by Andrea Japp
She led him, or, more precisely, he followed her, a few alleyways further along. She sat cross-legged on the floor behind a hut made of mud and straw. He did likewise.
Once again she held out her hand in silence. He took from his surcoat the piece of folded parchment he carried with him always. The small girl had spread it out on the ground and, hunched over, studied it.
A long moment passed before she looked up at him with her yellow eyes:
‘Everything is written in this cross, brother. It is Freya’s cross, but you already knew this. It is used to predict the outcome of a battle. And this is a battle. The left-hand branch signifies what is, what you inherit. It is Lagu, water. Water is inert yet sensitive and intuitive. Lagu is upright on your cross. You are lost, reality seems insurmountable to you. Listen to your soul and to your dreams. Long journeys are imminent. Keep in mind that you have been chosen, that you are a mere tool.’
Leone had taken a breath but the little girl had stopped him in a firm voice:
‘Do not speak. It is pointless to ask me any questions. I am telling you what you must know. The rest will come from you. The right-hand branch signifies the obstacles you must overcome. It is negative. This sign is Thorn. Thorn is the warrior god of thunder and rain. He is strong and free of all immorality. But the rune is reversed. Beware of anger and revenge – they would spell doom for you. Do not trust advice, it will mostly mislead you. Your enemies are powerful and hidden. They hide behind the beauty of angels and have been hatching their plot for a long time, for a very long time. The top branch symbolises the help that will be given to you and which you must accept.’ She paused for a moment before continuing, ‘Are you aware, brother, that this is not one man’s quest. It is an unbreakable chain. The rune Eolh is upright …’
The young girl’s face broke into a beautiful smile and she said in a soft voice:
‘I am glad. Eolh offers the most powerful protection you could enjoy. It is magical and so unpredictable that you will not recognise it when it appears. Do not fear being swayed by influences you do not understand. The lowest branch signifies what will happen in the near future. It is Ing and is reversed. Ing is the god of fertility and all its cycles. A task is nearing its end … yet the outcome is not favourable to you. You have failed. You have made a mistake and must go back to the beginning …’ She had stared at him with her cat-like eyes before asking:
‘What mistake have you made, brother? When? Where? You must find out very soon, time is running short. It has been running short for centuries.’ She lifted her hand to silence the questions the Knight was burning to ask. ‘Be quiet. I know nothing of the nature of the mistake, only that if you do not correct it very soon, the quest will reach an impasse. Nor do I know anything about the nature of the quest. I am, like you, a mere tool and my work will soon be done. Yours might never be. Ing reversed, then, means the period is unfavourable. Step back a little. Allow yourself time to repair the errors of judgement, whether yours or your predecessor’s. The rune at the middle of the cross signifies the future outcome. Tyr upright. Tyr is the sacred lance, the just war. It stands for courage, honour and sacrifice. As a guarantee, Tyr left his hand in the mouth of the wolf Fenrir who threatened the world with destruction. The struggle will be long and fierce but crowned with victory. You will need to be loyal, just and, at times, merciless. Keep in mind that pity, like all else, must be merited. Do not waste it on those who show none. I do not know whether you will be present at this victory or whether it is reserved for the one who comes after you. The struggle is already more than a thousand years old. It has been hiding in the shadows for over twelve hundred years.’
For the past few minutes, Leone had by turns been reassured by this reading of the runes and worried that he understood even less than he had before his meeting with the little beggar girl. He had stammered:
‘I implore you, speak to me of this struggle!’
‘Did you not hear what I said? I know nothing. I have revealed all I know. My task was to interpret this cross.’
‘Who entrusted you with it?’ Leone had roared, his panic gaining the upper hand.
All of a sudden, the young girl’s yellow gaze had fixed on a point behind him and he had turned his head. There had been nothing but a hill planted with olive groves, no menacing shadow. When he had turned back she had vanished, and only the imprint of her ragged dress on the dusty earth and the few coins he had given her proved he had not been dreaming.
He spent a whole week vainly searching for the girl in alleyways, peering inside stalls or churches, without ever glimpsing her frail figure.
Through a dogged effort Francesco de Leone had gradually understood the mistake they had all made from the very initiation of the chain, as the Cypriot beggar girl had referred to it. The two birth charts in the Templar Knight’s notebook were false. The equatoire used to interpret them was an aberration derived from an obsolete astronomical theory.
The mathematician monk from an Italian monastery – the Vallombroso Monastery45 – had discovered this truth and, fearing the consequences, hastened to conceal it. He had died soon afterwards in a crypt, having mysteriously fallen and cracked his skull open against a pillar. His notebook was never found. Until the day that the thief, Humeau, catering to the demands of his purchasers, had drawn up a small inventory of books in the Pope’s private library. Leone had approached him as a buyer, bidding against another anonymous customer. Gachelin Humeau played the two off against each other, coaxing, using delaying tactics and, above all, pushing up the price. Which one should he sell to? He procrastinated. He wanted to please everybody, but after all business was business. With a movement so swift as to barely give the man time to blink, Leone had pulled his dagger, grabbed the scoundrel by the throat and, pressing the sharp blade against his neck, had announced in a clear, calm voice:
‘How much for your life? Quick, name a price and then add it to the offer I just made. Is the other bid still higher?’
