Angel Heart

by Marie Laval

  Karloff looked embarrassed for a fleeting moment. Then he shook his head. ‘Oh, but it isn’t any old cross. It was the Knights Templar’s most treasured possession. The relic hidden inside the Cross confers eternal life, but at one condition only.’

  His dark eyes were feverish. ‘According to the scroll I deciphered, it can only unleash its powers if handled by the chosen one—a pure heart, someone of the same bloodline as a Great Master of the Templar Order. Edmond Malleval wasn’t a pure heart, not by a long shot. Nor was he related to any former Knight Templar. So even if he had found the Cross he wouldn’t have become immortal. He needed the chosen one to help him.’

  He paused. ‘Your mother was the one. She was a Beauregard, a cousin of the Beaujeus who counted Guillaume as a Great Master. She was also Saint Germain’s precious god-daughter. He must have told her where the Cross was hidden. Edmond went mad when she escaped. He looked for her for years and years.’

  His eyes clouded over. ‘When he got ill, he made Uxeloup swear he would carry on with the search. And finally we found you.’

  He stepped towards Marie-Ange and took her hand. ‘Your mother told you the secret, didn’t she? She told you and now you must find the Cross for me.’

  ‘What makes you so different from Uxeloup and his father? You and your fanciful stories are responsible for destroying my family,’ she said, pulling her hand from his.

  ‘Uxeloup, like his father before him, only wants the Cross for himself. I on the other hand want to make contact with the angel who, the parchment claims, will appear when the Cross is returned to its rightful place by the chosen one—the pure heart. In other words, you, now your mother is dead.’

  Marie-Ange shook her head with dismay. The man was just as crazy as the Mallevals.

  ‘You are strong-willed, like your mother. I never could exercise enough control on her mind to make her reveal the secret…You were very clever about it but I know you changed the words of the song. If you help me, I promise you will return to England safe and sound.’

  It was snowing again. Thick, fluffy flakes swirled all around them. In the corner of her eye, Marie-Ange saw two grey shadows advance silently towards them. She caught her breath. In a few seconds, they were upon Rochefort. The big man, taken by surprise, crumpled, unconscious, onto the ground without offering any resistance. Karloff turned round but one of the attackers grabbed him by the throat and he too collapsed without a sound.

  ‘Come with me,’ one of the men told her, extending his gloved hand.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked, her heart beating wildly, but not from fear.

  He loosened his scarf to uncover his face. He had a handsome, lean and weather-beaten face. The lines around his mouth, on his forehead and at the corner of his eyes indicated he wasn’t a young man, but it was his eyes that held her attention. They were a pale aquamarine, the exact same colour as her own. She knew who he was before he answered.

  ‘My name is Baldassare dei Conti. I am your father.’

  Now wasn’t the time for questions so she took his hand and ran with him down the street, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of snow.

  Another man was waiting with the horses behind a wall at the entrance of the village. The man who called himself Baldassare lifted Marie-Ange up onto his horse and mounted behind her. Within a few seconds, they were galloping on the narrow road which wound its way up the mountain towards the pass. She should have been terrified. There were deep ravines on both sides and the road was covered with snow. Yet she felt elated. She was escaping Uxeloup Malleval and his prison. First and foremost, she had found her father.

  They rode until dusk. They had to walk after reaching the pass because of the deep snow. Then they rode again until the track dipped into a gorge where they dismounted and walked through the dark night. After a time, the outline of a partly ruined barn stood out amongst the trees. The men opened its rickety wooden doors. One of them led the horses to a corner and took their tack off while another fetched wood and kindling in the forest to make a fire. Baldassare knelt down and gathered a pile of straw sprigs. He pulled a couple of sharp stones from a bag, rubbed them against each other until he produced a spark that set the straw on fire. He lit a candle which he handed to Marie-Ange to hold while he cleared a space in a corner of the barn to make their camp.

  His companion brought several leather bags over and proceeded to pull out packets of food, utensils, and colourful woven blankets. The other man came back, his arms full of twigs and branches, and made the fire.

