Chasing Shadows Read online

  ‘So that makes us relative youngsters.’ Amy was just thirty and he had told her he was thirty-six.

  ‘That’s right, but don’t get too complacent. Our waitress is about half my age, maybe even half yours.’

  The salad and the pâté arrived, along with a bottle of dark red wine. Luke filled their glasses and they both tried it, pronouncing it good. Then she set the glass down and he noticed yet again how organised she was. Whenever they ate, she always kept a space clear just to the right of her plate for her glass. If she had more than one glass in use, the larger one would always be on the outside so she knew automatically which was where. She was the same with everything. Blind people can’t allow themselves the luxury of disorder. Being with her had even made him a bit tidier.

  He gave her a brief tour of her plate of salad. ‘Looks lovely. Four slices of toasted cheese on bits of bread. About three or four different types of lettuce as far as I can see; some sort of dandelion leaf shaped, some red and some frizzy green stuff.’

  Amy raised her head towards him. ‘A voyage of discovery.’ He saw a smile on her face. Sensing his incomprehension, she elaborated. ‘A simple plate of salad turns into a plunge into the unknown with you as my guide. Frizzy green stuff doesn’t often appear on menus.’

  He adopted what he thought was an apologetic tone, but she sensed that he was smiling and smiled back as she listened to what he had to say. ‘Yes, I’m afraid you could have chosen a better guide, at least as far as descriptions of food are concerned. And it’s not just salads, is it? I’m not that great at names of cheeses either. You just can’t find the staff these days, can you?’

  ‘Still, you do have redeeming features. Considering I’ve got my very own medieval specialist driving me around, I can’t really complain.’ His PhD had been on the main pilgrimages of the Middle Ages and the Compostela pilgrimage had been of special interest to him. She lapsed into a reflective silence for a few minutes, concentrating on her salad. ‘So remind me how many times you’ve done the pilgrimage to Compostela?’

  ‘This’ll be my third. Although, to my shame, I’ve only walked about half of it.’ She was only partway through her salad while he had almost finished his plate by now but, he told himself, they had only had a sandwich for lunch. He picked up the last slice of baguette and toasted cheese and forced himself to nibble it slowly as he watched her formulate an answer. As he did so, he couldn’t miss the way her lovely jumper so perfectly matched her eyes in that perfect face. Yet again he reflected how bitterly ironic it was that such a beautiful girl should have lost the power of sight.

  ‘I wish I could walk it.’ There was a plaintive note to her voice that was quite unlike her. By now, he had got used to the way she resolutely did her best not to let her handicap get in the way of doing things. He swallowed the bread and took a mouthful of wine to wash it down.

  ‘I don’t see why you couldn’t. I tell you what, as long as it doesn’t snow too much tomorrow, let’s try walking a stretch of it.’

  She nodded as she chewed a mouthful of salad. ‘That would be great. So, for people on foot, how long would it take to get from here to Compostela?’

  Luke did a quick calculation. ‘I suppose a bit over a month, depending upon how far and how fast you walk. I think the average is 20 to 30 kilometres a day.’

  ‘What’s that in old money? Fifteen miles a day?’

  ‘Bit more, bit less. It also depends on the terrain. Tomorrow we’re going to climb to over fifteen hundred metres. In our big comfortable car, that’ll be easy, but just imagine doing it on foot. And, remember, back in the Middle Ages, there would have been all sorts of other obstacles, like bandits for example.’

  A few minutes later, the waitress came to remove their empty plates. As she carried them off, Luke glanced across at Amy again. He still felt uncomfortable doing so, when he knew she couldn’t see him in return, but he was gradually getting used to it. They had been on the road now for two weeks, zigzagging their way down through France, en route to Spain, and he was getting very familiar with her and her mannerisms. Now, it didn’t need the slight furrowing of her brow for him to know that she was thinking hard. She paused for a moment, took a mouthful of wine and then, clearly, made her mind up. ‘Luke, I’ve been thinking, and I wonder if we could do something.’ She sounded unusually hesitant, which was not her normal way. He hastened to help her.

  ‘Whatever you like.’

