The pitch-black stallion pawed the ground while its rider, a shadowy figure wrapped in a brown woollen cloak, scanned the gloomy forest in search of his prey. A shiny metal claw on the end of his right hand gripped the reins. The ghostly figure sat up in his saddle and gave a grunt of disgust. This time, the fools had chosen a slip of a girl as a messenger. Did they really think she stood more of a chance than the men they had sacrificed up until then? The fools. And yet, having tracked her for more than half an hour, the ghostly slayer’s contempt was gradually giving way to impatience, even to a sense of unease. The young girl moved swiftly and noiselessly. How could she not be exhausted? Where was she hiding, in which piece of undergrowth? Why had she not given in to her panic like the others before her? For they had not all been poisoned to the point of delirium. Why did she not make a run for it in a pathetic attempt to flee?
The figure tensed his calf muscles against the horse’s flanks. The animal shifted restlessly, sensing the doubt creeping into the mind of its master.
What had brought this girl to Arville? Was her mission related to the Templar commandery? Hitherto all papal messages had passed through Clairets Abbey. The ghostly figure began to grow angry. He hated straying from his habitual hunting ground. He tried to calm himself by imagining what effect killing his first female would have on him. Would her face register the same expression of terror when she saw the metal claw? Would a woman’s flesh tear more easily than a man’s? Let it be done. Night was falling and the journey back was a long one.
The robed phantom scoured the brambles, shrubs and thickets. All the scheming, lies and murders he had been forced to tolerate and then to accept. For he did not revel in them, that was not his vice. Killing brought him neither pleasure nor displeasure. At best it was a hazard of the job, and at worst an unavoidable part of his mission, and if there was no other way …
The years of bitter disappointment, humiliation and needless hardship had placed his life on its present course. The exhilarating feeling of no longer being an insignificant person among others had achieved the rest. For the first time his existence had meaning, was becoming pivotal, and little did it matter in the end what cause he served. For the first time, he was no longer the victim of power but the one wielding it.
Lying flat on the forest floor some twenty yards from the horse’s hooves, concealed under a mass of ferns, Esquive watched her pursuer, who had begun tracking her before she was able to deliver the message she was carrying. She had known of the dangers involved when she accepted the mission. Why had they chosen novices as messengers before sending her? The idea of taking a life was so alien to them that they preferred to sacrifice their own. Not she, who was a redoubtable swordswoman thanks to her father. The archangel Hospitaller would also have known how to fight the phantom and his pitch-black stallion, but he was still so far away. What did he remember of their meeting years before? Very little no doubt – at least with regard to her.
Esquive concentrated all her attention on the horse once more as it nervously sidestepped a few paces then came to a standstill. The evil phantom was growing anxious and communicating his alarm to the horse.
In spite of her faith, the strength of mind she had inherited from her father, and her immeasurable love for the archangel of Cyprus, Esquive had been seized with dread when she first caught sight of the enormous black stallion rising out of the evening mist. The animal had hurled itself at her and the spectre had raised his hideous gloved hand.
She had fled, her suppleness and speed giving her a head start. She had dug herself down into the earth and remained there motionless, like a root, in order to catch her breath and recover her presence of mind.
She could not allow herself to die now. She was less important than the information she was carrying. What then? Then God would decide. Death mattered little to her for she would be taking her archangel of flesh and blood with her.
At first the phantom saw only two pale amber pools, two almost yellow pools. Two immense eyes. Then a mane of long dark wavy hair. Finally a tiny heart-shaped mouth and skin as pale as moonlight. The command rang out even as a slender hand drew a short sword from a belted scabbard.
‘Dismount. Dismount and fight.’
This unexpected reversal of fortune gave the phantom cause to hesitate. The young girl continued in a startlingly deep voice:
‘Do you want my life? Come and take it. It will cost you dearly.’
What was happening? Nothing had gone according to plan. What came next was so unexpected it caught the phantom off guard. The girl hurled herself at the horse, brandishing her sword, and thrust the sharp blade into the powerful chest of the animal, which whinnied in pain and surprise and threw its rider, rigid with shock.
A fierce joy made Esquive’s strange eyes shine even brighter. She smiled, stepped back a few paces, and stood with her legs apart, ready to fight.
The phantom heaved himself up. Fear. The fear he had believed he could make vanish forever pervaded him again. That dreadful fear of death, of suffering, of being nothing again. He removed his glove, which felt ridiculous now, and tentatively drew his dagger. He knew how to fight, of course, but the girl’s posture informed him he was dealing with an expert swordswoman.
He cast a desperate glance around him, choked by the self-loathing which up until a few minutes before he had believed himself rid of. He was a miserable coward, a weakling who had become drunk on the power of others, mistaking it for his own.
He hated the girl. She was responsible for resuscitating his past. She would pay for it; she would pay for his self-loathing. One day, he would take pleasure in killing her, in hearing her scream, then whimper, then die. One day. Soon.
Esquive sensed her enemy was about to flee. She hesitated a fraction of a second too long between her anger, her desire to slay the one who had killed so many of their own, and the overarching importance of her mission. Did the phantom notice?
He bolted towards the big black stallion that had come to a halt a few dozen yards away, not quickly enough though to avoid the broad blade thudding into his right shoulder. The pain made him cry out, but fear and loathing drove him on. He heaved himself into the saddle with his left hand, and horse and rider vanished into the dark night of the forest.