The last pilgrims were getting ready to cross. Two balked abruptly, deciding that they’d wait until the morrow. Their unease proved contagious and several of their companions began to reconsider, too. Seeing his fees slipping away, the guide hastily assured them that the crossing was safe, that it was nigh on five hours until the next high tide and they’d be able to reach the Mont ere dark descended on the bay. Insisting that the monks believed Blessed St Michael looked with especial favor upon those who made a dusk crossing, he collected his flock before any others could stray, and passed out candles.
Clutching a candle in one hand and her sandals in the other, Arzhela joined the others. The mud was cold against the bare soles of her feet, the water even colder, but as she raised her eyes to the distant Mont, she forgot about her physical discomfort. The church spires seemed to be scraping the clouds and the last rays of the dying sun bathed the abbey in a golden glow. It was like gazing upon the glory of God, and Arzhela stared up at it in wonder, as if seeing it for the first time. The sense of peace that she’d experienced at St Michael’s shrine came flooding back. Some of the other pilgrims had begun to weep and Arzhela wept, too, for sheer joy. Why had she been so slow to understand what the Almighty wanted of her?
Upon the beach at Genets, a lone figure stood at the water’s edge. The wind whipped Brother Bernard’s cowl back, blew sand into his face, and chilled his body and soul. He did not move, though, never taking his eyes from the pilgrims wading toward the Mont.
CHAPTER 11
February 1194
ANTRAIN, BRITTANY
The flat tombstones were overgrown with moss, and white with hoarfrost, as cold as ice, offering little comfort to aching bodies and weary bones. But Morgan and the men-at-arms sprawled upon them as if they were cushions, glad for a respite, however brief, from too many hours in the saddle. The churchyard was empty, save for them and the dead. The church itself was not welcoming, small, shuttered, and precariously perched on the heights above a wooded valley where two rivers merged. There was no castle, just the church and a scattering of dilapidated, unsightly cottages. Poverty stalked this Breton village, where suspicion of strangers was a lesson learned in the cradle, and hope always rode on by, never even dismounting.
The men were not fanciful. With the exception of Morgan, their imaginations were not so much underused as undiscovered. Still, they dimly sensed the isolation and the melancholy of these unseen, reclusive villagers, and they kept their hands upon their weapons, kept casting glances over their shoulders. They did not like this Bretagne, this land of fog and legends and sunless, tangled woods where demons and bandits lurked. This was not a good place to be, not a good place to die.
“How much longer, you think?” Jaspaer’s English was serviceable, although the echoes of his native Flanders were never far from the surface. He was more comfortable speaking Flemish or French, but his companions were English and he used their tongue as a courtesy.
Unlike Jaspaer, whose sword was for hire to any lord with money to pay, be he French, Danish, or Swabian, Rufus and Crispin were English lads, born and bred in Shropshire, and not happy to be so far from home. So Morgan responded in English, too, although French was his first language. “Soon, I’d expect,” he said reassuringly. “How long does it take to replace a shoe, after all?”
“In this godforsaken land, who knows?” Rufus muttered darkly, his thoughts bleak enough to warrant making a quick sign of the Cross.
“We could wager whilst we wait,” Morgan suggested, and succeeded in stirring a flicker of interest.
“On what?” Crispin asked, patting the scrip that dangled from his belt. “I lost the dice at Laval.”
“See those two birds in that yew tree yonder? We could wager which one will fly away first. Or… when our good lords will get back from the farrier’s. Or if they’ll make it to Mont St Michel ere they kill each other.”
They all grinned at that, even the morose Rufus, for Durand and Justin had been quarreling like tomcats ever since they’d left Fougeres-clashing over which road to take, how fast a pace to set, whose fault it was that they’d not been able to ride out as early as they’d hoped, who was to blame for this latest delay.
“I’d best go see if the farrier has gotten bone-sick of their yammering and tossed them both into his horse trough,” Morgan said, and they all grinned again, for the Breton blacksmith was the biggest man any of them had ever seen, with legs like tree trunks and hands like hams. Rising stiffly, Morgan stretched and winced and then halted, gazing toward the north. “Riders,” he said, and the other men scrambled to their feet, too, wary and watchful.
At the Farrier’s shed, Durand had made such a pest of himself, hovering close at hand and peering over the blacksmith’s shoulder, that the Breton at last rose to his full, formidable height, pointed to the door and told him to get out. Durand spoke no Breton, but the man’s gesture did not need translation.
Outside, Justin was pacing back and forth, unable to stand still for more than a heartbeat. He turned swiftly as Durand emerged from the shed. “How much longer?”
“You speak this accursed tongue of theirs,” Durand snapped. “Ask him yourself.”
“I’ve already told you that I do not speak Breton,” Justin snapped back. “I understand a bit because I know some Welsh.”
“Well, you still get more than I do.” Durand glowered at Justin, as if his language lack were the younger man’s fault. “Go ask him, not me!”
Justin silently counted to ten. It did not help. “If you’d checked your horse’s hooves ere we left Fougeres, you might have noticed that a shoe was loose. But of course you could not be bothered-”
Justin stopped for Durand was no longer listening, staring over Justin’s shoulder with such intensity that he spun about. Morgan and their men-at-arms were hastening toward them, and now he and Durand could see it, too- the rising dust of approaching riders, coming from the north, from Mont St Michel.
I know him!” Durand exclaimed as the newcomers rode into the village. Stepping quickly into the road, he called out, “My lord abbot! A moment, if you please!”
The abbot reined in, gazing down impassively at Durand. His guards urged their mounts closer, but Durand did not appear threatening. At his most courtly, he bowed gracefully. “We met in Paris last year, at the court of the king of the French. I am Sir Durand de Curzon.”
The name meant nothing to Abbot Jourdain, but the man before him was well-dressed, well-spoken, and well-armed, clearly a member of the gentry. “Ah, yes,” he said politely. “Sir… Durand, God’s blessings upon you… and your traveling companions,” he added, glancing toward Justin, Morgan, and the men-at-arms.
“They are my servants,” Durand said dismissively. “A man would be foolish to ride alone in these dangerous times. It is indeed fortuitous that we’ve met on the road like this, my lord abbot, for I am heading to Mont St Michel. I would not have wanted to miss the opportunity to pay my respects to you.”
The abbot responded with a courtesy of his own. He’d had much practice at extricating himself from tiresome social situations, and he said, kindly but firmly, “Alas, I cannot tarry, much as I would enjoy renewing acquaintance with you, Sir Durand. We must reach Fougeres by dark.”
Durand did not move from the center of the road. “Indeed? I have just come from Fougeres myself, where I had the honor of performing a service for the Duchess Constance and Lord Raoul, her liege man.”
Influenced, perhaps, by the names Durand was dropping with such abandon, the abbot curbed his impatience and mustered up a polite smile. Before he could make another attempt to end the conversation, Durand stepped closer. “I believe that a lady dear to my heart is currently enjoying the hospitality of your abbey, my lord. Not that I would imply there is anything improper between us,” he said with a smile that suggested just that, “for she is of the blood royal of Brittany. Lady Arzhela de Dinan… I trust she is well?”
The abbot bit his lip, hesitated, and then said, “I assume so,” with such obvious discomfort that Justin felt a chill of foreboding.
Shouldering his way forward, he demanded, “Has evil befallen her?”
The abbot looked annoyed now, as well as uneasy. “Your servant could do with a lesson in manners, Sir Durand.”
