Читать книгу The Breath of the Rose - Андреа Жапп - Страница 12

FRANCESCO de Leone was not unduly disturbed by his encounter with the commander, the prospect of which he had found daunting from the outset. Admittedly, the man’s strange behaviour had puzzled him, and he had not been taken in for a moment by his garrulous sociability. But then Leone had not expected any generous cooperation from the Templar order and, besides, Archambaud d’Arville could not possibly be aware of the presence of any key – under whatever guise – or he would never have allowed Leone to remain in the Temple of Our Lady alone.

Leone needed to think up a way of gaining free and unlimited access to the commandery in order to achieve his aim of unearthing the secret.

He patted the neck of the hired nag that was carrying him. The animal, unused to such gestures of affection, whinnied and jerked its head nervously.

‘Steady, old girl. We are not in any hurry now.’

Could the pretence he’d been obliged to keep up have wearied him to such an extent? He was finding it increasingly difficult to remain upright in the saddle. The horse responded to the slight pressure of his leg and lengthened its stride.

Francesco de Leone was under the impression that he had only just left the commandery enclosure and yet the forest and the night were already beginning to close in on him. He was dripping with sweat and shivering. An unpleasant dryness made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth and occasional giddy spells caused him to sway in his saddle. Above his head the sky and the treetops turned in circles. He tried to summon up his strength, clutching the reins, and as his body slipped from the saddle he realised that he had been drugged: the fraternal bowl of cider. He wondered whether the drug would kill him or merely render him unconscious and smiled at the thought before collapsing onto the blanket of dead leaves covering the forest floor.

A few dozen yards away, Archambaud d’Arville dismounted. He felt a mixture of disgust and terror. To kill a brother, a man of God who had willingly risked his life to defend their faith, seemed to him an unpardonable sin, and yet he had no choice. The future of the commandery, perhaps even the existence of their order in France, depended on this crime for which he would never be able to forgive himself. The ghoulish figure who had visited him two days before had been unequivocal: Leone must die and his death be made to look like the work of brigands. Arville was unaware of the reasons for this killing, but the missive containing the order to carry it out, which the apparition had handed to him, bore the seal of the halved bulla, which legitimised acts and letters in the interim preceding the election of a new pope. The Templar had already killed, but honourably, as a soldier face to face with his enemy, sometimes taking on five men single-handed. Even as his flesh had been torn and seared, his soul had remained unscathed. To have drugged this formidable swordsman in order to be sure of overpowering him was abhorrent to him, and for the first time in his life he despised himself. He had become a vile executioner, and the knowledge that he was acting on the orders of the papacy did nothing to diminish his guilt.

He drew his dagger and approached his brother’s inert body.

Horrifying memories of throngs of men, hideous images of battlegrounds transformed into mass graves came back to him. He heard for the thousandth time the screams of the dying, the ferocious cries of the victors, intoxicated by the smell of blood, crazed by the kill. So many dead. So many dead in the name of eternal love. Would their souls be enriched as a result as they had been led to believe? Was there no other way than slaughter? And yet if he began to doubt now, hell would open at his feet.

The movement behind him was so swift and soundless that he did not notice it. An explosion of pain in his chest. He raised his hand and snagged it on the tip of a short sword. He could feel the metal sliding out of his flesh, only to be plunged in a second time.

He slumped to his knees, vomiting blood. A youthful voice clear as a mountain spring, the voice of a young girl, spoke to him, imploring:

‘Forgive me, knight. Forgive me out of the goodness of your heart. It was my duty to save him. His life is so precious, so much more precious than yours or mine. I could not challenge you directly for I was unsure of being any match for you. But I promise you, knight, that I have saved your soul. Grant me forgiveness, I beg of you.’

Archambaud d’Arville had no doubt that the girl was speaking the truth, that she had saved him from the torment of eternal guilt. She had chosen in his place, freeing him from the need to disobey the apparition and the missive from Rome, freeing him from the need to obey.

‘I … pardon you … sister … Thank you.’

