the sun was like a blast from an armourer’s forge after the cool stone shelter within, and Simon had felt his energy being sapped as the first rays struck his heavy woollen tunic and cloak. He was sweltering in moments. Now he was less aware of the sun’s warmth as he stood gazing out over the great square.
People were everywhere, dressed for the most part in their ordinary, day-to-day clothing: peasants in rough unmended hose and tunics that were all but rags; wealthier freemen with their pathetic bundles but more colourful jackets and shirts; merchants clad in expensive velvets or fine linens; knights with their slightly poorer quality clothing, but the swagger of the man-at-arms; clerics with their robes and slightly bowed heads. The scene was filled with reds and greens, ochres and yellows. Faces were blackened by the sun, shaded by their great broad-brimmed hats, many already wearing that symbol of Saint James, the cockleshell. Some wore real examples, the pale pink colour showing up clearly, while others had dull pewter versions which they would have purchased from the vendors along the ViaFrancigena or from a thousand other places all along the route here from Tours, Vézelay, Le Puy or Arles.
‘My God,’ Simon murmured.
‘Has the heat affected you?’ Baldwin asked quickly.
‘That must be the seventh time you’ve asked me that so far today,’ Simon noted.
‘It is important, Simon. You are not on Dartmoor now.’
‘Dartmoor can be hot enough in summer.’
‘Perhaps so, but here the temperature is that much warmer, and people do collapse from the heat. It affects everyone differently.’
‘I can cope with heat,’ Simon said confidently.
‘Perhaps in England, but here you should be careful. It is something that my Order taught: always take refreshment when you can, for you need more in the sun. During my first years in these warmer climes, I had to be taken from my weapon training several times because of the heat. It is a terrible malaise, Simon. You become weak and sickly, dizzy and disorientated. I was thoroughly laid low and had to be given a cool bath and plenty of water.’
Simon pulled his hat over his brow without comment. It was, to his mind, a foolish piece of headgear. The felt of the brim was swept up and folded over to form a long peak at the front, like a duck’s beak. It was designed, so he had been told, to keep the sun from his eyes, because it could weaken his vision. He was sure that this was another old wives’ tale, to be treated no more seriously than the other tales he had once heard, of fevers being passed on by foul waters, when all knew that they came from vapours in the air; or the idea that taking blood wasn’t good for a man, when all knew that letting some blood was the only way to balance a man’s humours.
‘What I need right now is some liquid inside me – and I
don’t
mean water,’ he said with determination.
‘I doubt you’ll find any ale here,’ Baldwin said.
‘They must have something to slake the thirst.’
‘Yes …’ Baldwin agreed doubtfully, eyeing the nearest wine-seller. Then he saw a cart with a larger barrel. ‘Ah – cider!’
Simon followed the direction of his gaze. ‘Yes, that will do perfectly. A pint or so of that will definitely help clear my head!’
Caterina led her brother away from the tumult at the Cathedral gates, and out to the square. A line of trestles stood in the shade of some chestnut trees and she took him along here.
The man selling cider and a thin beer didn’t seem to care that Caterina was a beggar. He ignored her black clothing and veil, but waited until he saw that there was some money in Domingo’s purse before serving them.
‘What happened?’ she demanded.
Domingo told her all about the attack, how he and his men had swept down only to be repulsed when the three strangers slammed into their flank, five men falling in the first few moments.
‘It was evil! The fair man, he could have been a devil.
People were everywhere, dressed for the most part in their ordinary, day-to-day clothing: peasants in rough unmended hose and tunics that were all but rags; wealthier freemen with their pathetic bundles but more colourful jackets and shirts; merchants clad in expensive velvets or fine linens; knights with their slightly poorer quality clothing, but the swagger of the man-at-arms; clerics with their robes and slightly bowed heads. The scene was filled with reds and greens, ochres and yellows. Faces were blackened by the sun, shaded by their great broad-brimmed hats, many already wearing that symbol of Saint James, the cockleshell. Some wore real examples, the pale pink colour showing up clearly, while others had dull pewter versions which they would have purchased from the vendors along the ViaFrancigena or from a thousand other places all along the route here from Tours, Vézelay, Le Puy or Arles.
‘My God,’ Simon murmured.
‘Has the heat affected you?’ Baldwin asked quickly.
‘That must be the seventh time you’ve asked me that so far today,’ Simon noted.
‘It is important, Simon. You are not on Dartmoor now.’
‘Dartmoor can be hot enough in summer.’
‘Perhaps so, but here the temperature is that much warmer, and people do collapse from the heat. It affects everyone differently.’
‘I can cope with heat,’ Simon said confidently.
‘Perhaps in England, but here you should be careful. It is something that my Order taught: always take refreshment when you can, for you need more in the sun. During my first years in these warmer climes, I had to be taken from my weapon training several times because of the heat. It is a terrible malaise, Simon. You become weak and sickly, dizzy and disorientated. I was thoroughly laid low and had to be given a cool bath and plenty of water.’
Simon pulled his hat over his brow without comment. It was, to his mind, a foolish piece of headgear. The felt of the brim was swept up and folded over to form a long peak at the front, like a duck’s beak. It was designed, so he had been told, to keep the sun from his eyes, because it could weaken his vision. He was sure that this was another old wives’ tale, to be treated no more seriously than the other tales he had once heard, of fevers being passed on by foul waters, when all knew that they came from vapours in the air; or the idea that taking blood wasn’t good for a man, when all knew that letting some blood was the only way to balance a man’s humours.
‘What I need right now is some liquid inside me – and I
don’t
mean water,’ he said with determination.
‘I doubt you’ll find any ale here,’ Baldwin said.
‘They must have something to slake the thirst.’
‘Yes …’ Baldwin agreed doubtfully, eyeing the nearest wine-seller. Then he saw a cart with a larger barrel. ‘Ah – cider!’
Simon followed the direction of his gaze. ‘Yes, that will do perfectly. A pint or so of that will definitely help clear my head!’
Caterina led her brother away from the tumult at the Cathedral gates, and out to the square. A line of trestles stood in the shade of some chestnut trees and she took him along here.
The man selling cider and a thin beer didn’t seem to care that Caterina was a beggar. He ignored her black clothing and veil, but waited until he saw that there was some money in Domingo’s purse before serving them.
‘What happened?’ she demanded.
Domingo told her all about the attack, how he and his men had swept down only to be repulsed when the three strangers slammed into their flank, five men falling in the first few moments.
‘It was evil! The fair man, he could have been a devil.
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