It was the hottest part of the day. Looking down from the hillside, they could just make out the roofs and towers of Santo Domingo de la Calzada before them. In less than an hour they would be there and the group was strung out over several hundred paces. The friar was up at the front, while Luc and Aimée were joined at the rear by the stonemason.
‘You didn’t waste much time, did you?’ The mason’s voice was slurred, his breath toxic.
Luc ignored him, hoping he would lapse into drunken silence. But the stonemason’s brain, unusually at this time of day, was still functioning.
‘You didn’t wait long to get the little lady into bed with you, did you?’
Luc bit his tongue and feigned deafness.
‘Good in bed, is she? Even if she’s blind, she’s got all the right bits, I’ll be bound.’
This was too much. Drunk or not, the man had overstepped the mark. Luc stopped in his tracks. The mason stumbled past him. Luc pushed out his foot. The man tripped, falling headlong onto the dusty track. He roared in anger, flailed about, and pulled himself to his knees. Heads turned in the group ahead. Luc stepped forward as the man struggled to get to his feet and caught him by the scruff of the neck, holding him down on his knees. He spoke quietly and firmly, the menace clear in his voice.
‘Mason, you really should watch what you say. One of these days you’re going to say something rude to somebody less forgiving than me and you’ll get into trouble, serious trouble. You’ll remember that now, won’t you?’
He released his hold and turned dismissively away. He caught Aimée’s arm again and set off towards the others once more. He had only taken a few steps when he heard a familiar noise. It was the unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn from a sheath. He whirled round, protecting Aimée with his body. He found himself confronted by the mason holding a vicious-looking knife, the point aimed at Luc’s chest. The man’s face was covered in dust from the path, his knuckles bloodied, scuffed from his contact with the ground.
‘Nobody does that to me. I’m going to slit you from ear to ear.’ The man’s voice was heavy with rage as well as drink.
‘Aimée, take a couple of steps backwards. You’ll be fine.’ Luc pushed her gently backwards and she did as she was bidden, fear etched on her face.
‘Luc, be careful.’ He could hear the anxiety in her voice.
Luc never took his eyes off the stonemason. He heard running feet behind him as the others came back to see what was happening. The mason, seeing that he had an audience, and seeing no weapon in Luc’s hand, took a pace forward.
‘You’re drunk, mason. Don’t do anything foolish.’ Luc’s right hand was on the hilt of the hidden dagger. For the moment, it remained concealed in his sleeve. ‘Put the knife away, apologise to the lady, and we’ll forget the whole thing.’
‘From ear to ear, you Templar bastard.’ He must have seen the shock on Luc’s face. He raised his voice. ‘You heard me. I know what you are. You’re a cowardly Templar, escaping from justice. You’ve probably got a sack of gold in your pack. It’ll be a pleasure to do the executioner’s job for him.’
Luc heard intakes of breath from behind. He kept his eyes on the point of the knife, his mind racing. Just then he heard the sound of movement and Friar Laurent pushed past, deliberately stepping in between them.
‘Get out of the way, monk. This is between me and him.’ The mason’s voice was a snarl.
‘You’re drunk, man. You could be arrested for pulling a knife on a fellow pilgrim. Wound him, and they’ll string you up. Listen to me, will you?’
‘String me up? I’ll probably get a medal for killing a Templar.’ The man was sounding less drunk now. His eyes were unnaturally bright, but he was in control of his faculties. Luc caught the friar by the arm.
‘Be careful, Laurent. The man’s off his head.’
The baker and the new man, Thomas, appeared alongside the friar. The stonemason, relishing the audience, stepped forward once more. Luc knew he was still out of range of any but the most desperate lunge, so he kept his knife hidden. The best way of convincing the other members of the group that he was not a Templar was to appear helpless. He took a step back. The stonemason crowed.
‘That’s right, you coward. Back away. But it won’t do you any good. This blade’s got your name on it. Right now!’ He leapt towards Luc, his teeth bared in a wicked grin. But as he started moving, just as Luc was about to pull out his knife, the new man, Thomas, reacted. With lightning speed, he reversed his heavy staff and lashed out. There was a sickening thud as the solid end of the wooden staff crashed into the base of the stonemason’s skull. He went down like a stone, headfirst into the dust.
