The weather stayed good as they dropped down onto the highlands of northern Spain. Although it was still the month of April, the sun already carried considerable warmth. By mid afternoon most days, they were searching for shade and stopping regularly to fill their gourds and skins with water. The stonemason refused to drink water, claiming it was bad for him. Instead, he slaked his thirst with the local wine. In consequence, by late afternoon most days, he was almost asleep on his feet.
‘At least it keeps him quiet.’ Friar Laurent often fretted, as the mason’s drinking slowed them down, but the blessed silence made a very welcome change.
After a few days, they reached the busy market town of Puente la Reina, with its magnificent stone bridge. The flow of pilgrims suddenly swelled again. It was here that the two branches of the Pilgrims’ Way joined up. Large numbers of pilgrims had crossed the Pyrenees at Roncevaux, further to the west. That was a lower, easier crossing than the Somport, and consequently more popular. From now on, there would be only one route to follow all the way to Compostela. Luc became more wary. That night, as he and Aimée lay close beside each other in a huge hostel, tightly crammed together in the midst of a hundred other people, he whispered in Aimée’s ear.
‘If you want to catch a rabbit, you put the snare across the path he has to follow, not the one he might take. I’m afraid it’s not over yet.’
She gave no answer. She just reached over and gripped his hand.
There were few minutes in the day or the night when they were not together. They walked arm in arm for most of the daylight hours. In spite of the difference in their respective heights, they developed an easy pace. When obstacles presented themselves, he was able to encircle her waist with his arm and guide her through, if necessary lifting her off her feet.
The group would stop every few miles for a brief rest, and for longer around noon to eat lunch. Luc bought new packs for both of them in Puente la Reina; large for him and smaller for her. Although they both carried some cheese and sausage for emergencies, it was easy to obtain food from the houses they passed along the way. Everywhere they went, from isolated farmhouses, to rows of inns lining the route in bustling towns, they could always rely upon somebody being around to sell them something.
Every evening they would lay out their bedrolls side by side, for all the world like a married couple. If either of them heard the occasional grunts and pants from those lying around them during the night, neither of them commented. They would almost always fall asleep hand in hand, but neither of them dared to step beyond their state of innocence.
The friar was the only one who worried Luc. There were occasions when he would sense eyes observing him and, turning, he would find himself face to face with Friar Laurent. The monk’s expression remained benevolent, but the curiosity in his eyes warranted caution. And over the past seven years, Luc had become very cautious.
Things came to a head a few days beyond Puente la Reina when they reached a small town called Torres del Río. In the middle of town was a fine church, the style of which was unmistakably Templar. As they trudged up the narrow street towards it, Luc could feel the eyes of the friar on him. He was sure Laurent was watching to see whether the beautiful octagonal building would have any effect upon him. Although he knew he was under observation, Luc found it hard to keep the emotion off his face, particularly when he saw the Templar splayed cross carved in the stone of the doorframe.
‘What is it, Luc?’ Aimée could feel his tenseness through the sleeve of his jacket. Although her voice was low, her solicitous tone was probably audible to Friar Laurent. Luc was quick to reassure her.
‘Something I ate last night probably. It’s just as well we’re stopping for lunch here. I could do with a visit to the latrines and then something warm to drink.’ He made sure his voice was loud enough to carry.
They continued past the church, but it looked deserted, much to Luc’s disappointment. Fortunately, there was an inn only a hundred paces further on and Friar Laurent called a halt. The members of the group filed in gratefully for a drink. Leaving Aimée with Beatrice, Luc headed out of the back door. Ostensibly he was on his way to visit the latrines. In reality he wanted to find out whether there might still be any Templar presence in the town.
It was fairly simple to slip out of the yard gate and double back to the church. He circled round it, full of admiration for the simple elegance of the design. Like other Templar churches, it was quite evidently modelled upon the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, where Luc had prayed in person years before. So many memories came flooding back, as he scanned this little church for signs of life, but the doors were firmly locked. He was scouting about for a friendly face, to see if he could get news of the Order, when a voice from behind him made him jump.
