Page 29 of Under a Spanish Sky

It was getting dark by the time Luc eventually saw the roofs of a hamlet, little more than a big farm.

He heard the crowing of a lone cockerel, along with the bark of dog.

He and Aimée crouched behind a wall for some minutes while he studied the scene, before he finally decided it was safe to venture in amongst the houses.

The dog, a large mongrel, came running out at the sound of their approach and Luc gripped his stick warily.

The dog was, however, closely followed by an old man, who called it off with a sharp command as he came forward to meet them.

‘Pilgrims?’

Not unfriendly, just curious. Luc thought for a moment, before opting for the truth, or at least a version of it.

‘Yes, sir. We’re just about the first pilgrims to come over the Somport this season. We’re on our way to Santiago.’

The old man spat carefully into the clump of weeds by his left leg.

‘Not the first. There was a group through yesterday morning, and another group last night. Three groups today. The season’s started again all right.’ He shrugged as if announcing the arrival of rain. ‘You’ll be staying the night here, I’ll be bound.’

Luc nodded. ‘If that might be possible.’

The old man pointed to a large stone barn down by the river. ‘That’s for the use of you pilgrims. There’s no charge, but you could say a prayer for us when you get to Compostela. Yes, say a prayer for us.’ He turned to go, but Aimée’s voice interrupted him.

‘Have you been to Compostela yourself?’

She wasn’t sure why she asked him the question. Maybe just because he sounded a good, fair man. Maybe because she was longing for some conversation after the long silent day’s hike. The old man turned his attention upon her. His voice softened as he replied.

‘Yes, I have. I went many years ago, when my children were still young. My wife stayed at home to look after them. I went with a group of monks from Jaca. It’s the most wonderful place in the world.

’ His tone was awed, still now after the passage of so many years.

‘There are buildings twice, three times the size of our castle of Javier. The smoothest stone slabs cover the streets and the cathedral, ah, the cathedral… It is surely the tallest, most wonderful, the most majestic building in the whole world.’ He reached out a paternal hand and patted her shoulder.

‘Just wait till you stand under the Pórtico de la Gloria and look at the carvings and statues. Nowhere will you see their like. Even the Moors come up from their lands down south to admire their beauty. Take my word for it, my dear, you’ll never see a finer sight.’

With these words, he tipped his hat courteously and returned to his home. Luc glanced across at her face. He wondered whether the use of the word ‘see’ might be bothering her, but her face looked untroubled.

The two of them headed down to the barn-like construction. It turned out to be dry, comfortable and empty.

‘By the look of it, we are going to have the whole place to ourselves.’

Both of them were delighted to have found a comfortable place of rest after a long, hard walk down from the hermit’s cell that had been their home for two days and nights. Here, at least, Luc could stand upright and there wasn’t a terrifying drop right outside the entrance.

Luc set down his pack and led Aimée to a huge tree trunk that served as a bench.

The shiny surface attested to the constant passage of pilgrims over many years.

There was ample space in the barn for thirty or forty to sleep in comfort.

There were even the glowing embers of a fire in the hearth and Luc managed to restart it without much trouble.

No doubt, once the season was further advanced, the pilgrims passing through would increase to a steady stream.

‘This place is terrific, and there are even cooking pots and pans.’

Luc’s attention was suddenly caught by a noise at the door.

He was already on his feet, reaching for his knife, when it opened and a young boy came in.

Luckily the knife was still out of sight up Luc’s sleeve, and the child noticed nothing untoward.

From a sturdy wicker basket, the lad produced two large duck eggs and a fresh loaf of bread.

He held them out to Aimée. Luc reached across and took them, thanking him warmly.

‘My grandfather thanks you for saying a prayer for him at your journey’s end.’ He had learnt the speech well and delivered it without hesitation, before scuttling off.

‘Fresh bread and eggs,’ Luc announced grandly. ‘With the remains of the sausage, and some fresh water from the fountain, we have a feast fit for a king.’

He busied himself preparing the food. A well-used pan was perfect to fry the sausage and eggs.

Aimée smelt the tempting kitchen smells. ‘I used to be a good cook, you know.’

‘You don’t need to tell me. I’ve been fed by you on many an occasion. I always thought that Bertrand was a lucky man, in more ways than one.’

