Jacques (The Sword and the Spirit Book 3), page 5
“This is…” Pierre frowned and peered into the cell. “But where is Brother Dominic?”
“Here!” came the reply, and all heads turned to see the owner of the voice standing in the back corner, his face upturned into the shaft of sunlight. “This has never happened before. ’Tis a sign, Father, I’m sure of it. A glorious sign from God that all will be well.”
One of the other knights, an older man, huffed. “’Tis merely the time of year, you damn fool. The sun is lower in the sky. God, I fear, has long since forsaken us.”
“Keep the faith, Brother,” Pierre said. “Please, do not lose hope. Were you fed today?”
“The usual shite,” came the bitter reply. “Stale bread and water.”
“Who is this?” the same knight asked again.
Jacques stepped forward and slid his right hand through the bars. “My name is Jacques. May I know your name, Brother?”
The knight hesitated a moment before placing his hand in Jacques’, who shifted his thumb and pressed down on the man’s third knuckle. The man’s eyes widened.
“Christ be praised,” he said, recognizing the silent indicator that identified one Templar to another. “He is one of us.”
A dual rumble of surprise came from the other two knights.
Pierre hissed and glanced over his shoulder. “Not so loud!”
“My name is Antoine,” the knight said in hushed tones, responding to Jacques’ question. “And these are Brothers Raphael and Tomas. The eternal optimist in the corner is Brother Dominic.”
“Well met,” Jacques said, releasing Antoine’s hand. “And I happen to know Brother Dominic.”
That caught the man’s attention. He stepped out of the sunlight and approached. “You know me how? Forgive me, Brother, but I do not recall…” His eyes narrowed. “Then again, you do look familiar. Enlighten me, please.”
This Dominic, with his wasted limbs and ragged, unkempt appearance, bore little resemblance to the fair-haired, cheerful lad Jacques had once known. Indeed, the sight reminded him of the night when Ruaidri, who’d also been held captive, had returned to Castle Cathan in an emaciated state, closer to death than life.
“I fostered with your father,” Jacques replied.
Dominic grasped the bars, looking him up and down with eyes that seemed to have captured some of the light from the sun. “Jacques Aznar!” he whispered, as excitedly as a whisper would allow. “Aye, I remember you. My sister was heartbroken when you left. What are you doing here?”
“I am wondering the same,” Antoine said. “’Tis a dangerous place to be.”
Jacques, momentarily thrown by Dominic’s proclamation, failed to respond. Heartbroken?
“He’s here as a lay brother, not as a Templar,” Pierre replied. “That’s all you need to know for now. There will be no more discussion. Time is rationed. Let me perform the Eucharist before Raoul loses patience and comes looking for me.”
“Do you have a message for me, Father?” Dominic asked, waving a hand through the bars.
“Ah, yes. That I do.” Pierre pulled a tiny slip of parchment from the fold of his sleeve and passed it through the bars. “Be sure to destroy it after you’ve read it.”
“I will. Thank you. And may God bless you.” Dominic closed his hand around the parchment, brought it to his heart, and regarded Jacques again. “Have you seen Fél—?”
“Enough.” Pierre opened his satchel. “Let us proceed. Lift up your hearts, Brothers.”
“Nay.” Raoul shook his head. “You ask too much.”
“I ask for mercy in God’s name, Monsieur,” Pierre countered. “You must know none of these men are likely to survive. They are already weak and ailing. Allow them, then, to take Mass each evening. What harm can it do?”
Pierre spoke from the threshold to the guardroom. Raoul sat at a timeworn table; his harsh features somewhat softened by the light from a fat candle. Beyond him, a small bed bore the imprint of a man’s form. A full platter of bread, meat, cheese, and fruit, sat atop the table, as did a wine flagon and cup. A simple enough feast, but lavish when compared to the scraps and dregs being fed to the Templars.
The sight of it turned Jacques’ stomach.
