“They’re all bastards,” Sir Henri said. “But the old Count of Berat wasn’t bad. He was mean, of course, and spent his life poking into books. Books! What use are they? He knew every book in Christendom, he did, and had read most of them twice, but he didn’t have the sense of a chicken! You know what he was doing in Astarac?”
“Looking for the Holy Grail?” Sir Guillaume asked.
“Exactly,” Sir Henri said and both men laughed. “Your friend’s there now,” Sir Henri added.
“Robbie Douglas?” Sir Guillaume asked coldly. He had no love for Robbie now.
“Not him, he’s at Berat. No, the archer and his heretic woman.”
“Thomas?” Sir Guillaume could not hide his surprise. “At Astarac? I told him to go home.”
“Well, he didn’t,” Sir Henri said. “He’s in Astarac. Why didn’t he just burn the girl?”
“He’s in love.”
“With the heretic? So he’s a prick-for-brains, is he? He won’t have either soon.”
“He won’t?”
“Some bastard’s come from Paris. Got a small army. Gone to catch him, which means there’ll be fires in Berat’s marketplace before long. You know what a priest told me once? That women burn brighter then men. Strange that.” Sir Henri pushed his chair back and stood. “So we’re agreed?”
“We’re agreed,” Sir Guillaume said and leaned over the table to shake the other man’s hand. Then Sir Henri picked up his armor and shield and beckoned the priest to follow him to the courtyard where he gazed up at the sky. “Looks like rain.”
“Get your armor under cover,” Sir Guillaume advised, knowing the advice was not needed.
“And light some fires, eh? Coldest autumn I can remember here.”
Sir Henri went. The gates slammed shut and Sir Guillaume climbed laboriously to the top of the castle keep. But he was not looking to watch where his amenable enemy was going, but east towards unseen Astarac, and wondering what he could do to help Thomas.
Nothing, he thought, nothing. And doubtless, he reckoned, the bastard from Paris was Guy Vexille, the man called the Harlequin, who had once given Sir Guillaume three wounds. Three wounds needing vengeance, but Sir Guillaume could do nothing now. For he was besieged and Thomas, he reckoned, was doomed.
CHARLES BESSIÈRES AND A HALF-DOZEN of his men went to the ossuary beneath the abbey church in search of plunder. one carried a burning candle and, by its uncertain light, they began hauling down the serried bones, evidently expecting to discover treasure, though all they revealed were more bones, but then one of them discovered the small chamber at the vault’s western end and shouted in triumph because it contained the big iron-bound chest. One of the men forced the chest’s lock with his sword and Bessières seized the silver paten and the candlestick. “Is that all?” he asked, disappointed. Another of his men found the grail box, but none of them could read and even if they could they would not have understood the Latin inscription and when they saw the box was empty they hurled it back down the vault to fall among the scattered bones. Charles Bessières then picked up the leather bag that supposedly contained St. Agnes’s girdle. He swore when he found it contained nothing but a length of embroidered linen, but the bag was big enough to hold the plundered silver. “They’ve hidden their wealth,” Bessières said.
“Or they’re poor,” one of his men suggested.
“They’re bloody monks! Of course they’re rich.” Bessières hung the bag of silver at his waist. “Go and find their damned abbot,” he told two of his men, “and we’ll beat the truth out of the bastard.”
“You will do nothing of the sort.” A new voice spoke and the men in the treasury chamber turned to see that Guy Vexille had come down to the ossuary. He was holding a lantern and its light glinted dark from his black-lacquered plate armor. He held the lantern high and looked at the tumbled bones. “Have you no respect for the dead?”
“Fetch the abbot.” Charles Bessières ignored Vexille’s question and spoke to his men instead. “Bring him here.”
“I have already sent for the abbot,” Vexille said, “and you will not beat any truth from him.”
“You don’t command me,” Bessières bridled.
