And those he could not afford.
Mistakes always bred more mistakes.
The arrow attack was not a mistake, but it was definitely a miscalculation, an underestimation of his opponent. And he would not repeat either of those fallacies.
He stood in a spacious entrance foyer, tall and lit from above with round arched windows. A hefty wrought-iron chandelier hung unlit. Wood-paneled walls exuded an oiled satiny glow. Framed art hung all around, mostly oil on canvas, pastoral scenes of the surrounding mountains, the varnish darkened with age and infested with fine spiderwebs of cracks. Four routes led out. One a stairway up, the other three blocked by closed doors, normal for a convent where access into the inner bowels stayed restricted.
All three doors opened and a maiden stood in each.
Friars Dwight and Rice kept their guns pointed at the five from the cemetery and Fuentes kept his trained on Sister Deal. His attention remained on the women in the doorways and the abbess, mindful that these people were just as determined as he.
揑 have come on behalf of His Holiness to resolve a matter of long standing,?he said.
揂nd what would that be??the abbess calmly asked, a less-than-welcoming expression on her round face.
He told himself that les Vautours?success had always lay in deception, cleverness, diversions, and false trails. So don抰 go that way. 揥here is the maiden who shot the friar??
揟hat would be me.?
And a woman descended the staircase, turned on the landing, and made her way to ground level.
揧ou are??he asked.
揝ister Claire Haffner, Vestal of this order.?
An officer. Second in command. Perfect.
He caught the attention of Friar Rice, who walked over and took charge of Sister Deal. He then stepped to the Vestal and, with no hesitation, swiped the butt of his gun across the woman抯 dark face, knocking her down. The other maidens gasped at the assault and reacted, but he fired a shot into the ceiling that kept them at bay. The bang bellowed in the high-ceilinged room, then echoed back. Chips of plaster rained down and dust twirled in the still air from the ceiling breach. Sister Deal rushed over to see about the Vestal. Sister Haffner was down on one knee, Deal beside her. A small gash bled on the woman抯 right cheek.
揟here will be no more attacks,?he said. 揑s that clear??
No one said a word.
揧ou will bow to the will of your archbishop, who is here, and His Holiness, of whom I am the duly appointed representative.?
Haffner stood. 揂nd the Dominicans with guns? Who have they come for??
揟hey抮e here to ensure your compliance,?he said.
揥ith what??the abbess asked.
揜evealing the location of the Chapel of the Maiden.?
Nick heard a shot.
He and Labelle were still outside, approaching the building, noticing that all of the windows were protected by filigreed iron grilles. No way to get through any of them. The sound of gunfire made it even more imperative that they find a way inside. The place seemed a mishmash of randomness. A wing here. A tower there. Annexes of differing styles. Lots of blue-gray limestone and a mantle of ivy beneath a slate roof defined by crenellated gables.
They rounded a corner and headed toward the rear.
The whole structure sat at the edge of a promontory, nothing but open air on the other side. They passed a small enclosure that held some wrought-iron tables and a few concrete chess pedestals flanked by wooden benches. Farther on they found a flight of stone stairs, built out from the wall and protected by a slender wrought-iron rail, that led up to a door.
Unlocked.
Finally.
A break.
A long barren corridor stretched ahead studded with more doors, not unlike the one from the convent in Ghent. Only difference, the ones here were all closed.
They hustled ahead.
Vilamur was becoming progressively more uncomfortable. Fuentes had brought him along to gain entry. That had been accomplished. So why was he staying? These men were on a mission that certainly did not concern him any longer. And the guns? Then the battery on the maiden.
This was too much.
He was a metropolitan archbishop of the Roman Catholic Church. True, he had a problem. But that had been cured last night, no danger of any of it resurfacing as it would implicate not only him, but Fuentes and the Dominicans as well. Bernat de Foix was gone. All of the incriminating evidence was gone. True, his mistakes had compromised his reputation, credibility, achievements, even his probity, but not his title. He was the archbishop of this diocese, usually residing high above the world, free from worry, wrinkles, and harm. But he could not escape, or disguise, the leaden grooves which his thoughts had found and from which they could not free themselves. This was bad. And going to get worse. So he made a decision, then silently cleared his throat and drew saliva to the top of his mouth so that a cracked voice would not betray his anxiety when he spoke.