The next morning Luke had to scrape ice off the windscreen of the car. It was a dry day with a hazy sun, but dark clouds on the horizon threatened snow later on. As they set off towards the mountains, he thanked the instinct that had made him choose a vehicle with four-wheel drive. If the weather forecast was to be believed, the snow was going to be heavy.
They stopped a few times as they made their way up the valley towards the pass and Spain. The relatively gentle hills had now been replaced by rocky outcrops and scree slopes. Ahead of them, brightly lit by the spring sunshine, was the seemingly impenetrable barrier of snow-covered peaks that stood out clearly against the pale blue of the sky.
‘It’s going to be a hard climb from here to the pass.’ He cast another searching look upwards at the sky. ‘And if the snow sets in, we might not see anything. But it would be so good to get the view from the top down into Spain, just like millions of pilgrims over the centuries!’
‘Like our mystery man.’ Amy sounded very definite about this and Luke smiled. The previous evening they had made a start on their story and had decided that, seeing as they were going that way, their hero would also be making for the former pilgrims’ hospice of Santa Cristina, high in the mountains, near the Somport Pass. They had had quite a discussion about just who the main protagonist of their tale might be, as well as exactly when it might have been set, but without coming to any conclusions. Without admitting it to each other, or maybe not even to themselves, both of them now had a mental picture of a medieval character who looked suspiciously like Luke himself. So far there wasn’t an Amy character, but he, at least, felt pretty sure she would put in an appearance before too long. Meanwhile, modern-day Amy was trying to remember exactly where the abbey had been positioned. ‘And Santa Cristina’s right at the top?’
‘Just the other side, but it’s no more than a ruin these days. Quite possibly hidden under a few feet of snow at the moment, too, but we can always hope.’
Amy nodded. ‘Such a pity, considering how important it used to be.’
‘Third only to the Great St Bernard and Jerusalem itself.’ Amy nodded. She hadn’t heard of Santa Cristina before, but half an hour on the internet after dinner the previous night had made her realise its significance in the medieval world.
As they began to climb, the road got progressively more tortuous, and the valley sides tightened towards them more and more. The road was now squeezed alongside the banks of the fast flowing river. Luke glanced across to the passenger seat. Although Amy looked happy enough, it was difficult to know what she was getting out of this part of the journey, spectacular as it was to a sighted person. He gave her a quick description of their surroundings, finishing with the words, ‘I wouldn’t want to fall into that river.’
She half turned towards him. ‘Dirty or cold?’
‘We’ll take a closer look.’ He braked, pulled off the road, bumped down a steep track and drew up with a crunch of gravel beside the river.
‘Come on, let’s see what you think of a real mountain stream.’
As they opened the doors, both felt the noticeably colder air.
‘That’s straight off the snowy mountains.’ Amy had correctly worked out the direction of the wind and was reaching for a jacket. He leant over to the back seat and handed her a down-filled body warmer. As she stepped out of the car and pulled it on, he took her arm and led her to the edge of the water, helping her across the bank of pebbles. Hearing the water, she crouched down and dipped her hand in.
‘I see what you mean. It’s freezing.’
The word see had caused him all sorts of embarrassment when he first met her. It kept leaping uninvited into his mouth in expressions like Let’s see or Come and see. This caused him acute discomfort each time as he felt he had made some dreadful gaffe in the face of her blindness. If he had, she never gave any sign of it. Gradually, he started to notice that she herself used the verb as often and as naturally as he did. Relieved, he had reverted to his normal figures of speech.
She hastily withdrew her hand from the water and replaced it lightly on his arm. ‘Brr! Of course, at this time of year, and with sun on the mountains, I suppose the winter snows are melting fast. I imagine it’s really clear, clean water. The pilgrims would have been able to drink it with impunity, wouldn’t they?’
‘No question. I’m sure it’s as pure as pure.’ He was acutely aware of her hand on his arm, the warmth reaching through the sleeve of his jacket, and the sensation, while pleasant, was disturbing. He made sure he kept the conversation on historical matters. ‘Who knows? Hundreds, if not thousands of medieval pilgrims may have come to this selfsame spot to fill their water bottles.’
