Luc yawned and stretched. It was a wonderful feeling to be comfortable and warm, away from the frozen misery of the midnight sledge ride. He lay back on the mattress and savoured the moment. After everything he had been through in the last weeks, without counting the stress of the previous seven years, it was a welcome luxury to be able to relax snug and as safe as could be hoped for. He reached up to move the blankets from his chest and throat and encountered another arm. Still half-asleep, he vaguely registered the fact that another body was draped against, no, clinging to his. He breathed in deeply and the scent of her filled his nostrils. In the wink of an eye he was wide-awake.
She was deeply asleep, pressed tight up against him, her arm wrapped over his chest. He felt her warmth through the clothes they were wearing and the softness of her body against his. He froze. The overriding thought going through his head was that, all through the sham trial of the Templars, the Inquisitors had sought to prove that the Order had degenerated into licentiousness, vice and unnatural practices. He had been proud in the knowledge that he, like the vast majority of his fellows, had no such sins on his conscience. And yet here he was in bed with a woman. True to his beliefs and his vows, he had never been in a position of such intimacy with any person since his childhood days with his mother. He would have leapt from the bed to a confessional except for the fact that Aimée was sleeping so deeply.
Opening his eyes, he could just make out her body against him in what little light crept in through the high window. Her hair lay across his chest and her face was buried into his shoulder. She was breathing slowly and deeply and he felt every breath as if it were his own. His heart pounded apprehensively but, underneath his immediate feeling of guilt, there was no doubt that this was a cosy, reassuring position in which to find himself.
As she drew each breath he felt her chest swell and the sensation stirred him. Deep Christian faith, a total commitment to his vows and, if truth be told, a blinding ignorance of the other sex had kept him firmly celibate like the overwhelming majority of the tens of thousands of monks and clerics living out their lives in the monasteries and abbeys of France. He could truly say that he had felt none of the pangs and temptations that had tarnished and ultimately ruined the careers of a number of his contemporaries.
And now this.
He lay still, lest his agitation should wake her. An illogical fear rose in his chest at what she might think of him if she awoke with them in this position, particularly if she became aware of his unaccustomed state of physical stimulation. Wild ideas flashed through his head, visions of purgatory, devils with vicious forks stoking the raging flames with the obscene, naked corpses of sinners. A series of gargoyles, hideous faces chewing screaming human figures, leapt into his head and he shivered.
As close to panic as he had ever been in his life, he started a gradual and agonising slow-motion manoeuvre to extricate himself without waking her. It took many a long minute as he inched away from her and towards the wall until he finally lost the last contact with her warmth. At that point he stopped and lay limply at her side, his mind whirling as his body relaxed. Had he done anything wrong, was he doing anything wrong, did he wish to do anything wrong? Answers to these questions did not come easily to one who had so long lived a monastic life. Was this sin? Was he damned?
‘Good morning.’ He jumped so sharply that his elbow hit the wall behind him and caused him to grunt with pain. Luckily, this very same pain saved him as she became immediately solicitous, allowing him to marshal his thoughts.
‘That’s all right. I must have been sleeping very lightly. I was just startled to hear your voice.’ His own voice sounded very strange to his ears and he wondered what she would make of it. She made no reaction so he let his mind wander. ‘How did you know I was awake?’ He was interested to know.
‘I just did.’ She wasn’t trying to be unhelpful. She was as unsure about the reason herself. ‘Maybe your breathing or just your position. You didn’t feel relaxed.’
Mentally he agreed with her quite fervently. Relaxed was something he had definitely not been. He was however now beginning to feel a bit calmer and he risked an attempt at normal conversation.
‘Did you sleep well?’ As an opener it was safe, if uninspired. Her reply on the other hand was less safe. She stretched and rolled over towards him until her head was resting on his shoulder, her arm once more on his chest.
