In the implacable calm of that early evening, the echo of feet on a stone floor. Francesco de Leone strained his ears to hear where the sound was coming from, only to realise all of a sudden that the footsteps were his.
He was walking along the ambulatory of the church. His sleeveless black coat flapped around his calves, occasionally brushing the rood screen shielding the chancel. A large white crucifix with eight branches fused together in pairs was sewn onto the garment, above his heart.
How long had he been advancing in this way? For a while no doubt, as his eyes were accustomed to the semi-darkness. He tried by the weak light filtering through the dome to study the shadows that mocked him. They seemed to be flowing between the pillars, lapping at the base of the walls, slipping between the balustrades. What church was this? What did it matter? It was not very big and yet he had been turning in it for so many hours he knew every last one of the massive stones whose ochre hue appeared tinged with pink in the gloom.
He tried to catch up with the silently moving figure, betrayed only by the faint rustle of fabric, of heavy silk. It was the figure of a woman, a woman hiding. A proud figure, almost as tall as he. Suddenly he noticed the woman’s long hair. So long it reached below her knees, merging in a wave with her silk dress.
A stabbing pain made him breathe in sharply. And yet the cold that reigned within those walls was biting. His breath condensed in the air, moistening his lips.
He was chasing the woman. She was not fleeing, only keeping the distance between them. She circled as he circled, always a few steps ahead of him as though anticipating his movements, staying on the outside of the ambulatory while he moved along on the inside.
He paused. A single step and then she stopped. He heard the sound of calm slow breathing, but he might have imagined it. As he moved off again so did his shadow.
Francesco de Leone’s hand reached slowly for the pommel of his sword, even as an overwhelming love made his eyes fill with tears. He looked in disbelief at his hand clutching the metal pommel. Had he aged? Great bulging veins protruded under the pale skin, which was covered in a mesh of fine wrinkles.
Why was he chasing this woman? Who was she? Was she real? Did he wish to kill her?
Francesco de Leone woke up with a start, his face bathed in sweat. His heart was beating so fast it almost hurt and he was breathless. He lifted his arm and turned his hand. It was long and broad without being heavy. A layer of silky, pale flesh covered the subtle bluish maze of veins.
He sat on the edge of the canopied bed in the chamber Capella had allocated to him, struggling against the debilitating dizziness.
The dream, the nightmare, was becoming clearer. Leone was nearing his goal. The dream was the future, he was certain of that now.
He had to get out of there, to take advantage of the dawn and wander through the city streets. That chamber, that house oppressed him. The lingering stagnant odour choked him.
Giotto Capella was worried sick. Over the years he had developed a genuine aversion to honesty. This was not in his case because of any particular liking for vice; it was more out of superstition. Honesty had come to be equated in his mind with weakness, and to be weak was to be humiliated.
What could this handsome Knight from an eminent family possibly know of humiliation? Capella resented him bitterly. Not because of his noble birth or because he chose to disregard the privileges of such a birth, not even because of his implacable judgement of the betrayal at Acre. What did he think? That Giotto was such a fool that he had not weighed up his crime when he made his transaction with the enemy? Three hundred gold pieces for so many men, women and children, for so many screams, for so much blood? He had accepted the deal and been cheated. No. Capella resented him for having brought right into his study the proof that no memory can ever be entirely laid to rest. For in the end the usurer had managed to accommodate his. It was true that from time to time they would seep into his brain, above all at night. And yet these infiltrations had gradually become less frequent. Giotto owed his easy conscience to a convenient theory he had invented for himself: after all, who could say that reinforcements would have arrived in time to save the citadel at Acre? What is more, someone else might have revealed the plans of the sewers if he hadn’t. They would have died anyway in the end. And so the usurer had cleared his conscience by convincing himself that the massacre had been inevitable, and that he was one guilty party among a host of other potential ones. Now, thanks to the Hospitaller who had never known fear, the white walls at Acre never left his thoughts. Now, honesty was beating a pathway to his door accompanied by its ruinous counterpart: clarity. Now, here he was telling himself that but for his crime thirty thousand souls would still be alive.
In reality, as much as he hated Leone, his petty predator’s instinct told him that this was not a man upon whom he could wreak revenge. He must be killed outright, and Giotto was too much of a coward to do that.
