They stood in the darkness in the centre of the square, Tacit staring back hard at the front of the Cathedral. The clouds were now moving fast across the sky. The weather was changing. There was a storm gathering.
Isabella stood close by watching the Inquisitor, partially lit by the faint silvery shards of moonlight and the fires and light from the surrounding buildings. The dull thump of artillery fire pounded in the distance, occasionally joined with the sharp crack of small arms fire.
“What is it?” she asked, tracing his stare to the Cathedral.
Tacit said nothing, staring with his dark eyes until the muscles within them ached.
“Where are you staying?” he asked, finally. “I never enquired.”
“The church has given me a private residence, just down from the main Priests’ house. It is fine.”
Tacit put his eyes back onto the Cathedral. “I don’t care whether it’s fine or not, just be careful.”
The warning puzzled Isabella. She tried to find the meaning of it in Tacit’s face. She found nothing but a stony grimace. But there was something else. She saw, between the cruel hard lines and the thick spread of stubble, there was a sadness which tinged the edges of his features, a quiet suffering, deep rooted like a contagion within him. She was immediately filled with an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch him, like a mother to an injured child, to take him into her arms and hold him, tell him that whatever sorrow ravaged him, it would pass in time.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Inquisitor!” she called, turning and stepping sharply away from him, her heels rapping hard on the stone slabs of the square. “Been a long day. My bed is calling!”
“It’ll be a longer one tomorrow,” he called back.
“That’s what I like about you, Tacit. Ever the optimist. Get some sleep,” the Sister called. “It might do wonders for your mood.”
Tacit watched her all the way out of the square and then put his eyes back onto the Cathedral for one final time, before retiring to his lowly room above the bar.
The bar was busy, noisy. The crowd from the previous night had swollen in number, as if the recent barrage had driven people from their homes and beds for one last night of merriment, lest it all end tomorrow. The proprietor looked up as Tacit pushed himself through the doors of the establishment and stomped over to the bar.
“Welcome back, Father!” he said, flashing teeth and a look which suggested more than just a jovial welcome. “I trust you are well?”
“Just get me a drink,” Tacit spat back. “Leave the bottle. And some olives.”
The barman nodded and returned a moment later brandishing a full bottle of Armagnac.
“The woman,” he asked with a glint, as he put the bottle down in front of the mountain of a man. “Your escort. She’s not here tonight, is she, by any chance?”
At once, Tacit was across the bar and had the man by the collar, dragging him back over it. Glasses went spinning and crashing to the floor. The banter and noise from the bar immediately ceased.
“How dare you!” he hissed. “She’s not a prostitute, you bastard!”
“Very good, Father,” the proprietor whimpered, shuddering in the Inquisitor’s grip.
“Keep your opinions to yourself.” Tacit gave him a shake and threw him back from where he had come.
“Now, get me my olives!”
“Olives!” the proprietor repeated, staggering to his feet shakily. “Of course!” He set a glass next to the bottle and slunk away. Tacit seethed, staring into the depths of the bottle’s rich brown liquid. Without a word, he took the bottle and glass up in his fingers and strode away, heading for the stairs and his room. His shame and anger were too great for him to reside any longer in the bar amongst strangers, their stares and their muttering all set in his direction. As he reached the first floor and his room, he could hear the first strains of music start up and the low rumble of conversation roll into it.
He thrust the glass down on the table and uncorked the bottle, drinking deeply from its lip without a moment’s pause, instantly feeling soothed by the liquor inside him. He stood, thoughts festering over the barman and his impudent insults, before drinking again and putting those thoughts to the back of his brain. Little ignorant people. They’d get their judgement, one way or the other. He crossed over to the window, gulping at the bottle as he went, and crouched alongside it, his eyes back watching the Cathedral.
Why was he so drawn to the building? There was something that troubled him about it, something itching in a corner of his brain, an uncertainty, a doubt.
He sat on the side of the bed and gulped at the bottle, feeling enriched by the drink. Already he felt better. He put back his head and wallowed in the buzz as the first alcohol soothed his mind. He let out a long and satisfied exhale and stretched himself out on the bed, an arm behind his head, the bottle still clutched in his left hand. He peered up at the ceiling of the room, his racing thoughts slowed by the embracing hold of the Armagnac.