‘Aimée.’ His voice was low and tired. Suddenly she realised how tired she, too, was feeling. ‘There’s a bunk over against the wall. You should go and lie down. There’s good dry straw on the floor beside it, where I can sleep quite comfortably.’ She heard his hands feeling around the cell. He reached into the far corner and pulled out a dusty sack. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, these are blankets.’ From it, he produced three crumpled, but still serviceable, woollen blankets. Maybe the mice and rats didn’t get up here.
‘Here, take these blankets and cover yourself. If you’re as tired as I feel, you’ll probably sleep until sundown.’ He, too, felt exhausted.
‘Will you be beside me?’ she asked hesitantly, her hand gripping his, in spite of her feeling of impropriety.
‘Right beside you. Now go and sleep.’ His voice was kind and caring, like a parent to a child.
She released her hold on him. The narrow bed was quite unexpectedly comfortable. Wrapping herself in the wonderful new fur-lined cloak, she lay back on the soft straw. She heard him moving about. There was the smell of cheese as he pulled the bag off his shoulders. Then the events of the last few hours finally caught up with her and she fell into a deep and well-earned sleep.
Chapter 18
Spanish Pyrenees, April 1314
It was getting dark by the time Luc eventually saw the roofs of a hamlet, little more than a big farm. He heard the crowing of a lone cockerel, along with the bark of dog. He and Aimée crouched behind a wall for some minutes while he studied the scene, before he finally decided it was safe to venture in amongst the houses. The dog, a large mongrel, came running out at the sound of their approach and Luc gripped his stick warily. The dog was, however, closely followed by an old man, who called it off with a sharp command as he came forward to meet them.
‘Pilgrims?’
Not unfriendly, just curious. Luc thought for a moment, before opting for the truth, or at least a version of it.
‘Yes, sir. We’re just about the first pilgrims to come over the Somport this season. We’re on our way to Santiago.’
The old man spat carefully into the clump of weeds by his left leg.
‘Not the first. There was a group through yesterday morning, and another group last night. Three groups today. The season’s started again all right.’ He shrugged as if announcing the arrival of rain. ‘You’ll be staying the night here, I’ll be bound.’
Luc nodded. ‘If that might be possible.’
The old man pointed to a large stone barn down by the river. ‘That’s for the use of you pilgrims. There’s no charge, but you could say a prayer for us when you get to Compostela. Yes, say a prayer for us.’ He turned to go, but Aimée’s voice interrupted him.
‘Have you been to Compostela yourself?’
She wasn’t sure why she asked him the question. Maybe just because he sounded a good, fair man. Maybe because she was longing for some conversation after the long silent day’s hike. The old man turned his attention upon her. His voice softened as he replied.
‘Yes, I have. I went many years ago, when my children were still young. My wife stayed at home to look after them. I went with a group of monks from Jaca. It’s the most wonderful place in the world.’ His tone was awed, still now after the passage of so many years. ‘There are buildings twice, three times the size of our castle of Javier. The smoothest stone slabs cover the streets and the cathedral, ah the cathedral… It is surely the tallest, most wonderful, the most majestic building in the whole world.’ He reached out a paternal hand, and patted her shoulder.
‘Just wait till you stand under the Pórtico de la Gloria and look at the carvings and statues. Nowhere will you see their like. Even the Moors come up from their lands down south to admire their beauty. Take my word for it, my dear, you’ll never see a finer sight.’
With these words, he tipped his hat courteously and returned to his home. Luc glanced across at her face. He wondered whether the use of the word ‘see’ might be bothering her, but her face looked untroubled.
The two of them headed down to the barn-like construction. It turned out to be dry, comfortable and empty.
‘By the look of it, we are going to have the whole place to ourselves.’
Both of them were delighted to have found a comfortable place of rest after a long, hard walk down from the hermit’s cell that had been their home for two days and nights. Here, at least, Luc could stand upright, and there wasn’t a terrifying drop right outside the entrance.
