Jacques (The Sword and the Spirit Book 3), page 8
“Nay, I’m fine,” Antoine replied, straightening his shoulders.
“Are you sure?” Félice also straightened. She had, at first, held herself rigid in the saddle, avoiding as much contact with Jacques as possible. But as the miles and hours passed, she’d surrendered to her own weariness and finally rested against him. “There’s no shame in admitting fatigue, sir. You’ve been through so much.”
“Thank you, both, for your concern,” he replied. “But I think I can manage another hour or two.”
“Another hour, then,” Jacques said, breathing in the now familiar floral scent of Félice’s hair. He couldn’t deny that he found it pleasant. Yet, despite the intimacy of the travel arrangements, he felt only a sense of protectiveness toward his female charge, one that stemmed from genuine fondness. Nothing more. “That should give us time to circumvent Lourdes. We’ll find a place to rest on the other side.”
They continued on till they reached the river, and then followed its westerly flow around the town. With some trepidation, Jacques eyed the castle, which sat atop a rocky elevation overlooking the town. It was a formidable bastion, strategically placed—and garrisoned by King Philip’s men.
He felt better once it lay behind them.
By now, the western skies were turning to gold. Still following the river, they stopped on a wide bank beside a large overhanging rock formation. The grotto at its base had obviously been used as a shelter in the past, judging by the ashes of dead fires and smoke-stained walls. With clouds gathering overhead, it served to offer them protection should the weather worsen overnight. Soon, the horses were settled, a fire built, and blankets laid out.
“Bread and cheese again,” Jacques said, handing out the rations. “I’ll see if I can find something more substantial tomorrow.”
“You’ll not hear me complain, Brother.” Antoine, seated cross-legged on his blanket, eyed his piece of cheese with undisguised relish. “If I have learned anything over this past year, ’tis gratitude for things I previously took for granted.”
Jacques regarded Félice, who was gazing up at a niche above the grotto, the piece of bread in her hand uneaten. “You should try and eat, my lady.”
She blinked as if awakening from a dream, looked at Jacques, and then at the morsel of bread. “Oh, I will. Though I’m not terribly hungry, to be honest.”
“I’m sure Dominic is all right,” Jacques said. “He and Father Sabatier are likely enjoying a similar repast even as we speak.”
She smiled. “I don’t doubt it. In truth, I wasn’t thinking of him at that moment. I was actually thinking how peaceful this place is. Calming, somehow.”
“I agree,” Antoine said, glancing about. “The river looks especially inviting. After I’ve finished eating, I should like to take a bath.”
Sometime later, when night had fallen and broken clouds still drifted across the sky, a dripping-wet Antoine flopped down by the fire. Obeying Jacques’ gesture for quiet, he glanced over to where Félice lay curled up in her blanket.
“Asleep?” he murmured.
“I think so, aye.”
“She is a brave lady.” Antoine’s teeth chattered as he pulled on his clothes. “Spirited.”
“Aye.” Jacques threw a piece of wood on the fire, sending sparks spiralling. “It seems to run in the family.”
Antoine heaved a sigh and stared into the renewed flames. “He begged them to take him instead,” he said, in hushed tones. “He pleaded with them.”
Jacques frowned. “Who?”
Antoine cast another glance at Félice. “Dominic,” he whispered. “After the straws were drawn, he begged the soldiers to take him instead of one of the others, even though he knew what it would mean. When they refused, he challenged the king’s accusations. Right there, in the cell. He renounced the charges of heresy and proclaimed his innocence, knowing it would mean more torture, and even death. I thought they would surely take him then, but they just laughed and took Raphael and Tomas anyway.”
Jacques recalled Dominic’s half-naked state. “But they came back, didn’t they?”
“Yes, they came back.” Antoine’s eyes glistened with tears. “And I thought that was it. That they’d changed their minds and come to take Dominic away as well. But all they did was strip him of his clothes and his shoes, mocking him the entire time. It was one of the most degrading things I have ever seen. But I…” He drew a shaky breath. “Curse my soul, I just sat there and watched. I said nothing. I did nothing.”