  ‘Sit down,’ Baldassare told Marie-Ange, arranging blankets on the ground.

  Soon, flames rose towards the high beamed ceiling, the smoke escaping through the many holes pitting the roof. One man filled a tin pot with snow and placed it on the fire. When the snow had melted and the water was hot, he threw a handful of herbs into it to make some tea. Then he cut slices of bread and strips of meat, and the men took their hooded capes off to sit down for supper.

  ‘I expect you have questions for me,’ Baldassare said, as he poured steaming hot tea into a cup and handed it to her.

  She nodded. She did have questions, so many of them, but where to start?

  ‘You are one of the men who came to Beauregard to build the dovecote, aren’t you? Did you hide the Cross of Life in there?’

  He smiled and nodded.

  Did you rescue my mother from Malleval’s fortress after he took her away from Salles?’

  ‘If you know about that, then you know everything, daughter.’ He paused, poking the fire with a long stick to keep it burning high.

  ‘No, I don’t know everything. I just guessed. I don’t know who you really are or where you are from. I don’t know why you abandoned my mother when she was pregnant, or why you waited until now to meet me. And I don’t know anything about the Cross of Life apart from a lot of ridiculous stories.’

  She was so angry suddenly that the words tumbled out of her mouth. ‘Why did your men hide the Cross at Beauregard? Is the relic really the wing of an angel, can it really make people immortal?’ She glared at the man with the pale blue eyes who sat near the fire.

  ‘I understand your dismay, daughter, but I cannot answer all your questions tonight. The object we are seeking is one of the most precious and powerful ever held by men. It has now exceeded its time on this earth. You were chosen to return it to its rightful place.’

  ‘But what…?’

  Baldassare raised his hand to silence her. He poked the fire again, gestured towards the other two men.

  ‘Let me tell you about us first. My companions and I are Turcopilars, members of a secret armed force serving the Order of the Knights Hospitaller, also known as the Knights of St John. We were banished from our base at Fort Saint Angel in Malta when Napoleon invaded the island in 1798. When they took over, the British refused to allow us back on the island, so we now wander between the Order’s priories across Europe, from Paris to Sicily, from Cyprus to Russia.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Aren’t the Knights Hospitaller the same as the Knights Templar?’

  The three men exchanged a glance.

  ‘No, the Hospitaller were always a distinct entity. They never provoked the ire of Philippe Le Bel or Pope Clement V and therefore were allowed to take over much of the Knights Templar’s wealth when they were disbanded.’ Baldassare paused. ‘They also inherited their secrets, and us—the Turcopilars. Our mission is to help our brothers wherever they need us. We are an army of shadows. Nobody sees us. Nobody knows we exist.’

  Baldassare looked at Marie-Ange and smiled softly. ‘I first met your mother as a young man when I was entrusted with the very special mission by our Great Bailiff of building a secure hiding place for the Cross of Life. Our brother Saint-Germain feared he could no longer guarantee its safety.’

  ‘Why Beauregard?’

  Baldassare smiled again. ‘It was Saint Germain’s idea. Beauregard was close to Arginy castle where the Cross must be returned eventually. He also knew i
t would be safe there with his goddaughter—your mother.’

  A tender expression appeared on his face. ‘She was wise, brave, and talented beyond her years. Saint-Germain taught her the secret words she would need to retrieve the Cross when the time came. She never betrayed his trust.’

  The men finished eating and drinking. They exchanged a few words in a language which sounded a little like Italian, and one of them walked out.

  ‘First watch,’ Baldassare explained. ‘We should rest now. We have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.’ He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders but Marie-Ange would not let him sleep just yet.

  ‘How did you rescue my mother from Malleval’s fortress?’

  He stared into the fire, a look of sadness on his beautiful, chiselled, features.

  ‘Catherine’s godmother, the Abbess at Salles Priory, knew about us. She sent her man servant, Pierre, to warn me your mother had been taken by Edmond Malleval and to give me Catherine’s sketchbook and the locket she had managed to hide—it was lucky because Malleval later searched the Priory and as you may have gathered, both the locket and the sketchbook hold clues as to the Cross’ hiding place.’

