The Hidden Keystone, page 13
Salome made a fist and dribbled the crystals back into her pouch. “Everard said you were descended from them.” She drew the strings of her pouch tight. “But not educated in their ways. It seems he was misinformed.”
“I was never good enough.” The reply slipped out before Bertrand could stop it.
“Secrecy has always been our friend.” A shadow of Salome’s earlier grief flickered across her face. “Until now.”
“The King’s Guard,” Bertrand said. “They’re after you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Answering that question will raise many others.” The pouch of salt disappeared back into her cloak. “If you truly wish to know, you must forsake your earlier vows and bind our fates together.”
“Bertrand,” Rémi interrupted. “Have done with her. You don’t know who she is or what she wants, but look where it got that poor fellow.” He nodded towards Roard’s corpse.
Bertrand examined Salome’s face for any kind of reaction. His gaze lingered on the dark sweep of her eyebrows, her high cheekbones, and the swell of her lips. Even the mystery of her faint scars was tantalising.
“Everard wanted me to protect her,” Bertrand murmured.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Rémi countered. “I doubt the Preceptor knew what hell she was leading us into.”
“Rémi’s right,” Salome interrupted. “You must choose, Bertrand. One path requires courage, the other an ability to live with lasting regret. And you must choose now, once and for always.” Her rich voice was spiced with just the hint of a foreign accent.
“Are you merely a chevalier or part of something greater?” Salome asked. “Will you bear witness to a deeper truth or feign ignorance?”
“How do you—” Bertrand took a step back. “That was you in the chapel?” Since leaving the Commanderie, there had been little time to consider the offer made during his vigil. It suddenly made sense: Roard had pinned him to the tiles while Salome had disguised her voice.
“Of course.” She shrugged. “A man’s voice and gait are not so hard to feign.” Salome glanced at the sun. “We have no more time, I’m afraid. Our escape is only temporary and purchased at the highest possible price. The man who seeks me won’t give up, so you must choose now. Will you honour your heritage and become my Shroud, or will you turn your back on your ancestry?”
Bertrand took in the still figures of Roard and Everard. He glanced at Rémi who shook his head. He recalled the savage expression of the commander who cast the spear that had killed Roard. He did not doubt that man, whoever he was, sought them at this very moment. And yet…hadn’t he always dreamed of emulating the mighty deeds of his ancestors? Perhaps this was his chance, although it had arrived in a way he had never imagined.
“I don’t understand what you’re asking of me,” Bertrand replied. “Nor do I understand how we came to be here, away from the river.”
“And I can tell you none of it until our fates become one.” Salome clasped her hands together. “They’ll find me soon if I remain alone and unprotected. If you’ll not be my Shroud, I must find another quickly.”
“This Shroud, is it some kind of bodyguard?”
“That, and more.” Salome’s tone hinted at complexities that Bertrand could only guess at.
“Bertrand, she’s not for you.” Rémi pointed a finger at Salome. “You can’t ask him to make this decision. Bloodlines aside, he’s barely into his manhood. I don’t know what secrets you’re hiding, and I don’t care to. You’ve already brought us too much grief. Leave us in peace.”
“If only I could,” Salome replied sadly. “I wish Roard was still alive. I wish good, honest Everard hadn’t left with him. I wish my need wasn’t so great that I must ask Bertrand to shoulder a burden he is unprepared for. But wishing is for those who can’t make decisions or have no choices left.”
“I killed two men today,” Bertrand said. “I might be young, but I’m not a boy anymore.” Rémi tried to protest. “No, Rémi. I value your counsel, but you can’t stand between me and my conscience. Everard wanted me to protect her. I owe him that much.”
“Bertrand.” Rémi strode forward and gripped his arm. “You can’t know what’s in a man’s mind when he dies. That’s between him and God.”
Bertrand smiled. “Maybe not, but Everard died protecting this woman. If he believed her worthy of that sacrifice, then so do I.”