There was stunned silence. Luc looked down at the stonemason, but the violence of the blow, and the precision with which it had landed, told him the man was dead. The friar dropped to his knees beside the body and laid his hand on the mason’s throat. After a few moments he looked up.
‘He’s dead.’
Aimée gave a little cry and ran forward, tripping as she did so. Luc reached out and swept her into his arms before she could fall. ‘It’s all right, Aimée.’
She gripped him tightly, an expression of overwhelming relief on her face. ‘Thank the Lord. I didn’t know, I didn’t know.’ The thought of losing him from her life was too terrible to contemplate. She burst into tears and Luc cradled her against his chest.
‘Well, there’s nothing more we can do for him now.’ Friar Laurent made the sign of the cross over the dead man and looked up at Thomas. The other pilgrims had all backed away, unsettled by the savagery of his attack. ‘Thomas, you were acting to protect an unarmed man. The authorities won’t worry you, once we tell them the circumstances.’ He pulled himself to his feet. ‘Luc, I believe you owe your life to Thomas.’
As his blood began to cool, Luc was rejoicing. This intervention by the new man was a godsend as it allowed Luc to remain anonymous. He held out his hand. ‘I thank you with all my heart, Thomas.’ He kept his voice suitably humble. ‘It’s ironic he accused me of being a Templar. I have a horror of weapons and all forms of violence. You saved my life, and I’m in your debt.’
‘You’re very welcome, Luc. I’m just sorry I seem to have hit him too hard.’ Thomas neither looked, nor sounded, contrite. Luc studied him carefully. As a soldier himself, he knew full well how carefully executed the murder had been. And he had little doubt that it had been murder. For some reason, as yet unfathomable, Thomas had deliberately killed the stonemason.
‘Luc, perhaps you would stay with the body, while I take Thomas to the authorities in Santo Domingo to explain what happened. I’m sure they’ll send a cart to collect and bury the mason. When you get into town, one of us will be waiting for you in front of the cathedral. Otherwise you won’t know where we’re lodged.’
Luc nodded in agreement.
The friar knelt down once more and searched through the mason’s clothes until he found his purse. From it, he removed, and carefully unfolded, his pilgrim’s passport. ‘Louis Dubois of Beauvais. I never knew his full name.’ He straightened up, tucked the purse into his pocket, and looked round.
‘Should we move him off the road?’ Luc did his best to maintain the impression of a helpless victim, unfamiliar with violent death. ‘What if a cart were to come along?’
The friar nodded. Together with Thomas, Luc lifted the dead man and moved him into the shade of a scrawny holm-oak tree at the side of the road. Then he and Aimée waited alongside the corpse as the others set off. In the shade of the tree, there was a large rock, its smooth surface testimony to its regular use by passing pilgrims in search of shelter from the relentless sun. Luc led Aimée to it and they both sat down. She kept hold of his hand.
Once the group was out of earshot, he recounted what had happened.
‘So you’re saying that this Thomas man deliberately killed the stonemason?’ Aimée’s voice was sceptical. ‘Couldn’t it just have been a lucky blow?’
‘It might,’ Luc sounded even more sceptical, ‘except for the speed of it. You didn’t see it, but Thomas was like a striking serpent. I was reaching for the knife I keep up my sleeve. Before I could draw it, he had swung and connected, and with deadly accuracy.’
His eyes flicked down to the body beside them. The stonemason’s head was lying at an impossible angle. The blow had broken his neck. It could almost have been the work of the infamous Assassins. For a moment, Luke’s thoughts flashed back to his fighting years in the Holy Land. He had seen more than his fair share of violent death over there, but rarely as perfectly executed as this.
‘He meant to do it. Believe me, I know.’ He squeezed Aimée’s hand.
She bowed to his superior experience of these things. ‘All right, he deliberately killed him. So tell me why?’
‘I don’t know.’ Luc’s voice betrayed his mystification. ‘If we accept my theory that he knew what he was doing, then it’s indisputable that he has to be a professional.’
