek all your life.’ For a moment he longed to set a trap and stamp out once and for all the scum who had committed so many atrocities, most particularly to Aimée and Bertrand. He tightened his grip around her shoulders and dragged himself back to reality. They had no time for any such heroics, satisfying as they might be. They had to put as much distance between themselves and the pursuing soldiers as possible before the fresh snow above them melted and the road reopened. But first they both needed a good rest. As soon as he had swallowed enough bread and cheese to take the edge off his hunger, he looked across at the innkeeper.
‘It’s late. It’s best we get some sleep.’ The fat man gave no sign of moving, but waved a finger vaguely towards the back of the building and murmured into his drink.
‘Down there. The end door. Latrines on the other side of the corridor. Take a candle but for the love of God don’t set the place on fire.’
They pulled themselves to their feet and followed his directions. The end room was small and airless, but reasonably warm. Luc dropped his bag behind the door and helped Aimée off with her cloak, noticing to his relief that her hands were warm once more. He took the abbot’s thick leather cloak and spread it out on top of the straw-filled mattress. It was only then that he realised that there was only one bed there for the two of them. In spite of his fatigue, a feeling of guilty embarrassment came over him. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
‘There’s only one bed Aimée. We can’t… we shouldn’t… Surely…’
Ever practical, she interrupted him. ‘I couldn’t care whether I have to share with you, the abbot or a dozen strangers. I just want to be warm and to sleep. Go to the latrine if you must and then lie down and enjoy the rest you’ve most certainly earned.’
Chasing Shadows Page 8