Esquive d’Estouville remained with the dying man until his last gasp, the tears from her amber eyes dropping onto his surcoat. She knelt down beside him in order to stretch out his body and place his hands upon his bloodstained chest, and gazed at the handsome supine figure. She did not know how long she prayed through her tears for the Templar’s soul and for her own.

When she finally rose to her feet, the moon was full. She walked over to Leone’s sleeping body and lay down beside him. She embraced him and kissed his brow. She drew her cape over him to protect him from the damp night chill, and spoke in a whisper:

‘Sleep, my sweet archangel. Sleep for I am keeping watch. And then I shall vanish once more.’

Esquive d’Estouville closed her eyes, trembling with emotion as she lay next to the big slumbering body that was oblivious to her presence. Was she sinning? Undoubtedly, and yet her sin was a reward for the long years of waiting, for the unbidden, disturbing dreams that she no longer even tried to resist now that they had permeated her waking hours. Ever since she had appeared to him in Cyprus in the guise of a grubby beggar girl capable of deciphering the runic prophecy, her only thoughts were of him. She had devoted her body and soul to their quest but her heart belonged to this man who was near to being an angel. He was ignorant of her feelings, and it was better that way. The mere suggestion of any love that was not motherly, sisterly or born of friendship would have saddened him, for he did not want it and could not return it. But what did it matter? She loved him more than her own life, and this love that she had discovered thanks to him filled her with joy and strength.

Dawn was breaking when Leone came round. His head was gripped by a vicelike pain and his mouth filled with an acid saliva. He managed to sit up. He felt dizzy and tried to suppress a growing sense of panic as his mind drew a complete blank. Where was he? Why was he lying in the middle of the forest in the early morning? He struggled with his hazy recollection of the previous day, forcing himself to retrace his steps. Gradually, faces and words began to emerge from the fog of his thoughts. He had gone to the Templar commandery to meet Archambaud d’Arville, whose garrulousness and false bonhomie had made his head spin. And yet behind all that fraternal cheer Leone had momentarily sensed the man’s anguish and despair. The commander had offered him a bowl of cider before he went on his way.

Upon entering the nave of the Temple of Our Lady, Leone had been seized by the wild hope that he would receive a sign proving that the secret he had been pursuing all these years lay within those walls, among those flagstones and pillars. Was the sudden giddiness and the incredible calm he had felt in the temple confirmation of such a sign or simply the first effects of the drug?

Where was his worn-out mare? He rose to his feet, staggering slightly, and looked around. The mare was staring at him a few yards away, tethered to the trunk of a silver birch, refreshed after her night’s unencumbered rest. He had collapsed, fallen to the ground. But who had tethered the mare? It was then he noticed the brownish-red patch seeping from beneath a small pile of leaves. He drew his sword from its scabbard as he approached it. He flicked the leaves aside with the blade, already knowing what he would find there. He dropped his sword and fell to his knees beside Archambaud d’Arville’s body, then swept away with his hands the flimsy remains of his leafy tomb. Leone was able to deduce what had happened from the two identical stab wounds in the commander’s chest, the bloodstains on his white mantle and the compassion and respect with which the killer had treated the corpse. The Knight Templar had trailed him with the clear intention of killing him as soon as the drug had taken effect. But why? Somebody had been there and had shown no compunction in killing a Templar commander in order to defend Leone’s life – a protector, then, rather than a rascal or evil brigand. But who and why? Had his champion then fled on the commander’s mount? Leone had a vague recollection, but the image escaped him. He tried in vain to summon it back, slowly stroking his finger across his brow.

He was stirred by the thought of the torment this man of God, this warrior, must have endured: to poison a brother and then like an abject executioner to slay him. Who had the authority to compel a Templar commander to perpetrate such villainy?

Assuming Arville’s orders had come from his Grand-Master or his chapter, they would still have required the Pope’s approval. But the Pope was dead, and Benoît would never have endorsed such a dishonourable act: Leone had known, respected and loved him well enough to stake his life on it.

In the absence of a pope, who possessed sufficient authority to arrange the murder of a Knight Hospitaller? The answer was so glaringly obvious that it struck him with the full force of its monstrosity.