The Long Sword(81)

            We lay the night in Pont Saint Esprit, a day’s ride from Avignon. The place reminded me of worse times, and it seemed odd to have the man at the gate salute me and bow to my surcoat. I dreamed badly: of the taking of the town and the rape of Janet. And the Bourc.

            Dreams have purposes. Ah, Boethius – you have read him too, eh? That dream was a warning and, thanks be to God, I took it as one.

            I entered Avignon as alertly as I had entered Krakow, and to better reason. Marc-Antonio watched my back, and I rode to the Hospital. The gate warden embraced me as if I was a prodigal son, and Fra Juan di Heredia embraced me and took all my messages. I had all King Peter’s letters, as well as a dozen parchment scrolls from Polish and Imperial prelates, even one, the last added to my satchel, from the Archbishop of Nuremberg.

            Fra Juan shocked me by opening and reading every letter.

            He shrugged and raised his eyebrows. ‘Welcome to the service of the Church of Christ,’ he said. ‘We have some mean bastards in my Father’s house.’

            I had never heard Fra Juan, or any other Hospitaller, refer to any churchman with anything but reverence. But the daggers were out in Avignon.

            When he’d read through all the letters and scrolls and called in a pair of Hospitaller sisters who carefully – and expertly – repaired the seals he’d broken, he turned to me.

            ‘Tell me of your trip,’ he said. ‘Tell me everything. Leave nothing out.’

            Fra Peter had never cautioned me against Fra Juan in any way, and he was my superior. So I told him the whole story, as fully as I could: Bologna, Venice, Prague, Krakow and back, not leaving out a small encounter in a square east of Nuremberg.

            He steepled his fingers like Father Pierre and nodded, but he didn’t interrupt.

            When I was done, he scratched his beard. ‘Very complete. You won a tournament under the eyes of the Emperor? You know that our Order is expressly forbidden to fight in such affairs? Eh?’

            I sat back, stricken. ‘I—’

            ‘Please don’t tell me you didn’t know. I believe I have taught you the Rule myself.’ Fra Juan, for all his ambition and occasional venality, was a commanding figure.

            I stuttered like a boy caught stealing.

            He waved. ‘A minor sin next to the fame you won us. I will get you a pardon and a light penance, I promise you, but as long as you are on duty and wear the Order’s habit, it is forbidden. Yes?’

            I swallowed.

            ‘Sometimes, in this Order, we do things that are forbidden for the good of all. You know what the good Fra Peter says: it is possible that we will go to Hell? And that is a worthy thing for a knight to give his soul for others that they may see heaven. So much for the sin of pride. Are you strong, my son? In your faith? In your belief in God?’ He frowned.

            I sat very still.

            He handed me a large square of parchment. It was stained brown.

            As I bent it, it cracked.

            ‘This came wrapped around some meat,’ Fra Juan said. His eyes met mine. ‘It was addressed to you.’

            I swallowed again. My mouth was full of salt.

            ‘The letter is in Latin, and it was easier to read before the blood dried,’ Fra Juan said. ‘Did you know a young woman named Anne?’

            In a moment, I couldn’t hear him. Instead, I was seeing the ginger-bearded man who had followed me and watched me with Anne.

            I may be a damned fool when I have been hit in the head, but I’m accounted quick enough to do sums and audit the accounts of the Order, or to carry a message between cardinals. Or command armies.