Heretic

  “We’re a long damn way from Berat.”

  “They won’t ride today. They’ll never catch us,” Sir Guillaume agreed.

  The purpose of the visit, so far as Thomas’s men was concerned, was to plunder. In the end, they believed, such depredations would bring out the forces of Berat and so they would have a chance to fight a proper battle in which, if God or the devil favored them, they would take some valuable prisoners and so make themselves even richer, but for now they simply stole or destroyed. Robbie rode to the monastery, Sir Guillaume led the other men into the village while Thomas and Genevieve turned south and climbed the rough path to the ruined castle.

  It was ours once, Thomas was thinking. It was here that his ancestors had lived, yet still he could feel nothing. He did not think of himself as a Gascon, let alone a Frenchman. He was English, yet still he gazed at the ruined walls and tried to imagine when the castle was whole and his family had been its masters.

  He and Genevieve picketed their horses at the broken gate, then stepped over fallen stone into the old courtyard. The curtain wall was almost entirely gone, its stones carried away to make houses or barns. The biggest remnant was the tower keep, but even that was half shattered, its southern side open to the wind. A hearth showed halfway up the northern wall and there were great stones jutting from the inner flank to show where the joists supporting the floors had once been. A broken stair wound up the eastern side, leading to nothing.

  Beside the tower, sharing the highest part of the rock crag, were the remnants of a chapel. Its floor was flagstones and on one of them was Thomas’s badge. He put his bow down and crouched by the stone, trying to feel some sense of belonging.

  “One day,” Genevieve was standing on the broken southern wall, staring south down the valley, “you’ll tell me why you’re here.”

  “To raid,” Thomas said shortly.

  She took off her helmet and shook out her hair, which she wore loose, like a young girl. The blonde strands lifted in the wind as she smiled. “Do you take me for a fool, Thomas?”

  “No,” he said warily.

  “You travel a long way,” she said, “from England, and you come to a little town called Castillon d’Arbizon, and then you ride here. There were a dozen places we could have raided on the way, but it is here we come. And here there is the same badge as the one you carry on your bow.”

  “There are many badges,” Thomas said, “and they often resemble each other.”

  She shook her head dismissively. “What is that badge?”

  “A yale,” he said. A yale was a beast invented by the heralds, all teeth, claws, scales and threat. Thomas’s badge, the one pinned to his bow, showed the yale holding a cup, but the yale on the flagstone held nothing in its taloned paw.

  Genevieve looked past Thomas to where Sir Guillaume’s men were herding livestock into a pen. “We used to hear so many stories,” she said, “my father and I, and he liked stories so he tried to remember them, and in the evenings he would tell them to me. Tales of monsters in the hills, of dragons flying across the rooftops, reports of miracles at holy springs, of women giving birth to monsters. A thousand tales. But there was one story we heard again and again whenever we came to these valleys.” She paused.

  “Go on,” Thomas said. The wind gusted, lifting the long fine strands of her hair. She was more than old enough to tie it up, to mark herself as a woman, but she liked it unbound and Thomas thought it made her look still more like a draga.

  “We heard,” Genevieve said, “about the treasures of the Perfect.”

  The Perfect had been forerunners of the beghards, heretics who had denied the authority of the Church, and their evil had spread through the south until the Church, with the help of the French King, had crushed them. The fires of their deaths had died a hundred years ago, yet still there were echoes of the Cathars, as the Perfect had been called. They had not spread into this part of Gascony, though some churchmen claimed the heresy had infested all Christendom and was still hidden away in its remotest parts. “The treasures of the Perfect,” Thomas said tonelessly.

  “You come to this little place,” Genevieve said, “from far away, yet you carry a badge that comes from these hills. And whenever my father and I came here we heard stories of As-tarac. They still tell them here.”

  “Tell what?”

  “How a great lord fled here for refuge and brought the treasures of the Perfect with him. And the treasures, they say, are still here.”

  Thomas smiled. “They would have dug them up long ago.”

  “If a thing is hidden well,” Genevieve said, “then it is not found easily.”