These were not empty threats and Humeau knew it. He had begrudgingly handed over the stolen work – for an exorbitant sum nonetheless.
Do not waste your pity on those who show none, the little girl had warned.
Leone was stupefied upon reading the treatise. There were other distant and invisible planets, whose existence had been proven by these calculations. Two giant stars,46 named by their discoverer GE1 and GE2, and an asteroid that was certainly smaller than the Moon but massive47 nonetheless, which he had denominated As. A further shocking revelation affirmed that the Earth was not fixed at the centre of the firmament but turned around the Sun.
For weeks on end the Knight had busied himself with painstaking and complex calculations. He had been obliged to go back to the positions of the planets in the signs and houses of the zodiac in order to discover the dates of birth of two people, or two events, whose star charts were almost identical. His deductions were still incomplete, for he lacked the necessary data to calculate GE2’s revolutions. However, he had reached a new stage in his clarifications that had allowed him to discover one date: the first decan of Capricorn, 25 December. Christmas Day. Agnès de Souarcy’s birthday.
Ing, the rune indicating error, had been overcome. Leone was waiting for a sign that would allow him to complete his astral charts, and, more importantly, to understand their vital meaning. He was also waiting for his ‘powerful, hidden’ enemies to show themselves. He could sense them unseen in the shadows, ready to strike. They had already dealt one deadly blow, and Benoît XI had been felled by it, of that Leone was certain.
He walked over to one of the book cabinets and gave it a sharp push. The high shelves slid along invisible rails, revealing a flagstone that was wider and lighter than the others. A niche had been hollowed out below. There was the Vallombroso manuscript, carefully wrapped in a piece of linen coated in beeswax to protect it from damp and insects. Underneath was a second volume he had glanced through only once, the acid saliva of nausea rising up his gorge. He had purchased i
t from Humeau with the intention of destroying it, and then something had dissuaded him. It was a work of necromancy written by a certain Justus and filled with loathsome instructions whose aim was not to communicate with the dead, but to torment them, to enslave them, turning them into servants of the living. Leone felt a ripple of disgust each time he saw the cover, and yet he kept putting off the moment when he would consign it to the flames, reducing it to mere ashes.
He re-read the Vallombroso treatise on astronomy for the thousandth time, and for the thousandth time studied the annotations Eustache and he had written in the large notebook. It was then that a tiny detail caught his attention. He walked over to the wall where the high arrow slits afforded a little more light and took a closer look.
What was the faint smudge of ink that resembled a finger mark?
Behind him a rustling sound, elegant and feminine, made his heart skip a beat. No, it was not the unknown woman in the church from his dream, it was his aunt. He swivelled round.
‘You made me jump, aunt. Have you consulted this notebook in my absence?’
‘You know perfectly well how uneasy I feel about those hieroglyphs.’
‘They are not hieroglyphs, they are secret runes.’
‘They are forbidden by the Church.’
‘Like many things.’
‘Are you blaspheming, my nephew?’
‘Blasphemy exists only against God, and I would rather die than allow it. What do you think would befall us if our quest became known?’
‘I do not know … The purity of it would convince them and make them rejoice.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Why this sarcasm, nephew?’
He looked at her for a moment, bowing his head before replying:
‘Do you really believe that those who wield such power and wealth would gladly let it slip through their fingers?’
‘I still have hopes that the Light will impose itself of its own accord, Francesco.’
‘How I envy you.’
‘Benoît died on account of this Light, Francesco. And many more before him,’ she reminded him in a sad voice.
‘You are right. Forgive me, aunt.’
‘You know I am incapable of being cross with you, my dear.’ He paused for a moment before enquiring:
‘Are you absolutely certain that Madame de Souarcy was born on 25 December?’
She stifled a chuckle before replying:
‘Do you think me an old fool, my sweet boy? I have told you repeatedly that she was born on Christmas Day. It is a significant enough date, despite its pagan origins,48 for it to be remarked upon and remembered … I came to make sure you have everything you need. I must leave you now – there are many things that require my attention. I shall see you presently, nephew.’
‘Farewell, aunt.’
The Abbess gone, Leone trawled through the many notes he and Eustache had scribbled on the notebook’s pages. All of a sudden his blood ran cold and for a moment he felt so dizzy he nearly lost his balance.
Somebody had torn out the last but one page of the notebook! A moment of sheer panic made his mind go blank. Somebody had consulted the notebook. But who? He was certain his aunt was telling the truth when she said she had not looked at it during his absence. Who then? One of the other nuns? Nobody else knew of the library’s existence.
He had been mistaken. Ing, the rune signifying error, was not pointing to the erroneous astral charts, but to his unforgivable stupidity.
The last two deceptively blank pages contained the calculations and diagrams – the most secret notes of all.
Did the thief know this?
