The courtyard of the Tour de la Justice was crowded with petitioners; people spilled out into the street beyond. Jaufré stood watching from the top of the wide steps that led to the hall. Feelings were running high in the city; there had been disturbances, little demonstrations of anger directed against the Tsiyonim. Yet he felt nothing as he surveyed the petitioners, oddly distanced from the hatred he had awakened. Since that night he had felt nothing at all. It was as if the power he had summoned had armed him for this encounter, burning away all human emotions, making him invulnerable.
He had placed his men around the courtyard – but they were outnumbered. If there was trouble, they would never be able to contain it.
A scuffle suddenly broke out and a wave rippled through the heaving sea of people as a dishevelled woman pushed her way through, collapsing to her knees at the bottom of the steps.
‘Call yourselves men of the Watch!’ She was almost incoherent with anger. “Three days! Three days have gone by since my boy was found! And what have you done? Nothing!’
Jaufré looked down at her and saw a face distorted with grief, unwashed cheeks streaked with runnels of tears, wild hair a faded shade of a brighter angel-gold, escaping from under a stained veil.
So this was the mother. He could not concentrate on what she was saying; he could only wonder how such a drab creature could have given birth to a child of angelic beauty.
‘Well?’ she cried, shaking her fist at Jaufré. ‘What are you going to do about it? I want justice for my boy!’
Two more women fought their way to the front of the crowd and raised the woman to her feet, half-supporting, half-restraining her.
‘Justice! Justice!’ The crowd took up her words, repeating them in a rising chant so loud that Jaufré did not hear the great doors dragged open behind him. The chanting died and, turning, Jaufré saw that Comte Aymon had appeared at the top of the steps.
‘What is this noise?’ Aymon demanded testily. ‘Can’t your men keep these people under control, Orbiel?’
‘With respect, Comte,’ Jaufré said, ‘my men are outnumbered twenty to one.’
‘Give me justice, Comte!’ cried the woman. ‘Justice for my boy!’
‘Who is that loud-mouthed woman?’ Aymon murmured in Jaufré’s ear.
‘The mother of the murdered boy.’
‘Admit her and her companions to the court. The rest of you – disperse. Go back to your work. I have the matter in hand.’
The woman tried to climb the steps but sank down, as though her strength was exhausted. Her two companions put their arms around her and helped her up the steps. Jaufré signalled to his men to take their places on the steps, guarding the doors to the court. Before he followed the Comte into the building, he turned, gazing back over the courtyard. A few of the petitioners had obeyed the Comte’s orders but many lingered on, arms crossed, stubbornly determined to wait.
A shadow seemed to darken the courtyard as he gazed down at the crowd, and instinctively he glanced up to see if a cloud had moved across the sun.
The sky was blue, hot-summer blue – and cloudless.
Jaufré shook his head, trying to clear his vision.
By the time he reached the hall, the woman was already making her deposition before the Comte. Behind Aymon’s chair he noticed the lean figure of Prieur Maugis of the Order of the Sacred Lady, Arcassanne’s spiritual leader. The Prieur watched in silence, fingers pressed together. What influence had he exerted in the matter? Jaufré wondered. The priests of the Lady rarely interfered in judicial affairs. But this had become much more than a simple matter of justice.
‘My name is Guillemette. I live by the river. I’m a laundress, I support my family doing washing. My boy’s name?’ Her voice faltered. ‘Jacou. Eight years old this summer.’
Jaufré felt something twist deep within him. Jacou. And he had not even known the boy’s name till now …
‘Your only child?’ the clerk asked. Comte Aymon looked on from his chair on the dais, fingers slowly tapping the arms of the chair.
‘No; I have four other little ones.’
Four! So what does one fewer matter? They breed like rabbits, these common women, she’s probably ready to drop another at any moment …
‘I can’t rest, I can’t sleep.’ Guillemette’s voice penetrated Jaufré’s thoughts, harsh as the persistent whine of a winter’s wind. ‘I just keep seeing his face …’
‘Captain Orbiel.’ Aymon beckoned Jaufré to the dais. ‘What have you done so far to bring the murderer to justice?’
