The golden city was steel grey as Luc led Aimée on the final leg of the pilgrimage. The steady rain, which had accompanied them for the last three days, hadn’t let up. They had gradually descended from the gorse and heather of the mountains to the jumble of smaller hills around Santiago de Compostela itself. The sky was gloomy and overcast from misty horizon to misty horizon. The roads ran with water, the gutters and ditches overflowed. The city was barely discernible through the rain. But, in spite of the conditions, there was an air of excitement, anticipation and elation.
Luc and Aimée stood with a hundred or so others on top of the Monte del Gozo, staring for the first time at their goal. Some around them were in tears, some laughing, some skipping about like infants, others kneeling, some totally prostrate in their joy. They had stopped in Lavacolla earlier that morning. Along with all the other pilgrims, they leapt into the icy river water. In the previous village, Luc had bought fresh clothes for them both. He helped her to strip off the old, travel-soiled dress and shift and immerse herself totally in the river. He hadn’t remarked upon her nakedness and, in the midst of all the others, it seemed quite natural. He had stripped in his turn, quite unselfconsciously. Around them, pilgrims of all complexions were dancing naked and splashing with noisy glee, cleansing themselves in homage to the Apostle James, whose tomb was now finally within reach.
Refreshed and restored by the cold water, they dressed impatiently, infected with the same enthusiasm that had struck their companions. On top of his new clothes, Luc replaced his leather waistcoat, still heavy with more than enough silver coins to get them safely to their destination in Portugal. For the pilgrims, this marked the end of a long and arduous journey, often filled with danger and grief. The fact that, for most of them, the whole exhausting route would restart in a few days time, as they turned back and headed for home, was ignored for the moment. Now there was only joy and expectation.
From the top of the Monte do Gozo they could just make out the towers of the cathedral. He did his best to describe the scene to her.
‘The cathedral’s immense. The towers rise up far, far into the sky.’ She gripped his arm tightly, infected by the enthusiasm of those around them. ‘There are spires and towers all over the city. I’ve never seen anywhere like it. Jerusalem and Rome have many, many churches and monuments, but you don’t get as many in such a small space as you do here.’
In spite of the increasingly heavy rain, Santiago de Compostela still looked welcoming. Luc held Aimée to one side as the people around them started to charge down the hill. Some took off their boots, so as to do homage to the Apostle by arriving barefoot. Others undertook this final leg of their journey on their hands and knees, as a further sign of adoration and reverence. Once the worst of the crowd had gone, Luc took Aimée’s arm and they started to walk down together. They kept their hoods pulled over their heads. This was partly for shelter from the incessant downpour, and partly to minimise the risk of discovery, if their enemies were lying in wait.
‘You know, Aimée, it’s actually a good thing it’s raining. The chances of being spotted are pretty slim. First, it’s unlikely anybody will be out looking for us on a day like this. Second, with our heads covered, we should be anonymous.’ He hoped he was right. They had seen no trace of the archbishop’s men for a long time now. Maybe they really had given up.
As they drew nearer, the city of Saint James was revealed in all its glory as a succession of spectacular buildings emerged from the gloom. Nobody could fail to be impressed. Like all the others, Luc and Aimée headed straight for the cathedral itself. They found themselves in the midst of a sea of humanity and Luc had to fight his way through a mass of vendors, offering all manner of souvenirs. Finally they entered the city.
Inside the city gates it was, if anything, even more crowded. As well as innkeepers and their touts, there were moneychangers and vendors selling everything from fresh fish to pieces of the True Cross. There were jugglers, minstrels, dancers and even prostitutes plying for trade, although it was barely lunchtime. Certainly a pilgrim with money would want for nothing here in Santiago. Luc helped Aimée through the noisy throng, his wallet safely tucked into the waistband of his breeches. He was delighted at the obvious chaos and confusion. All the better to help them avoid detection.
Finally they emerged from the narrow streets into a wide square, paved with huge slabs of marble. The crowd thinned, as the pilgrims spread out across the broad expanse, all eyes in one direction: the cathedral. Walls of golden stone, towers reaching up to the sky, a mass of sculpture and, in the middle of the base, the most wonderful of all, the Pórtico de la Gloria. Luc led her across towards it, threading his way through the clusters of awestruck pilgrims. There were crowds just standing in solemn contemplation of more beauty than any of them had ever seen in all their lives. Struggling through the crowds, he led her first to the central column.
‘Here we are. We’ve done it.’ She could hear the animation in his voice. ‘We’re here at the Pórtico de la Gloria. This is the Tree of Jesse. Do you know what you’ve got to do?’
She reached out confidently. Her hands landed on the sculpted marble depicting Christ’s family tree and Luc was impressed to see that she clearly knew what she had to do. He watched as her fingers felt gently up from Jesse at the base, across David and Solomon and up towards Christ himself. The Apostle James smiled down benignly at every pilgrim who entered. Tracing back down again she found the spot without his help being needed and pressed her right hand against the column, each finger slipping into a depression made by the millions of hands that had pressed upon this self same spot in gratitude for having been allowed to complete their pilgrimage.
She turned back towards Luc and breathed. ‘Now you.’
Solemnly, he placed his hand against the smooth stone and closed his eyes, mouthing a silent prayer of thanks. They had carried out their mission and they could be proud of what they had achieved. Then a crowd of pilgrims pushed them on through the doorway into the cathedral itself. This was another awe-inspiring sight. The central aisle stretched out before them, the roof so very high above them, seemingly floating on majestic golden pillars of stone. Just below the roof, a gallery led around round the whole building, a few tiny figures visible high above them. Far down at the end of the aisle stood the altar and the sepulchre of Saint James. These were almost invisible behind the mass of pilgrims packing the cathedral.