Rémi’s expression hardened. “Listen, I—”
“Enough.” Bertrand shook of Rémi’s hand. “What must I do?” he asked Salome.
“In the name of the holy blazing angels,” Rémi cursed. “Why was I ever saddled with the most obstinate, goat-bred, mule-born child that ever walked the earth?” He kicked the ground and a clod of earth sailed through the air. “If you must have this Shroud, at least pick someone who has a chance of defending you.”
Salome laughed. Her mirth caught both men by surprise.
“Rémi that was perhaps the least gracious offer I’ve ever received.” Her amusement quickly faded. “But you don’t belong to the Salt Lines. I can see that from your features and bearing. I’d be honoured, and grateful, if you remained our companion though.”
“Where he goes, I follow,” Rémi said with a jerk of his thumb at Bertrand. “Despite what he might think of it.”
Bertrand snorted. He had been afraid she would choose Rémi over him. For some reason, the mere thought of it sent a jealous twist through his gut. How could that be possible when only a few minutes ago he had blamed her for the death of Everard and the rest of his brethren? Had she bespelled him to create this sudden yearning to help her? Or was he just a fool when it came to women in need?
Bertrand sank to one knee. “What would you have me do?”
Salome smiled down at him. “Take my hand.”
Her skin was hot and smooth. Bertrand was conscious of his rough calluses earned from training with sword and axe.
“Bertrand, repeat what I say,” Salome said. “You must speak the words in your heart and your mouth. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Bertrand…don’t do this,” Rémi pleaded.
“I’ve set my mind, Rémi. That’s the end of it.”
“Then let’s have it done.” Salome took a deep, steadying breath. Her grip on his hand tightened.
In that pause, between his life before and what it was to become, Bertrand glimpsed the woman she must have been once, before the course of her life had led her to this point…
…a damp field with a barrow mound looming behind her like an omen. Hunted and alone. Stripped of protection and those dearest to her. Her only resources a newly made chevalier and his stalwart sergeant. How could any of them see the burden she carried safely to rest with all of the forces of Severity pursuing her? She was weary, so incredibly weary. Death and destruction followed wherever she went. When would it end? Could it ever, truly end?
Bertrand blinked in astonishment. Was he hearing her thoughts? He drew back but she did not release her grip. The bones in his hand ached from the building pressure of her touch. A cold finger of fear trailed down his spine.
Salome spoke. “I, Bertrand de Châtillon-sur-Seine, do solemnly swear before God that I renounce all previous vows, to act as both advocate and defender of the Lady Salome, until my mortal existence expires. In the name of the Holy Shechinah, let it be thus.”
He repeated the vow, taking care to enunciate each word clearly.
The pressure of her grip intensified and a searing sensation burned through the webbing of his hand. Salome released him with a sad, knowing smile. Bertrand snatched his hand back and rubbed his skin. Etched into the webbing between thumb and index finger was a tiny rose. White scar-lines, like Salome’s, had branded his blotchy flesh.
“My mark,” Salome said in a tight voice. “It signifies that we’re bound for as long as you draw breath.”
“Bertrand, are you well?” Rémi asked anxiously.
“I—” He was not sure.
Bertrand gazed up at Salome. A subtle glow had infused her body. The radiance was strongest along her scars. Bertrand closed his eyes and shook his head in confusion. The glow did not diminish. If anything, it became stronger in his mind’s eye. He was aware of her presence, whether he could see her or not.
“We are becoming attuned,” she explained.
Bertrand opened his eyes. “Attuned?”
“You’re the veil—the Shroud—that separates me from this world and…what lies beyond.” The tip of her tongue moistened her lips as she chose her next words. An unexpected current of eroticism pulsed through Bertrand’s loins.
“I’ll explain as much as I can, but we must move from here. The agents of Severity know I can travel along the salt lines. They’ll work out where we’ve gone soon enough.”
“Wait. I thought the Salt Lines were a group of ancient families. Not…not this.” He gestured helplessly at the grave mound.
