Page 16 of Under a Spanish Sky

The first impression was one of relief that they had somehow managed to do it.

The second was one of silence down here where the wind had disappeared so completely that it required a conscious effort to remember that it was blowing ferociously just a short distance above them.

The third was a strong smell of woodsmoke.

‘Can you smell it?’ His voice sounded disbelieving.

Aimée was gradually uncurling herself, equally relieved and not a little surprised to have got off the mountain in one piece.

She got to her feet and Luc steadied her with his hand.

He thought for a moment and then slid the sledge to the side of the track and over the edge into the dark forest below.

Hopefully, this would conceal their escape at least for a while.

‘But does the smoke come from a friendly fire?’ He thought aloud.

As he did so, he looked down at her pale face reflecting against the snow.

Although he was still sweating from his exertions, she was shivering, so he clutched her to him, wrapping her into his arms. He spared a grateful thought for the abbot, who had insisted upon his taking the heavy leather cloak.

Aimée snuggled against him but still shivered uncontrollably, and Luc realised they had to find warmth and shelter very quickly now.

Under these circumstances it was really fairly academic whether the fire they could smell had been lit by friends or enemies.

If they were friends they would survive.

If they were enemies they would die. But they would just as surely die here if they didn’t get shelter very soon.

‘Let’s go and find out.’ He tried to sound as cheery as he could and shouldered his bag. She took his arm and they walked up over the side of the gully, the snow no more than ankle deep on the track. Rounding a corner, they were greeted by a wonderful sight.

‘God be praised.’ He hugged her to him. ‘There’s a whole village here with an inn.

Come on, there really is an inn.’ He started off down the road at a jog and she hurried along with him, part carried by him as his speed increased.

It was too dark to see the name of the inn, but the smell of stale wine was clear enough proof of its existence.

He pushed the front door, which, unsurprisingly at that time of night, was bolted, so he knocked hard on the carved wood until a light showed under the door and a voice shouted something in a language he had never heard before.

He shouted back in French, hoping that the innkeeper’s multilingual clientele would have stirred some linguistic talent in him.

‘We’re pilgrims from Compostela on our way back to Toulouse. Can we stay here for the night? We’ll never get over the pass at this time of night.’

There was a silence when he feared they would be turned away, and then a jingling of keys and the door was thrown open by a sleepy-looking man with bushy whiskers, a bald head and the sort of beer gut that only dedicated publicans can achieve.

‘What in the name of God are you doing on the road at this time of night, at this time of year, and in this weather?’ His French was good even though his tone quite clearly indicated his conviction that they were totally mad.

‘We’ve been hiding in a cave until now so as to escape a bunch of bandits.’ The explanation came fairly easily to Luc’s lips, but he didn’t reckon on the amount of interest the innkeeper would show.

‘Bandits? Did you say bandits? Describe them to me.’ The man sounded aggressive, clearly doubting Luc’s story. ‘We haven’t had bandits around here for months.’

Luc tried desperately to think of the description of a few shady customers he had seen in the past, but the strain on his nerves and body of the last few days had taken its toll and his mind went totally blank.

‘Um, they were dangerous-looking men. Sinister and dangerous…’ He knew it sounded weak but he was past caring. All he wanted now was a bed for the night.

‘Dangerous-looking, you say? That all?’ The innkeeper’s tone was even nastier.

‘We don’t like liars round here, do we, Ignacio?

’ From the shadows behind him a giant of a man emerged, a head taller than Luc with the shoulders of an ox.

He, too, had obviously just been roused from sleep and he was clearly not in a good mood.

His lips bared and a growl escaped from them.

Wearily Luc began to realise that he might not after all get shelter from the cold here.

Where else could they go? His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Aimée’s voice.

‘Five, no, four men. One a Moor with a curved dagger, one with a patch over his eye, and the leader…’ Aimée’s voice faltered for a moment.

‘The leader had a white horse and wore a leather cloak. Down the side of his face was a long white scar and he carried a studded whip looped onto his wrist. His eyes were black and cruel; you can’t imagine how cruel until you’ve looked into them… ’ Her voice choked off into a sob.

The effect upon all three men was electric.

The innkeeper’s aggressive expression was wiped from his face, to be replaced by a pasty look of fear.

Behind him the giant edged back towards the shadows, his little eyes wide open and afraid.

As for Luc, he was marvelling once again at her presence of mind and courage.

The innkeeper stepped back, still with an expression of awe on his face, and beckoned them in.

No sooner had they crossed the threshold than he slammed the door shut behind them, bolted it and scuttled off to the bar, to return with a bottle of aguardiente and a handful of clay mugs.

With a shaking hand he filled the mugs and pushed them across the table.

Before they had even touched theirs he had upended his and refilled it.

Luc handed one to Aimée and they both drank gratefully.

The rough spirit burnt as it went down, but the warming glow it spread through them was more than welcome.

They both sat down on a long wooden bench, their backs to the smoking embers of the fire.