‘A truly beautiful piece of architecture.’ It was Friar Laurent.
Luc did his best to assume an air of nonchalance, but had little doubt that the friar had formed his own conclusions. He made no comment. Both of them continued around the building until they reached the solidly closed front door, set in its surprisingly simple frame.
‘Now where have I seen a design like this before?’ Luc had little doubt that the friar was toying with him, but he did his best to play dumb.
‘Saintes, I think it was. There was a much bigger version of this in the main square, I do believe.’ He shot a glance across at the other man and was not reassured by what he saw.
‘What was it you said you did for a living, Luc?’ The friar’s voice was harder now, in spite of the benevolent expression on his face.
‘I didn’t.’ Luc had had enough of being a fish on the end of a line. With a shrug of his broad shoulders, he turned back towards the inn, followed by Friar Laurent. Maybe the time had come to leave this particular group of pilgrims behind.
As they came level with a narrow alley between two houses, Luc suddenly sensed danger. He was already reaching up his sleeve as two men leapt out in front of them, swords unsheathed in their hands. Luc stopped and tensed his muscles, studying the two carefully.
‘Money. Give us what you’ve got. Do it now, or you’ll be dog meat.’
The taller of the two, a near-toothless character with a mop of carrot-coloured hair, shouted the command, his fetid breath reaching across the gap between them. Luc felt the friar bump into his back and heard a sharp intake of breath. For his part, Luc made no move, but eyed the men closely. They were both filthy and unkempt, with the look of men who had been sleeping rough for some time. Their swords were streaked with rust and the hand of the smaller of the two was shaking visibly. Luc straightened up to his full height, gratified to see fear in both sets of eyes and released his hold on the handle of his dagger. There was no need to reveal his secrets to them or the friar unless it was absolutely necessary. He smiled and spoke kindly.
‘Leave us, brothers. We mean you no harm. Put up your swords and return to wherever you’ve come from. Please.’ He was being reasonable and generous, but he could tell from the nervous panting behind him that Friar Laurent clearly thought he was out of his mind.
‘Give them what they want.’ Friar Laurent’s voice had suddenly become falsetto. ‘Here, take this.’ Luc felt the purse pass his arm and drop on the street in front of the two attackers. The taller of the two ducked down to retrieve it. In a flash, Luc’s new staff caught him behind the ear with a heavy thud, laying him out, unconscious. Seeing one man down, Luc transferred his attention to the other. For a moment their eyes met. Then there was a clatter as his battered sword landed on the cobbles and the man turned and disappeared back up the alley as if the devil himself were at his heels. Luc grunted with justifiable satisfaction and picked up the friar’s purse.
‘Here. You don’t want to be too generous, you know.’ He smiled encouragingly at the monk, whose pasty face still expressed bleak terror. Luke held out the leather pouch and Friar Laurent took it from him as if in a dream. It was only when Luc bent to retrieve the fallen swords that he managed to
find his voice.
‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Luc froze, the swords still in his hands. The friar stared at the blades, mesmerised, as he repeated. ‘It’s you. You’re the Templar knight they’re looking for. I knew it.’ He wiped his face with his sleeve and managed to slide his attention from the swords to Luc’s face. His voice was hoarse as he continued.
‘My God. Those two bandits. They could feel it too, and you didn’t even have a sword.’ As if realising for the first time that Luc now held the weapons, he reached out his hands towards him. But it was not in supplication. The gesture was one of thanks. Luc let him take his left hand in both of his and pump it up and down gratefully. After a glance over his shoulder, Luc threw the swords up and onto the roof of a low barn on the other side of the road. There was a clatter as they landed, then silence.