‘I slept like an angel. I was warm, I was comfortable and I was protected. You can’t imagine how reassuring it is for me to find myself cared for and looked after.’ Her voice was soft and low and he could hear a break in it that struck him deep inside. While the intellectual, rational and religious part of his brain was telling him that what was happening was wrong and that he should get as far away from her as possible, his emotional side made him reach out and cradle her head tenderly. She purred as she continued to speak quietly into his shoulder.
‘I knew, I just knew. All the time this winter while I shivered in that cold damp abbey I just knew that it couldn’t end like that. It would have been too stupid, so senseless somehow. After all we went through to get up to the mountains through the king’s guards and the network of spying clerics, it couldn’t just finish with a whimper. I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life there. I knew you would come.’
‘You knew somebody would come,’ he suggested mildly.
‘It had to be you. In my dreams it was always you. I knew it would be you.’ Her voice was warm. ‘Who else could possibly take the place of Bertrand?’ The way she said it and the position from which she said it made it hard for him to believe that she was just talking about the mission. ‘It had to be one of the best. There was no way they could possibly send anyone less able than Bertrand. And you were the only one who was his equal.’
‘Maybe the only one left in liberty,’ he replied sombrely as he pulled off the blanket that covered him and rolled away from her warmth. He rose to his feet and looked back down at her.
‘I’ll go and get some hot water for you. Wait till I come back and I’ll tell you all the gory details of the latrines.’
‘I’ll be here.’ Aimée lay back and breathed out as she heard the door open and then close behind him. Her heart was beating fast, her palms were damp, and the reason, she knew, was Luc. Wrapping herself tightly against his body had been comforting, had been reassuring but also, she finally admitted to herself, had been stimulating. For the first time in three long, hard months, she had felt like a woman again and a woman alongside the man she loved. No sooner did she admit the depth of her feelings for him, though, than she mentally scolded herself. Of course she couldn’t be in love with him, it was surely just the fact that he had come to rescue her from her grim existence and bring her hope. Hope, she told herself firmly, wasn’t love. But that didn’t slow her racing heart.
As Luc walked down the dark corridor, as always, his right hand was on the handle of the dagger. Years of living on the run had instilled certain habits so firmly that they had become second nature. This time there was no need. The only living being that he encountered was a little child with a thick mane of dark hair who darted past him, no doubt in search of something to eat. He followed the light footsteps.
In the main room a new fire crackled and spat while a group of bleary-eyed travellers clustered around it gratefully. He noticed the bewhiskered face of the publican sleeping peacefully in exactly the same place as he had last seen him. The bottle at his elbow was now empty.
‘Good morning, pilgrim.’ The words were French and the voice belonged to a pretty girl behind the bar, her jet-black hair tied in a long ponytail. She wore a lacy top that revealed a substantial amount of her substantial figure and her welcoming smile promised breakfast, if not more.
‘Good morning.’ He was pleased to be able to speak in French. His Spanish was not good enough for conversation that early in the morning. Out of curiosity he opened a wooden shutter and cast a look outside. At first he thought he was looking into a void and stepped back apprehensively until a heavy snowflake landed on the back of his hand and he realised that he was looking out into an impenetrable snowstorm. He was just able to make out a pile of firewood less than a few feet from the window and already so heavily covered with snow as to be almost invisible. Anything beyond the woodpile was invisible.
‘We haven’t had a blizzard like it so late in the season for years.’ The buxom barmaid leant forward and Luc had little doubt that a bored pilgrim would have found quite a few ways of passing the time in this hostelry in such conditions. After his recent moment of intimacy, however, he barely blinked at the girl and simply asked for a jug of warm water. With an expression that could have been one of disappointment she disappeared into the kitchen. He turned and looked around at his fellow travellers, with whom he would be spending this day at the very least. They were a fairly average bunch consisting predominantly of olive-skinned, jet-black-haired Spaniards with a sprinkling of other nationalities.
