by Cathy MacRae
Kinnon admired the carved wooden doors of the cathedral, still open at this hour. Reliefs showing the nativity and the passion caught the shadows and the last of the golden light, revealing their precious stories of life and death, beckoning to all who believe.
Rory turned to the street stretched below. “’Tis a wicked thing they do to these poor pilgrims. Paying an exorbitant price for a vial of the tears of St. John willnae protect them any better than a good walking stick and a bit of common sense.”
“If desperate enough, they will purchase anything to alleviate their burden,” Kinnon replied quietly.
“Do ye think to travel to Italy, then?” Rory asked.
“My own pilgrimage is to find Melisende. Yers may end at any time, with no harsh words between us.”
“Nae,” Rory replied comfortably. “I meant no criticism. I wondered if I should learn a wee bit of Latin, ’tis all.”
Kinnon returned Rory’s affable grin with a duck of his head. “I am sorry I seem touchy about Melisende’s plight. There are so many questions, and I have come so far to have so few of them answered. Did she travel to Italy to meet with Lucienne? Has she left on foot? Alone?”
He pivoted on the stair and stepped into the heavy foot traffic, scarcely able to stir except in the direction of those around him. He hid a curse beneath his breath, mindful of the cathedral and the carved doors now looking down on him with disapproval.
Rory clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Dinnae worry. We will find yer Melisende. It should be easy to find a wee lass and her dog.”
The seller of rosaries at the table next to them glanced up, a startled look on his face. “Did you ask about a woman and a dog?”
Kinnon eyed him curiously. “An English-speaking trinket seller in France. Truly a sacred miracle.”
The man flushed. “I was once an English merchant who spent a goodly amount of time in Edinburgh. Your speech caught my ear as much as your words.”
“And do rosaries sell better here on the steps of the cathedral than on the streets of Edinburgh?”
A grin split the man’s face. “Aye. But the price of information you seek is more dear.”
“If ’tis worthy, ye shall have yer price,” Kinnon conceded.
The man leaned forward eagerly. “I remember the lass because of her great dog. He was very calm, but showed his teeth if anyone approached his mistress.” He canted his head in remembrance. “They were quite large teeth and deterred several advances. It is not good for a woman to travel alone.”
“What else do ye remember?” Kinnon prodded impatiently.
“I remember she asked about the Chemin de Saint Jacques—the pilgrim’s road to Santiago.”
“Do ye think she travels with the pilgrims?” Kinnon’s voice was urgent as he pried the last bit of information from the table merchant.
He gave Kinnon a smug smile. “I know she does. I saw her leave Le Puy six days ago, just after Matins, with a small group of pilgrims. She could be at the Domerie d’Aubrac by now.”
Chapter 23
Jean-Baptiste settled close to her side. Melisende lowered a hand to his head, seeking the dog’s comforting contact. Fog had rolled in during the night, and she could scarcely see more than a few feet around her, and his touch brought reassurance. Hidden by the heavy mist, the group of nearly thirty pilgrims had all but vanished, leaving only the two women closest to her within her view. Fine droplets of water clung to everything. Even the glow of the fire was dimmed as it struggled to life in the saturated morning air.
Already weary though the day had hardly begun, Melisende reached inside her bag for rags to wrap about her feet. The cloth was dry, but the insides of her boots were damp from the mist and she knew the end of the day would see her feet blistered and sore.
“I thought the boots needed airing out,” she confided to the dog, explaining why she had not simply slept with them on. He thumped his tail on the ground at the sound of her voice and she eyed his feet. “You need a respite, too, mon ami. Your foot has not had a chance to heal since you slipped on the sharp rocks on that last pass. The Domerie d’Aubrac may be a good place for a day or two of rest for you as well.”
Jean-Baptiste accepted a bit of bread from her bag, then returned to licking his wounded paw.
