As soon as night fell, Luc slipped out of the undergrowth with Aimée. It was good to get moving after a day spent crouching in the back of the cart that had brought them down here from the inn. They flitted across the track and up to the monastery door. Luc stopped just before the great gate and pulled her into the shadows where a pile of firewood was stacked. He squeezed her into the shelter of the logs and put his mouth by her ear.
‘I’ll be back in just a few minutes. I want to see if the monk we’re supposed to contact is here, if he knows about us and is willing to help, before dragging a woman into a monastery. I’m afraid you’d be rather obvious in there.’
‘God be with you Luc.’ She hugged him tight and kissed him on the cheek.
He gave her hand an encouraging squeeze and made for the entrance.
Inside the monastery, there should have been an air of calm devotion, the quiet of meditation and the tranquillity of a hermitage. Instead, as Luc slipped in through the big doors, there was chaos, confusion and a noisy bustle. The main entrance hall was teeming with men; soldiers, monks and a number of self-important-looking civilians. Voices were raised and shouts exchanged. The sacred walls reverberated with unaccustomed activity.
For Luc it couldn’t have been better. The hood of his leather cloak was pulled down around his face just in case, but the precaution appeared to be quite unnecessary. As he had been instructed, he made his way along a side corridor leading to a series of individual monks’ cells. He reached the penultimate door on the right and tapped softly on the rough wood. Without waiting for an answer, he pushed. The door swung open, revealing a bare white cell. It contained little other than a narrow bed, a crucifix and a white-haired monk.
‘Brother Michael?’
The old man looked sharply up from his reading and then nodded as Luc recited the words he had memorised.
‘My friend told me you could help explain a passage from the Scriptures for me. Seek and ye shall find is the passage in question.’
A smile spread across the old man’s face. His long straggly beard curled upwards as he grinned.
‘May the Lord be praised. I’ve been waiting all winter long. I expected you months ago, Bertrand.’
Luc shook his head. ‘Alas, Bertrand didn’t make it. He was attacked and killed as he tried to cross the mountains. I’ve been sent to take over from him. My name’s Luc.’
The old man’s eyes fell, as did his tone. ‘Another brave man gone? Will it never stop?’ Then, after a few moments, he visibly roused himself. ‘The Lord be praised for affording you his protection, Luc. I feared the worst tonight. At first, when I heard all the commotion and saw the soldiers, I thought they must be onto you. Then I heard the news, and you can imagine my relief. Here, come in, take off your cloak and sit down, my son.’
He pushed aside what looked like a wolf skin and made room for Luc on the bunk. He carefully folded Luc’s leather cloak and set it on a low shelf while Luc closed the door behind him and made his way over to the old man. He sat down as bidden. Leaning towards the old man, he kept his voice low.
‘What news, Brother Michael? What happened tonight?’
‘It’s about the bandit, my son. Haven’t you heard? The soldiers are the King of Aragon’s men. They’ve just captured the one they call the Whip; one of the most fearsome bandits in this whole area. He’s being held prisoner in one of the cellars here, until they take him to Jaca to judge him.’
Luc sat back and stretched his legs, a whistle of surprise escaping his lips. So the evil Whip had finally got his just desserts. No doubt he had become vulnerable after losing his companions and the soldiers had caught up with him. And there was no doubt what his fate would be: death, sooner rather than later. Almost certainly this would be by the most unpleasant means so as to serve as a warning to any other potential bandits. In spite of his hatred of the man for what he had done to Aimée, Luc shivered at the thought of what kind of suffering he would be made to endure.
Shaking his mind back to their own situation, he realised with relief that things were by no means as bad as they had first seemed. He turned to the old man.
‘They told me you would give me a very precious object. Do you have it?’
The old man looked at him in surprise. ‘But you already have it, my son. Didn’t you know?’
Luc couldn’t believe his ears. ‘I already have it? How can that be? The abbot of Santa Cristina told me you would let me have it…’ His voice tailed off helplessly.
‘Well you have it, Luc. I know you have.’ The old monk was smiling gently.
Luc shook his head in exasperation. ‘Brother Michael, I really don’t have it. I can assure you of that.’ He was almost snorting with frustration.
The old monk looked at him in surprise. ‘You mean you genuinely don’t know?’ His voice was astounded. ‘Nobody told you?’ But no sooner had he said it than he realised. ‘Of course, it’s better that you shouldn’t know. That way you can give less away, in the event that they should capture you.’
‘But I’m telling you, I don’t have anything. You must believe me.’ Luc was close to exploding. ‘Do you hear me, Brother Michael? I do not have it.’ It was a struggle to keep his voice to a whisper and his hands from grabbing the old man and shaking him.
‘Luc.’ Brother Michael’s voice was stronger now, with a note of authority. Luc looked across and caught his eye. He found himself wondering who this old monk was, what he had been before retreating to the isolation of the mountains. ‘Luc, I ask you to believe me. You do, indeed, carry this most precious of things. I know you do! You may not realise now, but you have it. I give you my word on all that I hold holy. You have it.’ He crossed himself and Luc followed suit, blankly.
‘But, Brother Michael…’
‘You have it! Trust me. Now…’ The old man returned to the matter in hand. ‘You said “we”. You have a travelling companion?’
‘Yes. Her name’s Aimée. She was Bertand’s wife. We were brought here by some friends from up the valley. Unaware that this was my true objective, they gave me the name of one of the brothers here, who would be able to help us.’
The old man cut in sharply.
‘I don’t need or want to hear his name, Luc. Where’s your friend Aimée now?’
‘She’s waiting outside, hiding by a woodpile.’ He decided there was no point in pursuing the question of the precious object for now. ‘Can you at least provide us with somewhere to shelter for a few days, until it’s safe to resume our journey to Compostela?’
‘I believe I can. I know a place where you’ll be able to rest safe and undiscovered until the coast is clear. Then you can leave and take your most precious of cargoes with you.’ The old monk’s eyes were far away and his expression one of rapture.
‘Can I go and fetch Aimée?’
‘Yes of course. The woodpile, you say? Excellent. Just beyond that woodpile, there’s a small service door. I’ll go and unlock it, if you would like to go and get her. Once you’re both inside, I’ll show you to your place of safety. A few days lying low and then, if God wills it, you’ll be free to join a group of passing pilgrims and finish your journey to Compostela.’
Luc thanked him warmly and slipped out into the long passage once more.
This time, as he passed through the hall, it was empty and he felt much more conspicuous. The main door was half open, the shadows outside deep and sinister. His sixth sense told him there was something wrong. He stopped by the door and searched the darkness, but couldn’t see anything out of place. After a brief hesitation, he skirted round the side of the gateway to the woodpile. He called out her name as quietly as he could. There was no reply. He moved a few steps closer and whispered her name once more.
A sudden movement from behind him was followed by a massive shove in the small of his back. As he staggered forward, trying desperately to turn towards his aggressor, a heavy blow caught his shins with a numbing pain. He fell headlong onto the ground. Before he could move a muscle, he felt himself roughly caught by the arms. He was thrown forward onto his face, and he felt the impact of many knees on his back and legs. A silky voice spoke out from the darkness.
‘Shackle him. He’s as strong as an ox and quite desperate. Get chains and get them quickly.’ With a crushing sense of despair, Luc recognised the voice as belonging to the Archbishop of Sens himself, Philippe de Marigny, his erstwhile, unwitting, travelling companion and sworn enemy.