Enoch's Device (19 page)

“Lucien betrayed us,” Dónall said grimly.

“But
why
?” she asked.

He looked down and shook his head. “Because I’ve been a fool for far too long.”

PART III

And now, the giants, who are produced from the spirit and flesh, shall be called evil spirits upon the earth, and on the earth shall be their dwelling.

—Enoch 15:8

O
n the second morning of their journey, the first snowfall of winter came—a scattering of white flakes on a breeze thick with the scent of pine.

Ciarán drew his cowl over his head. He rode beside Dónall on a horse abandoned by one of the dead Angevins, whom Lord Raymond had left for the crows in a clearing not far from Saint-Bastian’s. The first drifting flakes soon turned into a steady snowfall that blanketed the surrounding pines and obscured the road from view. Fortunately, Lord Raymond and his men knew these lands well, and despite the snow, they never strayed into the tangled forests or down some other path that might lead them to danger.

Riding with a column of cavalrymen was far different from the rest of their journey since Paris. Ciarán and Dónall rode in the middle of the column, with cloaked riders bearing painted shields before and behind them, following a cavalier who carried the standard of Poitiers: a crimson lion over gray, with claws of gold. When the column passed through villages, the local lords either welcomed Raymond with gifts or gave his men a wide berth, and if there were bandits afoot, they were not inclined to waylay twenty-four armed and mounted soldiers.

Ciarán had barely seen Alais. She rode near the column’s head alongside Lord Raymond, whom she clearly knew well from some earlier time. Perhaps they had been more than friends, for the few times Ciarán had glimpsed Alais, she clung to Raymond’s side. When he first saw this, Ciarán turned away, realizing right then how little he liked the Aquitainian lord. Maybe it was the way Raymond ignored the Irishmen, as if they were beneath his station, or how he rode so proudly through his ranks, who, with their short hair and clean-shaven faces, seemed to fancy themselves the last of the Roman legions. Or maybe it was because of Alais. That could be what troubled Ciarán the most—besides Dónall.

Ciarán’s mentor had sunk into melancholy since the battle with Bishop Adémar and Fulk the Black. He had barely spoken of the events at Saint-Bastian’s. Ciarán had never seen Dónall so grim, and he could only imagine the troubled thoughts churning in his mind as he grappled with the deaths of Nicolas and Remi, and the betrayal by Prior Lucien of Saint-Bastian’s, who would have killed them all. Today Dónall rode weary-eyed, in silence, as flecks of snow collected on his beard.

When the column slowed to cross a bridge over one of the land’s many rivers, Dónall turned to Ciarán and finally spoke. “I never saw it,” he said softly.

The comment out of the blue surprised Ciarán. “You mean Lucien.”

“I was so confident that our brothers’ deaths were the result of Gerbert’s ruthless ambition and Adalbero’s blindness. Yet could Lucien have been manipulating them all along? And now he’s in league with Adémar of Blois. But does this bishop truly hunt heretics, or does he side with Lucien’s dark master in this so-called war?”

“Both bishop and prior pursue the prophecy,” Ciarán said. “That’s why Adémar wants the Book of Maugis. And both of them have killed for it.”

Dónall shook his head. “I had become too complacent in my belief that it was all just a figment of Remi’s madness and your father’s obsession. When I saw others drawn to that obsession like moths to a flame—innocents like your mother, who paid the highest price for believing in it—I came to view the prophecy as destructive, a mad riddle penned by Maugis after the Fae arts had addled his mind.”

“Lucien believes in the prophecy. I think he fears it.”

Dónall looked at Ciarán grimly. “I’ve had the same thought. And if Remi was right about the timing . . .”

“Then we have barely two months,” Ciarán said. “But to do what—find Enoch’s device? Where do we even start to look?”

Dónall tilted his chin toward the falling snow. “I wish I knew,” he said. “By God, I wish I knew.”

*

They arrived at Poitiers on the fifth day of their journey. The city was breathtaking, grander even than Paris—and, for that matter, than any other city Ciarán had ever seen. Perched on a promontory, the city overlooked the snow-lined banks of the river Clain. Halfway up the promontory loomed gigantic walls with half-round turrets and battlements, their warlike aspect softened by mantles of snow. Above the walls, the spires of at least a dozen churches and abbeys rose amid a sea of slanted rooftops, with smoke from hundreds of chimneys drifting into the December sky. At the city’s pinnacle stood a fortress, an imposing structure with crimson banners fluttering from the highest towers—the banners of William, duke of Aquitaine.