The heavy mists dulled the sounds around her as effectively as drawing a curtain. The pilgrims huddled together in near silence, hoping to avoid the attention of bandits in the area, praying for the sun to pierce the fog and show them the way down off this accursed plateau. Melisende slipped behind a copse of trees to complete her morning routine. As she made her way carefully back to camp, doing her best to avoid stumbling over stones hidden by the mists swirling around her ankles, a strange rumbling noise caught her attention.
Jean-Baptiste lifted his nose, testing the air. The hair on his back rose and a low growl slipped from his chest. Melisende froze, her gaze quickly seeking shelter. The fog changed from dull gray to palest gold as the sun fought its way over the mountain tops. The rumbling sound increased.
Anxious cries echoed around the camp. “Bandits!”
Melisende wound her fingers about Jean-Baptiste’s collar. “Would they be so bold?” she wondered softly to the dog. “Or would they have slipped in quietly and robbed us during the night?”
The fog thinned, but her view was still limited. In the distance the chime of a church bell could be heard.
“Maria!” someone called out, and the tone of the little camp changed. Pilgrims ceased their frantic movements and some even hugged each other, chattering excitedly. Curious, Melisende stepped forward.
“They are coming for us!” a woman cried, and yet her posture was of thankfulness, not fear.
The fog burst into flames of color as men on horseback entered the camp, the bold red, eight-pointed cross on their white mantles burning brightly in the morning sun. They wheeled their mounts to a stop in a great show of horsemanship. One knight called to the pilgrims.
“We have come to escort you to Aubrac. It is our sworn duty.” The spokesman nodded at the group. “Gather your belongings and come with us. There are bandits in the area.”
The bell continued to ring its slow, steady strokes. Following the sound and the scuffed path—one of many that cut across the plateau—the knights herded the pilgrims down the hill. The vast tableland stretched before them, enormous rocks looming suddenly out of the heavy mists. The pilgrims spread out, avoiding the boulders, and Melisende could understand how they could easily be lost in the fog were it not for their protectors, who pushed the stragglers back into the group.
The bell continued to ring, the tone growing louder as the pilgrims approached the village, and Melisende turned toward the sound.
“It is the bell of the lost,” a masculine voice murmured.
Melisende looked over her shoulder to see a knight walking his horse beside her.
“She is known to us as Maria,” he added.
“I heard a woman call the name,” Melisende replied, “but thought she appealed to Notre Dame.”
“The bell is rung to assist those lost in the fog and snow, and perhaps warn away bandits as well.”
“I suppose knights do a better job of deterring bandits than the ringing bell,” she observed.
“The bell is well known to herald knights in the area,” he agreed. “It is engraved: Jubile pour Dieu, Chante pour les clercs, Chasse les démons, Rappelle les égarés.” Jubilee for God, sing for the clerics, hunt the demons, recall the lost.
“A large job for such a tool.” Melisende smiled. “It is good the church supplies additional help.”
“As you say, my lady.” The knight jostled his horse’s reins, slowing his walk further. “The monks will take care of you at the domerie, but should you have need, I, Jean-Luc, would be pleased to be at your service.”
Melisende patted the large dog beside her. “This is Jean-Baptiste. He is all the protection I need.”
“I mean you no disrespect, and you likely
will enjoy the rest provided at the domerie. Should you wish to walk the town or visit the market, however, I would be honored to provide you escort.”
They continued on for a few moments in silence. Jean-Luc nodded his head to her and urged his horse forward. Melisende stopped.
“Melisende,” she called after him. “My name is Melisende.”
Jean-Luc paused, glancing back over his shoulder. Applying his heels to his horse’s side, he cantered slowly through the gates of the town.
* * *
Melisende entered the domerie, Jean-Baptiste at her side. The monk receiving the pilgrims gave her a startled look.
“We do not house dogs here, mademoiselle.”
“He is my companion and protector,” Melisende replied.
Another monk hurried over, and the two murmured together for several moments. “You will be safe here without the dog. He may stay in one of the barns.”
Melisende gave a respectful nod, weaving on her feet as exhaustion drained her muscles. “I will take him elsewhere.”
