The Brotherhood of Book Hunters by Howard Curtis, Raphaël Jerusalmy Read Free Book Online Page A

nonchalant gaze then ran toward the dark nooks and crannies of the nave. Bursting with laughter, he made his way between the shelves that creaked beneath the weight of the clasped, studded and strapped volumes carelessly heaped on them.
    The dwarf came after him, beating the air. At the far end, a colossal door with steel hinges blocked François’s escape. It had only one lock, a massive one cast in one piece. Big nails hid the joints. To what was it guarding access? Unable to move, François leaned back against the imposing door, waiting resolutely for Médard, holding back his boyish giggles. In front of him, a thread of iridescent light pierced the stained glass window, lighting up a pedestal on which lay some books whose bindings were coated with beeswax, their edges gilded in fine gold. In this thin beam, he glimpsed, right at the top of the pile, the gold coat of arms of the Medici. It seemed to shine with its own light, like a talisman. The size of the book was impressive. It looked like an atlas. The other book, the one he had seen in Fust’s printing works, although thicker, had only been a quarto. But the emblem was similar in size and encircled by kabbalistic signs, as if struck from the same seal.
    Médard emerged at last and came and placed himself in front of François. He stood up on tiptoe, threateningly. A huge bronze key hung from his rope belt. Seeing its intricate surround, François, still with his back to the door, merely said, “You’re protecting your secret well, little monk.”
    The dwarf held his club at arm’s length, ready to strike. Brother Paul appeared. He advanced with measured steps and in a honeyed voice ordered François to leave the building. Outside, the brightness made him blink. François lowered his eyes to the ground. A shadow stood out on the fine gravel. François looked closely at it. It was that of a man crouching, perfectly motionless, as if lying in wait. François lifted his head. Blinded by the sun, he shielded his eyes with his hand. Perched on the roof of the barn, knees bent, an archer had him in his sights. François immediately rolled onto the ground to avoid the arrow. He took his knife from his boot, and rose to his full height to throw it. But the other man had not budged. And had not fired. His bow was still taut, aimed directly at François. If the knife hit him, he would release his grip and the arrow would go straight to its target. François hesitated, looking his adversary up and down. He was on the short side, although not a dwarf like Médard. He was too firm in his bearing. Impossible to see his face. A coat of mail hung from his pointed helmet, protecting his face. His chest was held in a tight leather doublet. He carried a sword at his side, curved and unsheathed, hanging from a knight’s belt. François curled his lips in a clownish grin and did a little dance step to throw his rival. He might as well have been tickling a marble statue. How to trick him?
    Brother Paul’s booming voice put an end to this unusual encounter. The archer immediately lowered his weapon, but François remained on his guard, knife in hand.
    The prior apologized. It was the commotion from the chapel that had alarmed the sentry. And Brother Médard’s yells.
    â€œA sentry?”
    Brother Paul tried to reassure François. “And a monk. In his way. In his spare time, he helps our scribes to transcribe the teaching of a great sage he calls the Buddha. His forefathers fought beside our Crusaders. Even today, many of his countrymen can be found in Syria, Lebanon, and Persia. They are highly prized for their skill with horses.”
    François let his gaze wander around the perimeter walls. They were pierced with arrow slits. There was no doubt about it. This place, bucolic in appearance, was a disguised fort. And defended by Mongol mercenaries to boot!
    Â 
    Barely awake, Colin kicked his straw mattress away