‘No one in the Tsiyonim community saw or heard anything that night, Comte.’
‘And you believe them?’ cried Guillemette. ‘They’re shielding someone! They’re lying!’
‘Who knows what they get up to in there?’ said one of her friends, jabbing her finger at Jaufré. ‘Remember what happened in Galicys. Twelve years ago. They were murdering children and drinking their blood –’
‘Allegations. It was never proved,’ Aymon said drily.
‘I told him to stop running errands for that tailor. But we needed the money,’ whispered Guillemette, sinking back, exhausted. ‘Five mouths to feed, he was only trying to help me …’
‘And that old man,’ persisted her companion. ‘The Tsiyonim priest. Where was he that night?’
Prieur Maugis leaned forwards and whispered in Aymon’s ear. Aymon nodded – but his expression did not alter.
‘Perhaps you’d better bring in some of the Elders of the community to be questioned, Orbiel,’ Aymon said.
Question the Elders. Jaufré forgot about Guillemette as a wild surge of excitement thrilled through him. What better opportunity to twist the truth from the Tsiyonim?
‘Do I have your authority?’ he asked, carefully masking his exhilaration.
‘You have,’ Aymon said wearily.
Prieur Maugis cleared his throat; a rough, rasping sound like the grating of a key in a rusty lock.
‘Comte,’ he said, ‘is this not a matter for my inquisitors? Are we not straying into matters of the spirit?’
Jaufré glanced at the Comte. Interference from the priests? That would ruin everything.
‘Prieur Maugis,’ Aymon said, ‘my father granted the Tsiyonim his protection. I must – and I will – endorse that treaty.’ Although the Comte’s expression remained bland, Jaufré saw that he had begun to twist the great onyx seal ring on his fourth finger as he spoke. ‘Arcassanne is a state that thrives on a healthy trade with other countries. If we offend other faiths, other beliefs, we risk losing our trade – and our livelihood –’
‘Torch the Quarter,’ Guillemette cried. ‘Smoke them out!’
‘My good woman, you must not take the law into your own hands. We will find the murderer and we will bring him to justice.’ Aymon rose to his feet. ‘But if any one of you attempts to stand outside the law – then I shall make an example of him. This hearing is at an end.’
Jaufré sat hunched over his desk. Candles burned in every corner of the turret room; the air was rich with their golden radiance.
So why – when all was bright with candlelight – did he have the distinct impression that there was a shadow within the room, a patch of darkness that slid into the furthest edge of his vision – yet, as he glanced up, slid away again?
Every time he took up his pen, dipped it into the ink, he became aware of it; every time he set the pen down and turned around, he saw to his irritation that there was nothing there.
As a consequence he had written nothing.
What had he expected? That one brief glimpse into the numinous would rekindle the dying fire of his poetic gifts? His mind could conjure no delicate poetic conceits, no fanciful rhymes or jeux de mots … the only image that appeared was the waxen face of a dead child. Jacou.
He shut his eyes, pressing his fingertips against his closed lids. Jagged traceries of flame embroidered the darkness.
There must be something wrong with his sight. He had not seen aright since that chaotic moment of apocalyptic turbulence in the cellar. Some lingering damage must be causing this irritating visual distortion.
He heard feet on the stair – and moments later, the curt rap of a mailed fist on the door.
‘Identify yourselves!’ Jaufré said curtly.
‘Men of the Watch, Captain.’
Jaufré rose to his feet. This was no time to reveal any sign of fatigue or weakness.
‘Enter.’
The door swung open and two men appeared, half-dragging a third between them.
‘We’ve apprehended the suspect you ordered us to bring in for questioning.’
Jaufré saw Rebh Jehiel, dusty, dishevelled, gazing in bewilderment around him.