She stumbled through the door and into the afternoon sunlight. Tears and the sudden brightness blinded her unexpectedly, and she drew up short. People surged around her as she blinked to clear her vision.
“Is anything wrong, mademoiselle?”
She jerked, recognizing the voice, and pivoted to the young knight behind her, his handsome face furrowed with concern. “I must find a place for Jean-Baptiste,” she said, not mentioning she would not be parted from the dog and planned to sleep wherever she found him space. “The monk mentioned a barn.”
“The barns are emptying, but quite filthy after housing cattle and other beasts over the long winter. They are now being moved to their grazing in the highlands for the summer.” He waved a hand around them. “Do you see the crowds, the sheep and cattle?”
For the first time Melisende was aware of the noise around her. Cattle bellowed, and sheep added their high-pitched bleats to the chatter of the two-footed crowds. “I thought this was a market day, but had not noticed the numbers.”
“’Tis almost like a festival,” he agreed. “There are extra vendors in the market, jongleurs to entertain the travelers. However, there are pickpockets and other evil-doers as well. Might I accompany you?”
Melisende remained undecided. He seemed to be in good standing with his regiment, and the eight-pointed cross on his cloak promised chivalry. “I am at a loss to find a place for Jean-Baptiste. He has been with me since he was a puppy and there was no place to leave him when I left on pilgrimage. Could you suggest a safe spot?”
“I am ever at your service, mademoiselle.” Jean-Luc bowed to her and the dog. “However did he acquire such a name?”
* * *
He has changed more than one man’s religion. The memory of her first meeting with Kinnon softened her, eased a bit of the tiredness from the days on the harsh trail. She managed a small smile for Jean-Luc as he laughed at her tales of Jean-Baptiste.
“What brings you on pilgrimage?” he asked.
Melisende frowned, the past few days blurring together. What had been her incentive? Travel to Italy to find Lucienne had not appealed to her. Their parting had been unpleasant, and she had heard nothing from her sister in months. As Lucienne’s circumstances appeared stretched to say the least, Melisende had been unsure of her welcome. It was equally certain that returning to the farm was a bad idea—especially since the soldiers remembered and actively sought her.
But where to go? The night she and Jean-Baptiste had left her uncle’s home, sounds of soft chanting had led her to the cathedral. A chance encounter with a pilgrim praying on the steps had given her a new purpose.
“I was accused of aiding an escaped prisoner, but that was not true. He had come to see to my and my sister’s safety, for he knew the town would be dangerous as the exchange of power took place. There was no desertion, no treason as was accused. But the acting commander was a man of evil ambitions and considered Kinnon a threat to his goals and so trumped up the charges. When I left Le Puy almost a sennight ago, I knew there was still a warrant against me, and returning to our farm was not possible.”
Jean-Luc leaned comfortably against the corner of the small shop where he’d insisted on purchasing meat pasties for them to eat. Melisende sat on a small, rough-hewn bench, Jean-Baptiste tucked at her feet.
“What happened to this man?”
Melisende took a deep breath against the sharp pain of loss. “I do not know. ’Twas rumored they held a man in the tower prison at Châteauneuf who had committed treason. Very little was said, and I pray it was him and that he was eventually ransomed.” She lifted her gaze, eyes round with worry. “I know for a fact he was beaten. I hope he was not killed.”
“He has a special place in your heart, mademoiselle?” Jean-Luc’s question was casual, but his tone betrayed his interest.
“My heart has much to atone for, chevalier. Mayhap I can find it at the shrine of Saint Jacques.”
“’Tis a noble effort. But an indulgence for your sins can be sought at any church along the way. The travel to Santiago de Compostela is long and arduous. And dangerous for a woman alone.”
“I must go where I am led. As long as Jean-Baptiste is with me, I will not worry.”
Jean-Luc shifted abruptly. “Let me see to his feet. Both of you appear to be tender, unused to the sharp rocks and travel.”
He knelt beside the dog, who eyed him cautiously as the knight inspected his feet.
