Jacques (The Sword and the Spirit Book 3), page 4
How naïve he had been.
“So, you avoided the arrests, thank God,” she replied, as if thinking aloud. “I had wondered.”
“I’ve been in exile and only just returned to France,” Jacques explained. “I would know what you’re doing here, my lady, and why my knowing you…” he turned enquiring eyes to Pierre, “is a complication.”
“Because your potential involvement in a particular issue has now become even more personal,” Pierre said.
“I don’t understand.” Jacques looked from one to the other. “What issue? What is this about?”
“He has not been told, Father?” she asked.
Pierre shook his head. “Not yet.”
Jacques frowned. “Told what?”
“About Dominic,” Félice replied. “My brother. Do you remember him?”
Jacques recalled the fair-haired boy who’d been a couple of years younger than Félice. “Of course. What of him?”
She drew a shaky breath and fingered a small gold cross at her throat. “He did not avoid the arrests.”
Jacques’ brow lifted. “Dominic is a Templar?”
“These past two years,” she replied. “After the arrests, it took us months to find out what had become of him. We discovered, just three weeks ago, that he’d recently been imprisoned in Labroquere. My father is too fragile to travel, so I took it upon myself to make the journey, only to find out that prisoners are not allowed visitors, unless it’s a priest.” Summoning up a sad smile, she regarded Pierre. “By God’s great mercy, Father Sabatier was there the day I arrived. He has since become my eyes, my ears, and my voice for Dominic. And I fear I have become as annoying as a pebble in your shoe, Father.”
“Not at all, child. Your arrival and the reason for it has been motivating to say the least.” He winked. “But if you’ll excuse us, Jacques and I have certain things to discuss.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” She smiled. “You’ll give Dominic my note?”
“I will, of course,” he replied. “He looks forward to them.”
“Thank you. I pray you’ll find him in good spirits.” Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I’ll leave you to break your fast, then, and return tomorrow for news of him. And if you can spare the time, Jacques, I’d love to hear about your life these past twelve years. It gladdens my heart to know you’re safe.”
“I’ll spare the time gladly, my lady.” Jacques inclined his head. “It saddens me to hear of your father’s fragility. He taught me much.”
“’Tis only in his body,” she said, heading toward the door. “His mind is as sharp as ever. Till the morrow, then.”
Jacques waited till the door closed behind her. “Is she here alone?” he asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Not really. I just wondered.” He pulled out a chair and sat at the table.
“She came here with a group of returning pilgrims, though she was never actually one of them. I’ve since impressed on her the need to keep her real identity quiet.”
“I see. Actually, no I don’t. What’s the plan, Pierre?”
“I should have known,” Pierre replied, taking a cloth-wrapped item from a shelf.
“What?”
“Women.”
“What about them?”
“They complicate matters.” He set the item on the table and unwrapped it, exposing a loaf of bread. “Always have. Always will.”
“If you’re referring to the fact that Félice and I know each other, then rest assured, there will be no complications.”
Pierre huffed and placed a dish of butter on the table. “I was not always a priest, Aznar. I know that look.”
“I have a look?”
“Nay, not you. I was referring to Félice.” A couple of knives came next, plus a wine jug and two cups. “Did you sleep well?”
“Not really.” Jacques shrugged. “And Félice was merely surprised to see me, that’s all. And I her. I’ve known her for years.”
“From what I understand, you knew her as a child, not as a woman. An attractive woman who looked at you with obvious admiration. As for not sleeping, you were overtired last evening. You’ll rest better tonight, I warrant.” Pierre splashed wine in both cups, sat opposite Jacques, and bowed his head. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” Jacques echoed, crossing himself. “You’ve noticed, then.”
“What?”
“That Félice is an attractive woman.”
Pierre gave him a scathing look and reached for the bread. “I’m not blind, but neither will I weaken to such temptation.”
“Nor will I,” Jacques replied, wondering what Morag was doing at that precise moment. “Tell me what plan you’ve concocted and how I’m involved in it.”
