Kurtz, Katherine Knights Templar 02 Temple and the Crown

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"Clement actually did it," Torquil said softly, as the two of them tightened up their cinches and prepared
to leave. "He threw us to the wolves."
"You actually thought he might have a last-minute attack of courage?" Arnault asked, securing the last
strap on the pack behind his saddle.
Torquil sighed and shook his head, leaning brie?y on his horse's rump to gaze across at his companion.
He had known the words to expect, but he had not reckoned on their effect. That the Templars should
have been thus disowned by the church they had fought to serve and protect made him feel desolate and
orphaned, as if his own father had turned his back on him in his hour of need.
"I suppose I hoped that something would happen at the last minute, to change the inevitable. This is the
work of King Philip, you know. And probably Nogaret."
"Oh, well do I know," Arnault replied.
His voice was wistful, his gaze ?icking momentarily into some dimension visible only to himself as one
hand brushed the faint bulge of the pouch under his robe, where he carried the fragment they had
retrieved from beneath the Temple Mount. In that instant, Torquil was struck by the irony that Arnault
should be carrying one of the broken fragments of the ?rst Tablets of the Law, and wondered what law
the Templars might have transgressed to merit their fate.
And how, now, was the Law to uphold them, as both Iskander and an aged Jew had promised? Was
Arnault drawing comfort from the sights and images he had witnessed beneath the Temple Rock? Or was
he beset by fear that, for all they had accomplished, they were returning home too late?
"What now, then?" Torquil asked quietly.
"Now we ride on to Paris," Arnault said, "and see what can still be salvaged. We have yet to learn how
things fare in Scotland. After today, more than ever, that remains our only hope for a safe haven. Here in
France, the past is a closed country to us now. We must hope that our Scottish brethren have been more
successful."
With that, he turned to lead his horse out of the yard, Torquil following behind, both of them carrying
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their pilgrim staves in their free hands as they shouldered through the crowds, for it was market day. They
had traversed the adjacent street and were headed toward a crossroads ahead when Torquil noticed the
beggar trailing behind them with a purposeful air.
"I see him," Arnault murmured, before Torquil could speak.
Shoulders stooped beneath a grimy mantle of rags and patches, the beggar made an oblique approach,
rag-bound feet deceptively nimble, for only belatedly did Torquil notice how quickly he-or she-was
moving; for it was not even clear whether the ?gure was man or woman. A sackcloth hood shrouded the
other's bent head, as if to conceal some hideous dis?gurement, and a bandaged hand was locked around
a staff that was also a crutch. The other hand reached out of a ragged sleeve toward the Templars, grimy
palm outspread in appeal.
"Alms, good pilgrims, for the love of God." a rasping voice whined.
Torquil was already fumbling in his scrip for a copper or two, intending to be rid of the stranger as
quickly as possible, but the beggar's next words made him falter with his
hand inside.
"The Circle remains yet unbroken."
In the same moment that those words were softly spoken, the mendicant tilted his head, allowing a
glimpse of the face within the muf?ing hood. Beneath the smearing of dirt that formed part of his disguise,
there was no mistaking Armand Breville.
"Affect not to know me," Breville whispered, even as he thrust his hand more emphatically under
Torquil's nose, "but your pilgrim heart is moved to charity. Continue on. I'll ?nd you. And be wary of
them."
Arnault was already turning away, face composed, immediately in character. Torquil, by now with a
copper in hand, tossed it toward the "beggar's" outstretched hand and continued on; but both of them
noted the direction of Breville's chin gesture as he cringed, fumbling and dropping the coin, then
scrabbled among the horses' legs to retrieve it.
"There in the doorway," Torquil murmured.
"I see them," Arnault replied.
"Be sure you are not followed," Breville whispered urgently.
The two led their horses on, feigning to pay no further notice to Breville or the two city guards lounging in
the distant doorway. At a square at the end of the next street, they paused at a fountain to water their
horses. Arnault used the stop to pretend concern for one of his horse's front feet, calling for Torquil's
consultation as he lifted the hoof and prodded at the frog.
"Any sign that we're being followed?" he whispered.
"No."
"All right, we'll linger for a few minutes, then move on."
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When they had mounted up, they continued on along the street headed north, picking their way slowly
through a modest market-day crowd. At the next intersection, the ties on a scrawny-looking pack pony
had come asunder, and a large, amiable-looking man was scrambling to retrieve his belongings before a
pack of urchins made off with anything.
"All right, you lot, get away!" he cried, snatching a pot from under one young lad's nose. "You, drop
that!"
As another boy darted in to seize a fallen sack, Torquil gigged his horse forward to grab the child by an
upper arm and wrench him around, giving him a quick shake to make him drop the sack before releasing
him. Arnault had crowded right behind him, and the arrival of two mounted men on the scene sent the
remaining children scattering.
A smile creased the face of the big man as he retrieved the last of his belongings and glanced up at his
rescuers.
"My thanks, good pilgrims," he declared-and ?icked a glance to one side, where Breville was motioning
them from the opening of another street. "You'd best not linger," he added in a lower voice.
They took his advice, though they were careful not to appear too eager. Heading off the way in which
Breville had disappeared, they followed him down a crooked alley that headed deeper into the winds.
When they rounded the next turning, Breville was holding open the door to a small stable shed. At his
urgent gesture, they quickly dismounted and led their horses inside.
"Bring your baggage and say nothing," he whispered, as he barred the door behind them. "Jacques will
delay pursuit, if you were followed."
In the next little while, Arnault and Torquil followed him through a winding maze of narrow streets and
tenements, to skirt ?nally along the riverbank. There, casting off the mendicant's posture that was part of
his disguise, Breville led them briskly behind a privy shed, where he ducked into what appeared to be the
mouth of an ancient drain. Just inside, he bade Arnault and Torquil help him heave at a crack between
two paving slabs.
One of the slabs shifted, exposing a dark cavity below. As they pushed it wider, a dank reek of weeds
and river water ?ltered up from the gap. Wider still, and they could see a narrow stairway descending
into the blackness below.
"Not the best of arrangements," Breville murmured, ?tting his lower body through the opening, "but it
serves its purpose. Follow me."
As he disappeared into the darkness, Arnault and Torquil followed without hesitation. Pausing in an
alcove half a ?ight down, Breville produced ?int and steel and set alight an oil-soaked torch left ready to
hand, then motioned for his companions to close the hatch above them, by means of an iron ring set into [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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