by Aiden James
“Bastard, you’re worse than my father. I’m soaked to the skin and will probably have pneumonia, thanks to you,” Rachel cried, accusingly.
“I seriously doubt your early demise or your claim to illness. Enough of this nonsense, keep moving,” I replied.
The door to Racco’s house was locked upon our arrival, forcing me to bang loudly in the hope he was still there. It was déjà vu.
“Racco, it is I, Emmanuel.”
A female figure, her head covered, cautiously opened the door. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Brigitte, it’s Emmanuel Ortiz and Juan Garcia de Moguer. Do you remember Dario who brought you here?”
The door opened wider and we were let in, and though Brigitte smiled in recognition, she remained evasive. Her unfriendly greeting a sure sign she had something to hide.
“Where’s Racco?” I demanded.
“Sick in the bed, through there,” she replied quietly pointing to a room straight ahead.
“Is Monsieur Comte here?”
“Yes, he is in the big room down the hall. Do you want me to take you?”
I was anxious to negotiate for a couple of horses to help us cross the border. How Comte would take the fact we were fugitives was yet to be seen, he was unpredictable. I found him sitting at the head of a grand table laden with fine food. Surprised to see me, he dropped a chicken leg and threw his arms in the air.
“Emmanuel, bonjour! What a pleasure, my fine friend. Racco told me you were in these parts. Who are these people?” he enquired.
“One is a good friend and the other is a rope around my neck,” I replied, unable to resist the sarcasm.
He laughed in response. “There’s far too much food, please, join me. I must commend you, on finding Brigitte. Racco told me you both made sure he was tended to while I was away. I appreciate your concern for my brother. So, what’s going on?”
“This man murdered my father; they are both on the run. It’s only a matter of time before they’re caught.” Rachel had made herself at home by already filling a plate with all manner of food. Not content with a free meal, she couldn’t resist opening her mouth.
“I know you’re in trouble,” he replied, dismissing her with a wave of a hand. “Dario sent word warning me not to harbor you. So, young lady, your confession of a crime means nothing. Besides, there are two sides to every story.”
My respect for Comte was immense and my concern for Racco’s health genuine. There was good news, he returned with a potent antidote and it was working. Racco was almost back to his normal self even though the small amount of poison he was given could have killed a dozen horses in seconds, his depleted immortality still managed to fend off the worse.
“He’s gotten himself embroiled in a steamy liaison with Brigitte. I’ve told him repeatedly, a lowly house maid is not for anything serious.” Comte remarked.
“Is that why he’s sleeping?” I joked, making sense of Brigitte’s sheepishness at the door.
“It seems the amount of passion going on in that room has cured his insomnia. I do wonder what the girl possesses. She’s not beautiful, nor has anything interesting to say.”
I looked to Brigitte, who was standing behind Comte, unfazed by the insults as she waited to serve her master and guests. Indeed, her face was plain, her eyes were set too close together and her lips were too thin. She had bony hands and a tendency to twitch, not the most enticing. What the attraction could be was beyond my comprehension. Rachel, on the other hand, a year or two younger, was, in spite of her aged skin, beautiful. Her large dark brown eyes sparkled like a cat and her lips, full and wide, were inviting. The fact I hated her so much didn’t distract from my male desire to make comparisons.
Comte couldn’t help but see the marks on her hands and she made no effort to disguise them as she devoured a leg of roast lamb.
“What have you done to your hands?” he enquired. “The marks are very strange. Are they burns, or scratches?”
I willed her to keep quiet. Unfortunately, it failed.
“I’m a stigmatic. I carry the wounds of Christ and when he feels pain, as he often does, I bleed out, mostly from all five points,” she told him proudly.
“Emmanuel, seems you are traveling with a hussy who needs to be locked away. Pretty she may be, nuts she certainly is,” replied Comte in his usual blunt manner.
For once, Rachel remained quiet, much to my relief. Although she flashed Comte a look to remind him she had been insulted.
“She’s prone to fantasy, it happens when she’s starved of food or attention. A silly little girl who never grew up,” I added.
In spite of Dario warning Comte not to help us, and time running out, it still felt good. For the first time since I’d came ashore and discarded Isabella, my equilibrium had been restored, even with Rachel tugging at my patience. I dove heartily into the tasty morsels on offer, as did Juan. Comte, always the finest host, brought out a large jug of the best quality Rioja wine. While Racco continued to sleep off too much passion and Rachel huffed and puffed her annoyance, we drank until intoxicated.
I don’t remember how I’d found a place to sleep, assuming I’d laid my head on the table. The next morning, I was bemused to find myself tucked up in a bed by a window. But all wasn’t what it seemed. To my horror, laying naked next me was Rachel, her long dark tousled hair unmistakable. I looked up to the heavens in desperation, willing myself to wake up from a nightmare, until I realized, I was fully awake.
“What are you doing in my bed? How did I get in this bed?” I asked, hoping for answers. There was no reply, she was sleeping soundly. “Wake up and tell me what you’re doing here, what happened. Did anything happen? …I don’t remember. Rachel?!” I pleaded.