‘Mind you, of course they wouldn’t have been glass bottles.’ She missed nothing. ‘Glass was horrifically expensive in those times. What would they have used? Animal skins?’ She gave his arm a squeeze, which he had come to recognise as the sign that she wanted something.
‘If we’re talking about the Middle Ages, you’re absolutely right. Glass was a real luxury until centuries later. As far as water bottles were concerned, the usual container in those days was unquestionably a gourd or a sheep’s stomach, sometimes soaked in pitch. Personally I’d favour the gourd to the dead sheep, but each to his own.’
She giggled and he smiled with her. She really was a very good travelling companion, not at all the cold, aloof woman he had encountered in London. He thought back to when they had first met. It seemed so very long ago now. In reality it was barely a month and that meeting, he now knew, hadn’t been easy for either of them. Her home was a wonderful, elegant house in Highgate. He wondered idly to himself as he walked up the steps to the front door just how much a three storey Georgian mansion might be worth in this part of London, where an apartment could sell for millions. Father Timothy, who had persuaded him to go for the interview, had told him virtually nothing about Amy, apart from the accident that had robbed her of her parents, and her blindness of course. In particular, Tim had totally omitted to mention that Amy Hardy was, without question, one of the most startlingly beautiful women Luke had ever seen. However, beautiful or not, her attitude that first day had been far from welcoming; decidedly cool in fact. Why had she been so prickly? No time like the present, so he asked her.
‘Can I ask you something, Amy? Why were you so grumpy when we first met?’
A look of surprise crossed her face, closely followed by one of remorse. He had to wait a while for her reply.
‘I know, Luke, and I’m so sorry. I think, more than anything, it was fear. Fear that you might take one look at me and decide you didn’t want the responsibility of taking a blind girl halfway across Europe. You see, it took me five years to make up my mind to get up and start doing something with my life and, while I was waiting for you to come to the house that day, I was suddenly terrified it might not work out, and I’d be stuck there all on my own once again. It came across as grumpiness, but it was fear of rejection. Rebuilding a life isn’t easy.’ It was said with stiff finality. She was still holding onto his arm, but her face was towards the rushing water.
He followed the direction of her eyes and found himself watching a bird’s nest swept downstream over the rapids. A back eddy caught it, held it uncertainly for a few moments, before a fresh wave collected it once more and whirled it away downstream. He was conscious of the inner turmoil in her voice as she continued.
‘The accident’s still ever-present in my head. At least, it has been up to these last couple of weeks. In the space of a few seconds my life changed completely and forever. One moment I was a privileged, or rather over-privileged, member of the one per cent of the one per cent. Then the next moment, my whole world, my family and my future were smashed to smithereens. In the morning I was skiing back over from Zermatt. In the evening I was in a hospital trying to come to terms with losing my family and my eyesight.’ There were tears in the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them run. Angrily she rubbed her forearm across her face.
‘They said my father had a heart attack as we were going down just about the steepest part of the road. I didn’t even realise. Suddenly we were off the road and falling. I don’t remember what happened after that until I woke up in the hospital…’ Her grip on his arm, which had been getting tighter and tighter, suddenly relaxed. ‘It hasn’t been easy. I’m afraid the net result has been to make me grumpy. At least, I was then.’ She released her hold and sat down on the cold pebbles. She took a deep breath and did her best to smile. ‘But I’m much less grumpy now, honest.’ She picked up a handful of pebbles and started to throw them into the river, one by one.
After a moment’s hesitation he sat down as well, choosing a place close beside her, but not touching her. His whole body cried out to him to offer the comfort that she so patently lacked, and he so badly wanted to put his arm round her and hug her, but for his sense of propriety. Apart from anything else, he was, after all, employed as her guide.
The enormity of what she had lost was only too obvious. He wondered, not for the first time, how he would have coped in similar circumstances. Certainly the torment he had endured in his own life, and which had seemed so overwhelming over the last few years, was put into stark perspective. She settled back, one pebble remaining in her hand. He saw her fingers gently feel it and he started to speak, compassionately and cautiously but, as he saw her response, increasingly freely.
