Heretic

  The Count sat on the bench and lifted the box. It was square, but not deep, big enough to hold a man’s glove, but nothing much larger. It was hinged with rusting iron and, when he lifted the lid, he saw it was empty. “This is all?” he asked, his disappointment palpable.

  “Look at it, my lord,” Planchard said patiently.

  The Count looked again. The interior of the wooden box was painted yellow and that paint had lasted better than the exterior surfaces, which were very faded, but the Count could see that the box had once been black and that a coat of arms had been painted on the lid. The arms were unfamiliar to him and so aged that it was hard to see them, but he thought there was a lion or some other beast rearing upright with an object held in its outstretched claws. “A yale,” the abbot said, “holding a chalice.”

  “A chalice? The Grail, surely?”

  “The arms of the Vexille family,” Planchard ignored the Count’s question, “and local legend says the chalice was not added until just before Astarac’s destruction.”

  “Why would they add a chalice?” the Count asked, feeling a small pulse of excitement.

  Again the abbot ignored the question. “You should look, my lord, at the front of the box.”

  The Count tipped the box until the candlelight glossed the faded paint and he saw that words had been painted there. They were indistinct and some letters had been rubbed clear away, but the words were still obvious. Obvious and miraculous. Calix Meus Inebrians. The Count stared at them, heady with the implications, so heady he could not speak. His nose was running, so he cuffed it impatiently.

  “The box was empty when it was found,” Planchard said, “or so I was told by Abbot Loix, God rest his soul. The story goes that the box was in a reliquary of gold and silver that was found on the altar of the castle’s chapel. The reliquary, I am sure, was taken back to Berat, but this box was given to the monastery. As a thing of no value, I suppose.”

  The Count opened the box again and tried to smell the interior, but his nose was foully blocked. Rats scuttled among the bones in the neighboring crypt, but he ignored the sound, ignored everything, just dreamed of what this box meant. The Grail, an heir, everything. Except, he thought, the box was too small to hold the grail. Or maybe not? Who knew what the Grail looked like?

  The abbot reached for the box, intending to return it to the chest, but the Count clutched it tight. “My lord,” the abbot said sternly, “the box was empty. Nothing was found in As-tarac. That is why I brought you here, to see for yourself. Nothing was found.”

  “This was found!” the Count insisted. “And it proves the Grail was here.”

  “Does it?” the abbot asked sadly.

  The Count pointed to the faded words on the box’s side. “What else does this mean?”

  “There is a Grail in Genoa,” Planchard said, “and the Benedictines at Lyons once claimed to own it. It is said, God let it not be true, that the real one is in the treasury of the Emperor at Constantinople. It was once reported to be in Rome, and again at Palermo, though that one, I think, was a Saracen cup captured from a Venetian vessel. Others say that the archangels came to earth and took it to heaven, though some insist it still lies in Jerusalem, protected by the flaming sword that once stood sentinel over Eden. It has been seen in Cordoba, my lord, in Nimes, in Verona and a score of other places. The Venetians claim it is preserved on an island that appears only to the pure of heart, while others say it was taken to Scotland. My lord, I could fill a book with stories of the Grail.”

  “It was here.” The Count ignored everything Planchard had said. “It was here,” he said again, “and may still be here.”

  “I would like nothing more,” Planchard admitted, “but where Parsifal and Gawain failed, can we hope to succeed?”

  “It is a message from God,” the Count averred, still clutching the empty box.

  “I think, my lord,” Planchard said judiciously, “that it is a message from the Vexille family. I think they made the box and painted it and they left it to mock us. They fled and let us think they had taken the Grail with them. I think that box is their revenge. I should burn it.”

  The Count would not relinquish the box. “The Grail was here,” he maintained.

  The abbot, knowing he had lost the box, closed the chest and locked it. “We are a small house, my lord,” he said, “but we are not entirely severed from the greater Church. I receive letters from my brethren and I hear things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Cardinal Bessières is searching for a great relic,” the abbot said.