  Baldassare paused. ‘I rode to Malleval and watched the fortress for days but Edmond kept your mother under tight supervision. Finally, I had my chance. One night, an important visitor came to Malleval, a man with a face as sharp as a knife and cruel, cold eyes.’

  ‘Joseph Fouché,’ Marie-Ange said.

  Baldassare nodded. ‘There was a banquet, and the guards got very drunk. I managed to get into the fortress and reach Catherine’s bedchamber in the tower. I got there just in time to stop that viper, Uxeloup, as he was trying to force himself on her. He was only fourteen or fifteen I guess…he wanted to prove himself, as a man.’

  Baldassare’s voice became harsh. ‘I knocked him out, tied him up, and shoved him in a closet. Then your mother and I escaped. We rode day and night for weeks towards the North coast. Catherine and I became…close…during our long journey. She was beautiful and kind. She was a treasure.’

  ‘So why did you abandon her? You must have known she was expecting a child.’ Marie-Ange wasn’t angry anymore. She could see the sadness in her father’s eyes and hear the regret in his voice.

  ‘I was a Turcopilar. Having sworn a vow of allegiance to my order, I wasn’t a free man. Catherine knew it, she understood. It was arranged she would board a ship for England and that one of our brothers would meet her in Devonshire and look after her…’

  ‘My father? William Jones?’ She was confused. ‘You mean he was one of yours?’

  Baldassare nodded. ‘I knew he would take good care of Catherine and of our baby. And he did, didn’t he?’ He smiled.

  Marie-Ange shook her head in disbelief. William Jones, the quiet and taciturn Plymouth lawyer, had been part of a secret brotherhood charged with protecting the Knights Templar’s secrets all over Europe.

  Neither of them spoke for a while. They listened to the crackling of the fire, the hooting of the owls in the woods and the light snoring of the man who had fallen asleep, wrapped up in his blanket, next to them.

  ‘How did you find me today?’ she asked, breaking the silence.

  ‘Pierre again. He is an old man now. You met him at Marzac where he has been in your great-aunt’s service for some years. He sent a message to our Prior in Paris after your visit to Marzac. He was worried about your safety. He was right. As we arrived in Lyon we heard reports about your escape from Isle Barbe, and then about you being abducted by Rochefort in Saint-Genis. I guessed you were at the fortress in Malleval and we travelled with God’s speed to reach you. I am sorry it took us so long.’

  There were tears in his eyes when he took hold of her hand and brought it to his lips. Moved with the sudden realisation that this man was her father, she leant closer to him and rested her head against his shoulder. He still had much to explain, particularly about the Cross, but for now she was content just to be close to him.

  Baldassare smiled. ‘By the way, I must thank the French officer who has been looking after you. Capitaine Saintclair…’

  She glanced at him, anxious. ‘Uxeloup wants to kill him.’ And she explained how Saintclair assisted her to escape from Isle Barbe.

  ‘I’m sure the man can take care of himself,’ Baldassare said reassuringly. ‘You must rest now. We will talk some more tomorrow.’

  There were still many questions Marie-Ange wanted to ask her father, but all her strength seemed to desert her all of a sudden. She wrapped a blanket around her, lay down, and was about to close her eyes when she remembered something.

  ‘The locket. It is at Saintclair’s house in St Genis. I need it to open the secret cache in the dovecote, don’t I?’

  Baldassare nodded. ‘You do indeed. We will get the locket and your mother’s sketchbook on our way to Beauregard, don’t worry. Go to sleep now.’

  Surprisingly, despite the hard cold ground, her aching limbs, and the extraordinary events of the evening, she fell asleep in minutes and slept soundly until dawn.

  ‘Daughter. You must wake up.’ Baldassare shook her shoulder gently and handed her a cup of hot tea.

  She smiled and sat up to drink the hot, fragranced drink which tasted of mint and spices. Then she stood up and stretched her aching limbs as the first glimmers of daylight broke the darkness in the east.