“The two are inseparably linked,” Salome replied. “The families you know as the Salt Lines descended from the ancients who built the great stone circles and menhirs. Using the heavens and sacred geometry, their seers discovered channels of power that criss-cross the land at regular intervals. The first menhirs were designed to mark such intersections. Devotees gathered around these markers, and villages grew around them. Trade soon followed, and since salt was the most important currency of that time, the channels became known as salt lines.”
“And you’ve moved us along one of these channels,” Bertrand asked with a frown.
“Yes, although it takes energy and we’ve lost more time than you realise. Three full days have passed.” Salome glanced at the sky again.
“How is that possible?” Bertrand felt increasingly ignorant in her presence.
Salome touched his forehead with the tips of her long fingers. “I will explain, I promise. But we must leave immediately. The menhir at the river was damaged, as many of them are now. It only allowed me to move us south or north along the vertical. I fear they’ll guess which direction I chose.”
“And what direction would that be?” Rémi had folded his arms across his barrel chest. For once, Bertrand couldn’t read his expression.
“South,” Salome replied. “Champagne and Burgundy are no longer the haven they once were. My pursuers will expect me to head north in the hope of reaching the coast.” She rubbed her upper arms. “A ship is waiting for me, but I dare not risk it now.”
“A ship,” Bertrand repeated. “With winter approaching? Where are you hoping to sail to?”
“England. A…sanctuary has been prepared for me.” Salome twisted the sleeve of her cloak. “Everard was to escort us to the vessel.”
Bertrand absorbed this news in silence.
“And who exactly is looking for us?” Rémi pressed.
Salome considered Rémi’s question. “Across all of France, agents of King Philippe are taking the members of your Order into custody. No Commanderie or Preceptory or minor estate will be spared.”
“That’s impossible,” Bertrand said. “Our Order is only answerable to His Holiness.”
Salome dismissed Bertrand’s protest with a flick of her wrist. “Rest assured Philippe will find a way to justify his actions. His Keeper of the Seals is sure to find some loophole in canon law. Now please. We must leave. No matter how hard it is to part with those we loved.” She glanced at Roard and her bottom lip trembled.
“No wonder you were in a rush for Bertrand to swear his oath.” Rémi hawked and spat on the ground. “We’ll have to keep to the woods. I’ll see what I can salvage.” He returned to the barrow.
Bertrand shivered. Only a few days ago the path of his life had finally turned down a fork that promised fulfilment. Now he did not even know where they were or why they were being pursued.
“We can’t leave them here.” Bertrand nodded at the bodies. “And I take it we’ve no time for a proper Christian burial.”
Salome shook her head.
“Then I think it best we leave them in the grave with our sincerest apologies.” He did not wait for her reply. Bertrand gripped Everard by the wrists and dragged his corpse back into the barrow.
Rémi helped Bertrand drag Roard into the grave mound. The man was unbelievably heavy. Bertrand felt small and inadequate next to Roard’s bulk. Rémi had managed to retrieve some of their supplies from the burial chamber along with his axe and Everard’s sword. “Take it,” was all he said when he offered Everard’s blade to Bertrand.
The sword was the same length as the ones Bertrand had trained with, although the leather grip wrapped around the hilt was finer. Etched leaves curled around the quillons and an enamel version of the Beauseant had been set into the round pommel. The red cross, set on a field of black above and white below, gleamed dully.
Rémi set about breaking some of the pagan spears into pieces.
“What’s that for?” Bertrand was pleased to find his voice was steady.
“Kindling. We won’t find any dry wood to light a fire and come night, you’ll be grateful for some light and heat.”
Salome sifted through the sacks and saddle bags Rémi had found, sorting out essential items. By the time they were ready to depart, the sun was peeking over the top of the barrow. Despite her outward calm, Bertrand sensed a deep anxiety from Salome.
Rémi used the shaft of a broken spear to collapse the hole they had made in the barrow. Sods of grass tumbled into the breach. It was hardly a fitting burial for Everard, but it was better than leaving him outdoors to be mauled by wild animals.