‘Thanks for telling me that, Amy. I’m sorry to have put you on the spot like that.’ He cleared his throat. ‘For what it’s worth, I was just thinking that I couldn’t wish for a better travelling companion. No grumpiness at all and I certainly don’t know many others as knowledgeable on medieval matters as you.’
Her expression softened.
‘You’ve lost a lot; a lot that’s irreplaceable, but in return you’ve got some things I haven’t. You can probably see that pebble you’ve got in your hand more fully than I can. I just rely on the one main sense, while you’re seeing it in more ways than I can. I imagine you feel things and hear things so much more intensely than I can. For all I know you can probably hear the car even though the engine’s switched off.’
She raised her head and replied in a brighter tone.
‘That’s easy. I can smell it from here and, for that matter, I actually can hear it. But I don’t think it’s necessarily because my other senses are any better than yours. After all, my nose and my ears are still the same size they were before the accident. It’s just, like you said, you sighted people tend to rely on that one sense and it sort of overpowers the others. Anyway, I bet you can hear it too. Listen, can’t you?’ Her arm pointed straight at the car. He pricked up his ears obediently. She was quite right. The big engine ticked and crackled as it gradually cooled down in the mountain air.
‘Q.E.D.’ He smiled at her and she picked it up from his voice and smiled back. Then, in more serious vein, he added quietly. ‘And never convince yourself that your problems are insurmountable. I can tell you from very painful personal experience that everybody has problems, some physical and visible, others, the worst kind, invisible inside the mind.’ In response to something he read in her face, he made a promise. ‘I’ll tell you all about it one of these days.’
Her eyes crinkled into a little smile as she heard that he had correctly interpreted her unspoken question. She had always known he was secretive about his past, but this was the first time he had hinted that he, too, might be suffering some hidden trauma. She turned back towards the river, glad she had said what she had said, feeling ever more comfortable with him and wondering what had happened to him that he wasn’t saying. Raising her arm, she lobbed the last stone into the freezing water. Then she took a deep breath and turned her head back towards him.
‘Thanks, Luke. It’s good to talk.’ She dried her hands against the sides of her jeans and reached for his arm, her expression relaxed once more. ‘So, onwards and upwards?’
They were soon back on the road, heading up towards the mountains. Luke watched the massive snow-covered barrier in front of them coming ever closer and wondered just how daunting they must have appeared to a medieval pilgrim on foot. Beside him, Amy appeared to be thinking along the same lines. Her voice broke into his thoughts.
‘So our man must have come up this self-same road?’
‘No alternative. If you’re a pilgrim going to Santiago de Compostela, you need to get over the Pyrenees. And there’s only one pass at the end of this valley.’
‘What about the road? Would that have been there in those days?’ She sounded pensive, and he realised how important their invented story was becoming for her, although there was still a lot of detail missing. About all they knew was that they had a big strong hero who was trying to get away from somebody, but they still hadn’t decided who he was or just when the story was taking place.
‘I’m sure there would have been a road, but it certainly wouldn’t have been smooth tarmac. Whatever the road surface, though, if he’s trying to escape from the authorities, he wouldn’t have been able to use it, at least during daylight hours. He would never have dared run the risk of being seen. Remember his dark secret!’ Although at this stage they still had to establish exactly what the dark secret might be, she replied entirely seriously.
‘But how on earth can he get up the valley if he can’t use the road? Surely they would have set up roadblocks and so on.’
‘Absolutely. No, he must have either disguised himself or concealed himself to escape detection. I’ll tell you what, I bet he hid in a cart or carriage belonging to the authorities themselves.’
‘Sort of like Robin Hood hiding underneath the Sheriff of Nottingham’s carriage.’ The road ahead was empty so he risked glancing across at her again. Her eyes were half-closed as she tried to imagine the scene. He read the concentration on her face.