“You look impressed,” Dónall said, pulling his horse abreast of Ciarán’s.

“Just look at the walls!” said the awestruck Ciarán.

“They’re Roman, and never since Rome fell have men built such things. I still remember the first time I saw them.”

“You’ve been here?”

“Twice actually, with your father. As students, we took a pilgrimage to Aquitaine, to the tombs of Turpin, Roland, and Oliver, and returned again years later when searching for Rosefleur.”

“Rosefleur?”

“According to Maugis’ book, it’s the tower of Orionde, the Fae who taught him the secrets he recorded. Maugis wrote that the gateway to Rosefleur lies in the heart of Aquitaine.”

“Did you ever find it?”

“God, no! At some point, I fear, the Fae retreated from these lands and closed the gateways to their Otherworld.”

The column of horsemen crossed a wooden bridge over the River Clain. The bridge was built of logs and planks so sturdy that they barely creaked under the weight of so many destriers and armored men. At the head of the column, Lord Raymond, followed by Alais, started up the winding road toward one of the city’s massive gates. Great stone blocks, framed by wild bushes white with snow, jutted from the hillside along the road. As they neared the wall, the stone blocks became more massive, the many crenellations more awe inspiring. Every twenty paces or so stood a half-round tower, and from its battlements, thirty feet above the wall’s foundation, soldiers witnessed the cavalry’s return. The city’s massive gates stood open, and soon the head of the column disappeared under the arched gateway. The air inside the gateway was dank, and the tunnellike entrance spanned nearly twenty feet, which made Poitiers’ defenses more forbidding than any except the walls of Troy—the only suitable comparison Ciarán could imagine.

Emerging from the tunnel, Ciarán caught his first glimpse of the townsfolk, who clapped and cheered the warriors’ return. The men, women, and even children reminded him of the Parisians, though they bundled themselves in cloaks, many of which were brightly colored, and gathered along the narrow streets in rows six deep. Others watched from the balconies above their shops. Towering over the buildings was one of the bell towers Ciarán had seen from outside the walls. It belonged to a church of yellow-hued stone, which, judging from the black robed nuns who stood watching the procession, must be part of a convent. The sight of the nuns, many of them elderly and with stern faces hardened by years of rigorous discipline, made Ciarán think of his mother. Briefly he wondered how her convent would have reacted had she returned from France heavy with child.

Past the convent, the column of horsemen turned up another narrow street and then quickly down another, seemingly in the opposite direction, though still ascending the steep hillside. After a few more turns, Ciarán sensed that a madman must have designed the streets of Poitiers, for they seemed to form an anarchistic maze pinched between cramped buildings and towering church spires. An icy sludge had built up along the sides of the roads, and the crisp air was tinged with the whiff of refuse, reminding Ciarán once again why he preferred the humble, earthy environs of Derry to these crowded cities of the Continent. He had long ago lost sight of the head of the procession, and could see only a half-dozen riders ahead of him before the column snaked up some other crooked causeway. After climbing what must have been hundreds of feet of urban hillside, he finally spied the fortress.

The horsemen slowed to a near stop. Ahead, the fortress towers loomed over the pitched roofs of the surrounding buildings. The fortress, which Dónall referred to as the palace, was built of the same pale gray stone, though many of the blocks had the now familiar yellowish hue. Arched windows and arrowslits climbed up the tower walls, while small statues of Aquitainian warriors perched like gargoyles on brackets jutting near the battlements, where gray banners bearing crimson lions fluttered in the wintry breeze. Riders at the forefront began dismounting, and stable boys in drab brown tunics scurried to take their mounts while the men disappeared through a tall open gateway. Lord Raymond and Alais must have already gone in, for Ciarán caught not a glimpse of them.

“What happens to us now?” he asked Dónall.

“I suppose we’ll discover how hospitable this duke is.”

Once all the cavalrymen had dismounted, two stable boys met Ciarán and Dónall and waited impatiently until both had dismounted. As soon as they were on the ground, and without so much as a word, the stable boys grabbed the reins and led their horses away, leaving them alone on the snow-covered pavement outside the palace gates.

“So much for hospitality,” Ciarán muttered. “Where do you suppose we go?”

Dónall surveyed the area. A block away, a church steeple peered over the pitched roofs.

“With luck, it will be an abbey,” he said. “If not, maybe the priests will welcome us in.”

They had started toward the church when a voice at their backs hailed them in Latin.