  ‘All right then, I’ve got a suggestion for you. Tell me, are you any good at telling stories?’

  ‘Erm, you’ve lost me there. Stories?’ He picked up the bottle and topped up their glasses. She murmured a quiet thank you and then carried on.

  ‘As a child, did you and your brothers tell each other stories? My sister and I used to do it all the time.’

  He cast his mind back. ‘As I remember, most of the stories I told were to explain why I hadn’t done my homework.’

  ‘That’ll do. It shows you’ve got a good imagination. Anyway, I’ll tell you what I’d really like. How would you feel if we were to try to come up with a story?’

  He smiled at the thought. ‘Us make up a story? I’m not sure I’d be much good at that. But I’m prepared to give it a go. About what?’

  ‘About people doing what we’re doing, but years ago.’ As she said it, she realised that this was something she really did want to do. Why not, she thought to herself. Maybe we could even turn it into a book. Blindness makes it impossible to do a lot of things but nowadays, with her computer, she knew that writing wasn’t one of them. This might just, she thought, with a rising sense of anticipation, be the answer to the question of what to do with her life now that she had finished studying. She raised her face towards him. ‘People just like us, doing this.’

  ‘Driving around in a brand new Range Rover and eating too much foie gras?’ He saw her smile and shake her head.

  ‘No, following the pilgrimage route, of course.’

  ‘And when you say years ago, just how many years ago?’

  ‘Oh, lots… centuries. Before cars and planes and phones and things.’ He could hear the animation in her voice and he could understand why. Making up a story would be a way of heightening the experience for her. Unable to see the magnificent scenery or the succession of outstanding historical monuments, she needed something extra. He owed it to her to help, so he didn’t hesitate.

  ‘All right then, I’ll give it a go. And as for the when, it’s got to be the Middle Ages, surely? We’re both medievalists after all. Sound good?’

  The expression on her face showed that the idea pleased her. He could see that she was thinking hard. After a few moments she spoke out loud. ‘So when in the Middle Ages? Early, High, Late? Lets’s face it, the Middle Ages lasted a good long time.’

  He gave it some thought. ‘The pilgrimage route’s been operating for over a thousand years. It was your idea, you take your pick.’

  She was smiling now and he felt a wave of affection for her. The prickly persona she had exhibited the first time they met had disappeared without trace. As they had got to know each other, she had definitely mellowed. There was no question that this trip was doing her a power of good and, if he were honest, he felt it doing him good, too. He couldn’t remember feeling this relaxed for a long time. Just then, the waitress returned with the duck. As usual, he launched into tour guide mode.

  ‘The confit looks wonderful. The skin’s crispy, so you should be able to eat the lot. Hang on a minute.’ He prodded the meat on his plate. ‘It just falls apart. You’ll hardly need your knife. There’s a whole heap of chips and a little bundle of asparagus, tied up like a sheaf of corn. It all looks very, very hot, so be warned.’ By now, it was second nature to him to give these descriptions.

  She made no attempt to start eating, her mind evidently still on this story idea. After a few more moments, she raised her head towards him, the pale blue eyes looking disconcertingly straight through him. ‘Right, off you go then.’ There was a smile on her
face ‘You start.’

  With a martyred sigh he put his fork down. ‘All right, if I must, I must. Let’s see. Once upon a time there was a man…’

  ‘…who was big and strong.’ She finished the sentence for him and he sighed even more theatrically.

  ‘Why does he have to be big and strong? Maybe he was a little chap.’

  She shook her head. ‘Definitely big and strong. Remember, he’s our hero and he’s got to fight off the bad guys.’

  ‘What bad guys?’ He was smiling and she could hear it in his voice.

  ‘I haven’t got that far. But he was definitely fighting off the bad guys.’

  ‘Whoever they might be…’ He paused for thought. ‘All right then, once upon a time there was a man who was big and strong, but he had a problem. A serious one; not just hitting thirty-six and the onset of middle age spread.’

  ‘You haven’t got middle age spread yet.’