“I doubt the Prefect would approve.” Raoul tore off a piece of bread and shoved it in his mouth, chewing noisily before washing it down with a mouthful of wine. “If he got to hear about it, I could lose my job. Why should I risk that for a group of damned heretics?”
Jacques, standing behind Pierre’s left shoulder, gritted his teeth and reached for a sword hilt that wasn’t there. If it had been, he’d have happily dispatched Raoul Simard to Hell’s doorstep without hesitation.
“Hmm.” Pierre heaved an exaggerated breath and dropped his gaze to the floor. “Is there anything that might…? Nay, never mind. I should not even think of such things. Forgive me. I understand your situation, Monsieur, of course. We’ll leave you to enjoy your meal.”
Raoul belched and kept chewing. “What were you going to say?”
Pierre shook his head. “I had thought to suggest a compromise, but may God forgive me for even considering it, for I fear it is not entirely virtuous. I’m certain a man of your integrity would not be the least bit interested.”
“I might be.” Eyes narrowed, the man leaned forward, greed all but dribbling from his lips. “I’m always open to discussion, Priest.”
“Er, well…” Pierre fidgeted like a criminal caught in the act. Then he glanced over his shoulder at Jacques and gave him a solid wink. “Jacques, excuse us, please. There is something I wish to discuss with Monsieur Simard in private.”
Jacques nodded, and stepped back. The door closed in his face. After that, he could only wait, unable to make sense of the mumbled conversation.
“He’ll allow us to visit every other day,” Pierre explained later, as they walked back to the village under a clear, night sky. “Not exactly what I wanted, but it’s good enough. And he wants thirty silver deniers a visit. The irony of that amount, unsurprisingly, was completely lost on him. Carrying a purse also further justifies my need to travel with a companion, namely you. Consequently, we have permission to return on Friday.”
Jacques nodded. “I assume you have access to the money.”
Pierre threw him a prolonged glance that, even in the darkness, declared the question to be redundant. “People used to pay a lot for my sword, Aznar,” he said, “yet I always lived simply, never drawing attention to myself. Those who sought my services often had to work hard to find me, which meant the successful were usually willing to pay the price commanded. My retirement fund, I assure you, is not unsubstantial.”
Jacques wondered, not for the first time, what had prompted Pierre to turn away from a mercenary life and take the cloth. He’d never asked, simply because it seemed disrespectful to do so. “Quite the transformation,” he said, partly voicing his thoughts. “Assassin to priest.”
Pierre gave a soft laugh. “Yet here I am, beneath God’s starlit heavens, plotting to kill a man in cold blood.”
“Plotting, perhaps.” An image of Raoul Simard’s overflowing food platter slid into Jacques’ mind. “But I’ll be happy to do the killing.”
Chapter Six
“I did not imagine he’d be as he once was, but if he’s as weak as you say, then we cannot delay any longer.” Félice looked from Pierre to Jacques. “Or I fear it will be too late.”
For Jacques, it had been another restless night. He’d risen before cockcrow, donned his secular clothes, and made his way down to the candlelit kitchen, which is where they now sat. The bread and butter on the table remained untouched, and the wine in the jug had been watered down. Appetites were lacking and clear heads were needed. The final details of their mad quest were being reviewed. And Félice had just learned the truth about her brother’s weakened state.
“I agree,” Pierre said. “And now Jacques is here, our chances of success are substantially improved. The change of guard doesn’t happen till midnight, which means, by God’s grace, we’ll have several hours to make our escape before the alarm is raised. That’s assuming, of course, there’ll be no other visitors to the prison tomorrow evening.”
Félice appeared to ponder. “Do you intend to kill the guard?”
Jacques softened his answer. “If necessary.”
The hint of a smile appeared, indicating that she understood. “We’ll need horses.”
“We’ll have one horse and a mule,” Jacques said. “I’ll be spending today looking for a safe place for you to wait with them, my lady. I hope you travelled light.”
“I did,” Félice replied. “But I don’t understand. One horse and a mule? That won’t be enough, surely.”