The noise made by the crowds of people in the cathedral was deafening, especially for somebody who had grown used to the silence of the monastery, and the quiet of the open road. There were voices of men, women and children of all ages, and from all parts of the world. All of them were exclaiming and shouting as they admired the magnificence of the interior.
Aimée reached out and let her free hand run across the smooth rounded stone of a pillar. Its size and strength, reaching up to the heavens, took her breath away. She tightened her grip on Luc’s arm and asked, ‘Where’s the Apostle’s tomb?’
He turned her head slightly to the right and spoke directly into her ear. ‘Down there.’
‘Can we go?’ She was keen, as he was, to reach the true end of the pilgrimage. He looked down at her and marvelled at her strength and determination, as well as her beauty. She was truly a woman among women, and he loved her dearly. He knew that now, without a shadow of a doubt. He bent his head down so that his mouth was touching her ear and kissed her softly before speaking.
‘I love you, Aimée. I love you and I’ll never leave you.’
Her face jerked up towards his, a soft smile on her lips as she heard the words for which she had been hoping for so long. ‘Never?’
‘Never.’ He knew he meant it.
The crowd from behind caught up with them. They were pushed slowly, but inexorably, down the length of the cathedral to the altar. Beneath this lay the sepulchre of the saint. As they approached, Luc described the imposing stone statue of Saint James above the altar. He was dressed as a pilgrim, complete with cloak and hat, and the right forefinger of the statue pointed downwards towards the site of his tomb, below the altar. Luc found himself thinking once again of the magic of the cloak he had worn on his back all the way from the Pyrenees. As he did so, he mouthed a prayer that the protection of the Almighty would extend from here all the way to the safety of Portugal.
The mass of pilgrims around the altar were about twenty or thirty deep. The remains of the saint lay down a narrow staircase and everybody wanted to see for themselves. After waiting an eternity, without getting any closer to it, Luc took Aimée by the shoulders. He struggled out of the throng towards one of the side chapels, where they could catch their breath.
‘Too many people?’ She had to shout in his ear to make herself heard. ‘Why don’t we just stay here for a moment? Then I would really like to go to confession.’
He shouted agreement. They knelt side-by-side, backs against the side wall of the aisle, heads bowed, both praying to the saint. She prayed for Luc, for his safety and happiness, and he prayed for her. As he prayed, Luc could feel the never-ending stream of pilgrims passing by in front of them. Somehow, this didn’t disturb him. They were, after all, on holy ground. He felt sure they would be shielded from their enemies, as long as they stayed inside the cathedral. He abandoned himself to his prayers. When he finally stood up again he felt purged, restored by his communion with the Almighty. She reached out to him and stood up in her turn.
‘Can we go to confession now?’
He shouted in agreement. They followed the crowd in the direction of the chapel of San Salvador, where another crowd of pilgrims waited. Inside the chapel, a dozen priests were hearing the confessions of the pilgrims. This had to be done, prior to receiving the all-important Compostela certificate. This document would be conclusive proof that each had indeed successfully undertaken the pilgrimage. Obtaining this vital confirmation could have dramatic consequences. For some, it meant the papal pardon, which would relieve them of time they could expect to spend in Purgatory. For others, it was the extinguishing of a debt, forgiveness of sins, or the completion of a sentence imposed by a court for some misdoing.
At least there was more order to this part of the cathedral. Rope lines had been set up, six or seven abreast, attached to heavy wooden posts. The pilgrims were shepherded into lines by bored-looking novices, in an attempt to streamline this most vital part of the pilgrimage procedure. Luc and Aimée let themselves be guided into the line nearest the wall and settled down to wait their turn. He counted about twenty people before them in the queue. Lowering his head towards Aimée, he spoke softly into her ear, no longer needing to shout, as the chaos around the altar was a good way behind them.
‘There are a good twenty people in front of us, so it’s going to take a while. Mind you though, I’ve never seen confessions as quick as these. Either the pilgrims have led blameless lives, or the priests are in a hurry. Are you all right to wait for a while?’
She gripped his forearm and smiled. ‘As long as is necessary. It’s the one thing every pilgrim has to do, isn’t it?’
Yes, he agreed mentally, it was indeed the one thing they all had to do. Indeed, the thought rushed urgently into his head, this chapel would be the perfect place for anybody lying in wait for a particular pilgrim. All they had to do was be patient, and their prey would come straight to them. Nervous tension flooded through his body. Aimée sensed it.
‘What is it, Luc?’ Her question went unanswered.
He swung round, eyes searching every face in the crowd. He looked beyond the sea of cheery, healthy faces, waiting eagerly for this culminating act of their journey. He scanned the chapels and niches on the opposite side of the aisle. Then he turned his attention once more to the chapel of San Salvador. The procession of pilgrims into the lines continued steadily, without a break. He saw nobody suspicious, no face he recognised, but the warning bells were ringing in his head. He bent towards her and whispered urgently.
‘We’ll look for somewhere else to have our confessions heard. I’m worried they may have this chapel under observation. Come on, let’s get out of here.’ Her face instantly showed concern.
He took her arm and, murmuring apologies to the people behind him, started to push back through the line. All the time, his eyes searched anxiously all around them. A few people looked surprised that they should have chosen to drop out of the line when so close to their goal. But they all moved good-naturedly out of the way.
Luc and Aimée emerged from the end of the rope lines. He stopped, unsure whether to turn right and make for the exit, or to try for the anonymity of the crowds around the main altar once more. As he was weighing up the possibilities, a noisy altercation broke out behind them. It was caused by a group trying to push into the queues. Luc suddenly noticed that the handful of novices who had been directing the pilgrims had disappeared. Casting around over the heads of the passers-by, he caught a glimpse of black robes scampering off along the aisle. He turned back in the opposite direction, desperately searching for signs of danger.
Then he saw them.