Dying on the Vine (17 page)

The applause was drowned in a rumbling roar as a huge wooden wagon drawn by four powerful farm horses rolled slowly into the square. It was packed with monks in brown robes, cowled and hooded. I turned to Fox.

“This has some local significance, does it?”

“Aye. Gerard was telling me about it. During the Cathar wars, Saint Symphorien changed hands several times. The Cathars had this plan to recapture it from the Papal forces.” He darted me an uncertain look. “Ye know who the Cathars were?”

“Medieval heretics, weren't they?”

“That's right. Their beliefs were opposite to those of Rome, and the fighting was bitter—armies on both sides were big and powerful, mostly experienced soldiers returned from the Crusades.”

I motioned to the colossal wagon. “So these monks were prisoners of the Cathars? Being taken to be executed?”

Fox tapped the side of his nose. “Ah, you'll see in a minute…”

The big wooden wheels creaked and the sweating horses snorted, their manes waving and their eyes gleaming. Behind the rough staved sides of the wagon, the monks stood silent and still, features hidden behind their brown robes. The monstrous vehicle moved slowly past us and clattered on around the square. The crowd was quiet now, adults and children watching, waiting. The wagon swayed under its heavy load of dozens of men.

It was only about twenty yards away when a shot was heard. It was the signal for the “monks” to strip off their robes and be revealed in sinister black military uniforms.

“Cathar storm troopers!” said Fox excitedly.

Crossbows, pikes, swords, lances, and long-handled axes appeared menacingly and the crowd gasped. The wagon was a frightening sight, packed with men intent on dealing death and mayhem. Then the sides dropped down and the troops spilled out in all directions, yelling and howling.

“So that's how the Cathars regained control of the village,” I said, turning to Fox.

He didn't hear me. Beads of perspiration trickled down his face and his eyes were filled with horror. Surely he wasn't that affected by a pageant, no matter how well done, I thought. He was staring petrified at the would-be warriors and I tried to see what had such an effect on him.

A row of crossbowmen were advancing toward us. Fox seemed to find something specially menacing about them. Their weapons were aimed over the heads of the crowd—all except one. Fox's arm shot out, pointing. That soldier's crossbow loomed in my vision as, from his crouched position, the bolt was released.

The people were shouting in excitement but if anyone else saw the discharge, the warning was lost in the noise and confusion. I had a momentary glimpse of a black pointed shape hurtling at me, growing larger and larger…

T
HE BOLT FROM THE
crossbow passed so close that I could feel its hot breath singe my cheek. As thoughts tumbled through my brain, the first of them postulated that I had been hit. Hadn't I read that you didn't feel the pain at first? That idea was immediately dispelled by a horrible gasping sound from behind me and I turned amid cries and shouts of terror to find Elwyn Fox falling to the ground, his hands desperately grasping the long, black metal bolt protruding from his throat.

The next minutes were a chaotic jumble of events with one emerging as dominant—the gendarme, Aristide Pertois, was there, bending over Fox even as the Welshman gurgled his last precious seconds of air and died with a flow of blood spreading across his chest.

It wasn't until I was in one of the offices in the
mairie
that my mind came back to normal. Pertois had somehow found an official to open up the building and Fox was carried inside. The gendarme told me to follow him and I was too stunned to do otherwise. Fox's body was taken into one room while Pertois led me into another. He murmured a few words to one of the men and a minute later a small glass of brandy was pressed into my hand. Pertois disappeared for a while. I lost track of time, then he came back to sit on the edge of a table facing me as I sprawled in a chair, physically and mentally devastated.

“A horrible thing,” he said quietly. I nodded.

“Tell me exactly how it happened.”

I did so, glad of the opportunity to do something, whatever it was, even if it meant reliving those ghastly moments.

“What did you talk about in La Colombe?” he asked.

“He told me that yesterday was a wonderful day.”

Pertois leaned forward. “Did he say why?”