“You weren’t involved at all till you showed up last night,” Pierre said, handing him a knife. “Cut some bread and break your fast. And the plan, initially, is very simple.”
Jacques cut a slice from the loaf and slathered some butter on it. “I’m curious to know what comes after ‘initially’”
“That remains to be seen,” Pierre replied, “but to put you in the picture, Dominic and three other Templar knights are currently languishing in prison at Labroquere, which is a little less than an hour’s walk from here. The prison is small and employs but three guards, who maintain their shifts accordingly. I’ve been cultivating a relationship with the principal guard, an ogre by the name of Raoul Simard, whom God chose to bless with more muscle than brain. He always works the evening shift and, for the past two months, has allowed me access to our brothers one day a week so they may take the Eucharist. I’m trying to persuade him to allow daily visits, specifically each evening, when he is on duty.”
“And is your persuasion working? Is this brainless ogre agreeable?”
“Agreeable is the last thing he is. He is, however, greedy.”
“Bribery?”
“That’s what it will take and I’ve always known it. But I’ve bided my time proposing payment, because I don’t want him to think I am…” Pierre frowned, as if seeking the correct word.
“Mercenary?” Jacques offered, arching a brow.
Pierre looked affronted. “Easily manipulated.”
“Ah.” Jacques suppressed a smile. “Of course.”
“The goal has been to establish a pattern,” Pierre went on, “and in doing so, create an illusion of trust, which I believe now exists to a reasonable degree. I intend to feed Raoul Simard’s greed in order to gain increased access to the prisoners. Initially just for me, but now for you too. It will make things easier to arrange.”
Arrange? What was the man up to? Jacques already had his suspicions, stemming from the knowledge that the holy man seated before him had once lived a very different life.
“Go on.”
Pierre took a healthy swig of wine and then frowned into his cup. “As I alluded to yester eve, Templars throughout France are being tortured into confessing vile, heretical acts. Those who renounce their confessions are put to death. Others are being slowly starved to the point of emaciation or dying of prison fever. There is nothing we can do to change the outcome of this travesty in its entirety.” With the beginnings of a smile on his lips, he lifted a narrow-eyed gaze to Jacques. “But I don’t see why we can’t change the outcome for some of our brothers, Dominic being one of them. Last night, you asked me to give you a reason to stay. Well, perhaps I can, after all. I intend to give these men a chance at freedom, Jacques, if it’s the last thing I ever do. Would you be willing to help me? Would you be willing to risk your life to save another?”
It was a hefty demand bordering on madness, but Jacques knew there could only be one answer. Everything else aside, he was still a Templar, sworn to protect those who could not protect themselves. To be at peace with himself, to justify his return to France, he knew he had to do this.
“I would,” he answered, ignoring whatever it was that tugged at his heart. “What do you have in mind?”
An hour later, the reckless plan to break four Templar knights out of prison had been discussed, argued about, and almost agreed upon. Bloodshed was a certainty. Their success was not. And, in that case, neither was their survival. They had no hard and fast agenda. It all depended on how successful they were in bribing Raoul Simard and gaining permission for more frequent visits without arousing suspicion of things to come, while making it easier to deal with unforeseen eventualities.
The element of surprise was essential. For that reason, and their safety, the imprisoned knights had been told nothing. Nor would they be till the very last moment.
“So, Templar.” Pierre sat back. “Now you know the lay of the land, do you have any concerns?”
“Only one,” Jacques replied. “Félice’s involvement.”
“Ha! Like I said. A complication.”
“This has nothing to do with desire, Pierre. She’s a woman. It’s too risky.”
He looked amused. “I want to be there when you tell her that.”
Jacques huffed. “I can’t believe you agreed to her involvement in the first place.”
Still looking amused, Pierre leaned forward. “Who do you think suggested the idea?”
Jacques gasped. “This was Félice’s idea?”
“Well, I confess it had tickled my mind once or twice, but she provided me with the impetus I lacked. As I recall, her actual words were, ‘If I could find someone to break Dominic out of that place, I would.”