Since Nicolas Florin’s arrival, Éleusie de Beaufort had tried her best to perform her usual tasks in the belief that her diligence would be a comfort to her girls. Were it not for this wish to carry on as though nothing in their lives had changed, she would have remained in her chambers despising her cowardice.
She was on her way to the steam room, walking unhurriedly, when her attention was caught by two figures standing side by side. Without really knowing why, the Abbess flattened herself against the wall behind one of the pillars holding up the vaulted ceiling, and watched the scene taking place twenty yards away. Her heart was pounding and she pressed her hand against her mouth, convinced that her quickened breathing could be heard at the other end of the abbey.
Florin. Florin was leaning over and whispering something to one of the sisters. The Inquisitor’s back obscured the listener’s identity. A few seconds passed, which seemed to her like an eternity. At last the two figures separated and the Inquisitor promptly disappeared down the right-hand corridor leading to the relics’ chamber.
The person to whom he had been speaking remained motionless for a moment, and then appeared to make up her mind, turning towards the gardens.
It was Emma de Pathus, the schoolmistress.
Hôtel d’Estouville, Rue de la Harpe, Paris, August 1304
Esquive d’Estouville put down the phoenix she had started embroidering many months before. The piece of linen cloth was fraying in places and covered in poor stitching that was coming loose. Needlework had always bored her, but it gave her the appearance of composure.
The young woman let out a sigh and her charming face became tense with frustration. It was such a long wait, and she was so eager to join her beautiful archangel, her Hospitaller. Her frustration was mixed with a curious happiness. To suffer a little each day for the one who would suffer so much. He did not know it yet and it was better that way.
When would she see him again, when would she permit herself to see him?
Esquive’s lady’s maid knocked at the door of the little room in the townhouse where she spent most of her time, when she was not handling weapons.
The maid was carrying a sumptuous cream-coloured dress over her arm.
‘It’s ready, Madame. I thought you’d want to see it straight away.’
‘You were right, Hermione. Let us look at this marvel I have been waiting for three weeks to see.’
Hermione approached her, avoiding as always the young Comtesse’s gaze, which made her so uneasy – those huge amber, almost yellow, eyes. The eyes of a little wild cat.
Clairets Abbey, Perche, September 1304
The bell for prime had sounded, but he would not be there. Nicolas Florin was in too much of a good mood to risk ruining it by inflicting a service upon himself. Thirty-one days, thirty-one days exactly. Thank God she had neither confessed to nor atoned for her sins. She was all his and nothing, no one, could save her now.
The armed escort had arrived the evening before and was just waiting for a sign from him. Agnès de Souarcy would be escorted in a few hours by carriage to the headquarters of the Inquisition at Alençon. Once inside its walls no one would hear her supplications or her screams, however loud.
He stretched with contentment as he lay on his bed trying to envisage Comte Artus’s confusion. Soon, everybody would dread the new Inquisitor’s power.
A momentary doubt clouded his optimism. The Abbess seemed to him changed of late, as though some unexpected certainty had all of a sudden allayed her fears. What of it! She might be an Abbess but she was only another female.
He gave a satisfied laugh. His female was so pretty, the one he had been coveting for a whole month now. He imagined her receiving him later, wringing her hands, wiping away her tears, her face pale and distraught with fear. Even though she had no idea to what extent her terror was justified.
A wave of voluptuousness washed over him, leaving him breathless with joy.
He would play for a long time, for a very long time. He closed his eyes as an explosion of pleasure wrenched his belly.
Manoir de Souarcy-en-Perche, September 1304
Agnès read one last time Clément’s brief message, which Comte Artus had ordered his men-at-arms to bring, before casting it reluctantly into the hearth. She so wished she could have kept it with her.
The young woman had not been
mistaken and Clément had taken great care with his words in case the missive fell into the wrong hands.
My dear Madame,
I miss you so. I grow more anxious by the day. The Comte is very good to me and has allowed me access to his wonderful library. His doctor, a Jew from Bologna, who is not only a physic but a great scholar, is teaching me, among other things, about medicine.
I am very worried, Madame. Since you will not allow me to come to you, I beg you to take the greatest care of yourself, in every possible way.
Your life is mine.
Your Clément.
The Comte had also scribbled a few cryptic lines, intended only to be understood by the addressee.
Everything is being done to try to frustrate this dreadful deception. Everything. Take heart, Madame, you are dear to us.
Your respectful, Artus, Comte d’Authon.
*
Adeline burst into the great hall without troubling to knock. She was weeping and stammering:
‘He’s here … He’s here, the black monk, the evil one.’
And she fled, as though her life, too, were in danger.
‘Madame?’
‘I was waiting for you, Monsieur.’
Agnès turned to face him, her back to the hearth. Florin’s good mood faltered. She was not weeping. Nor was she wringing her hands in dread.
‘I am ready. You may take me.’
‘Have you nothing …’
She interrupted him sharply:
‘I have nothing to confess. I have not sinned and I intend to prove it. Let us go, Monsieur, it is a long way to Alençon.’
Part Two:
The Breath of the Rose
Gentle Pye,
go to your brother,
with no pain.
