Page 26 of Under a Spanish Sky

The door crashed open and flaming torches flooded the dark storeroom with blinding light.

Luc blinked hard and squinted as the little room filled with people.

As his eyes gradually became used to the brightness, he saw that the Archbishop of Sens had taken up position directly in front of him, safe in the knowledge that Luc was secured to the wall by heavy metal shackles.

For a few moments the two men stared at each other.

The young archbishop, only a few years older than Luc himself, had a mocking half-smile on his face.

There was a movement at the door. The archbishop stepped back to allow space to the men who came crowding in.

In spite of his resolve, Luc felt his stomach churn.

The men carried a heavy trestle table and set it up between him and the archbishop.

Then they began to lay out a collection of implements, slowly and carefully, directly in front of him.

There were knives, hooks, heavy leather belts and hoods, gags and blindfolds.

Alongside these was an assortment of evil whips and goads, screws and tongs, along with a brazier of glowing red coals.

Luc raised his eyes from the table and caught those of the archbishop. ‘How will you explain this at your next confession?’ He eyed the man clinically and coldly, doing his best to master his fear.

‘Explain what, my Templar friend?’ The voice was heavy with cruel mockery.

Luc made no reply, but his eyes must have flicked down to the array of instruments of torture before him. The archbishop’s smile broadened as Luc played into his hands.

‘Oh, this?’ He reached down and took his time over selecting a suitable instrument.

He finally settled on a cat-o’-nine-tails, tipped with vicious steel barbs.

‘I have to admit that it would give me a lot of pleasure to see my men use these on you.’ He stretched out his arm, until the whip touched the side of Luc’s face, just below the eye. He smiled before continuing.

‘But you see, I’m afraid these are not for you, my friend. At least, not yet. I will not need to use a single one upon you, gratifying as it might be.’ His expression hardened. He turned sharply to one of the soldiers by the door and spat out a command.

‘Bring the woman in.’

Luc’s resolve disappeared as if it had never existed. He looked on aghast as the soldier dragged in a dishevelled, bruised Aimée, her clothes torn and her face bloodied. The archbishop stepped up to her. He took her face in his hand, turning it roughly towards Luc.

‘None of this display is for you, Templar. It is for my men to amuse themselves with upon this young woman. You know her, I believe.’

The mockery was overpowering, but Luc forced himself to take this chance to communicate with Aimée.

He shouted as loud as he could at exactly the same time that she, realising that he was finally near her again, shouted to him in her turn.

The result was a confused clamour, incomprehensible to both sides.

At a sign from the archbishop, a soldier roughly strapped a leather gag across her face.

At the same moment, a hairy hand caught Luc’s nose, forcing him to open his mouth in order to breathe.

As he did so, a foul-tasting cloth was stuffed into it.

They both struggled, but could emit no more than muffled noises.

‘Now then.’ The cleric was enjoying the power of the moment.

‘Prepare her.’ Luc strained against his fetters, cutting his wrists as he did so, but to no avail.

One of the soldiers produced a knife and reached forward eagerly, ready to slit the front of her dress. He was halted by a cry from the door.

‘What in the name of the Almighty is this?’

There was general confusion as the soldiers stepped back and a small, misshapen creature limped into the room.

He was wearing a threadbare black Benedictine habit that was barely held together by the numerous darns and mends in it.

His one good eye took in the scene in a flash.

He pushed past the soldiers and made his laborious way across the room, until he was standing directly opposite the archbishop.

His fists clenched and unclenched, and the muscles of his face twitched angrily.

‘I asked what you think you are doing here.’ Receiving no response from the archbishop, he continued.

‘This is a holy place, a place of worship, a place of quiet contemplation. There is no place in my monastery for any who do not come in peace and practise the ways of peace. There is no place here for torturers, rapists and perverts.’ His burning stare seared the room and the soldiers shrank back, some crossing themselves.

Only the archbishop made any attempt at resistance.

