The Hidden Keystone, page 24
“Achambaud—”
“No Hugues, don’t treat me like a child.” He stood and glared at the other three. “We’re all going to burn as heretics.”
“Achambaud, don’t say that.” Godwera rose from her cushion and stretched a hand towards him.
Achambaud moved beyond her reach. “I’m going out. Don’t bother me until Godefroi returns.” Achambaud turned on his heel and stomped downstairs.
A team of Saracens and Jews were pulling a cart laden with limbs and body parts down the street when Achambaud ventured outside. A group of pedites guarded them along the route to the large pyres established outside the city. The prisoners staggered beneath the weight of their grisly cargo.
It took an effort to rein in his anger at their appalling treatment.
The stench of decay reeked throughout the city. The smell was so bad Godefroi had issued linen head-cloths to his chevaliers. Achambaud covered his face and strode down the street in the opposite direction to the cart.
He did not have a particular destination in my mind. All he knew was that he needed to walk. If nothing else, wandering through the alleys created an illusion of progress. He feared that Hugues, who had always seemed so certain of their path, was beginning to lose his way.
Lost in his thoughts, he was surprised to discover that his feet had brought him to the northern wall. He turned down a narrow alley that ran parallel with the parapet. Dusk was painting the rooftops and the shadows were deeper here with the high wall looming over his left shoulder.
How had he lost faith in Hugues so quickly? Perhaps he had expected too much of the priest? Achambaud believed Hugues when he said they would make amends for the slaughter of the city, but all they had to show for that promise was another dead man and a useless spindle of metal.
So much death for what? The pent-up misery unfurled inside him like black sails on a boat.
“Tell me what to do,” Achambaud yelled at the heavens. He sank to his knees on the cobblestones. “Help me understand your Will.”
No sign was forthcoming.
His shouting did cause a sudden exodus of peasant women. They bundled up their washing and children and fled inside the small homes they had claimed. The alley was empty by the time Achambaud wearily rose to his feet. Not that he could blame them. Armoured men weren’t to be trusted, even if they were Christian.
“I must seek confession,” Achambaud murmured. “I must—”
He paused, assailed by a sense of threat. Achambaud barely had time to twist aside as someone rushed him from behind.
A blade squealed against Achambaud’s mail shirt. He spun and grappled for his assailant’s wrist. An elbow crashed into the back of Achambaud’s neck and he stumbled, using his grim hold on the man’s arm to keep his feet. Letting go now would be his death.
His assailant’s strength was prodigious as they grappled for control of the knife. Achambaud stamped on the man’s foot and won a grunt of pain. The attacker tried to jerk his hand free again. Rather than resisting, Achambaud pushed in the same time direction. Taken by surprise, the man stumbled and fell. Achambaud landed heavily on top of him. Before the man could recover, Achambaud smashed the back of his head into the man’s face.
Something cracked at the impact, probably the man’s nose. Seizing his advantage, Achambaud wrested the dagger free. A thick forearm wrapped around Achambaud’s throat. Achambaud retaliated by reversing the blade and stabbing downwards. The man squirmed away from the blade so that it only scored his leg. The hold around Achambaud’s neck tightened.
Achambaud tried to break the chokehold with one hand and stabbed with the other. The dagger ground against armour before it pierced flesh. Teeth sank into Achambaud’s unprotected neck. Achambaud thrashed in an attempt to break free, but it was useless. He struck again with the dagger, this time angling the blade beneath him. The blade struck something hard, perhaps a rib, and the man gasped in agony.
Achambaud tried to roll away, but his attacker wrapped his legs around Achambaud’s waist. Using his free hand, he grabbed the hilt of Achambaud’s belt knife and plunged it into the hole in Achambaud’s mail shirt beneath the armpit. The blade was short but pain jolted down Achambaud’s arm and he almost lost his grip upon the dagger.