‘You’ve done well. Now leave us. Wait below.’
The men released Jehiel and tramped out.
The old scholar stood blinking in the candlelight, a nocturnal animal dragged from the darkness of its burrow.
Jaufré watched him, arms folded, saying nothing.
Jehiel’s eyes narrowed. His breathing quickened. Suddenly he raised his hands, making the sign to avert evil, muttering under his breath words Jaufré could not catch.
Jaufré took a step towards him.
‘What have you done?’ Jehiel said, backing away. ‘In the name of God, Captain, what have you done?’
Jaufré stopped, frowning. What could the old man sense? Could he detect his guilt, could he read it in his eyes? Or was there … something else?
‘I warned you. Why did you not heed my warning?’ The colour had faded from Jehiel’s face; his skin looked pallid, almost grey. One hand crept to the collar of his coat, loosening it with shaking fingers.
‘What are you babbling about?’ Jaufré spoke harshly, fearing Jehiel might be about to have a seizure.
‘Might I – might I sit down? Your men insisted that the matter was urgent. My legs aren’t used to that kind of urgency.’
Jaufré gestured to a wooden chair; Rebh Jehiel eased himself into it.
‘So? What do you want of me?’
‘What did you see?’ Jaufré’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Just now, when you came in?’
‘Is that the question you had me dragged through the streets to answer?’ The rebuke was mildly worded yet the scholar’s eyes regarded Jaufré coldly.
‘There’s no one else in Arcassanne who can give me an answer.’
‘But what of the murdered child? Aren’t you going to interrogate me? You were so sure it was one of the Tsiyonim who killed him. But then it was you who planted the seed in the minds of the people of Arcassanne. Those few emotive words. Ritual … sacrifice … Tsiyonim.’
‘Answer my question, Jehiel.’
‘To answer your question could take a yeshiva of learned doctors a lifetime of study and debate.’
‘Just answer my question,’ Jaufré repeated, an edge to his voice. He was in no mood to play word-games.
‘Once there was a man in Tsiyon, a scholar you understand, who desired above all worldly treasures to attain a state of enlightenment. But he made one singular mistake in his interpretation of the ancient texts. He assumed that in summoning up one of the elemental spirits, it would obey him – for good or for evil. Such a fundamental error to make –’
‘Get to the point,’ Jaufré said through gritted teeth.
‘The point,’ said Jehiel, fixing his eyes on Jaufré, ‘is that you have made the same crucial error. Daemon kindred, spirits, Winged Guardians, angelloi, whatever you call them, do not obey the will of men. Summon them – and they will cleave to whatsoever is strongest in the summoner’s soul. Do you begin to understand, messire?’
‘No,’ Jaufré said curtly.
‘Only the man who can honestly profess to have led a pure, a holy life, a life without sin or blemish, may dare to open himself to such powerful influences. In the days before the Temple was destroyed and the Tribes scattered, the young scholars and warriors strove to perfect themselves so that they might be chosen when – and if – the need arose –’
‘Spare me this lesson in ancient history!’ Jaufré could not concentrate on what Jehiel was saying. ‘It is of no interest to me. Tell me the truth.’
Jehiel sighed. ‘Already it is at work.’
‘You accuse me of conjuring daemons. Evil spirits. Devils.’ Jaufré’s fingers mockingly mimed horns. ‘There are no such things. Tales to frighten children and simpletons.’
‘But I sense a darkness in here,’ Jehiel said, ‘a darkness that clings to you, Captain Orbiel. A darkness that feeds on the despair in your soul – feeds and grows strong.’
Jaufré turned away abruptly so that Jehiel should not see the working anger in his face.
‘This … darkness you claim to sense,’ he said, mechanically leafing through the papers on the desk. ‘Can it be exorcised?’
Jehiel remained silent.
‘Well?’ Jaufré whirled around. ‘Can it? Or is this just some fantastical story you’ve invented to put me off the trail? To shield the murderer?’
