Authors: Tom Harper
‘God is Love, and according to the Scriptures, whoever abides in Love, abides in God, and God in him.’
He stared into my eyes. I could see the conflict inside him.
‘Will you abide in Christ? Will you show love to the loveless, charity to the destitute, pity to the pitiless?’
I nodded. He made me repeat the words and I did, stumbling over them in my eagerness. I needed his forgiveness like a seed craves sun.
‘Christ forgive you all your sins, and make you perfect in every way.’
He took the wooden bowl he used and scooped it in the spring. I remembered a story my mother used to tell, about a magic spring that summoned a knight to do battle if you drank from it. The hermit poured the water over my head. It ran down my face and washed away my tears until I could no longer taste the salt.
Almost to himself, I heard him whisper, ‘Blessed are the merciful, for they shall have mercy.’
So Chrétien was born.
I wanted to stay with him, but he wouldn’t let me. Day by day I saw his impatience growing, though he did his best to hide it. I had blundered into his solitude: he had shared it with me for a little while, but now he wanted it back.
When I was strong enough to walk, he took me down to the monastery.
It’s easier being a monk than I thought it would be – not so different from being a knight. The monks are soldiers of Christ garrisoning the wildest frontiers of Christendom: the abbey is their fortress. They’ve diverted the river to make a moat; they’ve built high walls and watchtowers; they’ve cleared a swathe of forest so no one approaches without being seen. An internal wall divides the compound into an inner and an outer ward. I work in the scriptorium in the inner ward, off a cloister
bounded on one side by the church and on another by the refectory and the dormitories. I rarely have to leave the cloister, let alone the inner ward.
As I novice, I share a cell with boys half my age, whispering in the dark. It’s like being back at Hautfort. We joust with words and try to outdo each other in feats of piety, but otherwise there’s little difference. I’m a child again.
But children grow. For a time, I bask in my redemption; I’m like a parchment that’s been scraped clean, unwritten. But the shadows of the old words still remain stained in the skin. If you look between the glossy lines of new text, you can see the ghosts. Sometimes I wake up screaming in the dormitory, drawn back to the castle on the island or the chapel by the forest. The girl in the castle and Ada haunt my dreams – sometimes one, sometimes the other, always pierced through the breast, too late for me to save. The other novices think I harbour a demon.
Months go by. Each day, I sit at my copy-desk transcribing someone else’s words. Errors start creeping into my work; the Librarian scolds me; I stare out the window and nurse old memories back to life.
Peter of Camros. I wondered when you’d remember yourself.
Peter’s dead – I’m Chrétien now. But even the monastery’s stout walls and safe rituals can’t keep out my past. All my life I’ve been pushed down this road I didn’t choose. I’ve failed in every bond of love or duty I ever undertook: my family; my lord Guy; Ada. To lock myself in the monastery now won’t redeem me: it’ll bury me.
I need answers. I need to find Malegant.
One day the Abbot comes to me. He wants me to travel to our mother house, the priory near Châteaubriant. The Librarian
there has given him permission to copy certain works they hold. He almost salivates as he describes their library, listing the manuscripts he covets in loving detail. I’m given a list, a mule to carry the books back and a small purse to pay for vellum and ink. I don’t have to worry about travelling alone. The Cellarer and two of his assistants will be taking a cart of wool to the cloth fair.
We travel east. The other monks pretend to ignore me, though every so often I catch them giving me nervous glances. They talk freely when they think I’m not there, and fall silent when they see me. I keep my eyes on the road and don’t take it personally. When you’ve killed as many men as I have, the good opinion of your fellow-travellers doesn’t matter so much.
All the way to Rennes, I pretend to myself that there’s nothing special about this trip. I’ll copy the manuscripts, load them on my mule and trudge back. I know it’s a lie, but it helps contain my fears. South of Rennes, as the road takes us up the River Chère valley, I start to admit the idea. Day by day, step by step, it overtakes me until I can’t conceive any alternative. By the time we reach Châteaubriant, I know what I have to do.