Abandoning his attempt to escape, Achambaud lurched to the right and used his weight to pin the man’s knife hand between his arm and body. Switching the dagger to his left hand, Achambaud rammed it into his opponent’s stomach.
The man cried out as blood splashed against Achambaud’s side. The iron grip around his throat weakened and Achambaud finally broke free. As he rolled away, his attacker wrenched the belt knife from Achambaud’s armpit and stabbed his thigh. Achambaud collapsed to the ground. He backed away, gasping for air and dragging his injured leg.
The man’s face and chin were covered in blood. Even so, Achambaud recognised him.
“Diederic?”
The Flemish warrior feebly plucked at the blade jutting from his gut.
“Why?” Achambaud gasped.
“Sorcerer.” Diederic spat blood at him.
An old accusation, and one he could not seem to shake. A fierce anger stirred inside Achambaud. He heard his father’s taunts as he was locked in the cellar as a boy.
Breathing hard, Achambaud set it all aside. “I…forgive you,” he panted. “As…Christ…taught us.”
Diederic blinked. Horror froze across his ruined face. He shook his head with a grimace. “No. You…can’t.”
“Who…sent you?” Achambaud demanded.
Diederic closed his eyes. “Ray…mond.” Silent sobs wracked his body as death closed in.
Achambaud crawled over and sat next to the fallen chevalier. “You’re not alone,” he murmured. They stayed that way until Diederic’s breathing stilled and he passed into God’s kingdom.
This was not an evil man, only one who had lost his way, thought Achambaud. Perhaps they had that much in common.
Blood trickled from the wounds in Achambaud’s sword arm and leg. He took the linen cloth Godefroi had given him for the stench and tied it around the gash in his thigh. It quickly became saturated with blood.
Achambaud tried to stand but his leg couldn’t support his weight.
“Help,” Achambaud bellowed. “I’m Duke Godefroi’s man. Help me.”
None of the peasants emerged from their houses.
Achambaud crawled down the alley. His strength was ebbing and shadows crept in from all sides. How many men had he killed? How many sins would come to claim him?
He fought to remain conscious. The sky and stone walls traded places. Hallucinations rose up from the dust and spoke to him. One of them coalesced into a Saracen dressed as a monk. The figure squatted next to Achambaud and the wizened visage that gazed upon him was kind. She had expressive brown eyes framed by dark lashes. Her wrinkled mouth was pursed in concern.
What was an elderly Saracen woman doing wearing a habit?
She gently touched his face. Without moving her lips, she said into Achambaud’s head: What have you done to yourself?
“I know…that voice,” Achambaud murmured. Or at least that was what he intended to say. The sky plummeted towards him. Any moment now it would crash into him.
The Saracen woman smiled.
He smiled back and the world tilted.
CHAPTER 37
22 October 1307
Chateau Fontette
“Stay here,” Huon said to Bertrand. “And avoid talking to anyone if you can help it.”
Bertrand ducked his head. “I will. You’d best get going.”
Huon gave him a curt nod and strode out from beneath the eaves of the stables. He glanced back at Bertrand once before crossing the main courtyard of Justine’s chateau.
Bertrand was dressed in one of Huon’s patched tunics. The threadbare garment was the right length for him in hem and sleeve, but tight across his shoulders and chest. An old cloak protected him against the chill.
He knelt down next to Huon’s two wolfhounds and stroked their rich coats. Anyone who glanced his way would recognise the hunting dogs. Hopefully, they would simply assume Bertrand was minding them.
Huon disappeared into an outhouse attached to the kitchen. At this early hour, only servants were about their daily business: drawing fresh water from the well, carrying firewood or ferrying chamber pots outside.
His breath curled in the chill air as he stroked the wolfhounds. A little over a year and a half had passed since his last visit, yet he felt like a completely different person to the boy who had played at being a man with Justine. He was a chevalier now. He had killed men in battle and buried fallen comrades. And he was bonded to Salome.