‘ “Blood of the pure, blood of the innocent”,’ Jehiel said.
Jaufré tried to conceal the involuntary shudder that the scholar’s words provoked. Had Jehiel noticed the effect upon him? Had he guessed? The muscles in his jaw ached with the effort of keeping his face expressionless.
‘A literal translation from the pen of one not truly initiated. The fragment of text comes from the ancient Sefer Razhiel, the Book of the Unseen. It speaks metaphorically. Long ago in Tsiyon, the Guardian Warders of the Temple, they who were entrusted with the amulets of power, were enlightened scholars, chosen for their spiritual beauty. Their purity of soul.’
‘Amulets of power?’ Jaufré whispered the words. ‘So you acknowledge they exist?’
‘The amulets were destroyed when the Temple was razed to the ground,’ Jehiel said with a sad, wry smile. ‘And –’
‘And that is why your Tribe wanders the world, your people proscribed, outcasts, yes, yes.’ Jaufré rounded on the old scholar. ‘How many times have I heard that from you, Jehiel? It’s what you all say. And I say to you – it’s a convenient lie.’
‘A lie? How else could we have lost Tsiyon?’ Jehiel said, slowly, regretfully shaking his grey head. ‘The amulets were God-given. It was only through human foolishness that they were misused, and for that my people have paid the heaviest price of all – eternal exile. Have you any idea, Captain, what that is like? Never to call any place home. Always on the move, hounded from country to country, vilified, persecuted –’
Jaufré was wearying of the old man’s constant harping on the past. Since Jehiel had spoken the words amulets of power, he had felt a gnawing deep within him, a terrible unassuageable hunger.
A sudden shudder of breeze made the candleflames flicker; Jaufré blinked as the golden radiance seemed to dim. It was as though a veil of dark gauze had been drawn across the chamber …
He put his hands to his temples, shaking his head to clear his vision.
Amulets of power …
He looked up, narrowing his lids. He no longer saw the benign elderly scholar whose lined face revealed a wisdom born of long years of prayer and study. Instead, as the smoke-veil dispersed, he saw a hunched, decrepit figure, with rheumy eyes that looked on him with suspicion.
‘I’ll strike a bargain with you,’ Jaufré said. His voice sounded heavy, slurred in his own ears, as though drugged. ‘Find me one of the Guardian Amulets – and not another word will be spoken about the child’s death.’
There was a silence. ‘A bargain?’ Jehiel said eventually, as if he had not heard aright.
‘One amulet – and I will ensure that the Tsiyonim community is publicly exonerated.’
Jehiel shook his head, as if in disbelief.
‘Have you not heard a word I said? The Guardian Amulets were broken up, destroyed, scattered like the people of my Tribe. And even if we had one, we would not give it to you. They are not to be given away, bartered like merchandise on a market day. They are a sacred trust, a covenant not to be broken.’
‘Is that your answer?’
‘I thought you to be an honourable man, Captain. I believed you were searching for justice, for truth. Now I see you are driven by greed.’
Greed! Now Jehiel was openly insulting him. Jaufré struck the desk with his fist – and to his satisfaction saw Jehiel flinch.
‘Maybe a day or two in the cells will make you change your mind.’
Jehiel said nothing.
His silence only confirmed to Jaufré what he had suspected; and the confirmation excited him deeply, though he took pains not to show it. Jehiel must know of the existence of an amulet within the community, maybe more than one …
He went to the door, opened it and called down the stairs for his men.
‘He won’t talk. Take him down to the cells and lock him up. Then get reinforcements and arrest the remaining Elders.’
‘Interrogate me,’ Jehiel cried, ‘but let the others be. They are not scholars, they know nothing.’
Jaufré almost permitted himself a smile; it was working. ‘If they are innocent,’ he said pleasantly, ‘then they have nothing to fear …’
He had taken a risk in revealing so much of his own desires to the old scholar.
Jehiel must never be released back into his own community alive.