  “And he is looking here!” the Count said triumphantly. “He sent a monk to search my archives.”

  “And if Bessières is looking,” Planchard warned, “then you may be sure he will be ruthless in God’s service.”

  The Count would not be warned. “I have been given a duty,” he asserted.

  Planchard picked up the lantern. “I can tell you nothing more, my lord, for I have heard nothing that tells me the Grail is at Astarac, but I do know one thing and I know it as surely as I know that my bones will soon rest with the brethren in this ossuary. The search for the Grail, my lord, drives men mad. It dazzles them, confuses them, and leaves them whimpering. It is a dangerous thing, my lord, and best left to the troubadours. Let them sing about it and make their poems about it, but for the love of God do not risk your soul by seeking it.”

  But if Planchard’s warning had been sung by a choir of angels the Count would not have heard it.

  He had the box and it proved what he wanted to believe.

  The Grail existed and he had been sent to find it. So he would.

  THOMAS NEVER INTENDED to escort Robbie all the way to Astarac. The valley where that poor village lay had already been plundered, and so he meant to stop in the next valley where a slew of plump settlements were strung along the road south from Masseube, and then, when his men were busy about their devil’s business, he and a few men would ride with Robbie to the hills over-looking Astarac and, if there were no coredors or other enemies in sight, let the Scotsman ride on alone.

  Thomas had again taken his whole force except for a dozen men who guarded Castillon d’Arbizon’s castle. He left most of his raiders in a small village beside the River Gers and took a dozen archers and as many men-at-arms to escort Robbie the last few miles. Genevieve stayed with Sir Guillaume, who had discovered a great mound in the village that he swore was the kind of place where the old people, the ones who had lived before Christianity lit the world, hid their gold and he had commandeered a dozen shovels and begun to dig. Thomas and Robbie left them to their search and climbed the eastern hills on a winding trail that led through groves of chestnuts where peasants cut staves to support the newly planted vines. They saw no coredors; indeed they had seen no enemies all morning, though Thomas wondered how long it would be before the bandits saw the great plume of smoke boiling up from the warning pyre in the village where Sir Guillaume dug into his dreams.

  Robbie was in a nervous mood that he tried to cover with careless conversation. “You remember that stilt-walker in London?” he asked. “The one who juggled when he was up on his sticks? He was good. That was a rare place, that was. How much did it cost to stay in that tavern in London?”

  Thomas could not remember. “A few pennies, perhaps.”

  “I mean, they’ll cheat you, won’t they?” Robbie asked anxiously.

  “Who will?”

  “Tavern-keepers.”

  “They’ll drive a bargain,” Thomas said, “but they’d rather take a penny off you than get nothing. Besides, you can lodge in monasteries most nights.”

  “Aye, that’s true. But you have to give them something, don’t you?”

  “Just a coin,” Thomas said. They had emerged onto the bare summit of the ridge and Thomas looked about for enemies and saw none. He was puzzled by Robbie’s odd questions, then realized that the Scotsman, who went into battle with apparent fearlessness, was nevertheless nervous at the prospect of tr
aveling alone. It was one thing to journey at home, where folk spoke your language, but quite another to set off for hundreds of miles through lands where a dozen strange tongues were used. “The thing to do,” Thomas said, “is find some other folk going your way. There’ll be plenty and they all want company.”

  “Is that what you did? When you walked from Brittany to Normandy?”

  Thomas grinned. “I put on a Dominican’s robe. No one wants a Dominican for company, but no one wants to rob one either. You’ll be fine, Robbie. Any merchant will want you as company. A young man with a sharp sword? They’ll be offering you the pick of their daughters to travel with them.”

  “I’ve given my oath,” Robbie said gloomily, then thought for a second. “Is Bologna near Rome?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ve a mind to see Rome. Do you think the Pope will ever move back there?”

  “God knows.”

  “I’d like to see it, though,” Robbie said wistfully, then grinned at Thomas. “I’ll say a prayer for you there.”

