Page 50 of Under a Spanish Sky

Luc stopped eating in mid mouthful. The rough-hewn cell at San Juan de la Pena and the table, laid with obscene instruments of torture, flooded his memory.

The sensation of the barbed whip against his cheek was so real that he found himself brushing his fingers against his face to remove the irritation.

He shook himself violently, chasing the spectre from his mind.

‘He doesn’t give up easily.’

Since leaving Santo Domingo de la Calzada in the dead of night, he and Aimée had had no further contact with the archbishop’s men.

Indeed, by avoiding towns and cities, Luc had dared to hope that they might have finally escaped his clutches.

But it appeared that such was not to be the case.

He breathed out in frustration but squared his shoulders and returned to his meal.

He and Aimée had evaded them so far. They could do it for a few more days.

The old lady watched him covertly. She felt again the raw fear that this big man had inspired in her the previous evening.

She had been woken from a cosy daydream by the appearance of the huge figure with a vicious flashing knife.

She thanked the Almighty once again that she had not fainted or died of fright.

She also thanked Him for allowing her to maintain a semblance of normality in the face of such naked aggression.

She reached across and laid her hand on Luc’s arm.

‘Choose the way you wish. It would take a brave bandit to tackle you, Luc. But if you’ve never been to Santiago before, it’s a wonderful and memorable experience.’

He caught her eye and held it. He was on the point of opting for the mountains and the bandits, preferring them to the evil archbishop, when there was a sound from the other side of the room. It was Aimée.

He was at her side in a flash. Her face was no longer deathly pale. To his delight, he saw that a rosy flush had spread across it and sweat was beading at her temples. He laid his hands against her cheeks and was rewarded by the sight of her eyes opening, closely followed by her lips.

‘Thank God I feel warm.’ Her voice was weak, but comprehensible. He leant closer to hear her next words. ‘We will go to Compostela together, after all.’

She drifted off into sleep. Her breathing was regular and she looked peaceful. Glancing up, Luc caught the old lady’s eyes. Her hands were clasping the crucifix around her neck and her lips were mouthing a prayer. He stood up.

‘We’ll take the Pilgrims’ Way to Santiago de Compostela as you advise.’ His mind was made up. ‘Then we’ll follow you to Tómar. Aimée is going to get better now. Everything will be all right. Thanks be to God.’

‘Thanks be to God.’ The Lady Alice repeated his words.

* * *

Aimée made good, steady progress. After Lady Alice had left with her precious cargo, Luc spent time resting and recuperating. He prepared food, acted as nurse to Aimée and tidied the house.

Altogether, they were in the little house for almost two weeks and Luc was delighted to see Aimée get stronger day by day.

The old lady had left a leg of ham, two dozen eggs, a string of sausages and a larder full of vegetables, wine, oil and flour.

Twice each day Luc prepared hot meals for them.

At first he ate most of the food, and Aimée would accept only a little soup.

Gradually, as the days wore on, she started to eat solid food again and the improvement in her condition became more marked.

He experimented with making bread in the little oven at the side of the fire.

By the end of the second day, he was able to produce good flat loaves of unleavened bread.

The fire itself never went out and the pile of wood behind the house shrank visibly.

Leave nothing behind, Lady Alice had said. It looked as if Luc would do just that.

It was imperative that Aimée should make a full recovery before undertaking the last part of their journey, so he stoked the fire and stirred the pot, cheered by her renewed vitality and healthy colour.

Finally, towards the end of the second week, he pronounced her fit to travel. They would set off the next day.

She took the news with mixed feelings. On the one hand, she was keen to get moving and finish the journey.

On the other, there was the ever-increasing worry as to what would happen when they finally got to Tómar.

She knew that this place of safety was the rallying point for all surviving Templars.

By the sound of it, the Order was still alive and well in Portugal.

What if he returned to his former life as a Templar and failed to renounce his vows?

To be left alone would be bad enough, but to be separated from the man she knew she loved would be even worse.

The thought of losing him made her physically afraid.

Every step towards their destination hastened the day when they might have to part.

So she rolled up her belongings that evening with considerable regret.

In particular, she regretted leaving this little house.

They had lived here to all intents and purposes as man and wife.

She loved to talk to him, feel him touch her, stroke her hair or just hold her hand.

The thought of losing him was terrifying.

She heard him moving around by the fireside. She made her way over, caught hold of him and burrowed her head into his shoulder. She felt his arms encircle her.

‘If I lose you, I’ll die.’ Her words were muffled by his shirt, and he couldn’t hear.

‘What was that?’ He stroked her hair with his free hand.

‘Nothing.’ She looked up from his shoulder and smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to getting to Compostela.’