Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the waiter with the menus. These turned out to be handwritten and quite probably in Galician dialect. Luke wrestled with the strange-sounding words for a while until, mercifully, he spotted a heading that said quite simply Menú Especial with a price, no detail. He beckoned the hovering waiter and asked haltingly what this consisted of. The reply was predictably incomprehensible.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ he said out loud in English and ordered two of these along with a bottle of ten-year-old Rioja Gran Reserva.
‘What are we having then?’ Her voice was gently mocking. He admitted the truth that he hadn’t the slightest idea, except that it was theoretically going to be special. She giggled and held out her glass for some more champagne. Not for the first time he reflected upon the difference between the girl he was with now and the woman he had first met in that exquisitely furnished but cold, lifeless house in Highgate. It seemed a hundred years ago, but was only about a month.
‘Isn’t it weird? We’ve only known each other for a few weeks. It’s amazing really, I feel I’ve known you for so much longer.’ There was a note of wonder in his voice that was not lost upon her.
‘Thirty-three days to be precise, but who’s counting?’ Her voice was warm. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’ A cheeky smile spread across her face. ‘Of course, it could be we already knew each other in a previous life. Have you had a previous life?’ She smiled across at him as the waiter brought a small plate of appetisers for each of them to play with before the first course arrived.
‘A couple of enormous orange mussels, probably from New Zealand or somewhere, some huge green olives, a fried onion thing, or at least it looks like onion, some porcini mushrooms in olive oil and a handful of quail’s eggs. A delicate end of fork or pick it up in your fingers job, I would suggest.’ The description came quite naturally to him and she nodded gratefully.
‘You weren’t a Templar, were you? I mean in a previous life. Maybe that’s what you were.’ She took a small sip of the champagne as he swallowed a mushroom.
‘I wouldn’t have minded.’ The mushroom was excellent and the extra virgin olive oil, if anything, even better. He followed the mushroom with some of the lovely fresh bread before continuing. ‘They really were the elite, you know. The samurai of medieval Europe. I’m sure you know that their holy oath upon becoming a Templar knight prohibited them from surrender to the enemy under almost any circumstances. You either killed a Templar or he killed you. There was no middle way.’
He tried a mussel but found the unexpectedly sour taste didn’t match up to its appearance. He swallowed it with difficulty, took another mouthful of champagne and chewed a thick piece of bread to remove the taste. He decided to take a break before eating anything else, so as to allow the mussel to go down, so he picked up the conversation about Templar knights once more.
‘It’s really no wonder the King of France decided to get rid of them. Just think. Not only was the cream of French knighthood queuing up to join, but the Order’s strength and influence had grown exponentially. By the early thirteen hundreds they were far richer than the French monarchy, and quite probably the Spanish and English royal houses too. They had a network of commanderies, castles and farms from Cyprus to the north of England. Oh yes, being a Templar knight wouldn’t have been at all bad.’
Amy reached for a mushroom, felt the oil on her fingers and licked them clean before picking up her fork and expertly spearing it. ‘Mind you, they got fairly soundly beaten in the Holy Land. Samurai or not, they were no match for Saladin.’
‘Don’t forget they were outnumbered by about a hundred to one. That would have been too much for a force ten times their size.’ He tried the fried onion ring. It was excellent, but the taste of that mussel still lingered on. He reached for a glass of water before continuing.
Unaware of his discomfort, Amy picked up a quail’s egg and savoured the delicate taste before laying her fork back on the plate. She intended to pace herself. Her experience of previous Spanish meals told her that she was very unlikely to have room for everything. Why aren’t the Spanish immensely fat? She wondered to herself.
Luke gulped down some more water. ‘But at the height of their power, say around the mid-thirteenth century, it must have been quite something to be a Templar.’
‘They were, of course, monks,’ she reminded him. ‘With all the restrictions that that brought.’ Noticing that they had both stopped eating, the waiter cleared the plates and went off to fetch the first course. ‘Having to live according to the monastic clock must have been hard work, what with services in the dead of night and so on, not to mention the fact that they were virtually vegetarian, sworn to poverty and humility and,’ her voice held an undercurrent, ‘don’t forget the vow of chastity. I bet the local girls swooned over these big, strong knights. And they must have been big and strong, just to be able to lift the weapons and wear the armour. What a turn-on, too, knowing that they were effectively forbidden fruit.’
The first course arrived and he surveyed it dubiously, increasingly troubled by the taste of the mussel that still lingered in his throat. Oh God, he thought to himself, I hope it wasn’t off. He launched desperately into his guide mode.
‘Well, my dear, what you have in front of you is a fully-grown, freshly boiled red spider crab. Along with the crab you get a pair of nutcrackers, a long hook that would no doubt have been very useful in the days of the Inquisition, and a bowl of water with a slice of lemon floating in it. I wish you luck.’
She forgave him for changing the subject, liked the sound of the ‘my dear’ and rather dreaded the task of dissecting the crab. She reached down gingerly, locating the claws and checking that it really was dead. She was on the point of bravely picking up the nutcrackers when he touched her hand.