  The dawn quiet was suddenly broken by men voices shouting outside. Baldassare put his hand to his side and pulled a long, curved dagger. He gestured to Marie-Ange to stay inside and sneaked out of the barn. Looking through the barn’s broken shutters, she saw three men fighting on the frozen ground, two of them her father’s companions. The third man, their assailant, was dark-haired and looked tall and strong. Through his torn coat, the golden buttons of his brown jacket glinted in the first rays of the rising sun.

  Her heart jumped in her chest. She rushed out as her father was about to join in the fighting.

  ‘Don’t! It’s Capitaine Saintclair,’ she shouted.

  Baldassare froze. Still holding his dagger, he gave a short command for his men to get up.

  Saintclair glared at them as they released him, jumped to his feet, and blinked with disbelief when he saw her standing next to the barn door.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he bellowed as he rushed to her side.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He held her at arms’ length to look at her before wrapping his arm around her waist to pull her against him.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she answered.

  He turned to glare at her father and his companions. ‘If you hurt her, I swear I’ll…’

  ‘I said I was fine,’ she said, struggling to breathe against his chest and dizzy with relief. He was safe, he had come for her.

  She closed her eyes, inhaled his scent of leather, shaving soap, and tobacco and listened to his thundering heartbeat. A warm, heart-clenching feeling flooded her. A thought flashed through her mind. This is where she wanted to be, where she was meant to be—in his arms.

  Someone coughed behind them, bringing her back to reality.

  ‘So, this is Capitaine Saintclair,’ her father said.

  Her cheeks hot, Marie-Ange tried to pull away but Saintclair’s arm was like a band of steel around her waist.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked Baldassare, putting his hand on his holster and cursing when he found it empty.

  ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ Her father didn’t reply but handed him his weapon, a smile on his face.

  With a growl, Saintclair took the pistol from him.

  ‘Capitaine, this is my father, Baldassare dei Conti,’ Marie-Ange said matter-of-factly, taking advantage of the cuirassier putting his pistol back into his holster to step out of his grasp. ‘He and his men rescued me from Malleval yesterday.’

  ‘Your father?’ Saintclair puzzled, a deep frown creasing his forehead. ‘How is it possible? You said your father was dead, you said he was…’

  ‘English?’ she fini
shed. ‘I thought he was, too, until very recently.’

  He scowled at her. ‘He could be lying, for all you know.’ Turning to her father, he asked, ‘Where are you from, and what do you want?’

  ‘This is a story my daughter will tell you later,’ her father answered, a calm smile on his face. ‘For now you will have to trust me. We have a long way to go to reach Beauregard and it looks as if it’s going to snow again.’

  ‘Why Beauregard?’

  ‘We are going to find the Cross,’ Marie-Ange replied.

  ‘Very well. I’m coming with you,’ Saintclair declared. ‘Many of the passes and roads are closed because of the snow. I had to cut through the woods, pulling my horse behind me.’ He rubbed his bristly face and let out a deep sigh. ‘I was preparing myself for a very unpleasant argument with Malleval, a fight even, to get you out of his fortress,’

  ‘He wishes to do more than argue or fight with you,’ she remarked, sombre. ‘He said he would kill you.’

  He shrugged. ‘He’s all talk these days…’

  ‘We will get ready to leave now,’ Baldassare said. His men went back into the barn, kicked some soil onto the fire, packed up their bags, and set off. The path was treacherous in places, the snow so deep it reached up to their knees. Marie-Ange’s dress was soon soaking wet but she never complained. After a couple of hours, however, her legs were sore and heavy, her feet numb with cold. She stumbled and fell in the snow, exhausted. Saintclair pulled her up. He rubbed her frozen hands in his, looked at her with concern and decreed they should rest.

  ‘Not now,’ she protested bravely. ‘There is no time.’

  ‘She is right,’ Baldassare said. ‘We will stop later, when we get out of the forest.’

  So they carried on and thread through the woods until at last they reached open farmland. They sat on tree stumps and shared a quick, tasteless meal of cold meat and hard bread before starting on the road to Vienne. Saintclair said they could reach the town before nightfall. He knew where they could safely spend the night.