  ‘What have I got to do with it?’ Luke affected surprise. ‘This is our fictitious hero we’re talking about, not me.’ He paused as he had a thought. ‘Besides, how do you know my waist measurement?’

  ‘Um, I guessed. I know you’re tall and strong and fit, so it seemed logical.’ She realised she was at risk of digging herself into a hole here. His next question confirmed her dilemma.

  ‘Hang on a minute. How do you know that I’m big and strong and fit? I haven’t bent any iron bars or lifted any weights in your presence.’ Maybe, he thought idly to himself, Father Tim had been letting his tongue get the better of him again. Amy’s answer cleared the priest.

  ‘You go running most days, so you must be fit and, anyway, the receptionist in that lovely hotel at Chantilly last week told me about you.’ This sounded fairly safe. She decided to leave Judie out of the equation, at least for now. Even though she couldn’t see the expression on his face, she guessed. ‘Don’t look at me like a stranded whale. We girls tend to chat a bit, you know, and she asked me if you were a rugby player. I know enough about that particular sport to know that it’s not normally for the small and frail. Then,’ now it was her turn to look just a little embarrassed, ‘I got her to describe you to me.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ He took a big mouthful of wine. A ready response didn’t occur to him, so he decided to steer the conversation back to their fictitious hero. ‘Setting aside our man’s physique for the moment, let’s have a think about what he’s doing. Isn’t he maybe just a pilgrim, doing what hundreds of thousands of others did every year?’

  Amy shook her head. ‘Weren’t you listening? I said he was escaping from the bad guys.’

  ‘So we’re back to that again. Wait a minute, maybe the bad guys were really the good guys. Could it be he’s a villain, rather than a hero?’

  She explored the concept. ‘That’s a thought. Maybe he’s killed somebody and is escaping from justice. And he has to get out of the country quick, otherwise he’ll end up in jail…’ Her voice dropped to a melodramatic growl, ‘…or worse.’

  He saw the animation on her face and knew that the story was going to be a lot of fun for her, and probably for him too. But, he thought to himself, in spite of having made the suggestion, he had better sort out the main character before things went any further. ‘No, let’s leave him as a good guy. I have no idea what he might have done, but I’m sure he’s not the type to murder somebody in cold blood. No, let’s not make him a villain. Okay? If he’s running from the law, maybe the authorities have got him confused with somebody else and are really after the wrong man.’

  Amy nodded her agreement. ‘All right, he’s a goodie. So, what’s his problem? I wonder where he is at the moment.’

  ‘Walking, like the thousands of other pilgrims on the way to Compostela.’

  ‘I hope he’s got good boots.’

  Chapter 2

  French Pyrenees, April 1314

  ‘Boots and shoes! Boots and shoes! Get your boots here! Last chance to buy your boots before the mountains.’

  The shoemaker bellowed out the merits of his wares jovially from the shelter of his shop, while the pilgrims splashed through the mud of the main street. Uncharitably, the suspicion crossed Luc’s mind that the particularly deep and unwholesome mud right outside the shoemaker’s might not be a coincidence.

  ‘If the boots are half as strong as that man’s lungs, they’ll last all the way to Compostela.’ He glanced round at the pilgrims in the group and saw a few faces smile, among them Friar Laurent, their leader.

  A coarse voice cut in. ‘That’s if we get through the mountains in the first place.’ The stonemason from Beauvais was as pessimistic as ever. ‘They say the snow’s the thickest it’s ever been over the pass. The bandits are murdering, robbing and raping everybody who dares to cross. Yes.’ He stared back belligerently at the raised eyebrows of the people around him. ‘They say the bandits up there are devil-worshippers, sodomites and perverts. Nobody’s safe!’

  Luc groaned inwardly. He had heard it all before; in fact they all had. The stonemason appeared to do nothing but complain and drink red wine, which only made him complain all the more. Luc had only joined Friar Laurent’s group a few days earlier in an attempt to gain some extra cover when travelling through the busy city of Bordeaux, but Laurent and the others had had to put up with the moaning ever since leaving Vézelay almost a month before. The man was one of the most morose individuals that Luc had ever encountered and he had been wondering to himself just exactly what or who might have pushed the mason to undertake the pilgrimage. He certainly wasn’t enjoying it. That was quite clear.

