Trail of Fate

swear an oath to help. An oath, Maryam. We Templars tend to take such promises very seriously. I cannot-”

“Tristan, I don’t believe you for a minute,” she interrupted me. “You’re using this oath as an excuse to go back to this girl.”

“Well, you are entitled to your thoughts. But I assure you. .”

Maryam held up a hand.

“What do you think you’re doing, squire? Putting you-and me, for that matter-in danger? Before you met this girl, you were single-mindedly focused on getting to England with your ‘dispatches. ’ Have you stopped to consider everything? What if you go to this place and find Celia? What if you don’t make it out alive? What will happen to your mission then?”

“If you didn’t want to come with me, maybe you should have gone with Robard,” I said. But I regretted it instantly, for I’d said it more harshly than I’d wished. Maryam didn’t deserve such a sharp reply.

She didn’t flinch from my words though.

“Maybe I should have. But I didn’t. And I have my reasons. But nothing before this has dissuaded you from finding a way to England. Not Sir Hugh, not nearly drowning in a storm or being stranded in a strange country. But you meet this girl, you swear an ‘oath’ and all of a sudden your mission is forgotten. I think Robard was right. It’s not oath at all. You are smitten.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Are you questioning my honor?”

“Is it? Is it really ridiculous? You tell me.”

Maryam’s words made me wince, for in truth she was right on the mark. For reasons I could not explain, I had thought of little more than Celia since watching her and her group ride off. When we’d encountered the High Counsel on the beach, my first thought was of her safety. Though I barely knew her, I was suddenly consumed with finding her and making sure she was safe. Was this what being smitten meant? I had no idea. Before I’d left the monastery, I’d barely even seen a girl. And more important, did I make a promise to Philippe only because it gave me the chance to see her again?

“Maryam. . she. . I am not smitten,” I said defensively.

“Yes, you are.”

“I am not,” I said.

“Are.”

“I am. . Stop it! She. . I. . am only. . I have an obligation to her since she came to my aid when I was shipwrecked. Now I’ve promised Philippe whatever help I can give. There is a debt unpaid.”

“Really? All I heard her do was ridicule you for joining the Knights Templar.”

“She did not.” All right. In truth, really, she had. But Maryam hadn’t heard any of the nice things she’d said. Or seen her face in the moonlight. She hadn’t witnessed the ice-blue pools of Celia’s eyes. Oh dear.

“Hmph.” Maryam sounded disgusted.

I tried to apologize. “Maryam, I’m sorry. .”

She held up her hand again. I was becoming very familiar with the hand. At least it didn’t have a dagger in it.

“Let’s go,” she said with disgust. She pushed past me and made her way back to the stream, turning north. She said nothing for a long while as I stumbled along behind her.

“How are we even going to find her?” she finally asked, her voice still dripping with anger.

A good question. A very good question.

And in truth I had absolutely no idea.

IN THE SOUTHERN PYRENEES 10

We hiked along for several leagues. Before leaving the campsite, I’d found more wild grapes, so at least we had something to eat. With the sun high in the sky we paused to rest awhile. After catching our breath, we kept to the stream, and I kept careful watch for the spot where Celia and her followers had left its shallows. I was no forester, and truly missed Robard then, but studied the ground as closely as I could. Drawing on my memory of conversations with Celia and her group, I knew only that their base lay somewhere north. Without some kind of trail to follow I would most likely miss it completely.

A few leagues farther north, I found a spot where several horses had climbed the bank. The tracks kept to a trail through the woods, and so we followed. A few hours later, twilight approached, and the woods opened into a wide meadow. The countryside had gotten hilly, and from the clearing, I could see mountains far off in the distance. No one had said anything about mountains. I guess since Mont meant “mountain” in French, the name of her fortress, Montsegur, should have warned me.

“We should rest here for the night,” Maryam suggested, and I agreed. We had journeyed far and were weary. Angel ate a few grapes from my hand, then dropped immediately to the ground and was asleep instantly, her tongue lolling gently out of her mouth. I gave Maryam some grapes as well, and we found comfortable spots on the ground to sleep through the night.

The next day as we crossed the meadow, the tracks joined up with a dirt road that wound through the forest. The hoofprints of Celia’s horses soon mixed with the signs of other travelers, including carts and wagons. After another hour of walking we entered a small village. It was little more than a wide spot along the trail, with a tiny chapel, an inn and a few other buildings lining the crossroads.

“Tristan, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” Maryam said. “Do you think we might be able to find something to eat here besides grapes?”

We stood off to the side of the trail and watched what few people there were in the village milling about. The church looked deserted, and we were too late in the day for morning mass. A small blacksmith shop was busy, and a few women gathered near a well across the path from the inn.

“Let’s give it a try,” I said, heading toward the inn.

Angel waited, curled up in a bed of grass a few steps off the trail. Maryam and I crossed through the center of the village and entered the front door. It was dark inside, with only one window at the front letting in any light, and smelled like wet dirt and wood smoke. A small fireplace with a sputtering flame took up one end of the room, and a doorway covered by a cloth curtain led away to the back. No one was in the main room, but we heard the sounds of activity beyond the curtained door.

“Salut?” I called out. Hello.

The curtain was pulled back and a woman of indeterminate age emerged. She wore a simple peasant frock of gray cloth, and a brown head scarf. She eyed us suspiciously, and for an instant a tremendous weight pressed down on me. I had a vision of Sir Hugh riding into the village and questioning this woman. She would tell him how we’d stopped here just a few short days ago and which direction we’d headed. But we needed food. There was no way around it.

This was never going to work. I was stuck here, and could speak enough French to get by, but Maryam and I could never pass as natives. As soon as I asked for food, she would know I was an outsider. Sir Hugh would be able to find us easily.

I spoke to the woman in the best French I could muster, silently cursing myself for not paying closer attention when Brother Rupert had sought to teach me his native tongue.

“Aliments, s’il vous plait?” I asked, pointing to Maryam and myself.

She said nothing, moving to the fireplace where an iron pot hung on a hook over the coals. Using the front of her smock, she lifted the kettle off the hook and brought it to the table, motioning for us to sit. I peered into the kettle and saw some type of still-bubbling pottage.

The woman went through the curtain and returned seconds later with two wooden bowls and spoons, a small loaf of bread and an earthen jug. She sat it all on the table before us and made motions for us to fill the bowls and eat. So we did.

The pottage tasted far better than it looked. Maryam smiled and concentrated on eating. The woman