“But I command my sword,” Vexille said calmly, “and if you cross me then I shall slit your belly open and spill your foul guts to feed the worms. You are here merely as your brother’s watchman, nothing else, but if you wish to do something useful then go to the lazar house and search it for the Englishman. But don’t kill him! Bring him to me. And put that silver back where you found it.” He nodded at the neck of the candlestick that protruded from the leather bag at Bessières’s waist.
Vexille was alone and facing seven men, but such was his confidence that none thought to oppose him. Even Charles Bessières, who feared few men, meekly put the silver down. “But I’m not leaving this valley empty-handed,” he growled as a parting defiance.
“I trust, Bessières,” Vexille said, “that we shall leave this valley with the greatest treasure of Christendom in our keeping. Now go.”
Vexille grimaced when the men went. He put the lantern on the floor and started putting the bones back in their alcoves, but he stopped when footsteps sounded on the steps. He turned then and watched as Planchard, tall and white-robed, came down to the ossuary.
“I apologize for this,” Vexille said, indicating the bones. “They were ordered to leave the abbey untouched.”
Planchard said nothing about the desecration; he just made the sign of the cross and then stooped to retrieve the bag of silver. “This passes for our treasury,” he said, “but we have never been a wealthy house. Still, you are welcome to steal these poor things.”
“I did not come here to steal,” Vexille said.
“Then why are you here?” Planchard demanded.
Vexille ignored the question. “My name,” he said instead, “is Guy Vexille, Count of Astarac.”
“So your men told me,” Planchard said, “when they summoned me to your presence.” He said the last words calmly as if to suggest he took no offense at such an indignity. “But I think I would have recognized you anyway.”
“You would?” Vexille sounded surprised.
“Your cousin was here. A young Englishman.” The abbot carried the silver back to the chest, then rescued the strip of linen, which he kissed reverently. “The two of you,” he went on, “bear a remarkable resemblance to each other.”
“Except he’s bastard born,” Vexille said angrily, “and a heretic.”
“And you are neither?” Planchard asked calmly.
“I serve Cardinal Archbishop Bessières,” Vexille said, “and His Eminence sent me here to find my cousin. Do you know where he is?”
“No,” Planchard said. He sat down on the bench and took a small string of prayer beads from a pocket of his white gown.
“He was here though?”
“Certainly he was here last night,” Planchard said, “but where is he now?” The abbot shrugged. “I advised him to leave. I knew men would come searching for him, if only for the pleasure of watching him burn, so I told him to hide himself. I would suggest that he is gone to the woods and your search will be difficult.”
“It was your duty,” Vexille said harshly, “to give him to the Church.”
“I have always tried to do my duty to the Church,” Planchard said, “and sometimes I have failed, but doubtless God will punish me for those failings.”
“Why was he here?” Vexille asked.
“I think you know that, my lord,” Planchard said, and there was, perhaps, a hint of mockery in the last two words.
“The Grail,” Vexille said. Planchard said nothing. He just counted his prayer beads, running them through his thumb and forefinger as he looked at the tall young man in black armor. “The Grail was here,” Vexille said.
“Was it?” Planchard asked.
“It was brought here,” Vexille insisted.
“I know nothing of it,” Planchard said.
/> “I think you do,” Vexille retorted. “It was brought here before the fall of Montségur, brought here to keep it safe. But then the French crusaders came to Astarac and the Grail was taken away again.”
Planchard smiled. “This all happened before I was born. How would I know of it?”
“Seven men took the grail away,” Vexille said.
“The seven dark lords,” Planchard said, smiling. “I have heard that story.”
“Two of them were Vexilles,” Guy Vexille said, “and four of them were knights who had fought for the Cathars.”
“Seven men fleeing the forces of France and the Church’s crusaders,” Planchard said musingly, “into a Christendom that hated them. I doubt they survived.”
“And the seventh man,” Vexille ignored the abbot’s words, “was the Lord of Mouthoumet.”
“Which was always an insignificant fief,” Planchard said dismissively, “scarce able to support two knights from its mountain pastures.”
“The Lord of Mouthoumet,” Vexille went on, “was a heretic.” He turned suddenly for a noise had come from deep in the ossuary. It had sounded something like a stifled sneeze and was followed by a rattle of bones. He lifted the lantern and walked back to where the arches had been desecrated.