“Brother monks!” cried a man who had emerged from the palace gates. He wore the baggiest trousers Ciarán had ever seen, with one leg red and the other green. A crimson tunic, bulky cloak clasped with a broach, and foppish hat completed the man’s ensemble. “Don’t leave!” He hurried up to the two monks and took a moment to catch his breath. “His grace, Duke William of Aquitaine, invites you to sup with him this afternoon, to reward you for aiding his cousin, the lady of Selles-sur-Cher.”

Dónall winked at Ciarán and then smiled at the man, who introduced himself as Duke William’s steward. “We would be honored,” he replied.

“Excellent!” The steward eyed both monks up and down and crinkled his nose. “Of course,
that
won’t do.”

“What?” Ciarán asked.

“Your clothes, or whatever you call that undyed sackcloth. You’ll have to change. You both reek of horsehair and—if you don’t mind my saying—look as if you haven’t washed in ages. I’ll try to round up some suitable habits from the Benedictines.”

Ciarán’s jaw clenched. “We’ll never wear—”

“That would do nicely, thank you,” Dónall interjected, placing a calming hand on Ciarán’s forearm.

“Good, then,” the steward said. “Follow me.”

“Relax, lad,” Dónall said in answer to Ciarán’s annoyed glance. The sparkle had returned to his eyes. “There’s an old saying for times like these: ‘When in Rome . . .’”

*

The steward led them across the palace courtyard, through a rabbit warren of passageways beneath the main structure, eventually stopping at a small chamber that contained a privy and washbasin. Judging by the room’s simplicity, it probably belonged to the palace servants. When the steward left, Ciarán and Dónall washed themselves. Ciarán found the cold water refreshing on his wind-bitten face. The steward soon returned to drop off a pair of clean habits and cowls, all dyed Benedictine black. After he left, Ciarán held up the smaller of the habits. “I can’t believe we’ve sunk so low.”

“Actually,” Dónall said, “these will do quite well. If Adémar or Lucien should have men trying to find us, we’d stand out like a cow’s bum in our Irish clothes. I doubt there’s another gray-robed monk in the whole city. But between the Benedictines and the Cluniacs, there’s hundreds in black.”

“Cluniacs?”

“From the Abbey of Cluny. It was founded by one of the first dukes of Aquitaine. They’re like the Benedictines, but far more serious in their devotion and even narrower-minded, if you can picture that.”

“Can’t wait to meet them,” Ciarán said. He pulled the Benedictine habit over his head, followed by the cowl, and tied the cord around his waist.

“Smile, lad,” Dónall said. “Black suits you.”

Ciarán scowled, though he welcomed the old familiar sparkle in place of the melancholy that had lingered in Dónall’s eyes since they left Saint-Bastian’s. When the steward came to fetch them after what seemed like an hour, they had transformed into black-robed Benedictines.

“Much, much better,” the steward said. “Those woolen sacks you rode in with were simply dreadful.” Ciarán wanted to hit the man, but a stern glance from Dónall made him think better of it.

As the steward led them up a stairwell to the palace’s main floor, a bell rang announcing supper. They entered a small foyer that opened into a hall of breathtaking size. The palace hall must be fifty feet wide and nearly three times as long, with a lofty ceiling supported by thick wooden trusses.

“Our whole oratory would fit in here,” Ciarán whispered. Dónall simply nodded, enthralled by the chamber’s grandeur. Arcades and pillars ran along the walls, broken only by narrow windows covered in vellum thin enough to let sunlight spill through. Three massive hearths, each with a crackling fire, dominated the center of the far wall, and a carpet of fresh green rushes scented with basil and cowslip covered the floor. In the center of the hall, a long trestle table was covered with a white cloth and set with silver flagons, pewter cups, and fine wood mazers. Along the table were chairs instead of benches, and an ornately carved high-backed chair stood at the table’s head. Many of the guests were already seated.

“I suspect you’re not used to this,” the steward whispered, “but today you dine with lords and ladies, so act like you’ve been here before.” Ciarán glowered, but Dónall calmed him with a friendly nudge.

The steward nodded toward a matronly woman seated to the left of the high-backed chair. A broad, pleated wimple covered her head, and a jeweled cross hung from her neck, over a damask dress. “The lady at the head of the table is Emma of Blois, duchess of Aquitaine and mother to our fair duke. Next to her”—the steward indicated a man with a thick mustache and a head of curly black hair—“is Lord Ramiro, ambassador of His Majesty, King Alfonso of León.”