Jacques grimaced. “To act or to speak would have served no purpose, Brother. I warrant it would only have made things worse. You had no defence against those men. None at all. Staying silent likely kept you and Dominic alive.”
“My conscience refuses to accept that argument.” Antoine looked down at his hands, which rested in his lap. “I didn’t speak because I knew what would follow and, God help me, I feared it. So, I did nothing. Truth is, I was weak. I was a coward.”
“Those men were the cowards. Not you.” Félice’s voice startled Jacques and drew a gasp from Antoine.
“My lady,” he said. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to—”
“My forgiveness is not required, since you have not wronged me.” She sat up, her face pale in the firelight. “Do you think I haven’t noticed your hands, cher monsieur? How long did the torture last? How much pain did you endure before you told them what they wanted to hear?”
“Félice,” Jacques murmured, shaking his head. “I’m not sure he—”
“I shall answer for you,” she said, her voice wavering. “The torture lasted longer than a heartbeat, which was already too long. And, judging by the injuries you bear, you endured the pain way beyond that. Do not speak of cowardice, then, for it is something you do not possess.”
“But I did not endure, my lady! I capitulated.” Antoine looked away as if remembering. “I confessed to unspeakable acts of heresy. I confessed to denying Christ.”
She huffed. “Was your confession true?”
His gaze snapped back to hers. “Of course not! But that does not excuse—”
“Does God know the true contents of a man’s heart?”
His eyes widened slightly. “Yes,” he said, after a moment, “I daresay He does.”
“Then He knows what lies in yours. He knows the truth of it now, and He knew the truth of it even as those whoresons forced a false confession from you.” She sniffed and brushed a tear from her eye. “I agree with Jacques. To have spoken or acted in defense of Dominic would only have made things worse. For both of you. I suggest, instead, you imagine the expressions on the faces of those same soldiers when they hear about your escape. I have done so several times, and found it pleasurable. My brother is alive. You are alive. ’Tis all that matters. I bid you both a goodnight.” She sniffed again, lay back down, and curled up in her blanket.
Jacques and Antoine exchanged glances.
“Spirited,” Jacques murmured.
Antoine, who looked slightly stunned, nodded. “Indeed.”
Later, while Antoine and Félice slept, Jacques unbuckled the pouch at his waist and removed the little linen package from within. He unwrapped the sprig of heather with care and cradled it in his palm, its faded flowers barely visible in the dark. If it lived up to its legendary reputation, its magic would see him safely returned to Morag. Not that he put much faith in such things, despite the miraculous tale attributed to Morag’s grandfather. He thought ahead to a day in Bayonne, where he’d seek out a ship sailing for northern lands. Scotland, ideally. But Ireland would serve as a stepping-stone if necessary. Time would tell whether or not he’d be travelling alone.
With that thought, he sent up a prayer for Pierre and Dominic. Then, stifling a yawn, he rewrapped the heather, placed it back in the pouch, and lay down on his blanket. Félice was right, he thought, linking his hands behind his head and gazing up at the stars. This was a peaceful place. Something about it seemed to reach in and soothe the soul.
He glanced over at his sleeping travelling-companions; two people who, for now, depended on him and the protection he provided. Two people who, if his intuition was correct, seemed to be forging a mutual bond that had the potential to endure. Though he wasn’t sure either of them realized it yet.
Chapter Nine
Border of Aquitaine
Four days later.
“His name is Marcel,” Félice said. “I’m surprised you don’t remember him. He’s served my father for years. He’ll know if any of Philip’s men have visited Béscat recently.”
Jacques gazed down at the small house tucked against the hillside. “You trust him?”
She nodded. “Without question.”
Their journey had taken a day longer than anticipated, due primarily to their unavoidable slower pace and an afternoon of shelter in an empty shepherd’s hut when the heavens had opened. Now, with Chateau Béscat visible in the distance, Jacques allowed himself to breathe a little easier. The small, turreted stronghold sat atop a natural, grassy motte. In the serene light of early evening it appeared peaceful enough. And it certainly conjured up memories of a happy period in his life.
