The Breath of the Rose. Andrea Japp

order, and since soldiers must be well nourished if they are to fight like lions, the practice of fasting among its members had always been restricted.

      A lay brother soon arrived and placed a goblet of hippocras in front of Leone and a thick slice of poor men’s bread11 made of wheat, rye and coarsely sifted barley in front of Archambaud d’Arville. After tracing a cross on the piece of brown bread with the tip of his knife, the commander sliced it in two and gave half to the Knight Hospitaller. They both thanked God for this blessing.

      The lay brother then served a slice of spinach-and-bacon pie on each of these trenchers, followed by ox tongue roasted in verjuice.

      The faint feeling of bewilderment the knight had been experiencing since he arrived was gradually turning into one of unease. There was something unnatural about the lack of interest Arville showed in his reasons for being there and in his journey in general. Under normal circumstances he would have attempted to glean as much information as possible, knowing that Leone was a prominent figure in the Hospitaller hierarchy.

      Their meal took place in awkward silence, punctuated by an occasional comment on the dishes they were eating, or on that year’s harvest or the unlikelihood of there being a new crusade.

      Arville agreed with Leone’s reservations regarding the matter, adding:

      ‘We cannot feed more than fifty animals and are obliged to sell our horses at the market.’

      Leone found this idle chitchat disturbing. Something else lurked behind the smug façade of civility. And yet it was unthinkable that the commander knew anything about the reason for his visit, still less about his quest. Had the other man sensed his unease? Whatever the case, his manner changed abruptly to one of forced joviality, adding to Leone’s suspicions about his host of a few hours. Archambaud d’Arville began to describe in great detail his own calamitous arrival at Perche-Gouet four years before: his departure from Italy – a country dear to his heart – the neglectful state in which he had found the commandery when he arrived. Indeed, he had been obliged to mete out cautions and minor punishments, alternating bread-and-water penances with two-day fasts – the worst offenders being made to eat their meals on the floor. In this way, the commander explained, he managed to call to order certain monks guilty of committing venial but routine sins. He guffawed as he recalled one greedy Templar sergeant who would sneak out at night and raid the honey, plunging his hands into the barrels. They had discovered him asleep one morning after gorging himself, his body covered in ants. It had taken four days for the swellings from the bites to go down. Another, whose fondness was for the demon drink, would be so inebriated before the first service of the day he had to prop himself up against a pillar in the Temple of Our Lady, and hiccupped after each word as he intoned, ‘Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae; vita, dulcedo et spes nostra.’12 Then there were those who had a tendency to ignore their duties, preferring instead to play court tennis in the spacious loft above the stables that had been converted into an area devoted to leisure. Leone smiled politely as he tried to glimpse the reason behind the preceptor’s garrulousness. Something was not right; despite the cool weather the other man was perspiring and had already poured himself a third cup of hippocras.

      It was getting late. Leone stopped speculating and politely interrupted Archambaud d’Arville’s futile but relentless anecdotes:

      ‘Despite the pleasure it gives me to remain in your company, brother, I must soon take my leave. I have a long journey ahead of me and would like to pray before setting off again.’

      ‘By all means, by all means …’

      And yet, Archambaud’s displeasure was palpable. Was Leone nearing his goal or merely being misled by false impressions?

      He thought he saw a sudden look of real grief darken the commander’s forced cheer as he proposed:

      ‘I cannot allow you to leave without tasting our cider. It is legendary throughout the region.’

      Leone accepted with good grace.

      Shortly afterwards, they left the tiny building for the temple. They entered through the pointed archway, reinforced by four salient buttresses. The church had been inspired by the austerity of Cistercian buildings and consisted of a nave made up of four spans, ending in a semicircular apse. Light flooded in through the high round-arched windows. There was only an altar, no benches even. And yet as Leone walked between its pillars he knew that he had arrived. He felt a strange and wonderful lightheadedness, and let out a sigh of relief. The commander apparently misconstrued the gesture and held on to his arm to steady him.

      ‘You are weak from exhaustion, brother.’

      ‘Indeed,’ he lied. ‘Might your generosity extend to granting me one last favour? I would like to spend a few moments alone before thanking you one last time and continuing my journey.’

      The Templar walked out into the afternoon sunlight shrugging his shoulders and said:

      ‘I shall go and see to it that your mount is ready. Meet me in front of the stables.’

      A sea. A warm, tranquil sea. A cradle of light, welcoming, calming. He had waited so long to run his hand over those vast black and brown stones that he was almost afraid to touch them now. He would not begin searching or lose himself in pointless speculation. Not today. The time had not yet arrived. He was tempted by a sudden feeling of sluggishness to lie down on the broad, dark flagstones and sleep. Today he would allow himself to be bathed, lulled. Today he would reflect upon how privileged he was to be there in the presence of the key. Like Eustache de Rioux before him, Leone was unsure of its exact nature. Could it, as he had sometimes imagined, be a doorway to a labyrinth traced in the stones, visible only from a precise angle? Or was it a manuscript pillaged from some library and brought there by a monk or soldier? Was it the papyrus in Aramaic purchased from a Bedouin in the souks of Jerusalem, as described by the Knight Templar in the tunnels below Acre? Was it a cross or a statue covered with secret symbols? Was it a simple object?

      Not today. Archambaud d’Arville would come back to look for him if he tarried. And yet Leone had found what he had been searching for: the certainty that his quest would begin again in that place.

      Tomorrow he would think of a way to return and remain there.

      As he walked out to join the commander, the light from the sun made him wince. He had an unpleasant hollow feeling in his chest and imagined that the unbearable separation from his quest was once again weakening him.

      Archambaud d’Arville was waiting for him in front of the stables. A young lay brother held his mare’s reins. Leone sensed from the commander’s sudden restlessness that the man was in a hurry to see him leave. He thanked him once again and climbed into the saddle.

       Vicinity of the Templar commandery at Arville, Mondoubleau Forest, October 1304

      FRANCESCO de Leone was not unduly disturbed by his encounter with the commander, the prospect of which he had found daunting from the outset. Admittedly, the man’s strange behaviour had puzzled him, and he had not been taken in for a moment by his garrulous sociability. But then Leone had not expected any generous cooperation from the Templar order and, besides, Archambaud d’Arville could not possibly be aware of the presence of any key – under whatever guise – or he would never have allowed Leone to remain in the Temple of Our Lady alone.

      Leone needed to think up a way of gaining free and unlimited access to the commandery in order to achieve his aim of unearthing the secret.

      He patted the neck of the hired nag that was carrying him. The animal, unused to such gestures of affection, whinnied and jerked its head nervously.

      ‘Steady, old girl. We are not in any hurry now.’

      Could the pretence he’d been obliged to keep up have wearied him to such an extent? He was finding it increasingly difficult to remain upright in the saddle. The horse responded to the slight pressure of his leg and lengthened its stride.

      Francesco de