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own translations of Lucretius and Suleiman the Merchant.
The first was one of the great philosophical poems of all time, the second
the account of a traveler inChina , written in 851, containing information
about commercial dealings betweenChina and the Moslem world. Suleiman also
refers to a strange custom of the Chinese, who used fingerprints as
signatures, maintaining no two fingerprints were alike and could not be
forged. It was a practice already hundreds of years old in that land.
"Take this," I said. "I wish it were more."
"Ah, a book! I have never owned a book. You mean it is mine?"
We parted there, and I followed Persigny into the night, the Comtesse walking
beside me, the horses following. We went down a lane between stone barns and
hayricks, then crossed a pasture and paused at the edge of a dark wood.
After a moment of listening we followed a narrow path into the wood to the
edge of a pool. Beyond it was a grotto. In the distance a large building, no
doubt a chateau, loomed against the sky. The pool was divided by a stone wall
as were some artificial lakes to facilitate cleaning. On one side of the wall
was water, the other side an empty hollow. Walking out upon the wall, Persigny
lifted a sluice gate and the water began falling into the empty side of the
pool. When the water had emptied, he went down into the hole where the water
had been, brushed aside some sodden leaves, and catching hold of an iron ring,
a ring that fitted neatly into a crack between the floor stones, he opened a
stone door.
Obviously, there were counterweights, for the door swung back easily,
revealing a ramp. Motioning for us to follow, he went down the ramp, and he
closed the opening behind us. Above, we could hear the water once more falling
into the pool.
Meanwhile he lighted a candle, and we glimpsed stalls for twenty or more
horses, all empty now, and storage bins with grain and hay, long unused. He
pointed down a long passage opening before us.
"Follow it, and you will arrive in Provins. Make no sound, not even a
whisper, for the first half mile. At a point not far distant this passage
passes close to a secret passage from the Castle Blandy. The lord of that
castle has never been aware of this one, but we did hear someone moving in
their passage once."
Looking off into the darkness, I had doubts. "What of air? What of light?"
"Take a supply of candles or torches. You will find others at intervals. Air
circulates in the tunnel by some means we have not discovered, but if more is
needed, you will find occasional rings in the wall. Pull on a ring, and a
small opening will appear. Stand by the openings to breathe, but when you pass
on, be sure the openings are closed."
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"And at Provins?"
"There are catacombs of a sort beneath that city. There is a maze of
subterranean passages, some of them dating to a time before the Romans, but be
careful where you emerge. Listen, first."
Still, I hesitated. I had my fill of such places before this. "To Provins? It
must be thirty miles!"
"The distance is not important. The passage was built over several hundred
years and a long time ago. Monks carrying grain or wine from one monastery to
another were often robbed by such barons as he who inhabits Blandy, so this
tunnel was built to enable them to come and go as they wished.
"There were many monks; few knew or cared what they did, and this passage is
known to none outside the Church and only a few inside. It has not been used
for many years, but the account of it is hidden in the archives."
"I would not deceive you. I am escaping because of words spoken of which some
teachers did not approve."
He shrugged. "There are shades of opinion, my friend. We here are followers
of Abelard, and pleased to be so."
"And Fat Claire?"
He looked me in the eye. "She is my sister." Holding my torch high, I looked
down the passage as Persigny walked away. "Are you afraid, Comtesse?"
"Yes, but I have often been afraid and, no doubt, shall be afraid many more
times. No one, in our world, I think, lives without fear." She turned to me.
"I do not even know your name."
"Mathurin Kerbouchard, but I am not, as I appear, a soldier. I have been many
things, a man of the sea, a translator of books, a vagabond, a merchant, and
occasionally, a physician."
"You are a landless man?"
What happened at my home, I told her, and of what took place later, with
Tournemine.
"A man who handles a sword need not long be landless. The followers of
William of Normandy did very well for themselves, and Roger of Sicily, too."
"You could become a knight," she agreed, "or win a patent of nobility."
"It interests me less than you would believe. The difference between a
brigand or wandering soldier and a noble is scarcely a generation."
"It is a bit more than that, I think."
"Or less. It might take several generations to achieve a Count Robert. It
seems to me that blue blood only becomes important when red blood begins to
run thin."
Being of the nobility, she did not wish to agree with me, but no doubt, she
knew her own family history. I did not know hers, but could guess. The
Crusaders may have had noble motives, but loot was at least a secondary
object, and their desire to free the Holy Sepulcher did not stop them from
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capturing and looting a Christian city or two.
We rode for some time in silence, and when the air became close and hot, we
stopped near one of the rings in the wall and, tugging on it, found that it
opened stiffly to let in cool night air. A moon had arisen, and we could see
woods and fields. The opening was in some kind of a wall, a castle, perhaps.
We breathed deeply, waited a few minutes in silence, then closed the opening
and went on.
"Where do you go?" she asked.
"To Provins, where I have friends. If they are not present, I shall await
them, then on toKiev ."
Startled, she turned to stare at me."Kiev?"
"Yes."
"But it is far!"
"From there I shall go to Constantinople, toTrebizond , and even further."
"It is my way, too. I must return toSaone ."
"Come with us. My friends are many, and there are women among them. We travel
well."
She did not reply, and for a long time there was no sound but our horses'
hooves on the stones beneath. A trickle of water ran along the center of the
floor, water scarcely a half-inch deep.
"The book you gave your friend? What was it?"
Briefly, I explained, adding, a little smugly I am afraid, that it was my own
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