  Thomas looked down at the village where bellows and screeches and bleatings came from the pen where the livestock was being slaughtered. The best cuts of bleeding, fresh meat would be tied to the saddles and taken back for salting or smoking, while the villagers could have the horns, offal and hides. “They tell stories everywhere,” he said dismissively.

  “Of all the treasures,” Genevieve said softly, ignoring his disparagement, “there is one that is prized above all the others. But only a Perfect can find it, they say.”

  “Then God alone can find it,” Thomas said.

  “Yet that doesn’t stop you looking, Thomas, does it?”

  “Looking?”

  “For the Grail.”

  The word was said, the ridiculous word, the impossible word, the name of the thing that Thomas feared did not exist, yet which he sought. His father’s writings suggested he had possessed the Grail, and Thomas’s cousin, Guy Vexille, was certain that Thomas knew where the relic was, and so Vexille would follow Thomas to the ends of the earth. Which was why Thomas was here, in Astarac, to draw his murderous cousin within range of the new bow. He looked up at the tower’s ragged top. “Sir Guillaume knows why we are here,” he told her, “and Robbie knows. But none of the others do, so don’t tell them.”

  “I won’t,” she said, “but do you think it exists?”

  “No,” he said with far more certainty than he felt.

  “It does,” Genevieve said.

  Thomas went to stand beside her and he stared southwards to where a stream twisted soft through meadows and olive groves. He could see men there, a score of them, and he knew they were coredors. He would have to do something about them, he thought, if his men were not to be dogged by the ragged bands through the winter. He did not fear them, but he did fear that one of his men would wander off the path and be seized, so it would be better to frighten the bandits off before that happened.

  “It does exist,” Genevieve insisted.

  “You can’t know that,” Thomas said, still watching the ragged men who watched him.

  “The Grail is like God,” Genevieve said. “It is everywhere, all around us, obvious, but we refuse to see it. Men think they can only see God when they build a great church and fill it with gold and silver and statues, but all they need do is look. The Grail exists, Thomas, you just need to open your eyes.”

  Thomas strung his bow, took one old arrow from his bag, then pulled the cord back as far as it would go. He could feel the muscles in his back aching from the unexpected strain of the new bow. He held the arrow low, level with his waist, and cocked his left hand high so that when he released the string the arrow flew into the sky, the white feathers getting smaller and smaller, and then it plummeted to earth, thumping into the stream bank over three hundred yards away. The coredors understood the message and backed away.

  “Waste of a good arrow,” Thomas said. Then he took Genevieve’s arm and went to find his men.

  ROBBIE MARVELED at the monastery’s lands, all tended by white-robed Cistercians who gathered up their skirts and ran when they saw his mailed men ride out from the village. Most of the fields were given over to vines, but there was a pear orchard and an olive grove, a pasture of sheep and a fish pond. It was, he thought, a fat land. For days now he had been hearing how the harvest in southern Gascony had been poor, yet it seemed to him that this
was a very heaven compared to the hard, thin lands of his northern home. A bell began to toll its alarm from the monastery.

  “They’ve got to have a treasure house.” Jake, one of his archers, spurred alongside Robbie and nodded at the monastery. “And we’ll kill him,” he spoke of a solitary monk who had come from the monastery gatehouse and now walked calmly towards them, “then the rest won’t be no trouble.”

  “You’ll kill no one,” Robbie snapped. He motioned his men to stop their horses. “And you’ll wait here,” he told them, then he swung out of his saddle, threw his reins to Jake and walked towards the monk, who was very tall, very thin and very old. He had wispy white hair about his tonsure, and a long, dark face that somehow conveyed wisdom and gentleness. Robbie, striding in his coat of mail with his shield slung on his back and his uncle’s long sword at his side, felt clumsy and out of place.

  The right sleeve of the monk’s white robe was smeared with ink, making Robbie wonder if the man was a scrivener. He had plainly been sent to negotiate with the raiders, perhaps buy them off or try to persuade them to respect God’s house, and Robbie thought how he had helped plunder the great priory of the Black Canons at Hexham, just across the English border, and he remembered the friars pleading with the invaders, then threatening God’s vengeance, and how the Scots had laughed at them, then stripped Hexham bare. But God had wreaked his vengeance by letting the English army win at Durham, and that memory, the sudden realization that perhaps the desecration of Hexham had led directly to the defeat at Durham, gave Robbie pause so that he stopped, frowned and wondered what exactly he would say to the tall monk, who now smiled at him. “You must be the English raiders?” the monk said in very good English.