“’Tis as I thought. He, at least, needs a couple days’ rest and good food.” He looked up at Melisende. “As, I suspect, do you.” He rose, dusting his hands on his breeches. “Come. I will return you to the domerie and the dog will sleep with my horse. I can promise you no greater safety for either of you.” He grinned. “Courageux, my horse, has his own stable lad, and he will be happy to care for the dog tonight as well.”
Melisende opened her mouth to protest, but startled at the low growl from Jean-Baptiste at her side. Jean-Luc, his arms open to her, gave her a wry look, his movements checked. “I do not think your protector wishes me to offer you a ride.”
Traveling back to the domerie—or anywhere—without having to walk was a gift Melisende was loath to turn away. She placed a quieting hand on the dog’s head and offered Jean-Luc an apologetic smile. “He has always been so.”
Accepting the knight’s help, she grasped the horse’s black mane as she settled in the saddle. Bold muscles rippled beneath the dark red hide. The horse lifted his enormous feet and placed them carefully on the cobbled street, rocking Melisende gently in the saddle. They reached the domerie and Jean-Luc slid Melisende to the ground, stepping away before she could remark his closeness.
“Sleep well. The monks are well-used to caring for travelers. I have duty in the morning, but would beg your company for the afternoon. I will bring Jean-Baptiste with me.”
Melisende frowned, uncertain how he would entice the dog to part from her. But the big dog’s head hung wearily and he only whined briefly as Jean-Luc led him away. He cast a bewildered look over his shoulder before settling beside the tall knight, and they were quickly lost amid the foot traffic.
With unease in her heart, Melisende entered the domerie, where a monk motioned her to an empty chair. She sat and he removed her boots, placing her feet in a shallow basin of water. Closing her eyes at the heavenly feel of hands washing her worn feet, she waited patiently for the ritual to end. He patted her feet dry and gave her a fresh piece of linen, pointing her to the area where women were allowed to refresh themselves.
She smelled the lingering odor of the smoke and the meal past, and collected a mug of watered ale as she made her way to an empty cot.
* * *
The horses blew tiredly, steam rising from their bodies as the men stripped their saddles away. Kinnon assessed the area they’d chosen for their camp. He and his men had doubled the size of the group of pilgrims who’d left Le Puy that morning, but the pilgrims seemed grateful for t
he protection the soldiers provided.
Rory squinted into the distance as the sun framed the mountains in the last of its fiery glow. “’Tis wilder land ahead. The hills arenae so verra tall, but they are verra steep.” He glanced at the horses. “They will sleep well tonight.”
“As will I,” Kinnon noted. “We will set a four-man watch against robbers and beasts, taking it in two-hour shifts. That shouldnae be taxing and will allow the men a night’s rest.”
“I will arrange it,” Rory said as he turned to the Scotsmen.
A slender man in a white robe, the scallop shell emblem of those who followed the path of St. John embroidered on the left breast, approached Kinnon. Rory sent a questioning look over his shoulder, but Kinnon waved away his concern.
“We are thankful for your protection,” the older man said, coming to stand next to Kinnon.
“We will travel with ye as the terrain allows,” Kinnon told him. “’Tis slow going now, but we are in a hurry. Once the land levels out, we may move ahead of ye.”
“I have traveled this route before. There are dense forests and steep mountains to travel. Once we reach the Auvergne, we will face three or four days’ travel up and down sharp cliffs and deep valleys. It will be slow going for us and your horses.”
“My men and I are used to difficult mountains, but these horses werenae bred for it, I am afraid. We will be careful.”
The man nodded. “You do not wish a horse to strain a leg—or worse,” he agreed. “Our path will then take us through more forests and fields, as well as pastures and small villages. I would ask you to remain with us through the Aubrac. The land there is very wild and rife with bandits—a fearsome place to defenseless pilgrims. Once we reach the plateaus near the village, the Knights Hospitaller will provide protection. In the village is a travelers’ domerie, built by a Flemish nobleman who narrowly escaped death here more than two hundred years ago. It is a good place to rest and restore your soul.”
