“Does that bother you?” Jacques asked.

  Dominic’s lip furled. “Not in the least.”

  Antoine regarded them. “Do they fit?”

  “They’re a bit loose, but they’ll serve.”

  “Good.” Jacques closed the cell door with a bang. “Then let’s go.”

  Pierre led the way, checking the lane before beckoning the others forward, both Templars crossing themselves as they stepped out beneath the early evening sky.

  “I would sooner die than be imprisoned again,” Antoine said, gazing up at the heavens.

  “I pray that will not be a choice you have to face,” Pierre said. “Come. There can be no delay. The sooner we get out of the village, the better.”

  “Where’s Félice?” Dominic asked. “Does she know anything about this?”

  Jacques had been wondering when he’d ask. The man still seemed withdrawn, as if his previous optimism had yet to be restored. Physically, both Templars were fragile, the harshness of their confinement evident in the hollowness of their cheeks and the thinness of their limbs. And Antoine’s mangled fingertips suggested some kind of torture. The extent of each man’s mental fragility could only be guessed at.

  “Félice knows everything, Brother,” Jacques replied. “God willing, you’ll be seeing her very soon.”

  Dominic made a sound then; something between a sigh and a sob. “I dare not believe it,” he whispered. “I dare not.”

  “Come.” Pierre set off down the lane. “We must move with confidence, as if we’re out for an evening stroll. We must look as if we are where we’re supposed to be. To do otherwise will attract attention.”

  Jacques saw the logic of the suggestion, but knew anyone close enough would surely notice the wretched appearance of Antoine and Dominic. Fortunately, they saw only two people as they left the village, both of them men,

  some distance away, conversing by the side of the road. The two glanced at the group, but seemed to pay little attention.

  Jacques breathed easier once the village was behind them. Dusk deepened, blurring colour and detail, crickets began their nighttime refrain, and the first stars twinkled in a moonless sky. They travelled mostly in silence, finding their way rather than knowing it, which slowed their progress. That, plus the obvious fragility of Antoine and Dominic.

  “I doubt Antoine will survive on his own,” Jacques muttered, as they neared their destination. “He’s too frail. One of us will have to take him.”

  Pierre grunted. “I agree, and there’ll be less risk if you take him. No one will be searching for you or Félice. I, however, am likely to be a prime suspect.”

  Jacques gave him a sideways glance. “Says the man of God, with obvious relish.”

  Pierre grinned. “I won’t deny I enjoy the challenge of a chase. That said, smuggling one half-starved Templar out of France will be challenge enough.”

  Jacques nodded. “I’ll take Antoine with me, of course.”

  At last, the abandoned barn came into view, a faint hint of candlelight flickering from within its ruined walls. Pierre raised a hand as they drew near—a silent command to halt.

  “Wait,” he mouthed, and moved, ghostlike, toward the doorway. He peered inside, muttered something inaudible, and then waved them forward. A moment later, Félice appeared beside Pierre, her hands flying to her face at the sight of her brother emerging from the darkness. “Dominic?”

  He replied with a groan that said more than any spoken word, his arms opening as she ran to him.

  “Oh, Dominic!”

  He folded her in his embrace and buried his face in her hair. “God be praised,” he mumbled. “And may He forgive me for losing faith.”

  “Please, you must come inside,” Pierre said, his tone serious, but gentle. “This endeavour has barely begun. We still have much to do and very little time. It’s dangerous to remain here.”

  “Such cruelty!” Félice regarded her brother’s emaciated state as they moved into the candlelight. She then looked at Antoine with similar compassion. “And you, Monsieur, neglected also. May I know your name?”

  “My name is Antoine, Mam’selle,” he replied, inclining his head. “Antoine de Santerre.”

  “Antoine,” she repeated, and regarded him a moment longer before turning questioning eyes to Jacques and Pierre. “But where are the others? Should there not be four?”

  Jacques gave a grim smile. “They removed two of them yesterday.”

  She gasped. “Why?”

  “For questioning,” Antoine replied. “At least, that is what they said.”