  The others weren’t so bad, though. Luc glanced to his left. The Friar was a jovial man who had welcomed him into the group with open arms. The fact that this might have been in view of his size and strength didn’t matter. He was now a member of the group and, as such, far less conspicuous than a man alone. Laurent caught his eye.

  ‘Are you worried about bandits, Luc?’

  Luc gave him a wry smile in return. ‘I’m more worried by the height of those peaks. And the snow. I’ll take my chances with the murderers and perverts. They must be pretty cold if they’ve been up there all winter.’ Nevertheless, if the stonemason was right, they might have to fight their way over the Pyrenees and the others, Laurent included, were likely to be of little help. Luc squared his shoulders. This was something he would have to deal with if it happened. There was no point worrying unduly right now.

  They had formed a nucleus of about a dozen pilgrims. There was the mason, the baker, accompanied by his wife and daughter, and a handful of nuns from a convent near Cluny. Along with them was an assortment of peasants from the Champagne area, who had pretty obviously been sent on this pilgrimage as a punishment for some collective misconduct. All in all, it was a pretty average collection of people.

  ‘How far is it from here to Compostela?’ The baker was still staring at the boots.

  ‘A long way.’ Brother monks who had already made the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela had briefed Laurent as best they could. ‘We’re not in Spain yet. First we’ve got to cross the Pyrenees. Once we’re in Spain, Santiago’s still way over in the far northwest. It’s going to take at least a month, maybe two. It all depends on the weather in the mountains.’

  ‘But, once we get over the Pyrenees, it’ll be flatter and warmer, surely?’ The baker’s wife wasn’t looking forward to the climb ahead.

  ‘I’m afraid not; at least not flatter. From what I’ve heard, there are mountain passes over there that are as high as the one we’re going over in the next few days’ The Friar glanced across at Luc, but he refused to respond. His contacts in Paris had briefed him very carefully on every single stage of the route and Luc had done his best to memorise everything. But there was no reason for him to give away that fact, so he stayed silent and shook his head.

  They were aiming for the Somport pass, rather than taking the lower and more common route through the mountains above St-Jean-Pied-de-Port. Friar Laurent had chosen this route on the advice
of his abbot and it suited Luc perfectly. As he looked up at the huge bulk of the mountains ahead, he had only one place on his mind: the mountain hospice of Santa Cristina, which lay in the high mountains close by the pass. That was where he had been ordered to go. Snow or no snow, bandits or no bandits, he knew he had to get there, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

  A few hours later, it suddenly got a whole lot more difficult.

  It was a chance conversation with an old man coming down the road towards them that set off warning bells in Luc’s head. Apparently there was a roadblock ahead and soldiers were searching every cart and carriage and checking the identity of everybody who came by. At the thought of danger , Luc immediately felt that same old clarity of mind that had always come to him before combat. It was as if his brain was pushing away all extraneous thoughts so as to be able to concentrate solely on the matter in hand. In spite of the circumstances, he felt a sense of satisfaction that his long period of enforced idleness hadn’t dulled his fighting instincts. He slowed down and let the group of pilgrims overtake him until he could slip, unobserved, into the stables at the rear of what looked like an abbey or priory. He squeezed into the shelter of a big pile of firewood against the courtyard wall and took stock, his mind turning over the possibility that word of his mission might already have got out.

  As he was still considering his options, he heard horses hooves approaching up the road from the town, accompanied by the unmistakable creaking of carriage springs. He shrank back into hiding and watched the entrance to the courtyard. As the first riders appeared, he froze. They were soldiers. For a moment he wondered if they had come for him, but was relieved to see that their swords were sheathed. They were obviously not expecting trouble. They clattered to a halt just in front of him and let their mounts stretch down and drink from a water trough. Behind them came a carriage driven by more soldiers and followed by another four on horseback; far too many guards for any ordinary cargo, that much was clear. He studied the men and the vehicles closely, trying to work out what they contained, and if they posed any threat to him.