  Robbie shook his head. “I’m a Scot,” he retorted.

  “A Scot! A Scot riding with the English! I once spent two years in a Cistercian house in Yorkshire and the brothers never said a good word of the Scots, yet here you are, with the English, and I thought I had witnessed every marvel that this sinful world has to offer.” The monk still smiled. “My name is Abbot Planchard and my house is at your mercy. Do what you will, young man, we will not fight you.” He stepped to one side of the path and gestured towards the monastery as if inviting Robbie to draw his sword and start the plunder.

  Robbie did not move. He was thinking of Hexham. Thinking of a friar dying in the church there, his blood running from beneath his black robe and trickling down a step, and of the drunken Scottish soldiers stepping over the man with their spoils: candlesticks, crosses and embroidered copes.

  “Of course,” the abbot said, “if you prefer, you can have some wine? It’s our own wine and not the best. We drink it too young, but we have some fine goat cheese and Brother Philippe makes the best bread in the valley. We can water your horses, but alas I have little hay.”

  “No,” Robbie said abruptly, then turned and shouted at his men. “Go back to Sir Guillaume!”

  “We do what?” one of the men-at-arms asked, puzzled.

  “Go back to Sir Guillaume. Now!”

  He took his horse from Jake, then walked beside the abbot to the monastery. He did not say anything, but Abbot Plan-chard seemed to understand from his silence that the young Scot wanted to talk. He told the gatekeeper to look after the destrier, then invited Robbie to leave his sword and shield in the lodge. “Of course you may keep them,” the abbot said, “but I thought you might be more comfortable without them. Welcome to St. Sever’s.”

  “St. Sever?” Robbie asked as he unslung the shield from about his neck.

  “He is reputed to have mended an angel’s wing in this valley. I find that quite hard to believe sometimes, but God likes to test our faith and so I pray to St. Sever every night and thank him for his miracle and ask him to mend me as he mended the white wing.”

  Robbie smiled. “You need mending?”

  “We all do. When we are young it is the spirit that breaks, and when we are old it is the body.” Abbot Planchard touched Robbie’s elbow to guide him towards a cloister where he picked a spot in the sun and invited his visitor to sit on the low wall between two pillars. “Tell me,” he asked, settling on the wall beside Robbie, “are you Thomas? Isn’t that the name of the man who leads the English?”

  “I’m not Thomas,” Robbie said, “but you’ve heard of us?”

  “Oh indeed. Nothing so exciting has happened in these parts since the angel fell,” the abbot said with a smile, then turned and asked a monk to bring wine, bread and cheese. “And perhaps some honey! We make very good honey,” he added to Robbie. “The lepers tend the hives.”

  “Lepers!”

  “They live behind our house,” the abbot said calmly, “a house which you, young man, wanted to plunder. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” Robbie admitted.

  “Instead you are here to break bread with me.” Planchard paused, his shrewd eyes searching Robbie’s face. “Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

  Robbie frowned at that, then looked puzzled. “How did you know?”

  Planchard laughed. “When a soldier comes to me, armed and armored, but with a crucifix hanging over his mail, then I know he is a man who is not unmindful of his God. You wear a sign, my son,” he pointed at the crucifix, “and even after eighty-five years I can read a sign.”

  “Eighty-five!” Robbie said in wonderment, but the abbot said nothing. He just waited and Robbie fidgeted for a while and then he blurted out what was on his mind. He described how they had gone to Castillon d’Arbizon, and how they had found the beghard in the dungeons and how Thomas had saved her life. “It’s been worrying me,” Robbie said, staring at the grass, “and I’m thinking that no good will come to us so long as she lives. The Church condemned her!”

  “So it did,” Planchard said, then fell silent.

  “She’s a heretic! A witch!”

  “I know of her,” Planchard said mildly, “and I heard that she lives.”