‘A professional what, Luc?’
‘Either a professional soldier, or a professional killer.’
‘A professional soldier who just saved your life.’ She was turning the idea over in her head. ‘Does that mean he might be a Templar like yourself?’
He gave a sigh of frustration. ‘I’ve been wondering that. It wouldn’t surprise me if the men who sent me on this mission had arranged to have me shadowed, in case I might need help. But surely they would have told me. What’s the use of a bodyguard if you don’t know who he is?’
Aimée shook her head. ‘Think back to the Abbot of Santa Cristina, Luc. You remember what he said about links on a chain, don’t you? If you’re unaware of the identity of your guardian angel, the archbishop and his men would be unable to make you reveal anything about him.’
Luc reflected on her words. ‘You’re right. And if I failed, he would still be able to step in to help complete the mission.’ He gazed down at her tenderly. ‘You’re a clever woman, Aimée.’
She gripped him more tightly. ‘Of course, you said a professional soldier or a professional killer. What if he’s a killer working for the archbishop? Maybe he deliberately sacrificed this unimportant pawn so that you would believe him to be on your side. Then, when your guard’s down, he’ll pounce.’
Luc turned this other hypothesis over in his mind. It was a sobering thought. He was still reflecting on it some time later when a municipal official arrived to retrieve the body of the stonemason. The driver offered them a lift into town and they were happy to accept. He dropped them off in front of the cathedral and, as promised, Jeanne, the baker’s daughter, was waiting for them. She ran over and took Aimée by the arm, leading them along a narrow street to the hostel. It was a simple inn, small and crowded, but Luc preferred it that way. If the archbishop’s men were already in the town, he and Aimée would be less conspicuous here than in the big pilgrims’ hospice.
‘Luc, Aimée, you’re here at last.’ Friar Laurent was sitting at a long table, a plate of sausage and ham in front of him. He waved them onto the bench beside him. ‘Sorry it took so long. There was no problem with the authorities. Everybody here would appear to sleep from lunchtime till late afternoon. Anyway, they’ve accepted the witness statements. Thomas is in the clear.’ He leant closer to Luc. ‘And your name wasn’t even mentioned.’
Luc gave a satisfied nod. So the stonemason incident had not caused a stir. He glanced around, checking the faces in the room, recognising a few, but not many. He searched for Thomas, but there was no sign of him so he allowed himself to relax. Catching sight of the innkeeper, he ordered a jug of wine and some food. The wine arrived almost immediately. Luc refilled the friar’s mug, then took one for himself and one for Aimée. He pressed it into her hand.
‘Here, have some wine and then we should get some sleep. I don’t know about you, but I’m really tired tonight.’
‘It isn’t everyday somebody tries to kill you. That might have something to do with it.’ Her tone was dry, but he could hear that she was still disturbed by the events of the day.
‘The important thing is that he didn’t succeed.’
The innkeeper returned with a steaming bowl of thick vegetable soup with dumplings. The sight of food reminded Luc he was hungry.
The innkeeper straightened up and looked across at the friar. ‘Are you Friar Laurent by any chance?’
The monk looked up. ‘Yes. What is it?’
‘Message for you. The bishop wants to see you. You’re to go to the Bishop’s Palace as soon as possible.’
‘The bishop wants to see me?’ Laurent was amazed. ‘But how does he know I’m here?’
‘No idea. The messenger was here five, ten, minutes ago, but he left.’ The innkeeper shrugged and returned to the kitchen.
Luc’s appetite suddenly left him. That same sensation that all was not well was back with him again. He watched as the friar jumped to his feet, agitated at this summons to the presence of such an august personage. Before he could set off, Luc caught his arm, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper. ‘Laurent, do you want me to come with you?’ He really didn’t want to leave Aimée, but this summons could mean danger for the friar.
‘No, of course not.’ The friar smiled down at him. ‘Maybe my abbot wrote to him about our pilgrimage. He did tell me he knew people along the way.’
‘Well, if you’re absolutely sure…’
‘It’s fine, really, Luc, thanks for the offer. Anyway, it’s not far. The palace is right beside the cathedral.’ He turned and disappeared out of the exit.