He looked across at her but she didn’t react, except to murmur, ‘Bertrand, lucky?’

She left the question floating in the air.

He was suddenly pleased to have to return his attention to his cooking, as the eggs spat and hissed.

He pulled an egg out onto a plate and handed it to her, along with sausage and bread.

He ate out of the pan, happily mopping up the sausage fat he had used to fry the eggs.

She wondered whether he would say grace before eating.

She even hesitated until she heard him chewing, for fear that he might start a prayer after she had begun to eat.

Once again, she found herself trying to analyse her feelings for this wonderful man, who had appeared from nowhere to rescue her.

Of course, it was right and proper to be grateful to him.

But she knew it went deeper than that. She nourished a deep and increasing affection for him.

This could so easily have blossomed into more, had it not been for the constant reminders that he was a man of the cloth.

Luc is a monk, she told herself. Remember that. His life is devoted to the Almighty.

It was not going to be easy to accept. Hopefully, as each day passed, she would better be able to come to terms with the reality of the situation.

She ate her food in silence. Finally, inferring from his lack of movement that he had already finished, she contrived to leave a piece of her bread and most of the sausage.

‘Luc, would you like to finish mine? I’m full.’

He made a weak attempt at protest and then accepted it gratefully. Finally, he voiced something that had been bothering both of them for days.

‘Just what do you think it is that we’re supposed to be carrying? Brother Michael was quite adamant. He said we already have it.’

‘We, or you?’

‘I can’t remember. I think he said I had it. But he wasn’t surprised that I was travelling with you. Maybe he knew all along that you’d survived and you’re the one bearing the secret.’

‘Luc, all I’ve got are the clothes on my back. No jewellery, no lucky charms, nothing in my bag but the remains of yesterday’s bread and a few personal things.’

‘And it’s the same for me. I’ve even lost my trusty old knife that was given to me in the Holy Land.

There’s nothing else.’ As he spoke, he suddenly realised that this wasn’t quite correct.

‘Wait a minute, there’s the cloak the abbot of Santa Cristina gave me.

’ His voice rose in pitch. She caught his arm and squeezed.

‘Shush. But you’re right. Come to think of it, I’ve got this lovely fur cloak from Brother Michael. Maybe the secret’s hidden there.’

They reached for the two garments and spent an age running their hands over them, probing every fold and pocket.

They found nothing. Luc pulled out the kitchen knife he had taken from the monastery and used it to make a series of cuts in the lining of both.

There was nothing in his, apart from the layers of cloth that made up the insulation.

Beneath the fur lining to hers, there was nothing at all.

Finally they had to accept the inevitable conclusion.

Whatever the old monk had said, they were not carrying anything of value.

There had to be more to it than that. Then Aimée had an idea.

‘So it’s definitely not on us, but what about in us? In our heads?’

Luc looked at her for a moment before he realised what she meant. ‘You mean something we know?’

‘Yes, Luc. Now, I definitely don’t know the location of any treasure, or any great secret. I’m sure of that. What about you? You were a high-ranking member of the Order. Might you have knowledge in that head of yours that makes you so important?’

He frowned to himself. ‘Nothing that makes me any different from dozens of others. All right, my brother was Preceptor of Normandy, but he never told me any deep, dark secrets.’

She reached over and gripped his hand. By now, she knew all about his brother and the Master being burnt at the stake. ‘But are you sure? Nothing at all?’

‘Nothing.’ He sounded miserable.

‘Maybe Brother Michael is just being secretive. Maybe we have yet to pick it up, whatever it is. He was very insistent upon us following the Pilgrims’ Way, after all.

Maybe we’ll get it further along the way.

’ An idea occurred to her. ‘Maybe that business about wanting you to return the cloak to Ponferrada was a discreet way of telling you the secret will be given to you there.’

Luc snorted in frustration. ‘God only knows.’ After a while, he turned to more pressing matters. ‘When we leave here, we’ve got a couple of days’ walk downhill, then we’ll be back on the Pilgrim’s Way. Then, safely hidden in the anonymity of the crowd, we head westwards.’

‘When do you think we’ll get there?’

He did a bit of mental arithmetic. ‘If all goes well, some time around Pentecost.’