Luc set down his pack and led Aimée to a huge tree trunk that served as a bench. The shiny surface attested to the constant passage of pilgrims over many years. There was ample space in the barn for thirty or forty to sleep in comfort. There were even the glowing embers of a fire in the hearth and Luc managed to restart it without much trouble. No doubt once the season was further advanced the pilgrims passing through would increase to a steady stream.
‘This place is terrific, and there are even cooking pots and pans.’
Luc’s attention was suddenly caught by a noise at the door. He was already on his feet, reaching for his knife, when it opened and a young boy came in. Luckily the knife was still out of sight up Luc’s sleeve, and the child noticed nothing untoward. From a sturdy wicker basket, the lad produced two large duck eggs and a fresh loaf of bread. He held them out to Aimée. Luc reached across and took them, thanking him warmly.
‘My grandfather thanks you for saying a prayer for him at your journey’s end.’ He had learnt the speech well and delivered it without hesitation, before scuttling off.
‘Fresh bread and eggs,’ Luc announced grandly. ‘With the remains of the sausage, and some fresh water from the fountain, we have a feast fit for a king.’
He busied himself preparing the food. A well-used pan was perfect to fry the sausage and eggs.
Aimée smelt the tempting kitchen smells. ‘I used to be a good cook, you know.’
‘You don’t need to tell me, I’ve been fed by you on many an occasion. I always thought that Bertrand was a lucky man, in more ways than one.’ He looked across at her but she didn’t react, except to murmur.
‘Bertrand, lucky?’
She left the question floating in the air. He was suddenly pleased to have to return his attention to his cooking, as the eggs spat and hissed in the heat. He slid an egg out of the pan onto a plate and handed it to her, along with sausage and bread. He ate out of the pan, happily mopping up the sausage fat he had used to fry the eggs.
She wondered whether he would say grace before eating. She even hesitated until she heard him chewing, for fear that he might start a prayer after she had begun to eat. Once again, she found herself trying to analyse her feelings for this wonderful man, who had appeared from nowhere to rescue her. Of course, it was right and proper to be grateful to him. But she knew it went deeper than that. She nourished a deep and increasing affection for him. This could so easily have blossomed into more, had it not been for the constant reminders that he was a man of the cloth. Luc is a monk, she told herself. Remember that. His life is devoted to the Almighty.
It was not going to be easy to accept. Hopefully, as each day passed, she would better be able to come to terms with the reality of the situation. She ate her food in silence. Finally, inferring from his lack of movement that he had already finished, she contrived to leave a piece of her bread and most of the sausage.
‘Luc, would you like to finish mine? I’m full.’
He made a weak attempt at protest, and then accepted it gratefully. Finally, he voiced something that had been bothering both of them for days.
‘Just what do you think it is that we’re supposed to be carrying? Brother Michael was quite adamant. He said we already have it.’
‘We, or you?’
‘I can’t remember. I think he said I had it. But he wasn’t surprised that I was travelling with you. Maybe he knew all along that you’d survived, and you’re the one bearing the secret.’
‘Luc, all I’ve got are th
e clothes on my back. No jewellery, no lucky charms, nothing in my bag but the remains of yesterday’s bread and a few personal things.’
‘And it’s the same for me. I’ve even lost my trusty old knife that was given to me in the Holy Land. There’s nothing else.’ As he spoke, he suddenly realised that this wasn’t quite correct. ‘Wait a minute, there’s the cloak the Abbot of Santa Cristina gave me.’ His voice rose in pitch. She caught his arm and squeezed.
‘Shush. But you’re right. Come to think of it, I’ve got this lovely fur cloak from Brother Michael. Maybe the secret’s hidden there.’