‘Mmh,’ he let his mind roam, ‘I’m not so sure about the Sheriff of Nottingham thing.’ He had her full attention now. ‘A ride up this valley, clinging to the outside of a carriage in the dark, wouldn’t have been that easy, especially at this time of year. And it would have had to be by night for fear of being seen. The area would have been crawling with soldiers on the lookout for him. Even at this time of year, the temperature drops to zero or below on a clear night. Remember the trouble I had this morning scraping the windscreen? Our chap would run the serious risk of getting hypothermia or worse. No, I reckon he would have been in the back of some sort of cart, maybe under a heap of straw or inside a carriage, either disguised or hiding amongst the luggage. But, who’s after him? We haven’t sorted that out yet, have we?’
He glanced at her face. She had obviously been thinking carefully about this. Her forehead furrowed with concentration, she started speaking slowly, as the ideas took shape.
‘If he really isn’t just a common criminal, then the only other authorities who could be after him in those days would have to be the church authorities. Maybe he was wanted for some terrible irreligious act?’ He could clearly hear the question mark. She paused for his reply.
‘I’ve been wondering about that too. But, to be honest, I’m not sure that I see him as a heretic or a blasphemer. Who knows? Whatever the reason, I’m sure you’re right. In medieval days the Catholic Church was every bit as much a temporal state as the national governments. After all, excommunication was a powerful arm to brandish at people. Don’t forget, the Middle Ages were a time when religious faith wasn’t an option, but a natural fact of life. God existed, there was no question.’
‘Not like these days.’
He hesitated before answering, choosing not to comment. They had briefly touched on religion in their talks so far and had established that neither of them was particularly religious, in spite of both having a Catholic priest as a close friend. ‘Anyway, I’m sure our man’s clever enough to get himself a lift up to the Hospital of Santa Cristina without being seen and without catching his death of cold. But what happens to him when he gets there? Is he going there for a reason, or is he just passing through on his way to the Spanish border?’
‘I reckon he was heading for the hospital of Santa Cristina for a specific reason.’ He could hear how hard she was concentrating and he knew the story was having the desired effect of involving her all the more in the trip. He listened as she went on. ‘He had to meet somebody there or find something there, don’t you think?’
He thought about it for a few moments as he accelerated past a truck and trailer laden with timber. ‘You could be right. The question is who or what?’
‘So, come on. You’re the PhD after all. Think about it. Just who was he expecting to meet at the pilgrim hospital?’
‘I’m working on it.’
It was unusually quiet in the car from then on as both of them spent the rest of the morning turning the problem over in their heads. At just before noon, they stopped for a cup of coffee in Etsaut, just about the last bit of relative civilisation before the final climb to the pass. The café was warm and smelt of freshly-baked bread. From where they were sitting Luke could see into the bleak square of dour stone houses. Behind them were the mountains. He described the view to Amy and then their conversation returned, naturally, to their story.
‘We’re agreed that our medieval friend’s travelling through the mountains at this time of year. Right?’ He saw her nod and continued. ‘So, if we work on the basis that he’s trying to cross the mountains this same day of the year, albeit a good few centuries ago, he’s going to be in trouble. It’s still only April, after all, and the mountains are seriously high around here. The snow’s still up there on the pass, although it’s pretty much melted away down on the plains. I would say that the pilgrimage season, at least in the days before snowploughs and four-wheel drive, wouldn’t even have started. If that’s the case, then the person he’s going to see must’ve spent the winter in the abbey.’
She nodded again pensively and suggested. ‘So who, then? A monk? Could he be going up there to meet a monk?’
‘Yes, that could be it, although the question of why has to be answered.’
‘For help of course. Our man’s fleeing justice, temporal or spiritual or both, and he hopes to be able to hide in the abbey of Santa Cristina.’ It sounded a very plausible explanation, but neither of them was totally happy with it. It was a bit too simple somehow. He saw the concentration on her face and strove to give it serious consideration. He was sceptical.