‘Here’s your water.’ He turned back and was pleased to see that her smile had returned. Maybe she had reflected upon the fact that, because of the blizzard, he along with all the others would be there for the whole day and the next night. He took the heavy jug and went back to the bedroom. Leaving it with Aimée, who was just stirring, he returned to the bar and ordered breakfast.
Luke had only just started on his big bowl of porridge with warm milk and honey when the front door of the inn was thrown open with a crash that threatened to rip it off its hinges. A flurry of snow came rushing in, together with a group of men. Everybody looked up, but nobody dared to move.
‘Barman. Food and drink for my men and make it quick.’
There were four of them, all covered in a thick coating of fresh snow. The biggest was a huge figure of a man with long black hair and a patch over one eye. Immediately behind him was a thin, sallow man who carried a sword unsheathed in his right hand. At his shoulder was a turbaned Moor, his dark skin in distinct contrast to the white robes he wore beneath a fur jerkin.
Luc shrank down as much as possible behind a group of guests, glad that Aimée was still in the bedroom. He did his best to stay inconspicuous while he summed up the situation. He watched as the leader of the group, the man who had shouted, emerged from the shadows into the flickering light of the fire. There was no doubt about it. This was the one.
The scar down the side of his face gave him away. Even without the whip attached to his wrist, Luc recognised him from Aimée’s description. The eyes, when the firelight caught them, were soulless, lifeless and without pity. For a moment Luc felt them pass over him, pause and then continue round the room. Slowly and deliberately, Luc reached into his sleeve until his right hand closed reassuringly around the handle of the dagger. His eyes watched every move that the leader and the rest of his group made.
The landlord, woken by the noise, looked up and blanched. He was just dragging himself to his feet when, to Luc’s horror, Aimée came out of the passage into the light of the room, the empty water jug in her hand. She stepped into the room and stopped dead, her nostrils flaring, a scream rising in her throat.
‘Well, well, well. That’s more like it.’
The man with the scar turned towards her, a look of anticipation on his face. His weasel-faced companion beat him to it, racing across to the doorway and grabbing her. His hands tore at her clothing. With a smile on his face, he reached forward for her and died instantaneously, Luc’s dagger buried in his neck. The action froze to slow motion as Luc’s voice rang out authoritatively.
‘Turn to your right, Aimée. Now. Do it!’ The tone of his voice cut through her panic and she turned sharply. ‘Now get out of here, go back into the bedroom and bolt the door.’ As he spoke, he sensed the swish of a missile, and ducked as the wicked curved sword of the Moor whirled past his head. It crashed against the wall behind him, and was immediately followed by the Moor himself, a dagger in his hand.
Now unarmed, Luc grabbed the heavy jug of hot milk. He threw the contents into the Moor’s face, temporarily blinding him. Taking advantage of this momentary respite, he reached forward and smashed the jug straight into the dark face, sending him flying backwards.
He turned and leapt for the Moor’s sword on the floor, but found it was wedged under a bench. He glanced up as the one-eyed man threw himself at him from the top of a neighbouring table. Luc was able to half turn his shoulders to absorb the weight of the charge, but he was knocked back against the granite fireplace. Swarthy hands scrabbled for his throat and he felt himself being pushed back into the fire itself, the flames scorching his breeches. He braced himself against the stone upright and then, suddenly, viciously, he stabbed forward with his knee into his assailant’s groin.
There was a satisfying grunt of pain. The pressure on his throat relaxed, as the man clutched despairingly between his legs. His mouth was wide open, sucking in desperately laboured breaths. Luc followed up his advantage with a blow learnt from the Assassins, the legendary fighters he had faced in the Holy Land. His stiff fingers slammed into the man’s windpipe, just below the chin, and the man dropped like a stone.
Luc ignored him, turning his attention back to the rest of the room. The assembled group of guests sat wide-eyed at the events of the last few seconds. To his relief he saw the scar-faced leader, the man the landlord had called the Whip, still standing where he had been a moment before.