‘What do you think that’s all about?’ Aimée was as puzzled as Luc.
‘I don’t know.’ Luc looked around, subjecting all the other people in the room to close scrutiny. He saw nothing untoward, but his instincts were still screaming caution. He took his time, waiting to see if his feelings changed before making a decision. Finally, his mind made up, he rested his mouth against her ear and whispered. ‘Listen, Aimée, do you think you’ll be all right if I leave you here with Beatrice and Jeanne? I’m worried for Laurent. How did the bishop know about him? How did he know he was here, in this little inn, and why today? How do we know the messenger was even sent by the bishop anyway?’
She nodded, feeling his lips rub against her ear as she did so. In spite of the circumstances, she felt a thrill at his touch. ‘I’ll be fine here, don’t worry. What’re you going to do?’
‘I owe, we owe, Laurent a lot. He’s gone out on a limb for us and he deserves all the help I can give. I’ll head for the Bishop’s Palace and check on him.’
‘Promise me you’ll be careful.’
‘I promise. Oh good, here’s Beatrice. I’ll be back before long.’
Aimée listened to the sound of his feet and then the squeak of the hinges on the heavy door as he left the inn. All afternoon, since the death of the stonemason, she had been thinking about Luc and the importance he had now assumed in her life. Of course, on the one hand there was the practical consideration that he was her eyes and, without him, she would be in dire straits, but there was so much more to it than that. The moment she had heard the words ‘He’s dead’ and feared the worst, the realisation had descended upon her that she was deeply and irrevocably in love with him, and of that there was now no doubt at all. She had already lost one man she had loved dearly. To lose two was unthinkable. If Luc were to die, she knew she would follow him. She pressed her hands together under the table and prayed silently to herself for his safe return with the friar.
Outside, the narrow streets were dark. Night had fallen and the moon had not yet risen. Luc stood in the shelter of a woodpile and waited until his eyes adjusted. Apart from the hum of conversation from the inn behind him, all was quiet. Gradually, he began to distinguish things in the gloom. He could see the street down which they had come, leading back to the cathedral, with two other streets running off it. Ever cautious, he avoided the direct route and made his way there along narrow side alleys.
It was not a big town, and he soon found himself back at the cathedral. There were no lights around this side of the building, and he was able to cross to the deeper shadow of the cathedral wall without fear of being seen. Hugging the stone, still warm from the residual heat of the sun, he headed for the front. Arriving at the corner, he peered cautiously round. Apart from a lantern over the main portal of the cathedral, and another by the Bishop’s Palace, there were no signs of life.
He calculated that the friar, by coming straight up the road, would have arrived five or even ten minutes earlier, so he settled down to wait for him to come out. Within a very short space of time, he heard marching feet. He shrank back into the shadows and looked on as four soldiers appeared, one of them carrying a lantern. Although they bore swords, they were not wearing chain mail and their weapons were sheathed. It looked clear that this was the local militia, patrolling the streets. After a brief pause in front of the cathedral, they set off down a side street to continue their rounds and Luc breathed a sigh of relief.
No sooner had the sound of their feet receded, than he heard a loud creak. The Bishop’s Palace door was pulled open and a cowled figure emerged. The man closed the door behind him and locked it. Luc clearly heard the jingle of keys. Cupping the lantern against his hand, the man blew out the flame, plunging the building into darkness. Luc heard his footsteps recede along the main street, until all was silent once again.
Luc’s mind was racing. The Bishop’s Palace was dark and, presumably, empty. Where was Friar Laurent and where was the bishop? And, he wondered with a shiver, where was the Archbishop of Sens? If Laurent wasn’t here, where was he? Was all this an elaborate ploy to get him away from the inn, and both of them away from Aimée?
He didn’t hesitate. Casting a wary look round, he emerged from his shelter and ran across the square into the street leading directly to the inn. Apart from an occasional flickering candle in a window, it was pitch dark down there. He hoped he wouldn’t trip over anything as he hurried through the shadows back to the inn. The road curved slightly to the left and he saw a lantern up ahead, with shadows moving around it. He slowed up and felt his way hesitantly along the wall, until he could see and hear men talking.