In every sense of the word, he was a man. Yet his heart pounded beneath his ribs, just as it did the first time he had visited this chateau. Would Justine see the difference? Would she look upon his face and see the experience written there?
Bertrand hawked and spat. He did not need her approval, just horses and supplies. He touched the pouch tied to his belt. And he had the means to pay for them, thanks to Salome. There would be no need to beg.
You’ve replaced one mistress for another. Where is the honour in that?
Bertrand scowled at the unwelcome thought.
Huon reappeared from the outhouse and waved him over. Bertrand crossed the cobblestones with the dogs in tow. He kept his head down and shuffled like a serf.
“She’s expecting you,” Huon murmured. “Follow the girl waiting at the servants’ entrance. She’ll take you inside. I’ll wait in the courtyard for as long as I can. If your visit takes too long,” Huon said with the ghost of a smile, “ask her ladyship to smuggle you out. I’ll see you back at the cottage.”
“Thank you, Huon.” Bertrand handed the leashes to him. “I’m in your debt.”
“Just do right by her and that’ll see us even.” He strode back towards the stables. One of the wolfhounds whined at leaving Bertrand behind.
Bertrand scraped the mud from his boots on three metal spikes embedded in the ground before entering the outhouse. His heart thudded against his ribs. He was never nervous like this in his imagined reunions with Justine.
A small, pale serving girl dressed in a shapeless smock was stacking dirty linen. A demure lace veil covered her dull brown hair. She stopped her folding as Bertrand crossed the threshold and bobbed at the knees.
“No need for that,” Bertrand said in a soft voice. “Take me to her and forget that you ever saw me.”
She nodded once and turned without a word. Next to the outhouse was a scullery filled with sour-faced servants scrubbing a pile of pots and platters. None of them paid any attention to Bertrand as he shuffled after the girl.
They entered the main kitchen. The chatter was punctuated by the chop of knives on wooden blocks and the bubble of pots boiling beneath open flames. Heat rushed across his bare skin and the mouth-watering smell of baking bread drifted from the main oven. Bertrand kept his head down and avoided eye contact.
They moved through a short passage and into another chamber. This one contained jars of preserved fruit sealed with wax. The girl led him through a side entrance and into the feasting hall. A pang of nostalgia pierced Bertrand: he had feasted here when he arrived to collect the tithe. The arched ceiling and rich, old tapestries covering the stone walls reminded him of his father’s chateau in Châtillon-sur-Seine.
The girl hurried across the flagstones to the far end of the hall and turned left. Bertrand’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. She avoided the main staircase and walked past the wide steps, stopping at a small door.
“Through here, goodsir.” She pulled the door open. Bertrand ducked his head as he passed through the low opening. An older maid was waiting for him on the far side.
The door clicked behind Bertrand and the girl’s footsteps hurried away.
“This way.” The heavy-set matron turned and marched down the servant passage. They ascended a set of tight, spiralling steps. The landing opened onto another narrow corridor.
The matron stopped in front of a small door. “One moment, if you please.” She knocked. A muffled voice called, “Come.” The matron stepped inside and closed the door behind her. A further exchange took place, although the voices were too low for Bertrand to catch.
He took a deep, steadying breath. What if Justine had changed? In all his worrying about how he had grown, he had not stopped to consider that. He bit the inside of his cheek.
The matron reappeared and held the door open for Bertrand. “The Seigneuresse will join you soon.”
“Thank you.” Bertrand entered the small sitting room. A fire crackled in the hearth. The drapes had been drawn back and a tentative, watery sunlight squeezed through the narrow window of thick glass. The main door on the far side of the room was closed. Two worn but comfortable looking chairs had been arranged before the fire. They were turned towards the hearth, not each other.
Bertrand thought about sitting down and immediately dismissed the idea. Instead, he removed his dirty cloak and tried to smooth the worst of the creases from his tunic. He turned the chairs to face each other.
The far door opened and Bertrand turned slowly.