“The mule is for myself and Dominic,” Pierre said. “Your brother, though he doesn’t know it yet, will be transformed into a monk, including the tonsured head. We’ll be two poor clerics on the road to Santiago. At least, that’s how it will appear. The horse belongs to Jacques. You’ll be riding with him. The other three knights will be given money, weapons, and a change of clothes. After that, they’re on their own, and that includes finding horses. We have to separate, Félice. Travelling together would attract too much attention.”
“Santiago?” she repeated, and gave Jacques a dubious look. “Is that where we’re going?”
He shook his head. “I’ll be taking you home, my lady. To Chateau Béscat.”
“I…” She shook her head. “Forgive me. I don’t understand.”
“As Father Sabatier explained, we must separate. It would be unwise to take Dominic home. It’ll be the first place they’ll come looking.”
Her face fell. “Yes, you’re right, of course. ’Tis just, I was hoping he might see Papa before… I mean, while he still had the chance.”
Pierre leaned forward. “I believe, child, this madness will cease one day, and Dominic will be able to return home without penalty. But for now, we have to get him out of France, for his safety and yours. If he was found on your property, or even be known to have visited, it would not bode well for those who reside there, including your father.”
“And Dominic would not want that,” she said, frowning. “As long as he’s safe, that’s all that matters to me. And to Papa.”
“That is our main objective,” Pierre said, “which is why putting miles between us and the prison is imperative from the outset. I’ve no doubt the authorities will be scouting the mountain passes. There remains, however, one possible problem.”
Jacques regarded Félice. “Indeed.”
She looked from one to the other. “What problem?”
Pierre parted with a soft sigh. “If something goes wrong, child, and we aren’t able to return, you’re on your own.”
Her chin lifted. “But nothing will go wrong.”
“I pray that is so.” Jacques ran a hand through his hair. “However, you’ll be left with two hour-candles which you will burn consecutively. If we’re not back by the time the second candle has burned down, you’ll take Balere and make your way home. You’ll not delay a moment longer. Understood?”
A glimmer of defiance came to her eyes. “But nothing will go wrong, Jacques!”
“Two hours, my lady,” he replied, his voice firm. “I’ll have your word.”
“But I…” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Very well, you have my word, though it is given under protest.”
Jacques smiled. “Noted.”
She gave her head an adamant shake. “Nothing will go wrong.”
“From your lips to God’s ear, my dear.” Pierre rose to his feet as the church bell began to peal. “I regret I must leave the remaining tasks in your hands, Jacques. I have duties here to attend to and do not wish to be made noticeable by my absence. We’ll meet again this eve to go over things one more time. Be careful today. Do nothing to draw untoward attention.”
Jacques nodded his response and then waited till the door had closed. “You should eat something, Félice.”
“I cannot,” she replied, a touch of colour rising in her cheeks. “My stomach is in all kinds of knots.
“Mine too.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Only for those who are relying on me,” he answered, honestly.
She smiled. “I have complete faith in you, Templar.”
“I appreciate that, my lady.” He inclined his head. “I shall endeavor to live up to it.”
“I know you will.” She shook her head. “I can still hardly believe you’re here. I remember the day you left like it was yesterday. You wore a grey cloak and were riding Argent.”
He remembered it too, though perhaps not in the same detail. He’d said his goodbyes, thanked Hugo Béscat with sincerity, and then ridden off without looking back, eager to begin his life as a knight.
“Argent.” Jacques laughed softly. “I swear, by all things holy, he was the most ill-tempered horse I’ve ever known. Fearless, though. I confess I lamented his death.”
“I was afraid of him.”
“Most people were.” He glanced down at her left hand, which was bare of adornment. “You never married?”
Her gaze followed his. “Yes, I did.” She touched the ring finger. “Charles died of an ague three years ago. We were only together a short while.”