They reached for the two garments and spent an age running their hands over them, probing every fold and pocket. They found nothing. Luc pulled out the kitchen knife he had taken from the monastery and used it to make a series of cuts in the lining of both. There was nothing in his, apart from the layers of cloth that made up the insulation. Beneath the fur lining to hers, there was nothing at all. Finally they had to accept the inevitable conclusion. Whatever the old monk had said, they were not carrying anything of value. There had to be more to it than that. Then Aimée had an idea.
‘So it’s definitely not on us, but what about in us? In our heads?’
Luc looked at her for a moment before he realised what she meant. ‘You mean something we know?’
‘Yes, Luc. Now, I definitely don’t know the location of any treasure, or any great secret. I’m sure of that. What about you? You were a high-ranking member of the Order. Might you have knowledge in that head of yours that makes you so important?’
He frowned to himself. ‘Nothing that makes me any different from dozens of others. All right, my brother was Preceptor of Normandy, but he never told me any deep, dark secrets.’
She reached over and gripped his hand. By now, she knew all about his brother and the Master being burnt at the stake. ‘But are you sure? Nothing at all?’
‘Nothing.’ He sounded miserable.
‘Maybe Brother Michael is just being secretive. Maybe we have yet to pick it up, whatever it is. He was very insistent upon us following the Pilgrims’ Way, after all. Maybe we’ll get it further along the way.’ An idea occurred to her. ‘Maybe that business about wanting you to return the cloak to Ponferrada was a discreet way of telling you the secret will be given to you there.’
Luc snorted in frustration. ‘God only knows.’ After a while, he turned to more pressing matters. ‘When we leave here, we’ve got a couple of days walk downhill, then we’ll be back on the Pilgrims’ Way. Then, safely hidden in the anonymity of the crowd, we head westwards.’
‘When do you think we’ll get there?’
He did a bit of mental arithmetic. ‘If all goes well, sometime around Pentecost.’
‘So, what’s that, about five or six weeks? Well, Luc, we’re going to know each other very well indeed by then.’ She reached out, found his hand and squeezed it. ‘I hope I don’t turn out to be too much of a nuisance.’
‘Nuisance, you?’ He snorted. ‘Just promise me one thing. As we are supposed to be a married couple, please don’t nag me too much.’
‘Just you make sure you wash the pots properly.’
He grinned at her and cleared the dishes, taking them outside to the riverbank to wash them clean. After he had finished, he washed his shirt, keen to be rid of the bloodstains he had picked up in his fight with the bandit at the inn and then at the hands of the archbishop’s men in the monastery. These would be bound to arouse suspicion among fellow pilgrims. He replaced the pan and plate where he had found them, and then hung the clothes to dry by the fire. He glanced at Aimée, feeling embarrassed to be bare-chested in her presence, even though he knew she couldn’t see him. She was still sitting on the log, facing the fire, and she looked miles away. She didn’t turn around towards him as he moved about. Determined to cleanse himself fully, he slipped outside again. Pulling off his boots and unlacing his breeches, he stripped completely. Then, gritting his teeth, he waded into the freezing water. It was so cold, it took his breath away.
He splashed about in the rushing stream, rubbing himself and his clothes vigorously until he felt clean once more. Climbing out, he patted himself dry. Then he wrapped himself in a blanket, hanging his wet trousers on a bush. It was a clear night and the stars sparkled out from the deep velvet of the sky. The snowy mountain tops reflected enough light from the near-full moon to provide a luminous frame to the scene. A sensation of the majesty and grandeur of what he was observing, compared with the total insignificance of the players in this tiny human drama, himself included, hit him hard. Ignoring the cold, he sank to his knees. Softly, he began to pray, his hands clasped in front of him. His eyes were fixed on the starry firmament above and around him.
He prayed out loud, but in a low voice, little more than a whisper. He prayed for help and for guidance, for the strength to finish his mission. He prayed for the future of the Order and he prayed, above all, for Aimée, that she might survive the present danger, and live a full and happy life. As always, when he found himself in close communion with his Lord, he drew immense comfort from the nearness he felt to God. When he finally bowed his head and said, ‘Amen,’ he felt purged, restored and fortified. It came as a surprise when he heard her quiet, ‘Amen,’ just a few feet from his side. He hadn’t heard her approach.