  “Say two,” Thomas said, “one for me and one for Genevieve.”

  Robbie fell silent. The moment for parting had almost come and he did not know what to say. They had curbed their horses, though Jake and Sam rode on until they could see down into the valley where the fires of Astarac’s burned thatch still sifted a small smoke into the chill air.

  “We’ll meet again, Robbie,” Thomas said, taking off his glove and putting out his right hand.

  “Aye, I know.”

  “And we’ll always be friends,” Thomas said, “even if we’re on different sides of a battle.”

  Robbie grinned. “Next time, Thomas, the Scots will win. Jesus, but we should have beaten you at Durham! We were that close!”

  “You know what archers say,” Thomas said. “Close don’t tally. Look after yourself, Robbie.”

  “I will.” They shook hands and just then Jake and Sam turned their horses and kicked back fast.

  “Men-at-arms!” Jake shouted.

  Thomas urged his horse forward until he could see down the road that led to Astarac and there, not half a mile away, were horsemen. Mailed horsemen with swords and shields. Horsemen under a banner that hung limp so he could not see its device, and squires leading sumpter horses loaded with long clumsy lances. A whole band of horsemen coming straight towards him, or perhaps towards the great plume of smoke that rose from where his men savaged the village in the neighboring valley. Thomas stared at them, just stared. The day had seemed so peaceful, so utterly empty of any threat, and now an enemy had come. For weeks they had been unmolested. Until now.

  And Robbie’s pilgrimage was forgotten, at least for the moment.

  For there was going to be a fight.

  And they all rode back west.

  JOSCELYN, LORD OF Béziers, believed his uncle was an old fool and, what was worse, a rich old fool. If the Count of Berat had shared his wealth it would have been different, but he was notoriously mean except when it came to patronizing the Church or buying relics like the handful of dirty straw he had purchased for a chest of gold from the Pope at Avignon. Joscelyn had taken one look at the Christ-child’s bedding and decided it was dunged straw from the papal stables, but the Count was convinced it was the first bed of Jesus and now he had come to the miserable valley of Astarac where he was hunting for even more relics. Exactly what, Joscelyn did not know, for neither the Count nor Father Roubert would tell him, but Joscelyn was convinced it was a fool’s errand.

  Yet, in recompense, he had command of thirty men-at-arms, though even that was a mixed blessing for the Count had given strict instructions that they were not to ride more than a mile from Astarac. “You are here to protect me,” he told Joscelyn, and Joscelyn wondered from what? A few coredors who would never dare attack real soldiers? So Joscelyn tried to organize a tournament in the village meadows, but his uncle’s men-at-arms were mostly older men, few had fought in recent years and they had become accustomed to a life of comfort. Nor would the Count hire other men, preferring to let his gold gather cobwebs. So even though Joscelyn tried to instill some fighting spirit into the men he had, none would fight him properly, and when they fought each other they did so half-heartedly. Only the two companions he had brought south to Berat had any enthusiasm for their trade, but he had fought them so often that he knew every move they would make and they knew his. He was wasting his time, and he knew it, and he prayed ever more fervently that his uncle would die. That was the only reason Joscelyn stayed in Berat, so he would be ready to inherit the fabulous wealth reputed to be stored in the castle’s undercroft and when he did, by God, he would spend it! And what a fire he would make with his uncle’s old books and papers. The flames would be seen in Toulouse! And as for the Countess, his uncle’s fifth wife, who was kept more or less locked up in the castle’s southern tower so that the Count could be sure that any baby she bore would be his and his alone, Joscelyn would give her a proper baby-making ploughing then kick the plump bitch back into the gutter she came from.