Justine stopped in the doorway. Her expression was composed, almost wary, but it softened when she saw that it was truly him. Her dark brown hair was unbound and spilled over her flowing gown of cream-coloured linen.
His nervousness crumbled and fell away. Beneath his anxiety was a sudden, unexpected need to preserve this moment in all its purity and exquisite anguish. He remained still, afraid any movement might give away his inner turmoil.
“I can’t believe it,” Justine whispered. “You’re truly here.” She moved forward, her blue eyes scrutinising his face.
One of Justine’s ladies, a rosy-cheeked girl with a concerned expression, closed the door behind Justine.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” Justine murmured. A mesh of white lace shot through with gold thread held the long tresses back from her face. More grey strands nestled in her hair than he remembered. She was tall for a woman, like Salome, but with a fuller figure. He could not help but remember how well their bodies had fit together.
He cleared his throat. “In truth, I feared the same.” Bertrand wanted to take her hands in his. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to blurt out the entire story of his suffering and then find solace in her embrace. But he was not that boy anymore. And his vows to the Order did not permit such intimacy, even if he had forsaken them to become Salome’s Shroud.
She took a step closer and looked up at him. “Forgive me. I know your vows forbid this, but I must know for certain.” She reached up and touched his cheek. Bertrand caught her fingers before they could escape and pressed his lips against them. Justine closed her eyes and they remained still for a moment, prisoners of the past.
Bertrand released her hand and drew back. “Is it true? The affair with my father? Was I just a means to spite him?”
The joy on Justine’s face withered at those words. She sank into one of the chairs and smoothed the fabric of her gown across her knees. “Oh, Bertrand.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Is that what you believe?”
“What else is there to believe? You convinced me to lessen the tithe, which I see now is what you wanted all along. And in return, I was banished to the brotherhood.”
“I am sorry for that, truly I am.” Justine’s expression hardened. “However, you must try to understand my perspective. Your father’s taxes are more than I can afford. With my estate in debt, and your father’s unwelcome advances scaring off any viable suitors, I did what was necessary to survive. But you, sweet Bertrand, were not a calculation. You were an unexpected delight. Surely, you must know this in your heart.”
He wanted to believe her. Desperately so. Yet he knew she was not being entirely honest with him. “You took advantage of my affection, and my naivety.”
“Yes,” she admitted in a small voice. “And I have regretted it every day since.”
The ugliness that lay between them was finally laid bare. Bertrand sank into the opposite chair. The relief he felt caught him by surprise. “What is done, is done. Perhaps it would be fairest to say we both made mistakes.”
“You have changed.” Justine’s tone was wary, despite the honesty they had just shared.
“Yes.” And then because that was not nearly enough, he said, “Perhaps not all to the good.”
Her lips quirked and he finally saw the woman he remembered so fondly. “Ah, well…life has a way of humbling us.”
He smiled. A genuine, unguarded smile. “Then you’ll forgive the circumstances of my return?” He gestured at Huon’s rags.
She pulled a face of mock distaste but grew serious again. “I certainly understand your need for secrecy given recent events.”
The smile faded from Bertrand’s face. For a brief moment, he had forgotten about his predicament.
Bertrand leaned forward. “Rémi and I have had no news in days. What’s happening in the towns, in Paris? How has the King justified his attack on my Order?” The questions came out in a rush after being bottled for so long.
“It’s said the King is acting on the Pope’s behalf,” Justine replied. “Your Order has been accused of all manner of heresies, including sodomy and the worship of false idols. All possessions and properties have been seized across France. Don’t you see what that means?”
Bertrand slumped in his chair. “The King cannot prosecute us without the permission of Pope Clement. And I refuse to believe His Holiness would sanction such a course. Not without a hearing or inquisition.”
Justine shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what he should or shouldn’t do. It’s already done. The Commanderies have been seized. The Temple in Paris fell without a blow.”