  “She’s here!” Robbie protested, pointing south towards the village. “Here in your valley!”

  Planchard looked at Robbie, seeing an honest, blunt soul, but one in turmoil, and he sighed to himself, then poured some wine and pushed the board of bread, cheese and honey towards the young man. “Eat,” he said gently.

  “It isn’t right!” Robbie said vehemently.

  The abbot did not touch the food. He did sip the wine, then he spoke softly as he stared at the plume of smoke that drifted from the village’s warning pyre. “The beghard’s sin is not yours, my son,” he said, “and when Thomas released her it was not your doing. You worry about other people’s sins?”

  “I should kill her!” Robbie said.

  “No, you should not,” the abbot said firmly.

  “No?” Robbie sounded surprised.

  “If God had wanted that,” the abbot said, “then he would not have sent you here to talk to me. God’s purposes are not always easy to understand, but I have found that his methods are not as indirect as ours. We complicate God because we do not see that goodness is so very simple.” He paused. “You told me that no good could come to you while she lives, but why would God want good to come to you? This region has been at peace, except for bandits, and you disturb it. Would God make you more vicious if the beghard died?”

  Robbie said nothing.

  “You speak to me,” Planchard said more firmly, “of other people’s sin, but you do not talk of your own. Do you wear the crucifix for others? Or for yourself?”

  “For myself,” Robbie said quietly.

  “Then tell me of yourself,” the abbot said.

  So Robbie did.

  JOSCELYN, LORD OF BÉZIERS and heir to the great county of Berat, slammed the breastplate onto the table so hard that it started dust from the cracks in the timber.

  His uncle, the Count, frowned. “There is no need to beat the wood, Joscelyn,” he said placidly. “There is no woodworm in the table. At least I hope not. They treat it with turpentine as a preventative.”

  “My fathe
r swore by a mix of lye and urine,” Father Roubert said, “and an occasional scorching.” He was sitting opposite the Count, sifting through the moldering old parchments that had lain undisturbed since they had been removed from Astarac a century before. Some were charred at the edges, evidence of the fire that had been set in the fallen castle.

  “Lye and urine? I should try that.” The Count scratched beneath his woolen hat, then peered up at his angry nephew. “You do know Father Roubert, Joscelyn? Of course you do.” He peered at another document, saw it was a request that two more watchmen be appointed to the Astarac town guard, and sighed. “If you could read, Joscelyn, you could help us.”

  “I’ll help you, uncle,” Joscelyn said savagely. “Just let me off the leash!”

  “That can go to Brother Jerome.” The Count put the request for extra watchmen in the big basket which would be carried down to the room where the young monk from Paris read the parchments. “And mix in some other documents,” he told Father Roubert, “just to confuse him. Those old tax rolls from Lemierre should keep him busy for a month!”

  “Thirty men, uncle,” Joscelyn insisted, “that’s all I ask! You have eighty-seven men-at-arms! Just give me thirty!”

  Joscelyn, Lord of Béziers, was an impressive figure. He was hugely tall, broad in the chest and long-limbed, but his appearance was spoiled by a round face of such vacancy that his uncle sometimes wondered whether there was any brain at all behind his nephew’s protuberant eyes. He had straw-colored hair that was almost always marked by the pressure caused by a helmet’s leather liner and he had been blessed with strong arms and sturdy legs, and yet, though Joscelyn was all bone and muscle, and possessed scarcely a single idea to disturb either, he was not without his virtues. He was diligent, even if his diligence was directed solely towards the tournament yard where he was one of the most celebrated fighters in Europe. He had won the Paris tourney twice, humiliated the best English knights at the big Tewkesbury gathering, and even in the German states, where men believed no one was better than they, Joscelyn had brought off a dozen top prizes. He had famously put Walther of Siegenthaler on his broad rump twice in one bout, and the only knight who had consistently defeated Joscelyn was the black-armored man called the Harlequin who had ridden grim and relentlessly about the tournament circuit to raise money. But the Harlequin had not been seen for three or four years now and Joscelyn suspected that his absence meant Joscelyn could make himself the champion of Europe.