‘Thank you for letting me be part of that.’
Her voice was low and warm, maybe even respectful. He turned his head and saw her outline against the flickering silver reflections of the moon on the river. He stood up and moved across to her, stretching his arm around her shoulder, feeling her head against his chest. He raised his other hand and tilted her face towards him, his hand on the side of her cheek. He gently touched her sightless eyes.
‘May the Lord protect you and keep you, Aimée. May he give you happiness and peace to the end of your days.’
He felt her nod, her lips mouthing the ‘Amen’. His eyes went up once more to the starry sky. He found himself smiling into the glittering heavens.
‘It’s good to be alive, Aimée.’ He pressed her head to his chest.
‘If I am, it’s thanks to you.’ Her arms gripped him tightly as she spoke into his shoulder. ‘You brought me back to life. I owe you everything. I would give you anything, everything.’ She held onto him as if her very life depended upon it. Then, she raised her face towards him, her expression now deadly serious.
‘Luc. Can I ask you something, please?’ He could feel her trembling.
‘Anything, just say it. I would do anything for you, you know that.’ He raised his hand and stroked her cheek. The only response he elicited was a stream of tears. It took a while before she managed to calm herself enough to speak. He hugged her to him, wondering what was coming next.
‘Anything? That’s good, Luc because what I have to ask won’t be easy.’ She rubbed the tears angrily from her eyes. ‘If they… if we are ever captured again, I want you to kill me. Will you promise to do that, please?’
She was gripping his arm tightly. He had to struggle hard to chase the grey, pain-wracked face of the bandit leader from his mind as he listened to her words. He tightened his arms around her thin body.
‘I would give my life gladly to protect you. You know that. But I couldn’t kill you, Aimée, any more than I would agree to kill that worthless murderer back there in the monastery. It’s not my way to kill in cold blood.’ It was the truth, and a pious, maybe even a little pompous, speech. Her expression didn’t change.
‘Could you bear the thought of them torturing me with those terrible things? Could you?’ Her words cut him like a knife. ‘They told me all about them in foul, disgusting detail back in there while they were mauling me with their hands.’ She did her best to suppress a shudder of shame and disgust. ‘Hot coals, hooks, whips… Could you? Could you, Luc?’ She shook herself out of his arms. Gripping his shoulders with both hands, she trained her sightless eyes upon his face. ‘I’m asking you, Luc, to save me. I’m asking you to give me the
one thing that will save me if ever we have the misfortune to find ourselves in a situation like that again. Please, please say you’ll do it.’
He was stunned. All his training had told him that killing was only to be tolerated as a last resort, and only on the field of battle. How could he do something like that? Then he saw again the trestle table spread with the obscene implements of torture and he knew he would do what she asked. He could never let her go through that. At whatever personal cost to himself, he knew that he would do it.
‘I promise.’ His voice was low. She barely heard his words.
‘Do you truly promise?’
‘I truly promise,’ he repeated miserably.
She let herself collapse against his chest and gave free rein to the floods of tears which had been building up inside her for days. He held her lightly, and let her purge herself through her tears. When she finally recovered enough to set about wiping her face and blowing her nose, it was clear that a weight had been lifted from her mind. He, on the other hand, suddenly found himself feeling even more troubled. He had just realised that, under the blanket, he was completely naked.
He gradually disentangled himself from her. Collecting his boots and breeches, he headed inside. He was still in the process of lacing himself up, when he felt a gentle touch on his bare shoulder. He jumped.
‘Well, you smell a lot better than you did. I think I might have a bath as well.’ She was sounding much happier now.
He blushed red, grateful she couldn’t see his embarrassment. Or so he thought. ‘Erm, yes. That’s a good idea.’
Chasing Shadows Page 15