  “Questioning? Pah!” Pierre huffed. “The king is merely trying to justify his actions by obtaining false confessions of heresy. Men will admit to anything under torture.”

  Félice, holding her brother’s hand, gazed up at him. “Is it wrong to thank God that you were not the one taken?”

  Jacques had asked himself the same thing. But now, seeing brother and sister united, he gave thanks again, this time without question.

  “I regret only that your reunion will be short lived,” Pierre said. “We must part ways.”

  Dominic frowned. “Where are we going?”

  “I’ll explain while we ready you for the next part of the journey.” Pierre gestured with his hand. “That is the second hour candle we have lit tonight. I want to be gone from here before it burns down. Your escape will soon be discovered, if it hasn’t been already.”

  For the next while, they focused on changing Antoine and Dominic back to something resembling human. As he explained their ongoing plans, Pierre took on the role of barber, cutting the men’s hair—in Dominic’s case, tonsuring the head—and trimming their beards. The filthy clothes were removed and, as far as possible, much of the grime washed from their skin. Jacques resumed his secular identity and gave Dominic his robe, while Antoine donned a clean shirt and chausses. The change, in the end, was notable. Despite the drawn faces and thin limbs, both men would pass without drawing particular attention.

  Félice had said little throughout, but she’d lingered primarily at Dominic’s side and now sat at his feet.

  “You will eat something,” Pierre said, handing out bread, cheese and apples. “And then we must go.”

  Dominic looked down at his priest’s robe. “Is it not a sin to pretend to be a priest?”

  Pierre shook his head. “’Tis merely a disguise. Nothing more. Besides, you’re already a monk.”

  “I fear I will slow you down, Brother.” Antoine frowned as he bit into a piece of cheese. “’Twould be better for you and the lady if I find my own way.”

  Jacques, who’d been busy feeding Balere, looked over. “Your own way to where?”

  “I…” He hesitated. “I do not know, in truth. The Order was all I had. Into the mountains probably.”

  “You wouldn’t get far,” Jacques replied, not unkindly. “You’ll come with us for now, at least. No argument. I’ll pick up another horse from somewhere. A weapon, too.”

  “Thank you.” A look of relief erased his frown. “I confess, ’twould be nice to hold a sword again.”

  Jacques smiled, and his gaze then drifted to Félice, who had reached up to touch her brother’s face. Dominic placed his hand over hers and gave her a smile intended to reassure. “Do not fear for me, ma soeur chérie,” he said. “My body may be weak, but my faith is strong. We’ll see each other again. I know we will. You must tell Papa the same. I’ll return to Béscat one day, I swear it.”

  Jacques returned his attention back to Balere. Or, at least, made the attempt. In his mind, however, he was standing atop a cliff watching a Scottish dawn chase the darkness away. Beside him, a woman—nay, a lass— her fiery hair lifting in the breeze, her eyes sparkling with love and unshed tears. Then, like now, they’d not actually been running out of time. Rather, they were facing the swift approach of it, dreading what it would bring.

  A time for unspoken fears and unshed tears. A time for farewells. A time when one would look upon a beloved face and wonder if it would ever be seen again. All these times were rushing toward them and would leave only memories behind.

  A hand settled on his shoulder, startling him. “At least they’ve been given this chance,” Pierre muttered, adding a positive addendum to Jacques’ thoughts. “I would speak with you before we part ways, my friend. There are things we have yet to discuss.”

  Jacques nodded and followed the man outside. “What’s on your mind?”

  “The future.” Pierre turned to face him. “I’m curious to know of your plans once you’ve delivered Félice and Antoine to safety. Do you intend to remain in France?”

  “Nay. I plan to return to Scotland.”

  “I thought as much.” He assumed a sardonic expression. “What is her name?”

  Jacques bit back a smile. “Her name is Morag.”

  “You disappoint me, Aznar.”

  “My conscience is clear, Sabatier.”

  “Will you sail from Bayonne?”

  “Probably. Why?”

  “I was wondering if you’d consider delaying your departure till the next full moon. Which, if my calculations are correct, should be in about three weeks.”

