Michael Spradlin - Trail of Fate

After we had finished the deliciously cooked bird, Philippe saddled his horse and rode off into the darkness. We sat around the fire with very little conversation among us. My suspicions were that everyone in Celia’s group spoke and understood English, though for some unexplained reason they were loath to let on. My curiosity could wait no longer, and I asked to speak to Celia in private. The flickering firelight lit up the clearing quite well, but her face was still bathed in shadows. The night was clear, but the moon had yet to rise, and through the canopy of trees, I could see the stars lighting their way across the sky.

“Thank you for your hospitality and for your kindness to my friends, despite what happened earlier,” I said.

She nodded, her face a mask, though I sensed a change in her. The tension from the evening’s earlier excitement had left her.

“That said, I have a question,” I said.

She waited silently.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You travel with a group of young men, all well mounted and armed. You are obviously educated, and if I had to guess, I would say you are a noblewoman of some sort. Your men are well trained and experienced in warfare. When Robard shot at us, not a single one of your men panicked, and Philippe, not even knowing what the danger might be, went charging directly at a King’s Archer in your defense. Each of them follows your orders to the letter, except for Philippe, of course. Is he some sort of personal bodyguard or military commander? Martine, I would guess, is your lady-in-waiting. So, I ask again, who are you and what are you doing here in the middle of nowhere?”

A veil of caution descended over her face. Then she exhaled slowly.

“You are quite observant, Templar, even when you are half drowned. Tell me, are your ‘injuries’ a deceit?”

“No,” I insisted.

From the fire, the murmur of voices reached us. The three Frenchmen and Martine chatted away happily while Robard and Maryam sat trying to decipher what was being said. Robard had removed his arrow from the tree trunk and worked at repairing it, but his eyes never left the rest of the group.

“Are you in some kind of trouble? Are you being followed?”

“What makes you think so?” she asked.

“You ride single file, to mix your tracks and confuse any pursuers as to your numbers. Your own mount is placed in the middle of the group, with soldiers in front and behind. Philippe takes the lead, and he watches the horizon constantly. And several times today he looked behind us to make sure no one followed. Your choice of this campsite was carefully selected, though you tried to make it appear casual by a mad dash into the woods from the shore. We are placed one side against a stream, so any attackers would need to cross it first if they came from the west. We are also in a small hollow, so the fire will not be easily visible to casual passersby. And if I’m not mistaken, Philippe just made a big show of being sullen over his fight with Robard, but I’m sure it was just an excuse to leave and scout the surrounding countryside. Shall I go on?”

Celia wouldn’t look at me. “How has a squire so young learned so much?” she asked.

“For the last year and half I have done nothing but study tactics and train for war. My knight, Sir Thomas, is. . was. . a brilliant military mind. He taught me everything. I have seen much.”

She said nothing, but I could tell she was trying to decide whether or not to let me in on her secret, whatever it might be.

“Celia, please, maybe I can help you.”

She laughed. “This is trouble you don’t want, squire.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“You are a kind one, aren’t you?”

Something about Celia made me want to tell her things about myself. Things I had never told anyone. It might have been her hair and how it framed her face, or the ice-blue pools of her eyes. Maybe it was the way the firelight danced across her smiling face, making her look mysterious and inviting all at the same time.

These were things I had never noticed in anyone before. Except for the pleasant smell of Maryam’s hair and the beautiful sound of her laugh. Was something wrong with me? For some reason, the abbot’s face appeared in my head and I felt a sudden urge to pray. Celia was so close to me then. And she smelled like the abbey garden in springtime.

“I hope so. I’d like to think I am, being raised by Cistercian monks. They were men of kindness. I hope I learned something from them,” I told her.

She turned back to me, close enough that I could see her lovely face more clearly. “Raised by monks? What happened to your parents?”

“Never knew them. I was left at the abbey as a babe.”

“How sad! It must be terrible not knowing who your family is.”

I shrugged. “You can’t really miss what you’ve never had. It could have been worse. There was a roof over my head and food to eat. Many orphans have probably not met so kind a fate. Please stop trying to change the subject.”

“Do you always put others before yourself, Templar? Is this a trait you learned at your abbey?”

“I don’t know.”

Her gaze traveled back to the fire, to study her people. “We are Cathars.”

She looked at me expectantly to see what effect her words had on me. But I had no idea what a Cathar was. She went on.

“We live not far from here, in the mountain towns of the Pyrenees. My father is the bishop of our canton. I think you English might call it a county. Cathars are no friends to the church. We believe in tolerance of other religions and that all the trappings of the church are. . irrelevant and only get in the way of a true connection with God. Still, despite our objections to how the church is run, we have lived in peace for many years, but now, things are different. We allow anyone to worship as they please, but your Pope has a much dimmer view of Catharism,” she said.

Having lived in a monastery most of my life, I knew the Bible somewhat, but I was no religious scholar. For a time, I had a natural curiosity about the monks and their unwavering allegiance to God. But I had never felt the pull of their devotion. I prayed. I believed. But I did not know what to say to Celia, not understanding very much of what she said.

“So because the Pope is angry with your people, you are hiding here in the woods?”

Celia laughed.

“No, Templar. We are not hiding. My father sent me to counsel with emissaries of the Archbishop of Languedoc while he travels to Paris to seek an audience with King Philip. Our message grows. We have more followers now. This upsets your Pope. The archbishop demanded our presence before him immediately. My father cares little for what the archbishop demands, but also knows he can be a powerful enemy. Since Father could not be in two places at once, he sent me to Narbonne in his stead. He wanted me to attempt to appease the archbishop if I could, but I am afraid I only managed to anger him.”

“Anger him? How?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. It may have been when I called him a fat, pretentious, overbearing cow,” she said, shrugging.

“That would do it,” I said. This was all very strange to me. At St. Alban’s the brothers managed to stay far removed from church politics. I remember a bishop visiting once when I was younger. And I remember the abbot being ill tempered for weeks after, but I couldn’t recall there ever being any other problems. Of course, I’m certain the abbot would never call the bishop a cow either. This may have had more to do with Celia’s predicament than a difference in theology.

“We were on our way home when we found you,” she went on. “The conference did not go well, especially after my outburst. The archbishop made many threats. Philippe believes he will move against us before my father can even gain an audience with the King. He may have sent soldiers after us, so Philippe is just being cautious.”