‘So what do you intend doing about it?’ Luc’s tone was light, but his thoughts were anything but. Automatically, he found himself thinking that he could very easily break the friar’s neck, if it came to it. The presence of the unconscious bandit would ensure that no eyebrows would be raised. However, the thought of doing it filled him with regret, not least because he had come to like Laurent. Besides, even though he knew the friar was the most likely to betray him of anybody in the group, he recoiled at the thought of cold-blooded murder.
‘Logroño. That’s where they’re waiting for you.’ Luc listened intently to the friar’s words as they came rushing out, barely louder than a whisper. ‘The priest back at Los Arcos told me that there are soldiers checking all pilgrims going into Logroño. You’ll have to skirt round the town and meet us the other side.’ He still had hold of Luc’s hand and pressed it to his own chest. ‘Upon my honour as a man, and upon the holy cross of Christ, I swear I will not betray you.’
Luc felt the touch of the crucifix beneath the rough habit. He relinquished the friar’s hand and smiled. ‘Isn’t it your holy duty to tell your superiors of the presence amongst you of a foul idolator, who’s probably a blasphemer and a pederast to boot?’ He prodded the unconscious man on the ground with the end of his stick and was reassured to see him still out cold.
‘Forget for a moment that you have most probably just saved my life.’ The monk was regaining his composure. ‘When I came out looking for you a few minutes ago, I had already decided to warn you of the trap ahead.’
Luc’s expression was one of surprise. Friar Laurent explained.
‘I’ve seen you with Aimée. Her whole life revolves around you. She loves you with an obvious fervour that even we men of the cloth can admire, and maybe envy.’ His voice faltered a little. Luc flushed in spite of himself. Friars like Laurent, after all, were bound by the same rules of celibacy as Templars. ‘The way you look after her, that’s not the behaviour of a pervert or a blasphemer. Nor is the way the two of you pray together every night and morning. No, if the Templars are really as evil as the king would have us believe, then you’re an exception. If the Order of the Temple is as virtuous as it claims, then you’re the living proof. You can trust me.’
Luc’s heart sang, not just for the lifeline Friar Laurent had thrown him.
‘Laurent, my friend, you bring joy to my heart and your words give me hope. It’s been all too easy for me and my companions to fear the worst over the last few years. Listening to you, I know all is not lost.’ He smiled broadly and caught the friar in a bear hug. ‘I believe the others have ordered us a drink of wine, Laurent. Come, I feel we’ve earned a little relaxation.’ Clapping his arm around the other man’s shoulders, he led him back to the inn.
Chapter 22
Pilgrims’ Way, Northern Spain, May 1314
Friar Laurent’s group reached Logroño late in the afternoon. They were all tired, the stonemason in particular. He was being chivvied along by the rest of the group but, even so, he was a long way behind. Luc, Aimée and the friar, on the other hand, had deliberately pushed on ahead. It had been the hottest day so far and there had been precious little shade. The town looked very welcoming, spread out along the south bank of the vast Ebro river. As the setting sun dropped to the horizon, the smooth water of the river turned blood red. Luc took another cautious look around and prayed that this was not an omen.
‘The bridge is only a few hundred paces from us now.’ They had been told about the famous Puente de Piedra, the only bridge for many a long mile in either direction. From the shelter of a bank of reeds, they could clearly see knots of men at arms on either end of the bridge. Even without Laurent’s warning, Luc would have realised that this was the perfect place to lay, and then spring, a trap. The river was wider even than the Seine at Paris and the magnificent bridge was composed of no fewer than eight massive arches. Although Luc could swim, Aimée could not. But even if she had been able to, it was still a very, very long way to the other side.
‘Aimée and I will leave you here, Laurent. You’re right; it’s pretty clear the soldiers are checking everybody as they cross the bridge. We’ll find another way and, once we’re over, we’ll avoid Logroño completely. We’ll hope to meet you in Navarrete the day after tomorrow.’ They had discussed the best course of action the previous night. If all went well, they would stay on the north bank and follow the river westwards until they found a quieter crossing point. ‘If we’re late, don’t worry about us. You carry on, and we’ll meet in Compostela.’