But he had no intention of throwing caution to the wind in these final moments of their journey. He needed to be sure they’d be welcomed by warm Gascon hands, not cold French steel. When he’d voiced his concerns, Félice had suggested they first stop at the home of one of her father’s loyal retainers. Someone familiar with the comings-and-goings of the chateau.
They headed down the slope and dismounted at the front of the house. Almost immediately, a man, vaguely familiar to Jacques, emerged from a nearby stable, pitchfork in hand. He held himself as someone of a lesser age; spine straight, legs unbowed. Yet his silver eyebrows matched the tufts of hair peeking out from under his hood, and his lined face told a tale of years spent in the sun.
“Who goes there?” he demanded, squinting at them.
“Bonsoir, Marcel.” She approached him. “’Tis I, Félice.”
“Félice?” Marcel’s dark eyes widened. “May all the saints be praised, you are returned? When? Your father said nothing of it earlier.”
“I’ve not yet been home, so he doesn’t know. No one does,” she replied. “How is he?”
“Worried for his children, though well enough otherwise. He’ll be better for seeing you, no doubt.” He shifted his attention to Jacques and Antoine, his gaze lingering a moment on the latter. “Who are these men? What is this about?”
“We are friends of Dominic, Monsieur,” Jacques replied, inclining his head. “My name is Jacques, and this is Antoine.”
A look of alarm crossed Marcel’s face. “Then where is Dominic? Has he come to harm?”
“Nay.” Félice sighed. “That is, he’s alive, at least. Though the same cannot be said for his prison guard.”
The man, still looking worried, shifted on his feet. “You speak in riddles, ma petite.”
“By the grace of God, Dominic and the priest who accompanies him should now be safely arrived in Spain,” Jacques explained. “We thought it unwise to bring him here.”
“Spain?” The man, blinking like an owl and looking utterly bewildered, stared at Jacques for a moment. Then his face lit up with comprehension and he barked out a laugh. “Saints above, this I had not expected. Would that I could see my lord’s face when he hears it. Friends, you say? Brothers-in-arms, I suspect. And it would appear one of you has also spent some time in Philip’s evil clutches.” He shook his head. “But I still don’t understand what brings you to my door and not that of Béscat.”
“We need the answer to a question,” Jacques said. “Though I believe you’ve already provided it.”
Marcel cocked his head and then jabbed a finger at him. “You look familiar to me. Why is that?”
Jacques smiled. “I fostered here a number of years ago.”
“Ah, yes.” Marcel nodded. “I never forget a face. So, what is the answer I have unknowingly provided?”
“That there has been no recent visit from Philip’s men.”
“May Heaven forbid.” Marcel spat on the ground. “I was there earlier and there has been no visit. But if a prison guard is laying dead somewhere, and Dominic is involved, it might only be a matter of time.”
Less than an hour later, they sat in the private chambers of Lord Hugo Béscat, Félice’s father. Seeing him again had raised a knot of emotion in Jacques’ throat. True, the years had obviously sapped the man’s physical strength, but the noble spirit remained, evident in the attentive quickness of his eyes and the agility of his speech.
He now presided at the head of a hefty oak table, lauding those who sat with him, lamenting those who did not. His face, blotched with unashamedly-shed tears, couldn’t quite decide which emotional expression to wear. After all, his daughter had returned home unharmed from her precarious expedition. And his Templar son was no longer imprisoned. By now, Dominic had assuredly crossed the Pyrenees with a courageous priest, and was riding a stubborn mule all the way to a monastery in Navarre.
“And I was right about you, Templar,” Hugo said, jabbing a gnarled finger in Jacques’ direction much as Marcel had done. “I always suspected God had chosen you for some special purpose. I shall be forever in your debt.”
“As will I,” Félice said.
“Likewise, Brother,” Antoine added.
Jacques fidgeted. “My thanks, but I did not act alone. In fact, I came late to the plot, which was already being hatched by Father Sabatier in response to a comment Félice made.”
“Nevertheless,” Lord Hugo said, “without your help, I doubt we’d all be sitting here now.”
