OUTSIDE NARBONNE—DECEMBER 1208
From the slit of window carved into the outside wall, Manel peered out to the muddy stretch of road below. He waited, his breath turning white as cold air seeped in. Just as he began to wonder where Jordí had gone, he saw the monk emerge from the alley on a small, sturdy mare. Manel watched the man’s corpulent form sway on the overburdened horse until the pair turned a corner. He secured the shutter and emptied the last of the wine into his cup. Finally, he opened the leather pouch Jordí had pressed into his hand and withdrew a single sheet of vellum.
He knew the handwriting on the page the moment he held it to the light: the Latin script had been written by Philippe du Plessis. All, that is, but the final two sentences, which were cryptic words inked by a hand he did not recognize. No longer at the window, Manel did not see a shadow step away from the alley and enter the inn.
• • •
“It must be one of God’s marvels that a land so vast and difficult to travel could see the intersection of so many of my friends.”
The wine caught in Manel’s throat, and his aborted swallow became a choking cough. He spun away from the fireplace, an arm pressed to his leaking mouth, to see the sénéchal standing in front of the closed door. Manel recovered his voice and his wits. “What do you want?”
“To see the look on your face when I tell you I know everything about your deception.” A mocking smile curled the sénéchal’s lips. “Oh yes. I’ve known since the day the council received the letter from the pope. I followed you through the Marais and saw you enter and leave a residence. Your infamous cousin, Raoul d’Aran, was just steps behind you.” Lucas paused, allowing the full effect of his words to take hold.
Manel blinked and swallowed but held steady, his arms at his sides, one hand gripping the empty cup of wine. “How did you find me?”
“I’ve tracked you since March and intercepted much of your correspondence. Our mutual friend sent word that he’d arranged to meet you on your way to…Madrid? Is that your story? I thought it would be best if I were near at hand. Don’t look so surprised. You aren’t the only spy in Languedoc. Apparently, Bonafé didn’t tell you everything.”
“Jordí,” he gasped. “But why would he—”
“Betray you?” Lucas finished. “Why would any man betray? For power? Money? The threat of violence against those he loves? That was the one that worked finally—threats to friends and family near and far.” He turned slowly around the room, taking in the modest surroundings. “But I could ask you the same, Manel de Perella. Why forsake the Church? Why turn away from a life of influence and comfort and the certainty of your place in history? For this?” He swept out a hand, indicating the fusty room and the arid expanse of Languedoc. “You aren’t even of this region. What does the independence of sheepherders and grape growers and heretics mean to you?”
Manel ached to sit; despite the courage in his heart, his body shook. The fatigue of travel had ground his nerves to dust. He straightened his spine, clenched his fists, and prayed for the strength to continue.
“I was forsaken,” he replied, choosing honesty as a release from the secret life he’d been living. “Not by God, but by men who’d sworn to protect the weak and lift them up through the grace of the Church, men who’d vowed to live by Christ’s example. I witnessed jealous lust for revenue and wicked contempt for those who dared question the sovereignty of the Church’s rule. Something in me began to wither and die. The trusting boy became a soured man.”
As his strength wasted away, he understood it was more than fear causing his shaking hands and blurred vision. It was more than the potent wine. Manel knew what would soon follow. Regret for not having done more, for being a disappointment in the end to his cousin and his cause, washed over him.
But with the possibility of death, either at Lucas Mauléon’s hands or by God’s mercy, there also came a placid release. “Is it so hard to believe that power and influence could be rejected in favor of compassion and justice? Is your heart that hardened to mercy, Sénéchal?”
Lucas snorted with derision. “You are talking to a soldier of the Fourth Crusade. Mercy will get you killed.” He moved about the small room, fingering Manel’s simple but finely made clothing, running his hand over the leather tooling that covered his Bible. “But what price do you put on the heads of your family?” he asked, as detached as if he’d queried whether Manel preferred the wines of Burgundy or those from Tuscany.
“My family?” Manel breathed. His skin shriveled in the grip of icy fear.
“Your cousin, Raoul. His wife, Paloma. Their children. Have you not heard? I have orders to find d’Aran. Others have been dispatched to arrest his family in Gruissan. But I’m certain you must know where I can find him. His family will be spared if he’s captured.”
Manel was stunned into silence. A wave of nausea rippled through his belly, and beads of sweat erupted on his skin, burning like hot oil as they trickled down. He knew he had only a few minutes more.
Lucas ceased his pretense at nonchalance and came to stand directly in front of Manel, his black eyes searching the priest’s face. “As I speak, the abbot of Cîteaux is in Gruissan, waiting for me to either bring him this Catalan who is fomenting rebellion or to oversee the deaths of his family. I can’t help the woman and her children if I don’t find d’Aran.” He gripped the priest’s arms. “I am asking you to help me save Paloma.”
“Save Paloma? Who is she to you?”
“I was once betrothed to her,” said Lucas. “Long ago, when I was known as Lucas Moisset. Those children could have, should have, been mine. I thought I’d return from the Crusade a prodigal son, yet she didn’t wait…” He exhaled a rueful laugh. “She was a wife and a mother by the time I arrived home. But does this mean I wish revenge? No, I could never wish her harm. Tell me where d’Aran is, Perella. I am his wife’s only chance.”
Manel’s vision wavered, and the bile rose in his constricted throat. His legs could no longer hold him. He sank onto a bench before the fire, pulling at the neck of his long wool cassock.
“Lucas Moisset. The falcon. You murdered Castelnau.”
• • •
Then the priest pitched forward onto his knees and vomited up the wine. Lucas sprang back in disgust, cursing as Perella slumped to the floor. His body shook violently, and his eyes rolled back until only the whites showed through his half-closed lids. Lucas knelt beside the man and slammed his fist into the table, splintering its top.
Beneath his anger was a tremor of fear. He’d heard the rumors of the priest’s fits—some said they were evidence of his divinity and preternatural intelligence, that God spoke through the handsome priest at the moment he was overcome, or even that these fits were God in the form of man. Blood began trickling from Manel’s lips, and Lucas cursed again. The priest had bitten his tongue in the midst of his frenzy. Lucas waited until Perella’s body ceased to quake, but he couldn’t rouse him. His eyes remained open and unblinking. His chest was still.
Lucas looked around the room for something to tell him where d’Aran might be. He found nothing but one sheet of vellum. The blood leeched from his face as he skimmed the script. He read it once more, slowly. Then Lucas folded the letter inside the calfskin pouch that sat on the table and rushed from the room.