Lying very still, as if my life depended on it, I waited patiently for her to stir and offer a logical non-sexual explanation. The wait seemed to take an eternity. When she did finally turn around and open her eyes, we faced each other. Neither of us certain what to say or do.
“Why are you in my bed?” I asked bluntly.
“I could ask you the same question, why are you in my bed?”
“What makes you think it’s yours when you don’t even know how I got here?”
“Neither of us knows how we got here. It was the terrible wine Comte gave me to drink. I knew I should have refused, it burnt my throat. I have trouble absorbing alcohol,” Rachel replied.
I’d landed myself in the most embarrassing situation. Where in God’s name was Juan? Did he know she was in my bed, or her bed? And what of Comte, Racco and Brigitte? There was a deathly silence in the house, as if no one was home apart from the two of us, lying together in discomfort.
“Do you think we did anything?” she asked softly. “I’m no longer virginal so there’s no way to know.”
“What are you asking me? I don’t recall getting in a bed or know how I became undressed. The last I remember was laughing at the table with Juan.”
“Well, your friend Comte certainly has good wine in his cellar. One or two glasses and I didn’t know where I was, obviously,” was all she could tell me.
Neither of us made a move, as if we were paralyzed, and were pathetically waiting for someone to come and help. I couldn’t believe I was in such a compromising situation with someone I didn’t like. It was a relief she was still alive. There was no telling what I was capable of in my drunken condition. I could have placed a pillow over her head and smothered her to death without knowing it.
“We should get up and see where everyone is,” she suggested.
“Did we… you know… try and remember. Did we… do?”
“Oh, do shut up Emmanuel, we don’t know. Let’s leave it there, shall we?” she interrupted and without a hint of modesty rose from the bed to search for her clothes. Being the gentleman, I closed my eyes trying not to peak, still convinced I was back in control.
She left me to dress in peace, and I found a quiet Juan alone in the dining room.
“I have a bad h
ead pain, please don’t raise your voice,” he pleaded.
“What happened? I don’t remember anything.” No doubt, my expression implored him as much as my pathetic entreaty.
“I’ve no idea, where’s Comte? I’d like to ask him what was in the wine,” he replied.
He was still sound asleep, but his brother, Racco, was up and looking much healthier. I was pleased to see him until he told of the night before.
“Did you enjoy the omelet? The mushrooms were delicious. Comte acquires only the best, the most special,” he remarked.
“The what? I don’t remember an omelet, did you say mushrooms?” Juan replied, his voice panicked.
“Of course, pulled from the rich soil. It appears when they’re ingested along with copious amounts of wine the experience becomes quite remarkable.”
Rachel and I looked at each other in shock. We’d all eaten the damn thing when too far gone with drink to notice.
“It seems I’ve done something immoral, although I can’t remember if I did, there’s something… no, no, nothing happened. I’d know. I’m immortal, I know everything,” I confessed with a tirade of words tumbling out, making little sense.
“Immorality, very intriguing… where did you sleep, Emmanuel?” Racco said.
“In a bed and unsure of how I got there.”
“Alone?”
“Do you mean alone in the room or the bed?” I replied trying to shift the subject.
“Did you wake up alone in bed?”
I looked to Juan, and then to Rachel, who sat in a chair smiling a sweet false smile to anyone who cared to notice. “No,” I was honest. “I woke up with the naked form of Rachel next to me. I think we might have had relations.”
Racco burst out laughing, while Juan continued a silent act, his face blank.
“Always the ladies’ man, eh Emmanuel? I take my hat off to you,” he said. “A nubile innocent young wench you took advantage of!”
How would I convince Racco and Juan I wasn’t guilty of further corrupting a far from innocent girl who, made it quite clear she’d already been with another? I honestly and sincerely remembered nothing I could be held responsible for. I thought it best we leave, before Comte awoke and I began a heated discussion on the perils of amnesia inducing mushrooms. Immortality gave me immunity to death by sword or musket, hanging or torture and all manner of poisons. Upon my supposed demise, I would often appear somewhere else with everything intact. Yet, here I was vulnerable to the ingestion of hallucinogenic mushrooms? It was a hard lesson learned, to strike all manner of fungus off the menu, put what did or didn’t happen behind me and make our escape. We now depended on Racco’s charitable nature extending to giving us horses and arranging for them to be returned once we were safely in Spain.
“Let’s eat; you can’t leave on any empty stomach. Take the best horses and I will arrange their return. Expenses are on me for this one, Emmanuel. Call it compensation for Comte’s devilish little trick last night. He did inform me of your predicament. But, please, my good friend… get out of France as soon as possible.”
Racco was back to his normal strong self, apart from a strange fascination for a peasant girl. Brigitte brought us bread, fresh goat’s cheese, and milk for Rachel, who guzzled it down, as if all the harm she’d tried to inflict on me never happened.
Racco pulled me aside. “Did you retrieve the coins you sought?”
“For all my troubles, I only have one, although Rachel knows exactly where the other is.”
“We immortals have all the time in the world to search, and you, Judas, are an expert. You’ll make her confess in time, I’m sure.”