“So, you offered,” Jacques said, shaking his head. “By all things holy, did you momentarily lose your divine direction?”
“I suspect I might have found it.” Pierre’s expression sobered. “I believe we’re given signposts as we go through life, my friend. We’re at liberty to follow or ignore their direction, but I suspect we ignore them at our peril.”
“Félice’s suggestion was a signpost?”
Pierre scratched at his jaw. “Let’s just say it stirred something within me that I haven’t felt in a long time. I believe it more than coincidental that she arrived at the prison door at precisely the same time I did. We all but collided on the step. I told her they’d never let her in, but directed her to find lodging in St Bertrand and to seek me out on the morrow. Had she arrived at any other time, she’d undoubtedly have been sent away by Raoul or one of the other guards, and may never have had contact with her brother again. I have to do this, Jacques, and it needs to be done before it’s too late.”
“Too late?”
He nodded. “Rid your mind of any expectations you might have fabricated about these men. What you see in your head will likely not resemble what you will see tonight. They have suffered. And it shows.”
Jacques pondered the information. “Does Félice know how bad it is?”
Pierre shook his head. “Not the full extent of it. I spared her that, albeit temporarily.”
Chapter Five
Later that afternoon, Jacques and Pierre set out on foot, arriving on the outskirts of Labroquere just as the sun prepared to sink behind the mountains. The prison fronted a narrow, cobbled lane that led off the village square; a dismal avenue that stank of piss among other things. Jacques looked up at an iron grille covering an upper window, and silently prayed for strength of spirit.
Pierre paused outside the hefty arched door that sat flush in the wall. “Raise your hood,” he said, lifting the hefty iron knocker, “and remember, do not make direct eye-contact with Raoul. He’s a dog looking for a fight and your clerical garb will not prevent him from picking one. To the contrary, he’ll attempt to provoke you, I guarantee it. Do not let him.”
“Understood,” Jacques replied, as Pierre landed three solid raps against the studded oak, the sound of which could be heard echoing within.
Moments later, the door groaned open. As instructed, Jacques lowered his gaze, but not before he caught a glimpse of the man who confronted them. He appeared to be of middling years, the frown on his leathery face permanently carved, his eyes close-set and oddly pale, his head near bald, his square jaw bristled with grey. Not a tall man, but broad. Nigh on as broad as the door he’d opened, in fact. And just as solid.
“You’re early.” His voice matched his gruff appearance. Jacques caught a strong whiff of garlic mixed with stale wine. “And who’s this?”
“Good eve, Raoul,” Pierre replied. “This is Jacques, a lay brother who has been placed under my tutelage.”
“Well, he can’t come in,” came the swift retort. “I’ll not allow it.”
“Which is exactly what I wish, Monsieur,” Pierre replied. “Jacques serves merely as a walking companion. The days are growing shorter, the walk is long, and I find the darkness unsettling. I’d actually prefer that he not accompany me inside. He is a little slow to learn and I fear he would find the visit troubling. In fact, I’ve already told him he must wait here.”
There followed a moment of silence in which Jacques sensed the guard’s growing dissonance. The man had expected a challenge and been disappointed. Hopefully, he would now change direction and, in doing so, give Pierre exactly what he wanted.
“Slow, you say?”
Pierre inclined his head. “Somewhat, I’m afraid.”
Raoul grunted and prodded Jacques in the shoulder. “Remove your hood. I would see your face.”
Jacques pushed his hood back and lowered his gaze to the guard’s grubby leather shoes.
“Raise your arms and keep them raised till I’m finished.”
He did so, letting the loose sleeves of his robe fall to his elbows. Raoul’s roaming hands then wandered haphazardly over his torso, patting, groping, searching.
“He is strong,” Raoul muttered, as if to himself.
“As an ox,” Pierre said, with something akin to pride in his voice. “’Tis why I chose him to accompany me on these walks. His size alone is a deterrent to would-be trouble-makers.”