They approached the tree line with the rising sun behind them. Clouds were rolling in from the south, promising further rain. Bertrand offered a silent farewell to Everard and plunged between the trees.
CHAPTER 17
15 July 1099
The Holy Sepulchre
An orderly line of soldiers emerged into the barren courtyard of the Holy Sepulchre followed by a handful of mounted nobles.
“At last,” Godefroi breathed. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
“Don’t let him goad you into anything rash.” Hugues moved back a step to leave Godefroi in clear possession of the Anastasis. Godefroi’s men had assembled in a knot outside the apse. They muttered quietly and shifted their feet as the Provençals approached.
Count Raymond de Toulouse was accompanied by at least three-score men. Many of the Provençal nobles were known to Godefroi, but his gaze remained fixed upon Raymond.
“Raymond,” Godefroi called out. “May I present what remains of the Holy Sepulchre.” He gestured to the rubble and patched walls of the rotunda.
Raymond regarded the site with a dispassionate, one-eyed stare. He had lost the other eye fighting the Moors in Iberia. The long scar that cut across his eye socket and down his cheek was a constant reminder of his distinguished military record. Grey haired, hatchet-faced and lean, Raymond was like a thin blade of tempered iron.
“Godefroi, you’re alive. How remarkable.” Raymond dismounted stiffly from his black mare. Only the wealthiest of nobles still retained mounts. “Can we say the same of your ambitious sibling, Baldwin?”
“We can indeed. As we speak, he’s driving through the city towards the Temple Mount.”
“Ah, well he’ll meet my forces there.” Raymond removed his gauntlets with exaggerated care. “The Governor and his personal guard fled to the Tower of David before our onslaught. No doubt the panic spread north.”
Godefroi suppressed a flicker of irritation. “I believe my men breached the northern wall well before your followers secured the southern parapet. News of our success probably convinced the Governor to abandon his post.”
Raymond pursed his lips. “If the reports are to be believed, my men faced a far greater concentration of defenders. Therefore, any success you’ve enjoyed can be at least partially attributed to me.”
“Come my lords,” Peter Desiderius interrupted, “we shouldn’t quarrel on this blessed occasion.” The young priest and visionary stepped between the two men. He was accompanied by Peter of Narbonne, the Bishop of Albara. Awe softened Desiderius’ expression as he gazed at the rotunda. “Haven’t all good Christians dreamed of this day?”
Peter of Narbonne was older than Desiderius and walked with a slight limp. He kept his black hair short but had grown a beard, as there was not enough water to spare for shaving. “Peter’s right,” Narbonne said. “We should be rejoicing, not arguing.”
Raymond ignored both members of the clergy. “Godefroi, have you crossed the threshold?”
Narbonne gave Godefroi a searching look.
“Only briefly, your reverence.” Godefroi addressed Narbonne as the most senior member of the clergy present. “None of my men would loot or damage such a holy place.” Godefroi glanced at Raymond. “Rest assured only those with devotion in their hearts will be allowed entry.”
Raymond stiffened at the inference.
“Excellent.” Desiderius dry-washed his hands as he gazed longingly at the rotunda. He seemed oblivious to the narrow look Narbonne directed at him. “The Holy Church extends its thanks for recovering the site of the Resurrection.”
Raymond twisted the gauntlets in his hands. “Duke Godefroi, am I correct in understanding that you propose to determine who should be allowed entry into the Holy Sepulchre?”
Narbonne paled at this suggestion. He glanced at Hugues in concern.
“My lord, that is not correct.” Hugues stepped forward and addressed Narbonne. “Your reverence, I can attest to the fact that it was Duke Godefroi who liberated the Holy Sepulchre. As his chaplain, I know it’s his heartfelt desire to protect this sacred place. No lord, or member of the clergy, could lay claim to it when clearly it belongs to all Christians. Therefore, Duke Godefroi would welcome Count Raymond and his men in the spirit of the brotherhood of Christ.”
