Saint and the Templar Treasure Read Free

remainder. He spoke French as well as any native of that country and possibly better than many. Unlike so many English speakers he did not suffer from the arrogance which expects that everyone else should know the language which once ruled an empire and believes that if they don’t the way to make them understand it is to shout.
    The blond youth—both of them looked to be in their late teens or earliest twenties—answered: “To Carpentras, then towards Beaumes-de-Venise.”
    “And where the devil would that be?” Simon inquired cautiously.
    “Not very far. I can show you the way.” The Saint shrugged. Having made the stop, he might as well take the consequences.
    “Well, that may be useful. Hop in.”
    They heaved their packs into the narrow back seat where the smaller hitch-hiker also wedged himself, while his blond companion settled more comfortably in the front. Simon released the handbrake and as the car moved forward asked: “Where are you from?”
    “The University of Grenoble. We are students. My name is Pascal, and he is Jules.”
    In his driving mirror the Saint had a picture of Jules dabbing at his sweating face with a handkerchief and flapping the open front of his shirt to allow the breeze to circulate.
    “Your friend doesn’t seem in training for a route march,” he observed dryly. Pascal smiled.
    “He is from Paris,” he explained in a condescending tone. “He thinks a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne is exhausting.” “And you’re a country boy, is that it?” “I was born at Chateauneuf and my family lived here until four years ago when we moved to Lyons. Since then I have come back every year to help with the harvest and to see my old friends. Jules thought he would come along this year to earn some money.”
    “From what I know of work in the vineyards he is likely to lose more kilos than he gains francs,” said the Saint.
    Pascal laughed but the object of their conversation either had not heard or was too tired to object.
    They drove in silence for a few minutes before Simon asked: “Where exactly will you be working?”
    “At Chateau Ingare. It is only a small vineyard and they do not pay as well as some of the larger ones, but all my friends will be there.”
    The name had produced a creeping sensation across the Saint’s scalp that he could not explain, as if some sixth sense was trying to warn him. But of what? There was nothing really surprising in the fact that he should drink a bottle of local wine and then meet two people on their way to the vineyard that produced it. Just a minor coincidence of course but he could never accept coincidences entirely at their face value, just as years of living on a knife’s edge had taught him never to dismiss the instincts that such an existence had developed.
    “Tell me about Chateau Ingare, Pascal,” he said thoughtfully, and the youth seemed happy to oblige.
    “As I said, it is one of the smaller vineyards, but also one of the oldest. It has been in the Florian family for generations—in fact since the fourteenth century. The chateau itself is one of the most beautiful in the region. It was originally a castle and stands on a hill above the vineyards. From it you can see to the horizon.
    “The family settled here around the time the Popes first built their summer palace at Chateauneuf. All this area around Avignon belonged not to France but to the Papacy right up until the Revolution. It was they who planted some of the first vines.”
    “Is that why they call Chateauneuf the Pope of wines?” Simon suggested.
    “Perhaps; though it wasn’t the wine of Popes, apparently. It is said they preferred Burgundy.”
    “I tried a bottle of Chateau Ingare for the first time today.” The Saint was impelled to keep the conversation going in that direction. “It was excellent. Why haven’t I heard about it before?”
    “Yes, it is very good,” Pascal agreed enthusiastically. “But unfortunately it is rarely sold outside this area