The innkeeper muttered something and the giant obediently set about rekindling it.

Within seconds, flames were already licking at the sticks he threw on, the heat along with the drink gradually starting to return them to normal.

When the innkeeper began speaking, both of them listened intently.

‘The Whip. Oh, dear God, the Whip’s back.

’ His voice was little more than a whisper.

‘We thought, we dared to hope that he’d gone forever.

Every winter he disappears and every spring he returns.

Every winter we live in hope, which is then dashed as soon as the snows begin to melt.

God have pity on us.’ He snuffled to himself and carried on with what was presumably intended as an apology.

‘We get lots of pilgrims who make up lurid stories so as to get sympathy. “Oh, sir, I’ve lost everything to the bandits. Please give me board and lodging for nothing tonight. It’s your Christian duty.

” Christian duty my foot. I kick them out as soon as they start to try it on.

I thought you were like them.’ His tone was conciliatory, if not totally apologetic, but nothing could hide the fear in his eyes.

‘Have you seen this Whip, as you call him, yourself?’ Luc’s interest was aroused. ‘How is it you know what he looks like?’

This time the fear became even more visible as the publican swallowed hard before speaking.

‘Oh yes.’ His voice was a croak and he had to cough to clear his throat before continuing.

‘We’ve all seen him. He comes here with his men whenever he’s tired of the caves and forests.

If I’m lucky he pays for what he eats and drinks.

’ Absently, he reached for a loaf and half a cheese, which he set before them.

As the innkeeper resumed his tale, Luc tore the bread into pieces, slipped out his knife and sliced the cheese.

He realised he was starving. ‘If I’m unlucky he doesn’t pay and if I’m really unlucky he smashes the place up. ’

‘And his luck?’ Luc pressed a piece of bread and cheese into Aimée’s hand and raised it gently to her lips.

She began to nibble although her attention was fully taken by the innkeeper’s tale.

Luc wondered what memories were flashing behind her sightless eyes, and a rising wave of anger spread over him.

‘When does his luck run out, innkeeper? Is nobody here capable of putting an end to him and his friends? What about the army?’

The fat man laughed scornfully. ‘The army? Whose army would that be, sir? The French have soldiers to spare when they aren’t using them to kill their own people, but they don’t come over this side of the border.

As for the King of Aragon, he has his work cut out keeping the Moors out of Saragossa and nobody to spare to help us.

No, sir, we’re at the mercy of any brigand who chooses to come up here.

’ He refilled their glasses as well as his own and sipped the liquor sourly.

The giant threw another armful of wood onto the fire and withdrew.

‘But surely there are enough people here to be able to see off a little gang of four or five men?’ Luc remembered battles in the Holy Land when they had been outmanned by twenty or thirty of the enemy to every Templar knight.

‘But not just ordinary men. Vicious killers and no mistake. No, sir, it would take a massive force to take them.’

‘Or just a few with the stomach for a fight.’ Luc’s eyes couldn’t help alighting on the innkeeper’s belly.

‘You can’t turn the other cheek all your life.

’ For a moment he longed to set a trap and stamp out once and for all the scum who had committed so many atrocities, most particularly to Aimée and Bertrand.

He tightened his grip around her shoulders and dragged himself back to reality.

They had no time for any such heroics, satisfying as they might be.

They had to put as much distance between themselves and the pursuing soldiers as possible before the fresh snow above them melted and the road reopened.

But first they both needed a good rest. As soon as he had swallowed enough bread and cheese to take the edge off his hunger, he looked across at the innkeeper.

‘It’s late. It’s best we get some sleep.’ The fat man gave no sign of moving, but waved a finger vaguely towards the back of the building and murmured into his drink.

‘Down there. The end door. Latrines on the other side of the corridor. Take a candle but for the love of God don’t set the place on fire.’

They pulled themselves to their feet and followed his directions.

The end room was small and airless, but reasonably warm.

Luc dropped his bag behind the door and helped Aimée off with her cloak, noticing to his relief that her hands were warm once more.

He took the abbot’s thick leather cloak and spread it out on top of the straw-filled mattress.

It was only then that he realised that there was only one bed there for the two of them.

In spite of his fatigue, a feeling of guilty embarrassment came over him. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

‘There’s only one bed, Aimée. We can’t… we shouldn’t… surely…’

Ever practical, she interrupted him. ‘I couldn’t care whether I have to share with you, the abbot or a dozen strangers. I just want to be warm and to sleep. Go to the latrine if you must and then lie down and enjoy the rest you’ve most certainly earned.’

Put like that he had little choice in the matter so, after relieving himself, he returned to the room, bolted the door securely, removed his boots and stretched out gratefully on the mattress as far as possible from the little figure under the blankets.

He blew out the candle, snuffing it completely with dampened fingers, mindful of the innkeeper’s words and the fact that the mattress was filled with straw.

He looked across in the pitch dark and whispered, ‘Good night.’

There was no reply. She must have gone out like a light.