‘How long do you think he’s been dead?’
‘Not long. He’s still warm.’
Luc realised that the night patrol had found a corpse. His immediate reaction was one of relief. They were talking about a dead man, not a woman. The body couldn’t belong to Aimée. But could it be the friar?
‘We’d better get him off the street. We’ll go and get the cart. Who’s going to wait with the body?’
There was silence. Clearly none of them fancied standing around in the dark with a dead body, and a murderer on the loose.
‘All right then, we’ll all go. He isn’t going to move, after all.’
There was a murmur of agreement. Luc heard them move off, their shadows flickering against the walls of the shops and houses as they disappeared. As soon as they were out of sight, he slipped down the road to the body. His heart sank as he saw the dark monastic habit. There was no doubt about it. It was definitely the friar. He reached down and around the body, searching for the cause of death. A first pale glimmer of moonlight began to shed some illumination on the scene. All at once he saw what had happened. Friar Laurent’s head had been twisted viciously round, so that it was past his shoulder. His neck had been broken. Silently, ruthlessly and professionally.
He laid the friar gently back on the cobbles. Raising his hand, he made the sign of the cross over him and murmured a prayer. Then he stood up and set off at a run.
He reached the inn within two minutes. Aware that the killer might be lying in wait for him with a bow, he steeled himself and ran the last few steps in a crouching zigzag. He reached the door unscathed and burst in. Inside, everything was calm and still. Most of the pilgrims had retired to bed and there were only a few men left around the table, drinking wine and talking in low tones. They looked up in surprise at his abrupt entrance. Hastily, he made his way across the room towards the group where, to his immense relief, he saw Aimée leaning against her pack, chatting to Beatrice.
‘Everything all right?’ Beatrice took one look at his face and realised that all was far from well. Aimée, hearing him approach, turned towards him with a smile.
‘Did you find Laurent?’
He sat down beside them and took a deep breath. Somehow, the enormity of the crime made it hard to accept, and even harder to describe.
‘I’m afraid I have bad news, very bad news.’
He noticed a few heads around them look up, among them Thomas, looking sleepy. Luc paused for a moment, his mind struggling to make sense of this. Of all the things he had expected to find in here, Thomas in his bedroll was not one of them.
‘I’m afraid Friar Laurent’s dead.’ He heard sharp intakes of breath around the folk in this corner of the room. More people stirred. The family from Champagne peered out of their beds like chicks in a nest. To Luc’s amazement, the oldest of them spoke. None of them had been heard to utter more than a syllable at a time for weeks now.
‘How did he die?’
The question, coming from such an unexpected source, only served to further confuse Luc. His head was spinning. Mechanically, he recounted the facts.
‘I found him lying in the road. He was savagely attacked. His assailant broke his neck. At least that means he would have died instantly, and without suffering.’
‘But who would want to kill the friar?’ Jeanne stared helplessly at her mother.
‘My dear girl, there are some terrible people in the world. May God have mercy on his soul.’ Beatrice was weeping. As the news sank in, others followed suit. Laurent had been well loved.
‘Have the authorities been informed?’ Thomas pulled himself out of bed and came over to stand beside Luc. Luc found himself inching away from him.
‘The night watchmen found him before I did. I heard them say they were going to get a cart.’ Luc glanced at the man beside him. The very professional nature of the killing had immediately stirred Luc’s suspicions that it might have been the stocky man’s handiwork, but his face gave nothing away. Thomas was fully clothed, but that meant nothing. Most of the pilgrims slept in their clothes, only removing jacket and breeches if it was exceptionally warm. He felt Aimée’s hand on his arm.
‘You were right in your fears for him, Luc.’
‘What fears?’ Thomas sounded interested.
Luc told them all about the messenger and his doubts as to how the bishop could have traced Laurent. ‘I went to the Bishop’s Palace to look for him, but it was closed up and dark. I don’t think he even got there. I’m afraid it looks like the killer, or killers, were lying in wait for him.’ He was still racking his brains for a motive. The friar’s death made no sense.