‘Reverend Father, forgive me, I beg of you. I didn’t have time to visit you formally to appraise you of the situation. This man is a fugitive from justice, a foul devil worshipper and a pederast. He’s about to reveal to us information of the utmost importance to the Holy See.’

‘And to your master, the King of France.’ The little man snapped back with venom. ‘You will no doubt continue to do your evil business, but you will not do it here in this holy place. I will not tolerate it!’

The strength and authority of the voice, in spite of the frailty of the frame from which it emanated, were inescapable.

Even the archbishop made no further protest as the abbot ordered that Luc be unfettered and led with Aimée to another room, where they would be kept under lock and key, until they could be moved elsewhere the next morning.

* * *

After the door slammed shut behind them, they fell into each other’s arms. They sat tightly huddled together, leaning against the rough stone wall of the cellar, each drawing strength from the other.

Aimée was shaking with overwhelming emotion, tears pouring down her cheeks.

Luc cuddled her, as he would have done a baby, stroking her hair until he gradually felt her settle and begin to calm down.

He raised his head and stared around the room.

He saw nothing in the impenetrable gloom.

Not even the thin slits of light, either side of the door, could make any impression on the darkness of their prison.

‘Who are you?’

The voice, emanating from another part of the pitch-black cell, made Luc’s hair stand on end.

The shock of finding that they were not alone was compounded by the voice itself.

It elicited a sudden electric reaction in the girl.

She sat up so abruptly her head hit Luc’s chin.

Both of them recoiled in pain. Then, through the pain he heard her desperate whisper. She was close to hysteria.

‘It’s him. It’s him again. I would know his voice anywhere.’

Her voice rose dangerously. Luc continued to stroke her hair with his free hand in an attempt to stop her from losing control altogether. He, too, had realised who it was. He groped in vain for his dagger.

‘If you can reach it, there’s a torch and tinderbox to the right of the door. I’ve seen them use it.’

It was indeed the same voice, but the cocky confidence had gone completely. In its place was resignation and fear. Luc helped Aimée to her feet. He kept one arm around her shoulders while he ran his other hand along the wall until he hit something at shoulder height.

‘Aimée, I’ve found the tinderbox. I’m going to need two hands. Are you going to be all right if I remove my arm for a moment?’

He heard a faint murmur in reply.

Carefully, lest he should drop the tinderbox and its all-important flint into the straw on the floor, he released his hold on her.

He fumbled until he was able to strike first one, then a stream, of sparks.

He was relieved to see them catch. The tar of the torch caught and was soon well alight.

He took it in his hand and raised it as high as he could.

With his other arm he gripped the trembling girl as he stared around the room.

The cell itself was similar to the one they had been in before.

It had a slightly lower ceiling and a bigger window opening at the far end.

The rough marks on the walls, where it had been hewn out of the bare rock, were still clearly visible.

Lying on the floor, directly across the room from them, was the bandit leader himself.

Luc saw the unnatural angle of the legs, and the pain on his grey face. The man spoke in a weary voice.

‘They broke my legs, so I couldn’t get away.’

The man was in deep shock. There seemed no recognition of either of them in his eyes.

A raw, red, broken end of bone protruded through his bloodstained breeches.

The pain must have been excruciating. But then, through the haze of suffering, a glimmer of reaction showed.

Moments later it was followed by full recognition.

But instead of anger or even fear, his expression was one of relief.

‘It’s you. The heavens be praised. I was afraid it might be some cowardly little runt in here with me. I’m truly relieved it’s you. Will you kill me, please?’

His request was serious, totally serious.

Aimée’s shivering stopped. She clutched Luc’s hand so tightly as to dig her nails into his palm.

For his part he found himself torn. A few hours, even minutes earlier, he would have had no compunction about killing this foul creature.

Now, here, things had changed. Firstly, they were all prisoners and in a sense they were brought closer together by adversity.

Second, it had never been his way to kill another human being in cold blood.

Add to this the fact that the only way of killing him would be by strangling him with his bare hands and it was unthinkable.

He started to tell him so, but the man’s brain was still working.