The saint was silent and reserved and did not heed him.
He dug his face down into the cloak.
The snow stopped and the wind-stirred trees moved above. Gideon stood, his argument with the Catalan having abated, he was now in good spirits and left to look for firewood. Etienne was, therefore, left alone with Delgado, who was crouched and playing a small woodwind instrument.
Along their journey Etienne had observed the mercenaries and had been struck to find in himself a nascent longing to be as free they. It was a feeling both surprising and dangerous, for he knew that he must not find himself admiring men who were not party to his truth.
He looked upward to that cloud-streaked sky and reminded himself that out in the world there was more than one truth. He reminded himself also that his shape was bent a little more each day he spent away from a cloister or house. Surely that was why he could find no sin in thoughts of disobedience? Soon, he told himself, he must become a stranger to himself. His eyes focused and he found the object of his concentration staring back at him.
The Catalan’s green orbs flickered in the firelight and were making study of Etienne under straight, unclouded brows. The man’s head, covered with black hair tight of curl and close to the scalp, was too small for a body that was long and broad and made of lean muscle. But his face was pleasant and beneath that stare was announced a friendly disposition. ‘You did not eat?’ he said, smiling, his full mouth and chin stained with goat fat.
Etienne considered this spectacle and said, ‘It is a rule, a Templar must not hunt, it is also a rule that he must not eat meat certain days of the week. This is one such day.’
The man’s brows came together and he raised a flask to his lips and swallowed. After a moment of serious contemplation he asked, ‘No hunting?’
‘Except for the lion,’ said Etienne, ‘since a lion comes encircling and searching for what it can devour.’
‘And by no means meat every day, if you can come by it?’
‘By no means.’
The Catalan shook his head and smiled as if such things were lunacy, then his face took on the cast of a man who may not have heard well. ‘How can you make war without meat in the blood?’
Etienne sat forward and made sure the man was attending closely before he said, ‘Inside our hearts runs blood more red since it belongs to Christ.’
The other man nodded at this additional strangeness, a peculiar look passing over the friendly face. ‘Your blood is Christ’s?’
‘Most certainly.’ Etienne was happy to have disconcerted the Catalan, and sat back contemplating the sky with a triumphant silence.
A moment later Etienne realised the Catalan was not to be put off and wished that Jourdain, who was good with words, were beside him to answer such questions and not keeping a watchful eye upon the road.
‘All knights of your Order feel the same?’
‘They should.’
‘Is not my blood Christ’s then? Did he not die for all men?’
‘Your blood is Christ’s because he has died for you, my blood is His because I am prepared to die for Him.’
‘Ahh,’ he said, but looked no wiser. Then as a change of subject he asked, ‘It is a rich house, this house to which we travel?’
Etienne scratched at his bare chin. It felt strange, that hairless space below his mouth. ‘I don’t know . . .’
The other man shook his head. ‘You will not like it there.’
‘No,’ Etienne said.
‘Where you come from in the Holy Land, all is different?’
Etienne felt a headache over his brows. ‘Here all things are altered.’
‘Well then, you will get used to it, since you may not go back.’ The Catalan came closer, putting the small instrument to his mouth, making a sweet sound.
Etienne observed this without anger; he listened and glanced up to where, between snow and cloud, the sun winked now and again through the treetops.
The Catalan silenced his playing and nodded. ‘You and I are countrymen, we understand the same language . . .’ Then he sang a song in a light lyrical voice.
Preguatz per mil salvayre
Quem guit a bon port,
Em guart de la mort
D’infer, don conort
Negus homs nos pot trayre
Per neguna sort!
‘Do you know it, lord?’ he asked.
‘No, I do not,’ Etienne said to him.
‘It is true, my family fought alongside yours during your war.’
Etienne did not answer.
‘Your family was a fine one, your castle was the home of troubadours and poets.’
‘That castle is not mine, it is dead.’ In Etienne’s eyes there was the message that he wished no further discussion. The other man smiled and bent his knees and sat upon his ankles as Gideon returned panting with an armful of wood. The tall man set it down and began to replenish the fire. The wood was half-wet and made smoke billow up into the air.