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

took his place on a flat rock, and grabbed a jug of Falernian wine and a smoked chicken thigh. Federico crouched in order not to soil his clothes.
    â€œWe’ll get to Safed by tomorrow evening. A piece of oatcake?”
    The Italian’s pale smile glittered in the darkness. François passed him the jug then cleaned his hands with twigs moistened with dew.
    â€œYou are linked to the noble house of the Medicis. I thought I saw their arms on one of the volumes kept in the monastery.”
    â€œThat may be so.”
    â€œThey differ from the famous emblem by the addition of kabbalistic symbols whose meaning escapes me.”
    â€œI don’t read Hebrew,” the merchant replied curtly.
    An owl hooted in the distance. Frightened, one of the horses gave a start. Federico stood up and went to calm it with a pat on the spine, making sure that its reins were firmly tied around a dead trunk. François followed him with his eyes, convinced that the Italian knew much more than he was prepared to admit. He had clearly been expecting to see François in the monastery, and had already planned to give him that splendid book with the butterfly. Brother Paul had nevertheless assured the two Frenchmen that the bookseller knew nothing of the mission that had brought them here. Federico’s coming had been planned long before their arrival. He was a regular in the place and often came there for supplies. In any case, there was nothing to fear from a man in the pay of the Medicis. But François felt a kind of anxiety around the Italian. The fellow was clearly playing a part. His unctuous merchant’s gestures, the way he exaggerated his distinction to make its falseness clear, his showy attire, were so many layers beneath which to bury the person that François detected in spite of everything. There emanated from him the self-confident authority of a leader of men, the rigidity of a soldier, and an intransigence that was frightening. This was no courtly hypocrite, but rather someone who held a secret. Yet he did little to conceal his game. The aim of that half-open, half-closed mask he offered to people’s gaze was not to disorientate, but to discourage any desire to remove it from him and discover his real face. It was a tactic that François knew well, one the Coquillards had used, to warn anyone who might pry too closely into their affairs that the result might be a knife in the gut. That was why François mistrusted Federico. And it was also why he respected him.
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    Colin took the first watch. François came to keep him company. He did not tell him about his suspicions, fearing that the fellow might relieve him of them in his way—by smashing the Florentine’s head against a wagon wheel, or thrusting a bottle of wine down his throat, if not elsewhere. Colin seemed in a bad enough mood already. He stamped his feet and swore that Chartier would just have to wait. The Bishop hadn’t even taken the trouble to write a letter of introduction. If things went badly, he would wash his hands of them. François mocked his friend. Since when did an honest bandit wager on the assurances of a clergyman? Colin shrugged. He crushed a mosquito in his hand, cursing all the saints in heaven, then went and leaned against a rock and began sharpening a branch with his knife to use as a toothpick. François took advantage of this brief lull to reassure his companion. He had absolutely no intention of following Chartier’s orders. But it was too early to act. However much François claimed that he was concocting one of those brilliant coups only he seemed able to pull off, a really clever trick, Colin couldn’t see anything good coming of this business. François stretched his hand toward the countryside as if the undergrowth and the sand agreed with him. It wasn’t Chartier, or Fust, or anyone else who would tell him the way and guide his steps. It was this land. This country was