‘Hang on a sec.’ There then followed a series of muffled blows accompanied by some sharp cracking sounds. A moment later she felt her plate being replaced by his. She touched the crab gently and was relieved to feel the shell and claws broken into pieces. She found it quite easy to pull the meat from one big claw. It was delicious.
The waiter returned with the bottle of Rioja. Luke asked her to taste it for him. It was excellent, rich, woody and aromatic. She nodded in the direction of the waiter and mumbled, ‘Muy bien,’ hoping that she had got it right. He filled her glass with wine and she took another sip.
‘Here.’ Luke’s voice was low. ‘Take this crabmeat from my plate. It’s all ready to eat. I’ve taken the bits of shell off.’ Seeing the surprise on her face, he went on hastily, ‘It’s all right. I’m not really that keen on crab.’ This didn’t really accord with her memory, but she made no comment apart from the observation that the Rioja was excellent. She heard him drink and order more water. She was bothered by this unusual behaviour.
‘Are you all right? I would have thought you would have drained the bottle and licked the plates by now?’ She finished another bit of crabmeat and took another sip of the red wine.
‘I’ll be all right when we get onto the meat.’ He didn’t sound convincing, but she let it go and carried on with her meal in silence for a few more minutes. He made no attempt to say anything and she started to get worried.
‘Is the thought of your former life affecting your appetite?’ She passed the napkin across her lips and waited some moments for his reply.
‘I don’t think that’s it, but I’ve still got to tell you everything that’s happened to me in my life.’ His voice sounded terribly subdued. ‘And I’m not talking about any time I may have spent as a Templar in some previous existence.’ She sat still and listened spellbound, as he finally managed to make a start.
‘I promised you I’d tell you about my past. I owe it to you, and it’ll probably do me good to talk about it. I’ve spent the last few days trying to work up the courage to begin but, believe me, it isn’t easy.’ He paused to pour himself a glass of water and to top up her glass with the red that he had yet
to touch. He took a few deep mouthfuls of air, but was unable to shift the sensation of breathlessness that assailed him. For a moment the thought crossed his mind that he might be having a heart attack. A glance at the virtually untouched crab on his plate, and the immediate sensation of revulsion that followed, confirmed his earlier fear; that blasted mussel.
The waiter appeared, hovered for a moment then pounced, carrying off the offending plate. Luke experienced a keen feeling of relief as the remains of the crab disappeared. He returned his attention to Amy, who looked lovelier than ever. This didn’t make the story he had to tell any easier for him.
‘The fact is, I didn’t start out to study medieval history. I followed a very different route.’ He took a few more deep breaths, but there was no getting away from it, he felt terrible. The return of the waiter provided a welcome break. Then he smelled the rich red wine-based sauce that accompanied the huge slab of meat in front of him and he felt his stomach churn.
‘I’m afraid I don’t feel so well… The mussel…’
With that, he leapt to his feet and disappeared towards the sign marked Servicios.
Amy noticed the rapidity of his departure and waited with concern for his return. She had to wait a considerable time.
Chapter 13
Jaca, Spanish Pyrenees, April 2016
They stayed at the Hostal Somport for three nights. The night of his birthday dinner, Luke was sicker than he had ever been in his whole life. Finally, around four o’clock, when he had nothing left inside him, he dragged himself to bed. He was feeling very cold at this point; in particular around the stomach and kidneys. He wrapped himself in all the blankets he could find and collapsed onto the bed, feeling as weak as a kitten.
He didn’t hear Amy come into his room until her voice whispered in his ear and her hands landed on his shoulder.
‘Is there anything I can get you?’ He felt so weak, he didn’t even jump at the sound of her voice. He tried to reply normally, but the words he produced seemed a million miles away.
‘I think I’d better just sleep.’ The effort of speaking these few words exhausted him. He lay back, pressing his hands onto his stomach to try to warm it. She felt the movement.
‘Are you cold?’ He made no response but he obviously was, even to the point of shivering. She went off and stripped the spare bed in her room, returning with a blanket and a quilt. She folded the blanket and laid it over his stomach, pressing it tightly around his waist. Spreading out the quilt on top of him, she tucked him in as best she could. His forehead felt wet with cold sweat so she rubbed it dry with the sleeve of her pyjama jacket and knelt beside him for quite a while, her hand lying lightly against his cheek, until she felt sure he was finally asleep. Only then did she get up and creep quietly back to her room, leaving both his door and hers slightly open in case he might need something.
She lay in bed, unable to sleep, and found herself reviewing the events of the last few months in her mind. The idea of following the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela had been suggested to her by their mutual friend, Father Timothy. And he really had been a good friend to her, she thought warmly. She wasn’t a regular churchgoer, wasn’t even sure if she was a believer, although both her parents had been, but that hadn’t mattered to him at all. He, more than anybody else, had helped her through the desperation of the first years of her plunge into darkness. Having lost father, mother and younger sister in the accident, she had been overwhelmed. In a few short hours, she found herself having to face the twin shattering blows of being orphaned and blinded. Throughout the grim months that followed, she had been deeply touched by the care and support she received from him.