Before the arrival of Monsieur de Nogaret’s envoy that afternoon he had entertained the foolish hope that some miracle, some sleight of hand might remove this troublesome guest from his midst. Each time he heard the man leave, as he had that early morning, he prayed he would never return. Countless people met their deaths in that city every day so why not the Knight Hospitaller? Giotto Capella knew this was foolish wishful thinking. There was another, less remote possibility: if he were to do nothing, why, the Knight would never meet Guillaume de Nogaret and might end up leaving. He could once again apply his favourite dictum: ‘Always put off until tomorrow what people ask you to do today.’ It had brought him fortune and riches up until then, but he was mindful that it might let him down now.
Capella’s world, which he had worked so hard to build, was being trampled under the Knight’s feet. In the space of a few days he had lost his appetite for life; even the lure of easy profit no longer filled him with feverish excitement. Why not admit it, since Leone was forcing him to be honest: it was not remorse that was demoralising him so much as the fear of his faults being imminently made public. A fault confessed is half redressed. Poppycock! Only those you succeed in burying never come back to haunt you.
Dressed in his nightclothes and a flannel nightcap, Giotto Capella was worried sick, plunged into despair for the past few minutes by the thought that his fear of reprisal prevented him from striking back. This impossibility had taken away his appetite for his supper and he was livid. Monsieur de Nogaret’s messenger had left discreetly a few hours earlier and Leone could not have seen him sneaking out of the service entrance to the building. Monsieur de Nogaret had requested Giotto’s presence two days later. The matter could only relate to money. King Philip did not baulk at borrowing vast sums of money even if it meant later on having to expel the moneylenders in order to avoid repaying the debts of the realm. If that meant money could be made by practising a barely concealed usury on, among others, the King’s barons, then all the better. Since the man had left, Capella had been dragging his feet. What if he went to the meeting alone and warned his Seigneur de Nogaret of the Knight’s extraordinary request? After all, what did one more betrayal matter? And yet the memory of the Knight’s silences dissuaded him. Silences reveal a great deal more than words. And those of this man declared that he belonged to that race of wolves whom God’s love has convinced to watch over His flock. A wolf possessed of a terrifying purity.
A nervous servant girl entered, stammering unintelligibly:
‘I … I … he wouldn’t listen, master, it’s not my fault …’
Francesco de Leone appeared behind the girl, and dismissed her with a gesture. He studied Giotto Capella’s apparel. A man in a nightshirt and nightcap will give less resistance than the same man fully dressed. No. The Knight expected no opposition from the Lombard usurer. His threats had already turned Capella’s face even more sallow. Would he carry them out if it proved necessary? He might. Only those capable of pity were deserving of it and this man had not hesitated to profit from the massacre of men, women and children.
‘When do you plan to arrange my meeting with Nogaret, Lombard?’ he asked, without troubling to greet his recalcitrant host.
The coincidence was too great and Capella understood that the Knight had seen the messenger sent by the King’s Counsellor.
‘I was waiting for the right moment.’
‘And?’
‘It has arrived.’
‘When did you mean to inform me?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘Why the delay?’
The Knight’s calm voice alarmed Giotto, who protested in a rasping whine:
‘What were you expecting?’
‘From you? The worst.’
‘Foul lies!’
‘Take heed, usurer. I have killed many men who caused me no harm. You, I shall turn over. The King’s executioners have an enthusiasm for torture that inspires … respect.’
The apparent irony of this last remark worried the usurer, who made a show of his sincerity, explaining:
‘We shall undoubtedly be received by Guillaume de Plaisians. Do you know him?’
‘Only by reputation and not very well. He was Nogaret’s student at Montpellier, I believe, and then a judge at the royal court in that city before becoming seneschal at Beaucaire.’
‘Make no mistake, he is Seigneur de Nogaret’s éminence grise. He began working with him last year as a jurist under direct orders to the King. In this case the expression “right-hand man” would be inexact for no one knows whether Nogaret or Plaisians is the brains behind any reform. The two men are equally brilliant, but Nogaret is no speaker, while the other will harangue a crowd until it no longer knows whether it is coming or going, and then make it perform a volte-face. I still remember his extraordinary and fearsome diatribe against Boniface VIII. Their physical appearance is as dissimilar as their talent for oratory. Guillaume de Plaisians is a handsome fellow. In brief, he is no less of a man to be reckoned with than my Seigneur de Nogaret.’
A doubt flashed through Francesco de Leone’s mind. Why had the prior Arnaud de Viancourt not mentioned Nogaret’s éminence grise as Capella referred to him?