  “I’m sure I can.” Jacques frowned. “But again, why? Are you planning to join me?”

  “The thought has crossed my mind.” He gestured with his hand. “After this, I can no longer reside in France and I have no desire, frankly, to spend the rest of my years in Spain or Portugal. A new land, a new challenge, appeals to me. But if I’m not there by the time the moon begins to wane, then leave without me.”

  “Three weeks?” Jacques looked toward the south, where the dark outline of the Pyrenees stretched across the horizon. A formidable barrier. “Impossible. It’ll take you at least four weeks to reach Santiago.”

  Pierre shook his head. “I have no intention of going all the way to Santiago. ’Tis merely an impression I wish to impart till we cross the mountains. I intend to cross the border at Saint Mamet and head through Aragon into Navarre. There’s a Templar abbey at Ilárraz, just outside of Pamplona, which is where I’ll leave Dominic. All being well, we should be there in less than a fortnight. I’ll likely stay at the abbey for a few days, but that should still allow me enough time to be in Bayonne around the start of the full moon.”

  “I see.” Jacques pondered. “There’s a tavern, L’Auberge de Nive, on the south side of the river. I’ll be there each evening of the full moon.”

  “I know the place. But if I don’t show, you’ll leave as soon as the moon begins to wane. Sooner, if you deem it necessary.”

  “Understood.”

  Pierre scratched his head. “You have my heartfelt gratitude, Brother. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

  Jacques raised a brow. “Don’t get maudlin, Pierre. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “You’re right.” He grinned. “’Twas a moment of weakness. Let’s get out of here.”

  Not long after, all evidence of their presence in the barn had been cleared away or packed into bags to be discarded elsewhere. Balere and Têtu had been tacked and readied. Prayers had been said. And the second hour-candle had been blown out with a quarter hour to spare.

  Jacques led Balere outside and approached Antoine, who was watching Dominic and Félice say their farewells. “Until I acquire a second horse,” he said, “you must ride with the lady.”

  Antoine gave him a dubious look. “I’m not sure I can, Brother. It goes against my—”

  “Your vows are irrelevant, Templar. For the time being, anyway.” Jacques gestured to the western horizon. “We have a hundred miles ahead of us. You’ve walked not even a mile tonight, and you’re already exhausted. I cannot make allowances for anything that might jeopardize our survival. More specifically, the lady’s survival. If you truly have an objection to riding with her, then I must accept your previous offer to fend for yourself.”

  Antoine heaved a weary sigh. “You’re right, of course. And no, I have no objection.”

  Jacques grunted. “It relieves me to hear it.”

  Dominic approached with Félice. “I leave her in your care, Brother,” he said to Jacques. “And do so with confidence and gratitude.”

  Jacques acknowledged with a single nod. “I’ll protect her with my life, Dominic.”

  “I know you will.” He held out a hand. “Adieu, Antoine. I’m honoured to call you a brother. Perhaps, one day, we shall meet again.”

  “I truly hope so.” Antoine gripped the offered hand. “Do not let anyone dim the light in your soul, my friend. ’Tis a God given blessing, and I speak as one who benefited from it.”

  Pierre, who had been standing in watchful silence nearby, at last moved forward, leading Têtu. “Enough said.” He patted the mule’s saddle. “Dominic, we have to go.”

  Jacques regarded Félice. “As do we, my lady.” She nodded, and he helped her to mount before turning his attention to Antoine, who clambered up behind her.

  “Wait a little while before you follow, Jacques, just in case anyone is about.” Pierre clucked his tongue and urged Têtu onward. “And may God be with us all!”

  Dominic looked over his shoulder as they left, his pale face wearing an unmistakable expression of hope. Just before the darkness swallowed him, he raised a hand in a final farewell. It was a brief, but profound image. One that, Jacques knew, would forever remain clear in his mind.

  “Please keep him safe,” Félice whispered, lifting her gaze skyward. “Please.”

  “He’ll be all right,” Jacques replied. “The man he’s with has God on his side.”