“Ah. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. He was a good husband.” She fidgeted and drew breath. “His death made me realize how unpredictable life is. We should never take for granted the time we have with those we care about, for they can leave us without warning.” Colour rose to her cheeks once more, and she waved a hand as if embarrassed by her admission. “Enough of me. I would hear more about you. Where were you exiled? How did it come about? And, what brought you back to France?”
Little did she know the effect her admission had on him, torn as he was between heart and soul. He’d left Morag with little warning and she’d bid him Godspeed without fuss or objection.
“Have I offended you?” Félice’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Do you not wish to speak of those things?”
“Nay, my lady, I’m not offended.” He shifted in his seat and gave himself a mental shake. There was little point in this endless self-castigation. The choice had been made, and he had a mission to complete. “There is much to tell, and I was simply wondering how to begin.”
Because his first year as a knight had been less than disciplined, he decided to begin with his initiation into the Templars. A good hour later, he finished by describing his recent return to France. For the most part, he’d merely described the surface of his experiences, painting a clear, but simple picture. And certainly, when speaking of Scotland, his deepest feelings were left aside. They had no bearing on the situation at hand, or the conversation.
“Scotland sounds wonderful.” Félice stuck an elbow on the table and propped her chin on her hand. “It must be a romantic place, too, since two of your fellow Templars have since married! Yet, you have managed to avoid such temptation.”
Not entirely.
“’Tis a splendid country,” Jacques replied, “though Gabriel actually met and married Breanna while in England. And yes, so far, I’ve managed to remain faithful to my vows.”
She gave him a wistful smile. “You were fortunate to be forewarned of the edict. To escape before the arrests occurred.”
“Fortunate?” He grimaced. “I can see why you might think so, my lady. But freedom is not an easy thing to enjoy when so many of your brothers cannot share it.”
“Mmm, of course. I suppose it must be hard on the conscience.”
“Very.”
Candlelight reflected in her eyes as she regarded him. “God obviously brought you here for a reason,” she said, after a moment. “Maybe it was to give Dominic his freedom so you might then be able to justify yours.”
Jacques’ heart gave an odd little leap. Was that it? Was this some kind of divine quid pro quo? Would saving a life—several lives—allow him to reach for the one thing he desired above all else? With a clear conscience, open heart, and no regrets?
“Maybe,” he said, suddenly aware of the passage of time, “and with Dominic in mind, I still have things to do.”
“Shall I come with you?”
“I think not. ’Tis better if we’re not seen together.” He noted the dark shadows beneath her eyes. “I suggest you prepare for our journey tomorrow. I know you said you came with few belongings, but I urge you to discard anything that is not absolutely necessary. And get some rest, if you can.”
She nodded. “I’ll try.”
He rose to his feet. “Then I’ll see you tonight, my lady.”
“Please be careful.”
“I will.”
“And Jacques?”
“Aye?”
“I thank God you’re here.”
Chapter Seven
Thursday’s foray for a rendezvous point had been successful. The ruined barn lay approximately a mile outside of Labroquere, well off the main route at the foot of a rocky slope. Tucked behind the gnarled trunk of an ancient olive tree, it could be seen from a nearby shepherd’s track, but barely, its overgrown walls blending into the thirsty vegetation of late summer. Part of the thatched roof had gone, while the remainder sagged wearily between the rafters. Still, it was enough to provide shelter from sun and rain alike.
The next day, as arranged, Jacques had met Félice on the road out of St Bertrand and brought her to the barn in readiness. Pierre, busy being a priest, was set to join them a little later. A swathe of morning cloud had cleared by midday, revealing a startling blue sky.
Félice’s pale cheeks warmed as Jacques lifted her down from Balere’s back. Had things been different, he might have found her responses to him charming. Flattering, even. A worthy challenge to his chaste vows. Instead, they troubled him, for he knew he could never respond in kind, and not for the reasons she likely imagined. God willing, there’d come a day when he’d ride away from Chateau Béscat once more, looking to forge a bright path. Though he might be compelled, on that occasion, to look back.
