Iacobus by Matilde Asensi

talking to myself more or less along these terms, and left there thanking the Deity for having found some calm. I retraced the path of concentration, breathed deeply with my physical body and shook out my hands and neck to loosen myself up.
    “Thank goodness!” breathed Jonas with relief. “I thought you were dead. Seriously.”
    “What the hell are you doing here?” I said, surprised. “Didn’t I send you out to the street?”
    “And I have been in the street,” he argued. “I saw a puppet show in the Bûcherie and I was watching the operarii who are working on the flying buttresses of Notre-Dame. It’s now three in the afternoon, sire. I’ve been watching you for over an hour. What kind of prayer is that you were doing? Not even your eyelids moved.”
    “A letter has arrived from Beatrice of Hirson,” I said by way of response.
    “I know, I’ve seen it. It’s there, on your lectorile. I haven’t read it, what does it say?”
    “She wants to see us tonight, at the hour of vespers, in front of the drawbridge of the Fortress of Louvre.”
    “Outside of the walls? said Jonas, surprised.
    “She will collect us in her carriage. I presume that she doesn’t have anywhere to receive us that she considers to be completely safe, so I’m afraid that we will speak to her while riding around the suburbium in her carriage.”
    “Terrific! The carriages of the courtiers are as comfortable as the chambers of a prince, sire!”
    “And what do you know about princely chambers if you have seen nothing, Jonas, you have only just left the monastery!” I exploded unfairly.
    “Your strange prayer hasn’t calmed you down.”
    “My strange prayer has helped me to understand that the only thing that is important right now is completing this damn mission, informing the Pope and the Grand Commander, and getting home as soon as possible, to Rhodes.”
    “And what about me?” he asked.
    “You …? Do you think that I’m going to have you dragging along with me for the rest of my life?”
    It was obvious that I was in a bad mood.
    It was wickedly cold in the wet streets of Paris. Clouds of steam poured from our mouths as we waited in the shadows for the carriage of Beatrice of Hirson. Luckily, the fur coats that we had brought with us from Avignon were long and covered our legs. The boy was also wearing a felt cap and I had a beaver hat that protected my head from the icy wind. That afternoon, at my request, the owner of our hotel had come to our room to shave our beards and cut our hair, although Jonas had flatly refused to have his hair cut. In the streets of Paris he had seen the boys of his age with long hair — a symbol of nobility and free man —, and had decided to copy them; he had also refused to let her pass the razor over his cheeks — even though he only had a slight dark fuzz on his jawbone —, proud of his new manhood. I think that his new attitude towards his appearance was his way of telling me that he didn’t want to return to the monastery.
    “I’ve been thinking, sire, about the visit we made the other day to Pont-Sainte-Maxence,” he said as he jumped up and down to conserve his body heat under his robes.
    “And what did you think?” I asked with little enthusiasm.
    “Do you want me to tell you my theory about the death of King Philip the Fair?”
    “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
    He continued to jump up and down like a hare, expelling large milky puffs of breath. Behind us, the imposing square fortress of the Louvre turned out the last lights in its turrets. Although Paris would be completely dark in a few minutes, I could still see some discreet lanterns glowing in a few of the windows and terraces of the castle and, thanks to them, despite the darkness, I could make out the tall shadow of the turret against the black of the night — a black as dark as ink —, which emerged from inside the castle like an arrow pointed menacingly at the sky.
    “I think that Auguste and Feliz are our old