The abbey is only two days away from the town. The Cellarer and his assistants will stay there to sell our wool, while I travel on alone. I make a brief and insincere goodbye. As soon as they’re out of sight, I double back into the market. The cloth fair has brought plenty of tailors to town, all vying to offer the best price. The coins the Abbot gave me for ink and vellum easily stretch to a new tunic, hose and coat. For an extra few pennies I buy a cap that comes low down the sides of my face, and a pair of stout boots.
I’ve got a long way to go.
Luxembourg
The door said ‘
ALARMED
’, but Doerner had told the truth: it was disabled. Ellie slipped out across a no man’s land of cigarette butts and rubbish bins, down an alley and into freedom. No one saw her. She found Doug parked down a sidestreet where she’d left him.
He looked at her dishevelled hair, the dust-streaks and the blood where the paper had cut her. ‘What happened to you? I was about to call the police I was so worried.’
Ellie slumped down in the passenger seat so that only the top of her head showed. ‘Just drive. I’ll tell you later.’
‘Did you get what you wanted?’
‘Let’s find a phone box. Somewhere out of the way.’
Directory enquiries gave her the number she wanted and put her straight through. ‘Mr Lechowski, please. It’s Ellie Stanton.’
She supposed he could have been anywhere, but luck – if you could call it that – was on her side. Lechowski came on the line.
‘Ellie – this is an unexpected surprise. I thought perhaps you forgot me.’
She shuddered; she almost slammed the phone back in its cradle. Lechowski was her past, far too close to Monsalvat. Just talking to him felt like stepping into the jaws of a trap.
What if Blanchard’s got to him?
‘The acquisition’s gone through. I’m ready to honour our agreement.’
She tried to sound businesslike, like it was no big deal. Down the line, she could almost hear Lechowski licking his lips. Perhaps it was just the sound of his chewing gum.
‘You are staying at the Sofitel? Will I meet you there?’
‘I was thinking we could go somewhere more
…
intimate.’
He laughed. ‘You are worried about reputational risk. Lechowski is not offended.’ He named a restaurant in the old town. ‘I look forward to our evening.’
Ellie put the phone down and wanted to vomit. Even in the Underground tunnel she hadn’t felt this dirty.
You did it with Blanchard, she reminded herself
. Somehow, in a way she didn’t want to consider, that had been different.
She turned around and saw Doug watching her warily.
‘What was the deal?’
She was too tired to lie. ‘He had leverage over the Talhouett takeover deal that could have derailed the whole thing. I told him if he let it go ahead, I’d sleep with him.’
The bleakness on Doug’s face was almost too much to bear.
Right reaction, wrong reason
. She reminded herself of Lucy, and found herself getting impatient. ‘Don’t be such a boy scout. I’d never have gone through with it.’
‘But now you are. To get the Mirabeau file.’
‘To get to the brotherhood. Without them, we’re really screwed.’
*
The restaurant was bright and busy, filled with corporate types. Ellie scanned the room from the door, looking for danger. Lechowski might have been on the other side of the Talhouett deal, but that didn’t mean a thing. If Blanchard had offered him a price, he’d give Ellie up in a moment.
Lechowski was the only face she recognised, and he wasn’t hard to spot. He wore a black-and-white check sports jacket, so loud it made Ellie’s head swim, though it had probably cost several hundred pounds. He ordered for her without asking what she wanted.
‘All seductions succeed through audacity,’ he remarked, with the authority of something he must have read in a book. ‘As soon as the seducer hesitates, he breaks the charm. “There is not one woman who does not prefer a little rough handling to too much consideration.” You know who said that? A woman.’
Ellie had never been out with a man who gave her a running commentary on his tactics. She squeezed her legs together and tried not to think of what was coming.
The waiter brought champagne, which Lechowski tasted with a great show of fussiness. He tipped his glass to her.
‘So why are you in Luxembourg?’
‘Talhouett.’
Lechowski took a gulp. Champagne dribbled down his chin. ‘Now you have won your prize, you have come to poke around her.’
The innuendo was entirely intentional. Ellie took a sip of champagne and wondered how she’d manage to stay sober that evening.
‘I’ll tell you a secret.’ She leaned forward, giving him an eyeful of her cleavage. ‘Blanchard bribed the president of the
privatisation commission to tell us how much you’d bid. You were always going to lose.’