‘God protect you both.’ Laurent reached across and traced the sign of the cross on Aimée’s forehead.
‘Thank you for all your kindness.’ Aimée reached out and gripped his arm. ‘If there were more like you in the Church, the world would be a better place.’
‘God bless you, Aimée. Now you’d better hide. The rest of the group will be coming round the corner behind us any minute. Godspeed.’
Luc led Aimée away from the road, down into a small copse of trees. From there, they waited and watched the others pass by and onto the bridge.
‘I hope we see them again.’ Aimée kept her voice low. ‘Beatrice has been such a good friend to me in the short time that I’ve known her.’
‘I’m sure we will. Now, come on and let’s head west. Once we’re out of sight of the city, we can look for a place to stay.’
‘Have you still got money to pay for an inn?’ Aimée had realised months ago that she had no money at all. Luc took her arm and led her back onto the track and across it, onto a smaller path that ran alongside the river.
‘Money?’ She heard him laugh. ‘That’s the least of our problems. They sewed so many pieces of silver into my breeches and waistcoat that I’d probably sink if I ended up in the water. No, money certainly isn’t a problem.’
In fact, the next two days turned out to be very pleasant. They found accommodation for the next two nights in wayside inns in reassuringly quiet little villages well off the Pilgrims’ Way, far from the eyes of the archbishop’s men. The only rather unsettling thing, at least as far as Luc was concerned, was that on both occasions they were provided with their own room and, in both cases, only one bed. As had happened up in the Pyrenees, Luc had woken early to find the warm, soft body of Aimée draped across him. Now, however, in spite of his scruples, he hadn’t made any attempt to extricate himself.
For Aimée, being able to share a bed with him had been a source of considerable pleasure and an equal amount of frustration. She was ever conscious that he was a monk and the vows he had taken meant that relations between them had to remain pure and chaste. Each night, she did her best to stay away from him as she drifted off to sleep, but each morning she found herself clinging to him as if her life depended upon it. The conflicting emotions this aroused in her occupied her mind for most of the day and, from the silence coming from him, she got the impression that he might be harbouring similar thoughts. Rejoining Friar Laurent’s group the next night and once more sleeping in a crowded room came as both a disappointment and a relief to both of them.
Beatrice was delighted to see Aimée again and was quick to take charge of her, leading h
er off to the dormitory, while Luc sat down at table alongside Laurent and stretched his back.
‘Wine?’ Friar Laurent pushed a mug across the table to him. Luc took it and drained it. As Laurent leant over to give him a refill, he lowered his voice and asked: ‘How did it go?’
Equally quietly, Luc gave him a brief account of their journey along the north bank of the Ebro. Then he took another mouthful and leant back. ‘So, Laurent, were there really soldiers waiting for us there?’
The monk nodded. ‘Yes, but not Spaniards. Remember, we’re no longer in the Kingdom of Navarre, so the locals bear no allegiance to the French king. But there were several dozen French soldiers and, in their midst, an archbishop, no less.’
Luc caught the attention of a serving girl and ordered soup for Aimée and meat for himself. The news did little to improve his appetite. He looked back at Laurent and shook his head wearily.
‘They don’t give up so easily, do they?’
‘Why do they want you so badly, Luc? Surely it isn’t normal for troops to follow a fugitive all this way from one country to another? And in the company of an archbishop?’ Luc could hear from his tone that the friar was seriously worried.
‘I can’t say, Laurent. Maybe it’s because of my rank.’ Luc had never told him anything about himself before, but now it made little difference. ‘My brother, Geoffroi de Charny, died at the stake alongside Jacques de Molay. I suppose my capture would be a feather in the archbishop’s cap.’
Laurent looked up, a half smile of recognition on his face. Luc spoke hastily, his voice a low whisper. ‘Don’t ever mention that name, Laurent. I’m just Luc. All right?’
Chasing Shadows Page 18