“I said he must have found millions of gallons of water in his dowsing efforts. He shook his head but he was still so pleased with himself that I assumed he had found something else. It seemed unlikely to me that he was looking for water but I had no idea what else he could be dowsing.”

“What did you think he was dowsing for?”

“I've heard stories about treasure. The Treasure of the Templars in particular.”

He sat back onto the table, not taking his gaze off me. “Provence is full of such stories. They probably told you the Templar treasure is guarded by dragons too, didn't they?”

“Yes, and I saw one of them today.”

“In the parade—yes.” His agreeable tone suddenly developed a razor edge. “Out of your line anyway, isn't it? You're writing about vineyards. Why are you investigating dowsers and treasure?”

“It seemed like a good subject for another article. Vineyards are still the subject I'm mainly interested in. Besides,” I went on, not wanting to be too docile, “I'm not investigating, I'm just gathering information.”

His steady gaze didn't waver. If skepticism could be expressed in silence, he was a master at it. I told him the rest. “When I was talking to Fox, he seemed to be having some strange seizures. It was if he were having extrasensory experiences. He warned me of danger. Then when the Cathars came flooding out of that wagon, he pointed and looked terrified—as if he were seeing a vision. Seconds later, the crossbow went off.”

“Eh bien,”
he said, the French equivalent of “Ah, well” and just as meaningless. “I must go. We will continue tomorrow at nine in my office. You know where the Poste Provisoire de la Gendarmerie is?”

He described its location. I went out into the sunshine where people were still moving around, determined to enjoy the rest of their ruined day. I was still undecided on where I would go as I drove out of the village. The two vineyards seemed to be the obvious places. Whatever was going on revolved round them…

The Peregrine vineyard was first. I parked near the shining stainless steel barrels and went to the door of the only building. It was locked, as I might have expected. I circled the building, looking for another door. There was one in the back but it was locked too.

It was a small facility for wine production. I guessed the output of the vineyard to be about a thousand liters an acre as it was fairly good-quality wine. There were about four acres, so that was four thousand liters—just over five thousand bottles. It was small. Barely enough to support Gerard let alone show a profit for a Monte Carlo-based conglomerate.

I strolled down to the rows of low bushes that held the grapes—the heart and soul of the vineyard. They looked healthy, and in the time between now and the harvest would grow appreciably. Professor Rahmani came to mind. How much larger and juicier could he make these grapes if he applied his ideas to them? Another thought occurred—
was
he applying his methods?

From this position, the chalky cliffs and their yawning black holes looked innocent, yet held a touch of hidden menace. I could see them from the same angle as when I was with Gerard and had seen a figure appear, then hastily duck back out of sight. Surely … I shaded my eyes to see more clearly … There was no mistake. There was movement on the ledge in front of one of the cave mouths.

T
HE LAST TIME I
had climbed up here, it had been to find a shiny revolver pointed at me. I would be more careful this time. I studied the geography in more detail before I made a move. The ledge ran across the cliff edge and three-quarters of the way up. The only way up to it from where I stood was the same that I had used on the previous occasion, at the west end. I could see cave mouths along the ledge. At the east end of the ledge, a trail snaked up and onto the ridge at the top where eucalyptus trees grew in what looked like dense woods, though the ground sloped back and out of sight.

I made the climb keeping a careful eye on the ledge whenever it was in sight. I saw no further movement and reached the ledge hardly out of breath. At the mouth of the first cave, I paused and listened. It was quiet but for the soft buzz of cicadas. I walked carefully along and into the third cave—the one where I had seen movement from below.

The antechamber was large and could have housed dozens of people. The walls looked ancient and caves ran in three directions. I froze—I thought I had heard a sound and I held my breath. There was only silence. I took a step then stopped… there was something, a sort of scuffling sound, a scraping. I listened, then gave it longer. My heartbeat had settled down to a dull thump by that time and I decided to look briefly into each cave, going as far as the penetration of the outside daylight permitted.