Lechowski spluttered; champagne sprayed on to Ellie’s cheek. ‘If I was recording this conversation, you could go to prison for saying that.’
The mock outrage on his face dissolved into a smirk. ‘But since we are being honest, I will tell you a secret in return. We never bid for Talhouett. An hour before the final offers were due, we informed the president of the commission that we had withdrawn our interest.’
Was it the champagne? All Ellie could do was stare at him in confusion.
‘If we had made this public, our withdrawal, it would have been a scandal. Very embarrassing to the commission, that they reduced the field to two bidders and then one dropped out. To preserve appearances, we agreed we would submit a bid five million euros less than whatever Monsalvat offered.’ He ripped a bread roll in two and dabbed butter on it. ‘Whatever he told Blanchard, it was a fiction.’
She still didn’t understand. ‘Why? To avoid the Romanian lawsuit?’
‘Mr Lazarescu, the obliging judge? So keen to tell me about his case.’ Lechowski stretched back in his chair. His shirt-tails pulled loose from his waistband, showing a tuft of hair sprouting above the belt buckle. ‘You think Lechowski is such a fool he cannot smell the rat?’
‘If you knew the Romanian problem was overplayed, why not bid?’
‘I found something everyone else missed – so secret, even the management did not know about it. A liability that could destroy the company.’
‘What?’
Lechowski opened his mouth – then snapped it shut with a cruel grin. ‘You own the company – you find out. If you can find the file.’
‘Is it Mirabeau?’
Lechowski went very still.
‘It seems we both underestimated each other.’
‘Taking the file was a bit of a giveaway.’
‘You still bought the company.’
‘That makes the file my property.’
A waiter brought the food. Ellie put on a pretty, blank smile while her mind raced. When the waiter was gone, she straightened herself.
‘If you never meant to buy Talhouett, then our deal is void.’
Lechowski dug into his food. ‘
Caveat emptor
.’
‘Material non-disclosure.’ She reached across under the table and trailed her hand across Lechowski’s thigh – then suddenly pulled it away. ‘I’m entitled to withhold payment.’
‘You wouldn’t do that,’ he protested. But she could see he believed her.
As soon as the seducer hesitates, he breaks the charm
.
She toyed with the food on her plate. She swirled the champagne in her glass. She forced herself to go on. ‘Perhaps we can amend our deal. You withheld Mirabeau from me, fair enough, but the deal’s done. It’s not worth anything to you any more.’
Lechowski stared at her as if she were naked. ‘I wouldn’t say it’s not worth anything.’
Holding his gaze, she reached inside her blouse and straightened her bra strap. Her fingers brushed the top of her breast.
‘I can make it worth your while.’
‘You promised me that last time.’
‘And now I’m here. I’m good for my promises.’
Lechowski didn’t blink. ‘I have the file in my office. We can go there tomorrow morning.’
‘I’m flying out first thing,’ she improvised. ‘Can’t we get it on the way home?’
‘I think I prefer to see some evidence of your good faith.’
Ellie swallowed a gulp of champagne, then leaned across the table and kissed him. His tongue flicked out at her like a lizard’s; she forced herself not to recoil. He tasted of chewing gum and too much aftershave. She took another deep swig of champagne to try and drown the taste.
‘Is a down payment good enough?’
‘We can get the file on the way back to my hotel.’
She stiffened. ‘Are you in the Sofitel?’
‘The Hilton.’
Lechowski had a sports car which he drove like a maniac, presumably because his book said it would impress her. She waited in the car, double-parked outside his office, while he went in for the file. Her breath fogged the windscreen; the seat leather was like ice against her thighs.
She knew at once it was the genuine file: she’d seen enough of them that day. She could see the F2727 stamped on the spine. She began to flip through the documents, but Lechowski slapped it shut.
‘Everything is there. Lechowski is as good as his word.’ A leer. ‘I trust you are as good as yours.’
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ she mumbled.
As long as they’d been in the restaurant, she’d been able to ignore what was coming. In the car, the illusion began to waver; when they reached the hotel, she couldn’t deny it any longer. If any doubt remained, it vanished when Lechowski
draped his arm around her as he sauntered through the lobby. His hand swept proprietorially over her chest; his fingers wandered down her top.