He had encouraged, helped and sometimes bullied her to do her History MA. When she got the result, his had been the very first number she had called. She was very fond of him and he had, in many ways, taken over the role of father in her life. So when he had suggested this practical project, as a first step towards getting her out into the wider world, she had considered it very seriously. Indeed, she thought with a wry smile, she probably listened to him a lot more than she had ever listened to her father. Being a very practical person, she had queried the logistics of the trip. He was ready with his reply.
‘We’ll need to get you a travelling companion. No…’ He read the expression on her face correctly. ‘No, I don’t mean a chaperone like something out of A Room with a View. I mean a practical person with a knowledge of the subject who can get you there, and that means driving. You need somebody who can help you get the most out of it.’
Amy had protested that the chances of a chauffeur knowing enough about medieval history were slim to say the least. Then, even without being able to see the smug expression on his face, she realised that Father Tim had already got somebody in mind.
‘All right, I know you well enough by now. Spit it out.’
He made a half-hearted attempt to appear unaware of what she meant, but soon he capitulated and told her about this friend of his. It had been quite clear from the first that this was not just any friend. This Luke Patterson was clearly a very close friend. So Amy had listened with interest to the sketchy and downright vague description without comment. She finally agreed to see Luke, as she had known all along she would. However, as the day of the encounter approached, she found herself becoming more and more apprehensive and, as a result, prickly.
Fundamentally, what had bothered her, she now thought to herself analytically, wasn’t just the fear of rejection, as she had told him. It wasn’t just the thought that, after she had finally taken the decision to get out of the house and try to restart her life, her efforts might be thwarted before they had even started. The fact was that the only way she would be able to accomplish this journey was by putting herself into another person’s hands. She felt the frustration of handicapped people the world over; not being able to just do it, whatever it might be, without help. Consequently, her reception had been pretty frosty.
And now? She allowed herself a smile at the thought of her tucking him in like a baby and waiting at his bedside until he had fallen asleep. So who was looking after whom now? It felt good to be able to help someone for a change. And it felt doubly good that Luke was the person being helped. She had grown to know him really well in such a relatively short time. And along with this developing acquaintance had come other emotions, feelings that hadn’t stirred in her for years. The accident had happened just over five years previously and the deaths of all her close family had so completely drained her emotions that it was hardly surprising that her few hesitant attempts at forming relationships since then had come to grief.
Now here she was, confronted with a constant companion, every bit as constant as if she were already married to him. Almost as constant, she told herself pragmatically, thinking of him lying in the next room, cold and sick, while she lay here comfortable and warm, but alone. She wrapped herself tighter in the thick quilt and tried to think rationally.
Before the accident she had had a series of relationships, some deep, some superficial. Some had given her a lot of pleasure, some not so much. Since then, her freedom to meet people and enter relationships had been blown out of the water. The accident had not only robbed her of her sight, but also of her independence.
Her mind strayed to the Welsh nurse. What was her name? Nicky? Jackie? She couldn’t remember exactly, but she recalled the occasion. It was when she was sent home from hospital. Or, more precisely, when she was sent back to a near empty house, echoing with the memories of her family who would never again share that space with her. There she found herself alone but for her aunt, who would no doubt have been happier on the Promenade des Anglais, and the new housekeeper, who had only just been engaged. The visiting nurse told her the problems she was encountering with her boyfriend, Wayne or Duane or some such.
Throughout the whole sad story, Amy had listened sympathetically, while deep inside her she would have given a lot for a Wayne or a Duane of her own. But when you’re blin
d – or at least recently blinded – there are very few occasions to meet Waynes and Duanes. And even if you did, the chances of them treating you as a normal girl are as good as non-existent. The chance meeting, the casual coffee, the proverbial glance across the crowded room were all things of the past. And as for a casual affair… Being visually handicapped, she had learnt early on, could also mean being physically handicapped in other ways.
So now here she was with a big, strong and mysterious man all to herself. All right, she thought, he was with her because he was being paid to be there. Nevertheless, he was under no obligation to be as nice to her as he had been. And yet she could feel his hesitation. She wouldn’t have been a woman if she hadn’t felt that. What it was all about was difficult to guess.
Maybe he was just trying to keep things professional. Maybe he was already involved in a relationship although, if he was, he hadn’t so much as hinted at the possibility. Maybe there was some deeper reason. In spite of herself, she wondered if indeed the truth were quite simply that he didn’t want to get involved with a handicapped person. Warm and comfortable or not, she shivered at the thought.
Her waking dream was suddenly interrupted by a fit of coughing from the next room. She was out of bed and into his room before he finished. She ran to his bedside and reached out a hand, feeling whether he was still in the bed or not. Had the noise of the coughing in fact been yet another attack of nausea? Her hand reached his shoulder and she felt immediately relieved. Her fingers reached down gently until they touched his face, running lightly up his cheeks and brushing his eyelids. She was pleased to feel a movement and bent closer to him so as to speak quietly into his ear.
‘Are you awake? Can you hear me?’ She leant closer to him and waited. His reply was unexpectedly clear, if faint.
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