“There are rats here,” Planchard said. “The abbey’s drains cross the end of the vault and we believe some of the brickwork has collapsed. You often hear strange noises down here. Some of the more superstitious brethren believe they are made by ghosts.”
Vexille was standing among the bones, the lantern held high, listening. He heard nothing more and so turned back to the abbot. “The Lord of Mouthoumet,” he said, “was one of the seven. And his name was Planchard.” Vexille paused. “My lord,” he added mockingly.
Planchard smiled. “He was my grandfather. He did not ride with the others, but went to Toulouse and threw himself on the mercy of the Church. He was lucky, I think, not to be burned, but he was reconciled with the true faith even though it cost him his fief, his title and what passed for his fortune. He died in a monastery. The tale was told in our family, of course it was, but we never saw the Grail and I can assure you that I know nothing of it.”
“Yet you are here,” Guy Vexille accused the abbot harshly.
“True,” Planchard acknowledged. “And I am here by design. I first entered this house as a young man and I came here because the tales of the dark lords intrigued me. One of them was supposed to have taken the Grail, and the others were sworn to protect him, but my grandfather claimed he never saw the cup. Indeed, he thought it did not exist, but was merely invented to tantalize the Church. The crusaders had destroyed the Cathars and the revenge of the dark lords was to make them think they had destroyed the Grail along with the heresy. That, I think, is the devil’s work.”
“So you came here,” Vexille asked scornfully, “because you did not believe the Grail existed?”
“No, I came here because if ever the descendants of the dark lords were to seek the Grail then they would come here, I knew that, and I wanted to see what would happen. But that curiosity died long ago. God gave me many years, He was pleased to make me abbot, and He has enfolded me in His mercy. And the Grail? I confess I searched for memories of it when I first came here, and my abbot chided me for that, but God brought me to my senses. I now think my grandfather was right and that it is a tale invented to spite the Church and a mystery to make men mad.”
“It existed,” Vexille said.
“Then I pray to God that I find it,” Planchard said, “and when I do I shall hide it in the deepest ocean so that no more folk will ever die in its pursuit. But what would you do with the Grail, Guy Vexille?”
“Use it,” Vexille said harshly.
“For what?”
“To cleanse the world of sin.”
“That would be a great work,” Planchard said, “but even Christ could not achieve it.”
“Do you abandon weeding between the vines simply because the weeds always grow back?” Vexille asked.
“No, of course not.”
“Then Christ’s work must go on,” Vexille said.
The abbot watched the soldier for a time. “You are Christ’s instrument? Or Cardinal Bessières’s tool?”
Vexille grimaced. “The Cardinal is like the Church, Plan-chard. Cruel, corrupt and evil.”
Planchard did not contradict him. “So?”
“So a new Church is needed. A clean Church, a sinless Church, a Church filled with honest men who live in God’s fear. The Grail will bring that.”
Planchard smiled. “The Cardinal, I am sure, would not approve.”
“The Cardinal sent his brother here,” Vexille said, “and doubtless he has orders to kill me when I have been useful.”
“And your usefulness is what?”
“To find the Grail. And to do that I must first find my cousin.”
“You think he knows where it is?”
“I think his father possessed it,” Guy Vexille said, “and I think the son knows of it.”
“He thinks the same of you,” Planchard said. “And I think the two of you are like blind men who each thinks the other can see.”
Vexille laughed at that. “Thomas,” he said, “is a fool. He brought men to Gascony for what? To find the Grail? Or to find me? But he failed and now he’s a fugitive. A good few of his men have pledged their allegiance to the Count of Berat and the rest are trapped at Castillon d’Arbizon and how long will they last? Two months? He has failed, Plan-chard, failed. He might be blind, but I see, and I will have him and I will take what he knows. But what do you know?”
“I have told you. Nothing.”
Vexille paced back to the chamber and stared at the abbot. “I could put you to the torture, old man.”