He gave me a knowing wink and, he was right.
When Comte appeared, looking fit and awake, I said nothing of the mushrooms, preferring to keep our friendship intact. Brigitte had given Rachel some of her new clothes, paid for by Racco and easy to discard. I overheard her asking about the marks on Rachel’s hands and forehead. Rachel slyly assured her it was a mild non-contagious skin infection brought on by handling goats. I had to admit, the girl was an accomplished liar, incredibly quick to respond and while wearing the most sincere smile.
Once out in the courtyard, three magnificent horses had been saddled up in readiness of departure. Without asking which horse would be hers, Rachel jumped straight on the one of her choosing as if she’d done it a million times before. Any concerns I might have had about her riding abilities were summarily dismissed. “Good luck my friend. Comte and I wish you well on your travels and I hope next time we meet it’ll be in the Italian sunshine,” said Racco, his deep blue eyes aglow with amusement. Indeed, it was good to see him this way.
“I will see which way the wind takes me, once I’m safe across the border.” I prayed silently I wouldn’t have to fight anyone to reach it. Our fate was now in God’s hands, and Mother Nature.
he rain stopped overnight, and with instructions from Comte to stay only on the designated route, I surmised we’d reach the border by nightfall. Juan was unusually quiet, which I put down to his alcohol intake from the night before drinking indulgence. His distaste for eggs saved him from misfortune; unlike me, he’d declined the omelet. But there was little sympathy for my plight as he rode alongside me to reveal his true feelings, whether I wanted to hear them or not.
“I like Rachel, you hate the girl, so how does it come to be she’s in your bed and not mine? What divine intervention happened last night to guide her to you?” He was clearly upset at what he thought to be an injustice. I couldn’t answer because I had no explanation.
The only thing left to do was to offer her up, happily, as a good friend should do. “She’s all yours, Juan. May I say as well, you’re welcome to her.”
Fortunately, she was riding just behind and failed to hear the damning conversation between us. I was sure to feel her wrath if she’d remotely heard me pass her off like an unwanted sow.
With the coin tucked firmly away on my person, some food supplies, and a good strong horse for company, I was confident. After a couple of hours of steady riding, we stopped by an empty barn. Stray chickens followed us in, much to Rachel’s delight.
“You can make a fire while I kill a chicken. We need hot food in our bellies, it’s cold out there,” she suggested.
“What if these chickens belong to someone? Then you’ll spark a fire bigger than the one we’ll make,” I advised.
“We’ll pay the farmer three times what his scrawny old birds are worth, if it makes you feel better.”
“It does. Go ahead and find us the least scrawny.”
Juan and I built a fire, and with strong twigs, created a makeshift spit for roasting. I wasn’t surprised Rachel had no qualms in killing a chicken when they’d killed their own goats for food. I was more used to having meals brought to the table with no need to go off hunting. Mountain life was different. You slaughtered what you reared or found in order to survive. She’d done well, with a constant strong fire and the three of us taking turns with the spit, a delicious chicken was hungrily shared.
“Are you not going to thank me?” she implored.
“I built the fire and Juan made a spit rod from nothing. Why do I have to thank you?”
I never made it a habit to thank a woman. They were put on this earth for only one reason, to serve man and not be given gratitude for every small thing they did, as if looking for recognition, like a needy child. I had no patience for their demands.
It was cold. I could see my breath in the icy air of the open barn, and with the embers of the fire dying down, we knew it was time to leave. With our bellies full of food, we found the river and led the horses to drink, making sure we stayed on the narrow path that rose up the mountain, taking us ever closer to the border. Comte had given a map with an alternative route, one that would keep us out of the public eye. But the terrain was unpredictable.
“I think we should dismount and walk this,” Juan suggested. The path had begun to incline and was too steep for the horses.
“Does this mean we’re close to the border?” I asked.
“Looking to the map, I’d say we might not make it over before nightfall.”
I could have sworn I felt the tiniest of snowflakes falling. It was certainly cold enough, but too early. The last thing we needed was bad weather to hinder our progress.
Rachel was mute, having not spoken for hours. She listlessly guided her horse compliantly behind us down the rocky ravine.
“What’s wrong with you, something we said?” I asked.
“Nothing is wrong apart from being tired and cold.”
“When we stop, I’ll build a good fire to warm you, and… we still have some chicken to eat,” Juan liked to impress the women or, in this case, show off his Neanderthal abilities in making a fire and supplying meat. It worked. Rachel rewarded him with a smile, obviously fake.
I balked as I watched her manipulate Juan into the palm of her hand. “Concentrate here!” I snapped, angry at his ignorance.
The path was barely wide enough for the horses, making it perilous as daylight began to fade. We needed to watch every step. One wrong move would take us, and the horses, down into the ravine.
Comte had given us directions for smugglers who wanted to avoid people at any cost, and the surest way to cross the border unnoticed. But it was fraught with dangers we couldn’t have anticipated as the wind increased, turning icy and making the journey difficult. For me, it was nothing to have ice and wind in my face. But I was more than a little concerned about my horse struggling to see.