  A short while later, they, too, set off into the night.

  Chapter Eight

  “Her best years are behind her.” Jacques patted the mare’s glossy brown neck. “But she’s still sound and has a mild temperament. She’ll carry you easily enough.”

  Antoine’s face displayed his pleasure as he stroked the horse’s nose. “She’s a fine animal, Brother,” he said, a hint of emotion in his voice. “More than I expected. I’m not sure I can ever repay you.”

  “You don’t have to,” Jacques replied. “Besides, the money used came from Templar coffers.”

  “She has wisdom in her eyes.” Félice cocked her head and regarded the animal. “’Tis a pity she cannot speak, for I suspect she has plenty of stories to tell.”

  Jacques smiled at the notion. “There’s no saddle, I’m afraid,” he said. “I gave the impression I was travelling alone and in the market for a pack horse.”

  Antoine shrugged. “No matter. Does she have a name?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “May I help you choose one?” Félice asked.

  Antoine gave her a warm glance. “You may have the full honour if you wish, my lady.”

  “Something to do while we travel,” Jacques said, glancing at the sky. “Half the morning is gone already. We should not delay any longer. There is, however, one more thing before we go.” He went to Balere, unfastened a long, cloth-wrapped item from the back of the saddle, and presented it to Antoine. “A Knight of the Temple should not be without a weapon.”

  Antoine’s soft gasp as he took the sword said more than any word of thanks. With undisguised delight, he tugged it from its wrapping, unsheathed the sword, and looked along its steely length. A smile curved his mouth as he slanted the blade upright, turning it this way and that, catching the sunlight, which glanced off the honed edge like sparks in a forge.

  “’Tis surely not the finest weapon ever made,” Jacques said, “but it’s—”

  “Perfect.” Antoine shook his head as he slid the blade back into the sheath. “I truly have no words.”

  “They are not required,” Jacques replied. “Right, we move on. My lady, if you have no objection, I’ll be riding with you.”

  A faint smile appeared. “I have no objection at all,” she said.

  It was the morning after their initial flight. They’d travelled most of the night, but at a slow pace given the darkness, and the fact that Balere carried two souls on his back. When fatigue finally overcame them, they’d rested for a few brief hours in a sheltered stand of fir before continuing on at dawn. Soon after, they’d skirted around the small town of La Barthe-de-Neste, where Jacques had left his charges in a tranquil spot beside a stream and gone in search of a horse and a sword. The blacksmith who sold him the sword also told him where he might find a horse. He’d been fortunate. The mare, given her age, was in good condition and priced right.

  The rest of that day continued along the same peaceful vein. They stopped several times to stretch their legs and give the horses a break. They encountered others enroute too; both travellers and locals, who perhaps bid them bonjour, but otherwise paid them little mind. Still, Jacques kept his senses on alert. Raoul’s body would have been discovered by now, and the alarm raised. But, in truth, he was not overly concerned. First of all, he’d killed the only man who could identify him. As well, their visit to the prison the previous night had been covert, bought and paid for with thirty pieces of silver. No one else had witnessed their arrival, and he doubted if anyone other than Raoul even knew of it.

  As for Pierre… well, who would initially suspect a priest of murder? He’d likely be considered worthy of questioning, however, and his sudden disappearance from St. Bertrand-de-Comminges might then raise suspicions. Jacques wondered, not for the first time that day, how his friend’s night had progressed.

  A soft laugh from Félice pulled his thoughts back to the present. She’d reacted to something Antoine had said, though Jacques, his mind elsewhere, had missed the context of it. He gave the Templar a critical glance. Despite the steady pace and the frequent breaks, the man had to be weary, though he’d not once complained.

  “What do you think, Jacques?” Félice asked, without turning.

  “About what? Forgive me, I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “We’ve named the mare Sienna,” she said.

  Jacques grunted his approval. “’Tis a fine name.”

  “I think so too,” Antoine said, patting the mare’s neck.

  “We can stop now if you’re tired, Brother,” Jacques said. “The day is almost over.”

 

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