‘Who are you?’ The man was staring at him fixedly. There was no fear on his face, just an expression of surprise and rising anger. Luc shook himself violently, angry in his turn. He kicked out at the table in front of him and had the satisfaction of seeing it spin off to smash spectacularly against the far wall, narrowly missing a group of cowering onlookers.
‘You scum!’
There was an intensity of hatred in his voice that everybody in the room could feel. Even the scar-faced man took a half step backwards at his tone.
‘I said, who are you?’
The commanding voice had disappeared, to be replaced by a questioning tone. Luc jabbed his right leg at another table that tipped back out of his way. There was only a bench between the two of them now.
‘Tell me, sir. Who are you? How is it that you’re such an accomplished fighter? Why, I’ve never been in the presence of one such as you. Do, please tell me who you are, and where you’ve learnt your skills.’
The Whip’s words echoed insincerely around the room. With an instinctive movement, born of years of combat, Luc threw himself to one side, just as a heavy iron mace slammed into the bench beside him. He caught the handle, ripping the spiked head out of the wood in a shower of splinters, and whirled round. The Moor was leaning back against the far wall, his face a mask of fresh blood where the jug had cut him, his arms bent back with the effort of throwing the mace. Without hesitation Luc spun the evil weapon back at him. He was already turning back to the leader as it smashed into the other man’s face with a dull, final thud.
‘You were saying?’
He took a pace forward and tried to bring his breathing under control. There was something about the other man’s eyes that screamed caution at him, while his whole body was crying out for swift, decisive action. His hands dropped to his belt and reminded him that, without his dagger, he was totally unarmed, walking towards a heavily armed killer. His brain took control. The man they called the Whip made no movement, his eyes still on the crumpled body of the Moor, his expression neutral. Luc stared at him in disgust and spoke in a strong, level voice.
‘I’ll tell you who I am, scum. I’m here with the girl you raped, beat and blinded on a rock up on the Somport two months ago. You may not remember what happened, but she does and she always will. Does that answer your question?’
The other man’s expression didn’t change. He spat on the floor just in front of Luc’s feet. ‘Well, from where I’m standing, I’d say you were an unarmed fool, about to be chopped into little pieces by me.’ There was still resistance in his voice.
As he spoke, the bandit swept a well-used sword out of its scabbard and then bent down to pull a dagger from his boot. He stepped back lightly, feeling his balance. Luc realised he was up against an adversary of a decidedly higher calibre than the other three. He ripped his leather belt from his waist and wrapped it roughly around his left arm, as a primitive form of defence. His right hand, however, remained empty. A glance around him brought nothing but the knowledge that the tables were clear. There was not so much as a mug for him to grasp. In spite of his predicament, he continued in the same tone.
‘The last time I saw an animal like you, I crushed it under my foot.’
The other made no response, remaining impassive. Luc was again conscious that this opponent would be very hard to beat. He eyed the sword blade warily and noted the fact that it was rock solid in the other man’s hand. There was no shaking or trembling. The faint light from the only window in the room reflected off the blue-grey metal straight into Luc’s face, without wavering in the slightest. He looked deep into the other man’s eyes and saw uncertainty, but still no trace of panic. Nevertheless, he kept his eyes locked onto the other man’s and continued to walk slowly towards him, regardless of his lack of weapons. The thought of Aimée burnt in his mind, what she had suffered and what she would always suffer.
There was a crash. Both men turned towards the noise. A flying jug of wine smashed onto the tabletop beside the Whip, accompanied by a piercing scream. The scream came from Aimée at the door. Beside her, the innkeeper was reaching for something else to throw. Luc glanced back at the man with the scar. This glance saved his life.
He caught the flash of steel out of the corner of his eye as he looked back. He was just able to turn his chest away from the blade before it hit him, and he gave a roar of pain as the dagger stabbed into his shoulder. He flung himself forward before the bandit could attack him with the sword. His ankle caught the bench and he tripped, his forehead smashing into the edge of a neighbouring table. As he fell, he was dimly aware of the inn door crashing open. Then he lost consciousness.