“Can he not speak?”
“He can indeed, though he is not overly talkative. Another blessing.” Pierre frowned. “I question, though, why a search is necessary if the man is to remain outside.”
Raoul merely hissed and moved his hands lower. “Legs apart!”
Jacques obeyed, snatching a breath when a large hand first grasped his cock and then gave his balls a painful squeeze. He gritted his teeth, tamping down an urge to take the man by the throat and throttle the life from him.
“Quite the weapon.” Raoul choked out a laugh and released his hold. “What a waste. Under your tutelage, you say? On reflection, then, I think he should accompany you. ’Twill be a lesson on how we deal with heretics and sodomites.”
Pierre heaved a sigh and looked decidedly put out. “If you insist, Monsieur.”
“Aye, I do.” He prodded Jacques again. “I will need your last name, sirrah, for the record.”
Jacques shifted, feigning nervousness. “I do not have one, Monsieur.”
“Then where are you from? And put your arms down, idiot.”
He lowered them. “A farm, not far from Lourdes.”
The man huffed. “Strong as an ox. Dumb as one too. I need to see what’s in the bag, Priest.”
“The usual accoutrements,” Pierre replied, opening his satchel to expose the bread and wine within. Apparently satisfied, Raoul stood aside as they stepped over the threshold. Jacques’ eyes narrowed at the sour stench of filth that hung in the air.
“You know the routine.” Raoul closed and bolted the door. “I’ll be in the guardroom when you’re finished. Don’t take too long.”
“Bravo,” Jacques whispered, as they headed into the bowels of the prison.
“You might wish he’d agreed with me and made you wait outside,” Pierre replied. They turned down a short hallway, its limestone walls lit by an oiled reed-torch that crackled and hissed in a wall-sconce. Ahead of them stood a cage-like barricade of iron bars, set with a padlocked door. The fetid stench thickened in the confined space, folding around them like an invisible shroud.
Jacques squinted into the gloom beyond the bars, seeing limestone walls stained by years of miserable occupation, and a floor strewn with old straw. The only natural light came from a small barred aperture set high in the back wall, like a mocking smile with blackened, metal teeth.
He wondered how many had gazed upon that small window with regret and fear. Beyond it lay freedom, a privilege that had either been sacrificed knowingly or stolen unjustly. At that precise moment, to his utter surprise, a shaft of golden light tumbled through the opening. Not a divine portent— though he might have been forgiven for thinking so—but merely a cloud moving aside, allowing the sun’s evening light to penetrate. But it was an unexpected thing. A beautiful disparity in a place that stank of despair.
His gaze then shifted to the gloom and the movement within. Human shapes. Three of them, rising from their meagre blankets, stepping out of the shadows like starved ghosts, the white of their garments long since turned to grey. Matted hair, unkempt beards, hollow cheeks. Eyes, empty and tired.
The wretched sight went straight to his gut, and birthed a violent twist of rage.
These men were knights. Soldiers of Christ, trained for battle and willing to die for a cause. But this was no Saracen prison or the aftermath of a besieged city in the Holy Land. This was France, where no such cause existed. Only betrayal and injustice. An illegal action based on fabricated accusations and lies.
A hand settled on Jacques’ shoulder and rested there, calming a tremble in his body that he hadn’t even noticed.
“I know,” Pierre murmured, “I feel the same every time I come here.”
“You were right,” Jacques replied, equally softly. “We must act soon, or it’ll be too late.”
Pierre gave a barely discernable nod. He then stepped forward and made the sign of the cross. “God be with you, Brothers!” His announcement rang off the walls.
“And also with you,” came the combined reply.
“’Tis always good to see you, Father,” one of the men said, his mouth buried beneath a dark, matted beard. He came forward and gripped the bars with filthy hands, several of his fingernails oddly misshapen and only half-grown. Jacques swallowed over a sudden dryness in his throat. “And you are not alone this week,” the man continued. “Who is this?”