“You could,” Planchard agreed mildly, “and I would doubtless scream to be spared the torment, but you will find no more truth in those screams than I have told you willingly here.” He tucked his beads away and stood to his full height. “And I would beg you in the name of Christ to spare this community. It knows nothing of the Grail, it can tell you nothing, and it can give you nothing.”
“And I will spare nothing,” Vexille said, “in the service of God. Nothing.” He drew his sword. Planchard watched expressionless, and did not even flinch as the sword was pointed at him. “Swear on this,” Vexille said, “that you know nothing of the Grail.”
“I have told you all I know,” Planchard said and, instead of touching the sword, he raised the wooden crucifix that hung about his neck, and kissed it. “I will not swear on your sword, but I do make oath on my dear Lord’s cross that I know nothing of the Grail.”
“But your family still betrayed us,” Vexille said.
“Betrayed you?”
“Your grandfather was one of the seven. He recanted.”
“So he betrayed you? By cleaving to the true faith?” Plan-chard frowned. “Are you telling me you keep the Cathar heresy, Guy Vexille?”
“We come to bring light to the world,” Vexille said, “and to purge it of the Church’s foulness. I have kept the faith, Planchard.”
“Then you are the only man who has,” Planchard said, “and it is an heretical faith.”
“They crucified Christ for heresy,” Vexille said, “so to be named a heretic is to be one with Him.” Then he rammed the blade forward, into the base of Planchard’s throat, and the old man, amazingly, did not appear to put up any struggle, but just clutched his crucifix as the blood surged from his throat to turn his white robe red. He took a long time to die, but eventually he slumped over and Vexille withdrew his sword and wiped the blade clean on the hem of the abbot’s robe. He sheathed the blade and picked up the lantern.
He glanced about the ossuary, but saw nothing to worry him and so he climbed the stairs. The door shut, cutting off all light. And Thomas and Genevieve, hidden in the dark, waited.
THEY WAITED ALL NIGHT. It seemed to Thomas he did not sleep at all, but he must have dozed for
he woke once when Genevieve sneezed. Her wound was hurting, but she said nothing of it, just waited and half slept.
They had no idea when morning came for it was pitch dark in the ossuary. They had heard nothing all night. No footsteps, no screams, no chanted prayers, just the silence of the tomb. And still they waited until Thomas could abide the wait no longer and he wriggled out of their hole, across the bones and down to the floor. Genevieve stayed where she was as Thomas felt his way through the scattered bones to the stairs. He crept up, listened at the top for a while, heard nothing and so eased the broken door open.
The abbey church was empty. He knew it was morning for the light came from the east, but it was hard to tell how high the sun had risen for the light was soft-edged, diffuse, and Thomas guessed there was a morning fog.
He went back down to the ossuary. He kicked something wooden as he crossed the floor and he stooped to find the empty grail box. For a moment he was tempted to return it to its chest, then he decided to keep it. It would just fit into his bag, he reckoned. “Genevieve!” he called softly. “Come.”
She pushed their bags, his bow and the arrows, the mail and their cloaks across the bones, then followed, wincing at the pain in her shoulder. Thomas had to help her put on the mail and he hurt her when he lifted her arm. He put on his own, draped the cloaks about their shoulders, then strung his bow so he could wear it on his back. He belted his sword in place, put the box in his bag, which he hung from his belt, and then, carrying the arrow sheaves, turned to the stairs and saw, because just enough light spilled from the open door, the white robe in the treasury chamber. He motioned Genevieve to stay where she was and crept up the vault. Rats scampered away as he came to the low arch and there he stopped and stared. Planchard was dead.
“What is it?” Genevieve asked.
“The bastard killed him,” Thomas said in astonishment.
“Who?”
“The abbot!” He spoke in a whisper and, though he was excommunicated, he made the sign of the cross. “He killed him!” He had listened to the end of Vexille and Planchard’s conversation and had been puzzled that the abbot fell silent, and equally puzzled that he had only heard one set of feet climb the stairs, but he had never imagined this. Never. “He was a good man,” he said.