the
shrivelling pairs tied together.
‘Aubert is
dead?’ The Norman had something close to an emotion caught in his throat.
The Catalan
nodded gravely. ‘His head is half and half . . . Still . . .’ his voice
brightened, ‘I have good horses, and I was careful.’
The Norman
nodded and took the bloodied articles from Delgado. He gave them a sniff. ‘They
will cure quickly in this wind.’ He slapped the Catalan on the back. ‘I will
add them to my rope. You have done well, for you are not dead and we have
horses,’ and there followed some friendly banter as they walked on ahead.
When they were
alone Etienne leant in to his Grand Master. ‘These mercenaries,’ he confided,
‘I do not wish to trust them . . . and Iterius . . . I think I trust that
Alexandrian less still.’
‘We must keep
those whom we distrust closer than a wife,’ Jacques said to him. ‘Iterius, well
I don’t know what use he is to us, but he saved my life; besides, he is more
useless under our noses. The other two . . . well . . . time will tell . . .’
Jourdain, on his
other side, whispered, ‘It is as we thought.’
‘Hugues de
Pairaud . . .’ Jacques was watchful. ‘The visitor of the Order in France works
against us, I was afraid of it . . . The galley will be safer at Portugal, and
our small number shall travel unnoticed by those who seek a Grand Master and
his entourage.’
‘They chose you
against him in the election,’ Etienne pointed out, ‘and now he seeks a reversal
of his fortune. He must have spies at Richerenches to know we were coming.’
‘Raimbaud the
Caron, the Preceptor of Cyprus,’ Jacques sighed. ‘He must be in league with
Hugues and since the visitor directs the Temple bank he will be hard trying to
prevent us from going to Poitiers to speak with the Pope lest we change his
mind about a Crusade . . . that is certain. Well, well, we have the Pope
beckoning us, and the bankers wishing to prevent our arrival. It is a pretty
trouble in which we find our¬selves, a pretty trouble. We must have a change of
plans . . .’ He paused a moment. ‘We cannot go by way of Richerenches, but we
can go by way of Languedoc. That is your country, Etienne?’
Etienne gave a
reluctant nod.
‘And you have
countrymen there?’
‘It is a life
behind me,’ he said.
Jacques de Molay
nodded. ‘All the better.’
The Egyptian was
helped from the boat as his injured leg had left him with a limp, and the
party, led by the Catalan, walked through the sand to the line of trees and the
horses. When each man had mounted, the party headed north-west ,
away from the mouth of the Rhone in
the direction of the region of the River Aude.
For a week they
rode with the sea at their shoulders and then began the slow climb towards the
mountains. It was cold and the wind brought snow. They paused to rest and eat
by day, travelling by night, sometimes among mists or bent before a wind
blowing leaves into their faces. Their meals were scant; whatever they could
find along their route, otherwise bread and porridge. They met no challenge and
the going was slow.
Etienne grew
silent and reflective the more they moved about that land. To his mind it clung
to life like a dog to the leg of its dead master. His memory of it was of vines
and sun, the Inquisition and blood.
On the
fourteenth day they came off a steep ridge that tumbled down crags and cliffs
onto dead grassland dotted with naked trees. Before them lay a large lake;
above it, upon a high ridge overlooking the ruined remnants of an old vineyard,
sat the tower of the castle keep, pitching and restless.
The men were
paused looking up at it from the track that coursed its way through a meadow.
Iterius said,
‘It is a black place . . . full of memory.’
‘It is Puivert.’
Etienne turned a bland eye upon the Alexandrian. ‘It is the old keep of my
kindred given over to northern knights.’
‘In your wars
with the Pope?’ the Catalan asked him.
Etienne did
shrivelling pairs tied together.
‘Aubert is
dead?’ The Norman had something close to an emotion caught in his throat.
The Catalan
nodded gravely. ‘His head is half and half . . . Still . . .’ his voice
brightened, ‘I have good horses, and I was careful.’
The Norman
nodded and took the bloodied articles from Delgado. He gave them a sniff. ‘They
will cure quickly in this wind.’ He slapped the Catalan on the back. ‘I will
add them to my rope. You have done well, for you are not dead and we have
horses,’ and there followed some friendly banter as they walked on ahead.
When they were
alone Etienne leant in to his Grand Master. ‘These mercenaries,’ he confided,
‘I do not wish to trust them . . . and Iterius . . . I think I trust that
Alexandrian less still.’
‘We must keep
those whom we distrust closer than a wife,’ Jacques said to him. ‘Iterius, well
I don’t know what use he is to us, but he saved my life; besides, he is more
useless under our noses. The other two . . . well . . . time will tell . . .’
Jourdain, on his
other side, whispered, ‘It is as we thought.’
‘Hugues de
Pairaud . . .’ Jacques was watchful. ‘The visitor of the Order in France works
against us, I was afraid of it . . . The galley will be safer at Portugal, and
our small number shall travel unnoticed by those who seek a Grand Master and
his entourage.’
‘They chose you
against him in the election,’ Etienne pointed out, ‘and now he seeks a reversal
of his fortune. He must have spies at Richerenches to know we were coming.’
‘Raimbaud the
Caron, the Preceptor of Cyprus,’ Jacques sighed. ‘He must be in league with
Hugues and since the visitor directs the Temple bank he will be hard trying to
prevent us from going to Poitiers to speak with the Pope lest we change his
mind about a Crusade . . . that is certain. Well, well, we have the Pope
beckoning us, and the bankers wishing to prevent our arrival. It is a pretty
trouble in which we find our¬selves, a pretty trouble. We must have a change of
plans . . .’ He paused a moment. ‘We cannot go by way of Richerenches, but we
can go by way of Languedoc. That is your country, Etienne?’
Etienne gave a
reluctant nod.
‘And you have
countrymen there?’
‘It is a life
behind me,’ he said.
Jacques de Molay
nodded. ‘All the better.’
The Egyptian was
helped from the boat as his injured leg had left him with a limp, and the
party, led by the Catalan, walked through the sand to the line of trees and the
horses. When each man had mounted, the party headed north-west ,
away from the mouth of the Rhone in
the direction of the region of the River Aude.
For a week they
rode with the sea at their shoulders and then began the slow climb towards the
mountains. It was cold and the wind brought snow. They paused to rest and eat
by day, travelling by night, sometimes among mists or bent before a wind
blowing leaves into their faces. Their meals were scant; whatever they could
find along their route, otherwise bread and porridge. They met no challenge and
the going was slow.
Etienne grew
silent and reflective the more they moved about that land. To his mind it clung
to life like a dog to the leg of its dead master. His memory of it was of vines
and sun, the Inquisition and blood.
On the
fourteenth day they came off a steep ridge that tumbled down crags and cliffs
onto dead grassland dotted with naked trees. Before them lay a large lake;
above it, upon a high ridge overlooking the ruined remnants of an old vineyard,
sat the tower of the castle keep, pitching and restless.
The men were
paused looking up at it from the track that coursed its way through a meadow.
Iterius said,
‘It is a black place . . . full of memory.’
‘It is Puivert.’
Etienne turned a bland eye upon the Alexandrian. ‘It is the old keep of my
kindred given over to northern knights.’
‘In your wars
with the Pope?’ the Catalan asked him.
Etienne did
Similar Books
