Iacobus by Matilde Asensi Page A

several novicius with worse vocabulary than mine.”
    “They must be the ones from your Order, who are neither novicius, nor anything else.”
    I wanted to slap him but I remembered just in time that, not in vain, and largely due to my own fault, he had spent fourteen years with Mauricense monks. His evolution was fast and favorable, so I had to give him more time.
    “God damn it,” I shouted at the top of my lungs, punching my scrinium, “finish your story once and all!”
    Somebody else in his place would have cowed but not him. He sat comfortably with his back leaning against the wall and looked at me brazenly.
    “Well, when Matilda of Artois’ carriage was approaching, I gained momentum by running and jumped right in front of the nose of one of the guard’s horses. My height favored my ruse. I stuck my head through the window and asked with a soft and gallant voice, so as not to frighten the ladies: ‘Are any of you ladies Beatrice of Hirson?’ There were three women inside, and I wouldn’t have been able to tell who was who; the funny thing is, is that the eyes of the two ladies turned to the third, who remained silent and scared in a corner of the carriage. I deduced that she was Beatrice and I held out my hand with your letter but at that point the guards were pulling me from behind, shouting like crazy and hitting me on my back and backside with all their might. I looked at the lady, gave her my best smile so as to look like a young gallant, and let the note fall onto her dress as I said affectionately: ‘Read it ma’am, it’s for you.’ I flew out onto the ground but luckily I landed on my feet in a muddy puddle.” I sighed and looked with sorrow at his dirty, new shoes. “The guards hit me until I started running like the devil’s soul towards Pont aux Meuniers, losing myself in the swarm of people. So,” he concluded, with satisfaction, “what do you think of my performance?”
    My chest was bursting with paternal pride.
    “Not bad, not bad,” I muttered with a frown. “But you could have ended up in the King’s dungeon.”
    “But I’m here and everything worked out splendidly. The lady has your note and now we just need to wait for a reply. I like Paris! Don’t you?”
    “If it’s a question of choice, I prefer a more peaceful kind of city.”
    “Yes, I understand,” he muttered innocently. “Old age has a lot of influence on taste.”
    Pont-Sainte-Maxence was such a deep and dark forest that, even though it was a sunny spring morning the further in we got, the greater my grim feeling of entering a place full of unknown dangers and mysteries grew. On a couple of occasions I looked up at the tree tops and could barely make out a pinprick of sunlight. Only the birds seemed to be happy, high up in those trees. It was undoubtedly the ideal place for hunting deer, whose bleating could be heard all around, although it seemed more like a damned forest, property of the followers of Evil, than a pleasant place for idleness.
    It wasn’t far from Paris — it took about two hours at a comfortable trot to cover the fifteen miles —, but the difference between one place and the other was as great as that which separates any part of the world from hell. It was not a surprise therefore that following the sad passing of King Philip the Fair, the court had stopped hunting in those territories of the Crown.
    Jonas and I were advancing slowly, cautiously following a path through the undergrowth, looking around as if we were afraid of suddenly being attacked by an army of evil spirits. So when we heard the muffled sound of an ax hitting wood, our hearts skipped a beat and we stopped the horses with a sharp tug on the reins.
    “What was that?” asked Jonas, frightened.
    “Calm down, boy. It’s nothing more than a woodcutter. Let’s go and find him. He might be just the person we need.”
    We spurred on the horses and came to a gallop, quickly reaching the clearing in the forest where the noise was