  He sometimes dreamed of murdering his uncle, but knew that there would inevitably be trouble, and so he waited, content that the old man must die soon enough. And while Joscelyn dreamed of the inheritance, the Count dreamed of the Grail. He had decided he would search what was left of the castle and, because the chapel was where the box had been found, he ordered a dozen serfs to prize up the ancient flagstones to explore the vaults beneath where, as he expected, he found tombs. The heavy triple coffins were dragged from the niches and hacked open. Inside the outer casket, as often as not, was a lead coffin and that had to be split apart with an axe and the metal peeled away. The lead was stored on a cart to be taken to Berat, but the Count expected a far greater profit every time the inner coffin, usually of elm, was splintered open. He found skeletons, yellow and dry, their fingerbones touching in prayer, and in a few of the coffins he found treasures. Some of the women had been buried with necklaces or bangles, and the Count tore away the desiccated shrouds to get what plunder he could, yet there was no Grail. There were only skulls and patches of skin as dark as ancient parchment. One woman still had long golden hair and the Count marvelled at it. “I wonder if she was pretty?” he remarked to Father Roubert. His voice sounded nasal and he was sneezing every few minutes.

  “She’s awaiting judgement day,” the friar, who disapproved of this grave-robbing, said sourly.

  “She must have been young,” the Count said, looking at the dead woman’s hair, but as soon as he tried to lift it from the coffin the fine tresses disintegrated into dust. In one child’s coffin there was an old chessboard, hinged so that it could fold into a shallow box. The squares, which on the Count’s chessboards in Berat were painted black, were distinguished by small dimples, and the Count was intrigued by that, but much more interested in the handful of ancient coins that had replaced the chess pieces inside the box. They showed the head of Ferdinand, first King of Castile, and the Count marveled at the fineness of the gold. “Three hundred years old!” he told Father Roubert, then pocketed the money and urged the serfs to hammer open another vault. The bodies, once they had been searched, were put back in their wooden coffins and then into their vaults to await the day of judgement. Father Roubert said a prayer over each reburial and something in his tone irritated the Count who knew he was being criticized.

  On the third day, when all the coffins had been pilfered and none had proved to hold the elusive Grail, the Count ordered his serfs to dig into the space beneath the apse where the altar had once stood. For a time it seemed there was nothing there except soil packed above the bare rock of the knoll on which the castle had been built, but then, just as the Count was losing heart, one of the serfs pulled a silver casket from the earth. The Count, who was well wrapped up against the cold, was feeling weak. He was sneezing, his nose was running and sore, his eyes were red, but the sight of the tarnished box made him forget his troubles. He snatched it from the serf and scuttled back into the daylight whe
re he used a knife to break the clasp. Inside was a feather. Just a feather. It was yellow now, but had probably once been white, and the Count decided it had to be from the wing of a goose. “Why would someone bury a feather?” he asked Father Roubert.

  “St. Sever is supposed to have mended an angel’s wing here,” the Dominican explained, peering at the feather.

  “Of course!” the Count exclaimed, and thought that would explain the yellowish color for the wing would probably have been colored gold. “An angel’s feather!” he said in awe.

  “A swan’s feather, more like,” Father Roubert said dismissively.

  The Count examined the silver casket, which was blackened from the earth. “That could be an angel,” he said, pointing to a curlicue of tarnished metal.

  “It could equally well not be.”

  “You’re not being helpful, Roubert.”

  “I pray for your success nightly,” the friar answered stiffly, “but I also worry about your health.”

  “It is just a blocked nose,” the Count said, though he suspected something worse. His head felt airy, his joints ached, but if he found the Grail all those troubles would surely vanish. “An angel’s feather!” the Count repeated wonderingly. “It’s a miracle! A sign, surely?” And then there was another miracle, for the man who had discovered the silver box now revealed that there was a wall at the back of the hard-packed earth. The Count thrust the silver box and its heavenly feather into Father Roubert’s hands, ran back and clambered up the pile of soil to examine the wall for himself. Only a scrap of it was visible, but that part was made from trimmed stone blocks and, when the Count seized the serf’s spade and rapped the stones, he convinced himself that the wall sounded hollow. “Uncover it,” he ordered excitedly, “uncover it!” He smiled triumphantly at Father Roubert. “This is it! I know it!”