Page 35 of Under a Spanish Sky

The next few days with Friar Laurent and the other pilgrims passed uneventfully, in spite of the fact that they were deep in the territory of the King of Navarre, none other than the son of the French king.

Even so, with every step they took, Luc felt more able to relax his vigilance.

Their group blended ever more into the flow of pilgrims. From a trickle a few days earlier, it was already fast developing into a powerful stream.

Every evening it became more difficult to find suitable lodgings for the group.

Parties of pilgrims from as far away as England and Holland regularly beat them to it.

While this competition for accommodation was a serious source of concern and irritation to Friar Laurent, Luc was secretly happy as the protective walls of bodies around them thickened.

He and Aimée talked a lot now. This part of the Pilgrims’ Way brought them down from the mountains into the river valleys that then fed out onto the dry plains beyond.

The going was not difficult and they could walk side by side on decent roads.

As well as talking together, they spent time talking to their fellow pilgrims. With the exception of the stonemason, they were all in fine spirits now that the Pyrenees were behind them.

Even the baker’s daughter gradually shed her scepticism as she saw Aimée take everything in her stride.

The weather stayed good as they dropped down onto the high lands of northern Spain.

Although still the month of April, the sun already carried considerable warmth.

By mid-afternoon most days, they were searching for shade and stopping regularly to fill their gourds and skins with water.

The stonemason refused to drink water, claiming it was bad for him.

Instead, he slaked his thirst with the local wine.

In consequence, by late afternoon most days, he was almost asleep on his feet.

‘At least it keeps him quiet,’ Friar Laurent fretted as the mason’s drinking slowed them down, but the blessed silence made a very welcome change.

After a few days, they reached the busy market town of Puente la Reina, with its magnificent stone bridge.

The flow of pilgrims suddenly swelled again.

It was here that the two branches of the Pilgrims’ Way joined up.

Large numbers of pilgrims had crossed the Pyrenees at Roncevaux, further to the west. That was a lower, easier crossing than the Somport, and consequently more popular.

From now on, there would be only one route to follow all the way to Compostela.

Luc became more wary. That night, as he and Aimée lay close beside each other in a huge hostel, tightly crammed together in the midst of a hundred other people, he whispered in Aimée’s ear.

‘If you want to catch a rabbit, you put the snare across the path he has to follow, not the one he might take. I’m afraid it’s not over yet.’

She gave no answer. She just reached over and gripped his hand.

There were few minutes in the day or the night when they were not together.

They walked arm in arm for most of the daylight hours.

In spite of the difference in their respective heights, they developed an easy pace.

When obstacles presented themselves, he was able to encircle her waist with his arm and guide her through, if necessary lifting her off her feet.

The group would stop every few miles for a brief rest, and for longer around noon to eat lunch.

Luc bought new packs for both of them in Puente la Reina; large for him and smaller for her.

Although they both carried some cheese and sausage for emergencies, it was easy to obtain food from the houses they passed along the way.

Everywhere they went, from isolated farmhouses, to rows of inns lining the route in bustling towns, they could always rely upon somebody being around to sell them something.

Every evening they would lay out their bedrolls side by side, for all the world like a married couple.

If either of them heard the occasional grunts and pants from those lying around them during the night, neither of them commented.

They would almost always fall asleep hand in hand, but neither of them dared to step beyond their state of innocence.

The friar was the only one who worried Luc.

There were occasions when he would sense eyes observing him and, turning, he would find himself face to face with Friar Laurent.

The monk’s expression remained benevolent, but the curiosity in his eyes warranted caution.

And, over the past seven years, Luc had become very cautious.

Things came to a head a few days beyond Puente la Reina when they reached a small town called Torres del Río.

In the middle of town was a fine church, whose style was unmistakably Templar.

As they trudged up the narrow street towards it, Luc could feel the eyes of the friar on him.

He was sure Laurent was watching to see whether the beautiful octagonal building would have any effect upon him.

Although he knew he was under observation, Luc found it hard to keep the emotion off his face, particularly when he saw the Templar splayed cross carved in the stone of the doorframe.

‘What is it, Luc?’ Aimée could feel his tenseness through the sleeve of his jacket. Although her voice was low, her solicitous tone was probably audible to Friar Laurent. Luc was quick to reassure her.

‘Something I ate last night probably. It’s just as well we’re stopping for lunch here. I could do with a visit to the latrines and then something warm to drink.’ He made sure his voice was loud enough to carry.

They continued past the church, but it looked deserted, much to Luc’s disappointment.

Fortunately, there was an inn only a hundred paces further on and Friar Laurent called a halt.

The members of the group filed in gratefully for a drink.

Leaving Aimée with Beatrice, Luc headed out of the back door.

Ostensibly he was on his way to visit the latrines.

In reality he wanted to find out whether there might still be any Templar presence in the town.

It was fairly simple to slip out of the yard gate and double back to the church.

He circled round it, full of admiration for the simple elegance of the design.

Like other Templar churches, it was quite evidently modelled upon the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, where Luc had prayed in person years before.

So many memories came flooding back as he scanned this little church for signs of life, but the doors were firmly locked.

He was scouting about for a friendly face, to see if he could get news of the Order, when a voice from behind him made him jump.

‘A truly beautiful piece of architecture.’ It was Friar Laurent.

Luc did his best to assume an air of nonchalance but had little doubt that the friar had formed his own conclusions. He made no comment. Both of them continued around the building until they reached the solidly closed front door, set in its surprisingly simple frame.

‘Now where have I seen a design like this before?’

Luc had little doubt that the friar was toying with him, but he did his best to play dumb.

‘Saintes, I think it was. There was a much bigger version of this in the main square, I do believe.’ He shot a glance across at the other man and was not reassured by what he saw.

‘What was it you said you did for a living, Luc?’ The friar’s voice was harder now, in spite of the benevolent expression on his face.

‘I didn’t.’ Luc had had enough of being a fish on the end of a line. With a shrug of his broad shoulders, he turned back towards the inn, followed by Friar Laurent. Maybe the time had come to leave Friar Laurent and his group.

As they came level with a narrow alley between two houses, Luc suddenly scented danger. He was already reaching up his sleeve as two men leapt out in front of them, swords unsheathed in their hands. Luc stopped and tensed his muscles, studying the two carefully.

‘Money. Give us what you’ve got. Do it now, or you’ll be dog meat.’

The taller of the two, a near toothless character with a mop of carrot-coloured hair, shouted the command, his fetid breath reaching across the gap between them.

Luc felt the friar bump into his back and heard a sharp intake of breath.

For his part, Luc made no move, but eyed the men closely.

They were both filthy and unkempt, with the look of men who had been sleeping rough for some time.

Their swords were streaked with rust and the hand of the smaller of the two was shaking visibly.

Luc straightened up to his full height, gratified to see fear in both sets of eyes, and released his hold on the handle of his dagger.

There was no need to reveal his secrets to them or the friar unless it was absolutely necessary. He smiled and spoke kindly.

‘Leave us, brothers. We mean you no harm. Put up your swords and return to wherever you’ve come from. Please.’ He was being reasonable and generous, but he could tell from the nervous panting behind him that Friar Laurent clearly thought he was out of his mind.