The innkeeper brought another jar and a round loaf of brown bread which he placed diffidently on the table and scurried away before drawing the ire of his difficult guests. Gislebert tore the loaf in half once, and then again; he sat chewing his portion and staring absently into the fire. The commander drained his cup and poured another.
The three drank in brooding silence until the innkeeper reappeared, holding the sides of a bubbling iron pot which he placed in the centre of the table. A boy with him brought an assortment of wooden bowls, which he left beside d'Anjou's elbow before darting away again. The innkeeper produced four wooden spoons which he cleaned on the greasy scrap of cloth around his waist. Placing a spoon in each of the bowls, he proceeded to ladle out the contents of the cauldron.
'What is that?' growled de Bracineaux, eyeing the fourth bowl balefully.
The landlord hesitated. The ladle wavered uncertainly above the table. 'Stew, my lord,' he replied, timidly. 'For the archbishop.'
'You were told he was to have nothing but boiled cabbage and water,' the Templar said darkly.
'Of course, my lord, but…' he swallowed, glancing anxiously from one to the other, 'that is, I thought you were in jest.'
'I do not expect you to think,' the commander replied menacingly, 'I expect you to obey. Pour it back, and get him the cabbage as you were told.'
The innkeeper appealed silently to d'Anjou, who softened. 'As this is his grace's last night with us,' suggested the baron, 'why not let him have the stew? Let him join us. He can tell us what he knows about this priest Matthias.'
'We have asked him already,' de Bracineaux said. 'He has told us all he knows – which is little enough.'
'Get some wine into him, and he may surprise you and sing like a lark,' said d'Anjou. 'It is the last chance to find out.'
'Very well,' said the commander. To Gislebert, he said, 'Fetch the disagreeable priest and tell him he can join us if he minds his manners.'
The sergeant stuffed a last piece of bread into his mouth, then rose and lumbered off; de Bracineaux regarded his companion with dull petulance. 'You are an old woman, d'Anjou. Do you know that? You should have been a priest.'
The baron sipped his wine. 'I lack the mental rigour,' he replied placidly. 'I am too easily led astray by frivolity and caprice.'
The commander stared at him, then laughed, the sound like a short, sharp bark. 'God's wounds, d'Anjou.' He lifted his cup and drank again, then pulled his bowl before him and started to spoon hot stew into his mouth.
In a moment, Gislebert appeared with the churchman in tow. 'Sit down, Bertrano,' said de Bracineaux, kicking a chair towards him. 'The baron here thinks you should join us for a farewell feast. What do you say to that?'
'I say,' he replied, 'a shred of common decency still clings to the baron. Perhaps he may be redeemed after all.'
'I would not be too certain about that.' The commander pushed a bowl of stew across the table. 'I want you to tell me about the priest-this Brother Matthias.'
'I have already told you all I know,' said Bertrano. He bent his head, murmured a prayer, crossed himself, and began to eat.
De Bracineaux reached out and pulled the bowl away again. 'First the priest, and then the food.'
The archbishop looked up wearily. 'I can tell you nothing I have not already said before. The man was unknown to me before I received his letter. He roams about, building churches and preaching to the poor. That is all I know.'
'It will be a pleasure to see the back of your disagreeable carcass,' said the commander, shoving the bowl of stew towards him once more.
'You are too harsh, de Bracineaux,' said the baron affably. 'Our friend the archbishop is a very fount of wisdom and good will. The road will be a far more lonely and cheerless place when he is gone. We shall miss his merry japes.'
'Thanks to you, the building work will have fallen behind. Winter is upon us, and if the roof is not in place much of the work will be ruined.'
'Has no one ever told you that it is folly to store up treasures on earth where moth and rust do corrupt?' wondered de Bracineaux, bringing a snort of derisive laughter from Gislebert.
'And is it not written: 'Because it was in your heart to build a temple for My Name, says the Lord, you did well to have this in your heart…' and, 'The temple I am going to build will be great, because Our God is greater than all other gods'?'
'And: 'Who,'' retorted the Templar commander, ''is able to build the temple of God? For heaven is his throne, and the earth his footstool.'' He raised his cup in mock triumph.
'Even Satan can quote scripture,' replied the archbishop sourly.
De Bracineaux bristled at the jibe. 'Away with you,' he growled. 'Your self-righteous prattling wearies me.'
The archbishop finished his stew, raising the bowl to his lips and draining it in a gulp. Then he stood. 'How is it that a man can see the mote in his brother's eye, yet miss the beam in his own?' With that, he wished them a good night and went back to his room.
'Remind me to give him that lame horse when he leaves tomorrow.'
'Better still,' said Baron d'Anjou, 'why not give him an ass so he has someone of like mind for company?'
'Well said,' laughed Sergeant Gislebert. 'A man after my own heart.'
'You are only half the wit you think you are, d'Anjou,' de Bracineaux grumbled, shaking his head.
'Be of good cheer, commander,' the baron replied. 'Eat, drink, and rejoice – for tomorrow the search for the Mysterious Rose begins in earnest. With any luck, you will have it tucked safely away before the season is through. We can be in Anjou before the snow flies, and winter at my estate-what do you say to that?'
'I say,' replied the commander, 'we do not yet have the relic. I will not revel and make merry until I hold it in my hands.'
'Then let us drink to the quest,' said the Baron, raising his cup. 'May our joy be swiftly consummated.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Their supper was pease porridge and black bread again-and for the next three nights-as each day's search took the party further into the wild, desolate mountains. The weather grew steadily worse, each day colder than the last, the clouds lower, darker, filled with mist and rain. Wind blew down from the barren heights, buffeting them by day, and invading their sleep by night.
One cheerless day they found one of Abu's markers in a broad, grassy glen. Nearby lay the remains of a campfire; there were tufts of wool on the bushes and brambles, and sheep droppings on the ground. 'Probably a shepherd taking his flocks down to the lower valleys for the winter,' observed Paulo, raising his eyes to the mountain peaks which now loomed over them. 'God willing, we will soon be going home, too.'
The next day they rode out in the direction indicated by the marker and promptly lost the trail. By nightfall they had not found it again. 'It is gone,' Paulo concluded dismally.
'We must have missed a marker,' suggested Yngvar.
'Perhaps,' allowed Paulo. 'But I do not think so.'
'We will find it tomorrow,' Cait said, 'when the light is better.'
'I am sorry, Donna Caitriona,' he said, shaking his head, 'the ground is mostly rock and chippings. If not for Abu, we would not have been able to trail them this long. Something must have happened to him.'
'If he was injured or killed,' said Svein, 'we would have found him on the trail.'
'The bandits must have caught him,' Yngvar concluded. 'This is what I think.'
'Then God help him,' said Dag.
'What are we to do now?' Cait asked, turning to Rognvald, who stood nearby with his arms folded over his chest to keep warm.