‘Have you asked the innkeeper about the messenger?’ Aimée was practical, as always. ‘Did he recognise the person who delivered it? This isn’t a big town. I’d imagine the innkeeper would know most of the people here.’
‘That’s a good thought, Aimée. I’ll go and ask him now.’ Luc turned and made his way back across the room. As he reached the other side, he realised that Thomas was right behind him. Reaching a quiet corner, Luc stopped and turned.
‘It’s about time you and I had a word.’ He kept his voice low, although there was nobody within earshot.
‘Always pleased to talk, Luc.’ Thomas affected a relaxed, cordial tone, but Luc could see he was very much on guard.
‘Tell me, Thomas, how long have you been in here this evening? I went out less than an hour ago and you weren’t here then.’
‘That’s funny. I got here almost exactly an hour ago. We must have missed each other by seconds.’ Thomas met and held Luc’s eye. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘It just seems like a big coincidence that the friar and the stonemason were both killed in the same way. A very professional way. You’re clearly an expert.’
‘Professional, expert? Thanks for the compliments. But,’ Thomas’s voice dropped even lower, ‘if there’s a professional killer here, are you so sure it’s me? It’s you, and you know it.’
Luc stepped slowly back, until his shoulders touched the stone wall behind him. He began to ease his right hand towards his sleeve as Thomas continued.
‘You’re big enough and strong enough to have killed the monk with your bare hands. I dare say you’ve done that sort of thing before.’ Thomas was staring at him with an ironic smile. ‘Just like I know you think you could kill me with that dagger you keep up your sleeve, if you wanted to.’ He did not, however, roll up his own sleeves and Luc watched his hands very carefully.
‘Who are you?’
‘Thomas. I already told you that.’
Luc glanced around. They were still clear of prying ears. ‘Did you kill the friar?’ He kept his tone level. The other man’s stare didn’t waver.
‘What if I did?’
‘Are you telling me you killed Friar Laurent?’
‘I’m just saying, why should that bother you if I did? He represented the Catholic Church and the pope. Everything you hate and fear.’
‘Why should I hate and fear the Church?’ Luc glanced around again. This conversation was moving into dangerous waters.
‘We’re neither of us children, Luc. I know who you are. You can probably guess who I am. You’re a fugitive. And it’s the Catholic Church, my Catholic Church, you’re running from.’ His expression hardened. ‘And the Church is going to get you, and get what you’re carrying. You can’t escape. You and the girl are pawns in a much bigger game; you must know that by now.’
Luc tensed his muscles. He could feel the blood pulsing in his throat. The other man smiled and took a half step back.
‘Before you launch yourself at me, Templar, remember this. You’re getting old now. You’re no longer as fit and fast as you once were. You’ve been running and hiding for too long. Me, I’m a specialist. Try me, if you like, but don’t forget you’ve been warned. You won’t get your knife out of its sheath.’
They stood like that for a full minute, without another word being uttered. Finally, Luc dropped his shoulders. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a croak. He saw the triumph in the other’s eyes.
‘So why kill the friar? Surely he’s one of your own?’
‘He was, but he was weak. He took a liking to you, or more probably to the pretty girl. As a result, he betrayed the trust placed in him by His Holiness. He betrayed the Church, my Church.’ Thomas’s voice was harder now. ‘He died so that you could be arrested and tried for his murder.’
Luc was genuinely surprised now. This man, this assassin, was prepared to kill a member of the Church just like that? Thomas was happy to explain.
‘Today, on the road, everybody in our group heard the stonemason accuse you of being a Templar. By the way, my compliments on your acting skills. What was it you said? “I have a horror of weapons and all forms of violence.” I almost laughed out loud. I killed the mason, because I didn’t want you to be killed by him. We want you alive, you see?’
Now Luc did. It made perfect sense. The friar had been killed while Luc was away from the inn. He had been alone and so had no alibi. The stonemason had accused him of being a Templar in front of the friar. There was a macabre logic in the idea of Luc killing Friar Laurent, before he could reveal what he had heard to the bishop. The other man’s eyes were watching closely. He saw the comprehension dawn on Luc’s face.
