not one for rumours.’
Jacques de Molay
dismounted and stretched at his back. ‘She wears her head as though it should
bear a crown.’
‘She should like
that,’ Etienne answered him, ‘a crown upon the head of a witch!’ And took
himself to the sparseness of the hut of stone.
The woman was
wrapping a large dry loaf, a block of cheese and a chunk of dried beef in a
cloth. She made a knot at the top with bone-strong hands. ‘You will take this
and yourselves to the old cave. You remember it? Where I took you after your
mother was put to the pyre?’ Then she looked at him through the space that
existed between them and for a moment there seemed to be tenderness in those
black eyes. ‘How you stared at that pyre from the parapets of that castle! I
thought you would cast your body upon the rocks below to follow her to her
death. Then I dragged you through the old passageway kicking and biting . . . I
still bear the scar for it.’
She lifted her
sun-browned hand to show him and nodded to herself and gave him the food. ‘You
are two things, Etienne de Congost, two minds, and two wills, I have always
known it. To these be added a third thing,’ she said and the cold came back
into her stare. ‘When the third comes it shall be the end of something, but it
shall bring an answer to the question you carry in your heart. This day I read
it in your cards . . . I knew you were coming and I knew you would go.’
Etienne stood
with his mouth slightly open. Once again he was a child unable to explain his
thoughts with words.
‘Go now and
forget me.’
‘I shall not,’
he said.
‘Well I shall
forget you, after many years of remembering.’ She turned around to her hearth.
Etienne had a
sense there was no need for further words. In that small time the woman had
come to know the rhythms of his soul and what kind of man he had become and now
she would die, perhaps content to have seen him one last time, perhaps not. For
his part he would go as she said he would . . . but he would not forget the
scar over her eye and the bone-strong hands. He made a vow to himself then that
he would pray each night to St Michael on her behalf.
Outside Jacques
de Molay sat beneath a tree, his countenance pensive and wasted, from the
poison, the journey or his concerns, Etienne did not know which. He observed
this and realised once again that weighty business. The business of making
decisions to secure the welfare of his Grand Master in a land now foreign to
his experience and lurking with enemies.
Jacques de Molay
looked up from his thoughts and, seeing Etienne’s face, nodded, stood and took
himself to his horse. The other men followed and when they had mounted they
waited for Etienne. But Etienne was giving one more look at the stone house,
the cross entwined with roses and the road that led
upward to the keep of his forebears.
After that he
mounted his own horse and led the party to the old cave.
The sun had
fallen behind the forest and the evening began to grow cold as they arrived.
The cave was large enough, its entrance occluded by trees. Once he had settled
the Grand Master with Jourdain, Etienne took the others outside. ‘Iterius, go
and gather wood for a fire. Gideon and Delgado, bring the horses to the mouth,
lest they be seen. The Grand Master will rest here until I return.’ He paused,
searching his mind.
Iterius leant
in. ‘The Grand Master takes long to recover . . . not from the poison . . . but
his loss of heart.’
This seemed an
affront to Etienne, and his pensive countenance was made alive with anger. ‘I
do not like you, nor do I trust you, Egyptian! Perhaps you have saved his life
. . . perhaps you have not. On that score I am not yet decided. But that you
add a load to this journey which is ill supported is a sure thing, and I will
not need much reason to lighten it!’
The other man
became the very picture of meekness and a moment later was setting off with a
limp to his task. Etienne watched him until he
Jacques de Molay
dismounted and stretched at his back. ‘She wears her head as though it should
bear a crown.’
‘She should like
that,’ Etienne answered him, ‘a crown upon the head of a witch!’ And took
himself to the sparseness of the hut of stone.
The woman was
wrapping a large dry loaf, a block of cheese and a chunk of dried beef in a
cloth. She made a knot at the top with bone-strong hands. ‘You will take this
and yourselves to the old cave. You remember it? Where I took you after your
mother was put to the pyre?’ Then she looked at him through the space that
existed between them and for a moment there seemed to be tenderness in those
black eyes. ‘How you stared at that pyre from the parapets of that castle! I
thought you would cast your body upon the rocks below to follow her to her
death. Then I dragged you through the old passageway kicking and biting . . . I
still bear the scar for it.’
She lifted her
sun-browned hand to show him and nodded to herself and gave him the food. ‘You
are two things, Etienne de Congost, two minds, and two wills, I have always
known it. To these be added a third thing,’ she said and the cold came back
into her stare. ‘When the third comes it shall be the end of something, but it
shall bring an answer to the question you carry in your heart. This day I read
it in your cards . . . I knew you were coming and I knew you would go.’
Etienne stood
with his mouth slightly open. Once again he was a child unable to explain his
thoughts with words.
‘Go now and
forget me.’
‘I shall not,’
he said.
‘Well I shall
forget you, after many years of remembering.’ She turned around to her hearth.
Etienne had a
sense there was no need for further words. In that small time the woman had
come to know the rhythms of his soul and what kind of man he had become and now
she would die, perhaps content to have seen him one last time, perhaps not. For
his part he would go as she said he would . . . but he would not forget the
scar over her eye and the bone-strong hands. He made a vow to himself then that
he would pray each night to St Michael on her behalf.
Outside Jacques
de Molay sat beneath a tree, his countenance pensive and wasted, from the
poison, the journey or his concerns, Etienne did not know which. He observed
this and realised once again that weighty business. The business of making
decisions to secure the welfare of his Grand Master in a land now foreign to
his experience and lurking with enemies.
Jacques de Molay
looked up from his thoughts and, seeing Etienne’s face, nodded, stood and took
himself to his horse. The other men followed and when they had mounted they
waited for Etienne. But Etienne was giving one more look at the stone house,
the cross entwined with roses and the road that led
upward to the keep of his forebears.
After that he
mounted his own horse and led the party to the old cave.
The sun had
fallen behind the forest and the evening began to grow cold as they arrived.
The cave was large enough, its entrance occluded by trees. Once he had settled
the Grand Master with Jourdain, Etienne took the others outside. ‘Iterius, go
and gather wood for a fire. Gideon and Delgado, bring the horses to the mouth,
lest they be seen. The Grand Master will rest here until I return.’ He paused,
searching his mind.
Iterius leant
in. ‘The Grand Master takes long to recover . . . not from the poison . . . but
his loss of heart.’
This seemed an
affront to Etienne, and his pensive countenance was made alive with anger. ‘I
do not like you, nor do I trust you, Egyptian! Perhaps you have saved his life
. . . perhaps you have not. On that score I am not yet decided. But that you
add a load to this journey which is ill supported is a sure thing, and I will
not need much reason to lighten it!’
The other man
became the very picture of meekness and a moment later was setting off with a
limp to his task. Etienne watched him until he
Similar Books