“Perhaps so,” Jacques acknowledged. “Which compels me to point out that as long as Antoine and I remain here, your safety is compromised.”
“I’m more of a liability than you, Brother,” Antoine said. “You are an unknown, whereas I am a fugitive. The sooner I leave, the—
“Nay!” Félice cried. “I… I mean, you’re not a liability at all, Monsieur. You’re welcome to stay for as long as you wish. Is that not so, Papa?”
Hugo’s brow twitched. “More than welcome,” he answered, looking vaguely amused. “I am honored, in truth, to have you under my roof.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Antoine’s eyes flicked briefly to Félice. “And you too, my lady.”
“But Jacques makes a valid point,” Hugo continued. “We should prepare for the possibility of an unwanted visit.”
Félice nodded. “You’ll need a place to hide.”
“I disagree,” Antoine said. “I don’t think I should hide at all. I should simply blend in with those who live and work here. If I were minding the pigs, or tilling earth in a nearby field, I warrant I wouldn’t be given a second glance.” He gave his hands a dubious look. “Though I should probably wear gloves.”
“Hiding in plain sight.” Hugo smiled his approval. “Hmm, I like that idea. And you need not fear betrayal. My retainers are loyal to me and my children. There is much sympathy for the Templars, as well, in these parts, but little love for Philip. Now, you’re all undoubtedly hungry and tired, so let’s remedy that.”
That night, the sliver of a new moon appeared in the sky. For Jacques, it marked the beginning of a celestial prediction. One that foretold he’d soon be on his way to Bayonne, and from there to Scotland. Anticipation fluttered deep in his gut as he gazed up at it.
Hugo, who’d accompanied Jacques outside after the evening repast, uttered a mild curse. “She likes him,” he said, followed by a huff. “And it would seem to be mutual. I was watching them at dinner tonight. ’Tis a development I did not expect, nor is it entirely welcome.”
Jacques regarded his grumbling companion. “Antoine is a good man, my lord.”
“So is the local priest,” Hugo countered, “but it doesn’t make him a suitable husband. Antoine is not only sworn to chastity, but he’s also a fugitive, and he’s landless. Am I missing anything?”
Jacques’ mouth twitched. “There’s nothing to stop him surrendering his vows, my lord. Under the circumstances, it is likely to be expected.”
“Oh, well, in that case, I suppose I have no call to worry.” Hugo winced as he plopped down on a wooden bench. “That my daughter happens to be attracted to a penniless fugitive is of little consequence. Damn these old bones!”
Jacques laughed and settled beside him. “Do you have someone else in mind for her?”
“Not at the moment.” He grimaced and rubbed his right knee. “She’s had several suitors over the years and refused all except Charles, and she only accepted him because I threatened her with a convent. She wasn’t unhappy with him either, as it turned out, but the man went and died within two months of their marriage.”
“She spoke of him,” Jacques said. “And I must assume, as a widow, she’s not without means of her own.”
“No, she’s not. But material wealth doesn’t matter to her. At least, not when it comes to matters of the heart.” He gave a wry smile. “She used to follow you around like a lost pup, as I recall. Cried for days after you left.”
“A childish infatuation,” Jacques said, feeling the same sense of nostalgia as before. “That’s all.”
“Oh, I think it was a little more than that. I must admit, she’s a good judge of character. Her mother was the same, may God rest her soul.” He grinned. “Which was why she decided to marry me. So, the fact that my daughter likes this Poor Knight of the Temple says something about him.”
“Like I said, he’s a good man.” Jacques cleared his throat. “And he’s not exactly poor, my lord. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
Hugo gave him a sharp look. “What do you mean?”
“When my brothers and I left France, we did not leave empty-handed,” Jacques said. “Nor did I return empty-handed. Most of what I have left is his, or will be before I return to Scotland. And Father Sabatier also gave me something for him. All told, ’tis not an amount to scoff at.”
“Then it would seem his suitability as a son-in-law is improving,” Hugo said. “The only remaining impediment is the fact that he’s a fugitive.”