‘That’s right. All it’ll need now is a word or two from me, and all these fine pilgrims will turn against you. Without us having to dirty our hands, or more importantly, show our hand, they’ll denounce you to the authorities. They’ll have you in chains in the wink of an eye.’
Luc had no illusions as to his fate if that ever happened. His thoughts turned to Aimée. It was too horrible to contemplate. He hung his head in sheer dejection. Thomas laughed and wiped his mouth with his right hand.
Luc had been waiting for just such an opportunity. He leapt forward, making no attempt to reach for his hidden dagger. He saw the other man’s hand snake down from his face to his side and the knife appeared like magic. But the extra distance his hand had to travel meant that Thomas was still lifting the point upwards when Luc’s left hand slammed into his windpipe. This was followed by Luc’s right palm thudding into the man’s nose with brutal force. The nose shattered under the effect of the blow and Luc pushed it upwards, into the man’s brain. Thomas died on his feet.
Luc caught him before he could fall and rested the body against the wall. There was a faint clink as the knife fell out of the dead man’s hand. Luc scanned the room anxiously, but nobody in the shadows of the dormitory appeared to have noticed anything.
He returned his attention to the dead man. His face was red with blood, but the flow had stopped as soon as it started and the ground around them was clean and unmarked. Luc waited for a few moments for his breathing to slow down, then he tore a piece of cloth from the dead man’s shirt and used it to clean the blood off the lifeless face. Satisfied with the result, he took the dead man’s left arm and pulled it across his shoulders, catching hold of the hand in his own left hand. With his other arm, he gripped the man tightly around the waist. In this way, he managed to frogmarch the lifeless body past the few remaining drinkers in the next room, without attracting their attention. Drunkenness was no cause for alarm. He struggled with the door handle for a moment. Finally, he pulled it open and they disappeared into the night.
Outside, the moon had risen and illuminated the scene. He swung the body over his shoulder in a more comfortable fireman’s lift and set off down a side road. He met nobody, but he scanned every shadow apprehensively. After three or four minutes, he emerged on the river bank. The river was wide and deep at that time of year. Most importantly, it was flowing away from the town centre. Luc slid the body off his back and into the water, watching as it floated off into the night.
He fell to his knees and gave thanks to the Lord for his salvation. Leaning forward, he scooped a handful of water out of the river. As he splashed his face and wiped the sweat off his brow, he found that his hands were shaking. He wasn’t surprised.
Collecting himself, he set off back up the dark street to the inn. He let himself in the door and was pleased to see that the drinkers had all retired to bed. He managed to return to the dormitory without trouble and found that the other members of his group had all gone back to bed. Aimée was left sitting against her pack, listening nervously for his return. He slipped off his jacket and lay down beside her, hugging her warmly. He pulled her ear close to his mouth and covered them both with the blanket. In the darkness, he whispered the events of the last ten minutes.
‘So he was a Church assassin?’ She turned towards him, whispering in her turn.
‘Yes, Aimée. He knew all about us, and he knew we’re carrying something precious.’
‘Well, that’s more than we do.’ For a moment she allowed herself a flash of frustration. ‘So they appear to know our every move?’
‘Yes, so far. Anyway, for the moment, the initiative’s with us. At least until they find Thomas’s body.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘We get out of here. We get out of Santo Domingo and we find ourselves another bridge. And from now on, we don’t join any other group of pilgrims. We keep ourselves to ourselves. All right?’
She murmured her agreement.
‘Right, pack up your things as quietly as possible. Try not to wake anybody else. There’s just one thing I must do first.’
He slipped out from under the blanket and over to the spot where Thomas’s pack and bedroll still lay. He and Aimée could gain a few precious hours if the others thought Thomas had already left. He lifted both and carried them out to the latrines. By the light of the moon, he dropped them one by one into the depths of the reeking pit. Returning to Aimée, he picked up their packs. Taking her hand, he led her on tiptoe out through the rows of sleeping pilgrims and into the cool night air.
‘Right, from now on, we’re on our own.’
She reached up on her toes and whispered in his ear. ‘Well, there’s nobody I’d rather be with.’ And she kissed him softly on the neck.