I had taken no more than a dozen steps when I was hit by a fast-moving body that seemed to weigh a ton. I crashed to the ground, the wind knocked out of me, trying to see in the semidarkness who my assailant was and how I could protect myself. I could make out only a long dark shape, then to my horror, there was another—and another.

Before I could roll away, I was engulfed in massive fleshy bodies and the porcine stench confirmed my worst fear—sangliers, wild boars. Slobbering jaws brushed my face and I tried to jerk myself clear, but wherever I turned there was another of the creatures. I fought to get to my feet but their hairy, bristly carcasses were everywhere, grunting and snorting. I expected to feel the excruciating stab of a tusk at any second and kept rolling this way and that to avoid their aim. Their prickly hide was disgusting as it rasped my skin and I could feel spines rip my clothes. Boar saliva trickled down my face and revolted me but the fear of a daggerlike tooth ripping into me was worse.

I continued to roll and twist to escape the inevitable thrust of one of those spearlike tusks while the memory of Emil Laplace's body with its myriad bleeding wounds rose vivid in my mind. I was so exhausted from the buffeting and beating that I was taking that I seemed to be floating in a world of smelly, snorting, massive shapes. I was battered and aching and losing consciousness when a shock wave reverberated through the cave, a hollow boom that sent echoes bouncing off the walls and made my eardrums tingle.

The sangliers growled in what I hoped was apprehension. They backed away. One of them ran, snuffling and snorting into the safety and darkness of the cave interior and the others followed. I lay there in the stillness, hardly able to believe that I was still alive. I gulped a lungful of the stinking air and staggered out into daylight.

At the far end of the ledge, I took the path that went up to the top of the ridge. Scrubby undergrowth covered the ground and the trees looked invitingly safe. When I was close to them, I took stock of myself. I could hardly believe it but I couldn't find any blood. Why had a sanglier killed Emil and not me? Not even a flesh wound!

My clothes were a mess, my shoes were badly scuffed, and I had splintered a fingernail but it was a negligible price to pay. My spirits rose as I began to fully appreciate that I had no splintered bones and no lacerations. I wondered what the noise had been that had frightened off the sangliers … then it came again.

In the confines of the cave it hadn't been an identifiable sound, but out here there was no mistake. It was a gunshot, and the leaves in the eucalyptus trees crackled. I dropped to the ground—had I escaped the frying pan to enter the fire, in this case gunfire? The explosion came again and this time it was much closer. Where could I hide? Back in the caves? Not likely! Before I could make a decision, a man came into sight. He was carrying a large gun and it was pointed right at me.

This was clearly not my day. Almost killed by a crossbow bolt, nearly mauled to death by wild boars, and now shot at with a very loud gun

The man came closer. It was a shotgun he carried, and as he approached me he snapped it open at the breach. Was I reprieved? Why? He was wearing hunting clothes—denim pants, a jacket with large pockets, big boots, and a floppy hat. He looked familiar.

“Hello!” he greeted me jovially. “How are you?”

There were several answers but I wasn't ready with any of them. I recognized him now—it was Marcel Delorme, the elderly wine master at the Willesford vineyard.

“I hope I didn't frighten you,” he said. “I thought it was a good day to do some hunting with everyone at the festival.”

He was staring at my clothes. No wonder. I looked like a tramp down on his luck. “Did you have an accident?” he inquired solicitously.

“I was attacked by sangliers. I'm lucky to be alive. Your gunshot scared them away.”

His eyes were big. “Sangliers?” He started to laugh. I didn't join him. “Sangliers?” he spluttered. “You were in one of the caves?”

“Yes and several of them attacked me. What's so funny?”

He wiped away a tear. “There are no sangliers here in the caves. Those are just pigs.”

“Nonsense. They were huge, they mauled me—nearly killed me.”

“They were being friendly, they were kissing you. This breed of pig is very affectionate.” He was still chuckling at this, city slicker who didn't know the difference between belligerent boars and passionate pigs. I wondered if there was a possibility that he was right and that was why I had no injuries.

There was no chance that I was going to admit it, though.

“Well, it's a good thing you came along anyway. You saved my life.”