‘Not that it would be that easy to do. A mountain hospice in the winter must have been a bit like a ship in the middle of the ocean. Everybody would have known everybody else, through and through, right down to the ship’s cat and a few of the rats. A new face would stick out like a sore thumb. In a month’s time it would be a different story. By then there would be hundreds of pilgrims coming and going every day, but not yet.’
He watched the expression on her face as she concentrated, desperately trying to find a solution. He did his best to help.
‘So rather than why, let’s think about who. Who is our man? And, for that matter, when is this all happening? The Middle Ages lasted an awfully long time. After all, the pilgrimages to Compostela have been big business since before the first millennium.’ He sipped his coffee and racked his brains for a solution.
Her voice interrupted his reflections. ‘I’ll tell you when.’ She sounded really excited. ‘I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you precisely, Mr PhD History Professor.’ Her voice was triumphant and her expression rapt. ‘This was all happening in exactly the year…’ There was a pause, while she did a rapid calculation. ‘It happened in exactly 1314. Yes, April 1314 it definitely was, and I even know why he was escaping up the valley and why they were after him.’ She gave him a challenging look and sat back to finish her coffee while he struggled to find the answer.
In fact it wasn’t that hard. Here in France, if not the whole of Christendom, the first years of the fourteenth century were dominated by one main event: the fall from grace of the Knights Templar. Few people could have been unaware of the reputation of these warrior knights who had battled in the Holy Land for two hundred years. Their war cry of Beaucéant had struck fear into enemy hearts since the early twelfth century.
Luke made a suggestion that was far less tentative than it sounded. ‘So you’re saying our man is a Templar escaping from the clutches of the Inquisition? Could that be right?’
Amy’s face shone with the sort of expression normally reserved for Crufts winners in the presence of their victorious pets. She slapped the tabletop hard enough to rattle the teaspoons and leant towards him. ‘Okay so far, but why April?’ There was a distinct challenge in her voice.
‘How far is it from Paris to here?’ Now it was his turn for the mental arithmetic. ‘Say about seven hundred kilometres. At an average of, say, twenty, maybe even thirty kilometres a day, how many days would it have taken a man on foot to get here from Paris? I never was much good at that sort of problem at school.’
‘Twenty into seven hundred goes about thirty-five times.’ She was happy to supply the answer as he worked it all out in his head. ‘If my memory serves me right, although the Order of the Temple was officially suppressed in 1312, nobody much outside France paid a lot of attention until the Grand Master of the Templars, Jacques de Molay, was executed in mid-March 1314.’
‘Burned to death over a slow fire on an island in the Seine, along with the Preceptor of Normandy, Geoffroi de Charny.’ She was showing off a bit now.
‘Quite so.’ He decided he might show off a bit as well. ‘And I presume you know the significance of the slow fire. That way, they really burnt to death, with all the agony you can imagine. Normally on a big bonfire, most people actually died of asphyxiation, when the fire consumed all the oxygen, before the pain of the flames really bit.’
Her cocky air left her and she looked bleak. He didn’t notice, as he was still caught up with his calculations.
‘Anyway that was the moment the whole of Christendom realised that the Templars’ time was finally up. The last few still at liberty would have made for safety elsewhere.’ He did another calculation and realised it really did fit. ‘So four or five weeks from the middle of March brings us pretty close to where we are now in April.’ There was amazement in his voice. ‘So that’s what it’s all about.’
‘But why was he heading south, and who was he going to see?’
‘Remember that the kings of Spain and Portugal took scant notice of the order to arrest the Templars. They owed a great deal to the Templars, who’d helped them over the years to rid the Iberian peninsula of the Moors. Escape through the Pyrenees wasn’t such a bad idea.’
‘All right then, he was a Templar escaping from Philippe le Bel.’ She didn’t sound totally convinced. ‘But who was he going to see at Santa Cristina?’
She leant forward on her elbows towards him. His eyes fell upon the open neck of her shirt, presenting him with an unsettling glimpse of white lace and shadowy curves. He cleared his throat guiltily, swilled the remains of his coffee, and did his best to drag his thoughts back to who on earth could have been waiting for a fleeing Templar in a mountain hospice.