Читать книгу Heretic - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 11

It had not occurred to Thomas that the beghard girl who was to die in the morning would be imprisoned in the castle. He had thought the town would have its own jail, but she had evidently been given into the garrison’s keeping and now she was screaming insults at the newly imprisoned men in the other cells and her noise was unsettling the archers and men-at-arms who had climbed Castillon d’Arbizon’s wall and taken the castle. The jailer’s plump wife, who spoke a little French, had shouted for the English to kill the girl. ‘She’s a beghard,’ the woman claimed, ‘in league with the devil!’

Sir Guillaume d’Evecque had agreed with the woman. ‘Bring her up to the courtyard,’ he told Thomas, ‘and I’ll hack off her damn head.’

‘She must burn,’ Thomas said. ‘That’s what the Church has decreed.’

‘So who burns her?’

Thomas shrugged. ‘The town sergeants? Maybe us, I don’t know.’

‘Then if you won’t let me kill her now,’ Sir Guillaume said, ‘at least shut her goddamned mouth.’ He drew his knife and offered it to Thomas. ‘Cut her tongue out.’

Thomas ignored the blade. He had still not found time to change out of his friar’s robe, so he lifted its skirts and went down to the dungeons where the girl was shouting in French to tell the captives in the other cells that they would all die and that the devil would dance on their bones to a tune played by demons. Thomas lit a rush lantern from the flickering remnants of a torch, then went to the beghard’s cell and pulled back the two bolts.

She quietened at the sound of the bolts and then, as he pushed the heavy door open, she scuffled back to the cell’s far wall. Jake had followed Thomas down the steps and, seeing the girl in the lantern’s dim light, he sniggered. ‘I can keep her quiet for you,’ he offered.

‘Go and get some sleep, Jake,’ Thomas said.

‘No, I don’t mind,’ Jake persisted.

‘Sleep!’ Thomas snapped, suddenly angry because the girl looked so vulnerable.

She was vulnerable because she was naked. Naked as a new-laid egg, arrow-thin, deathly pale, flea-bitten, greasy-haired, wide-eyed and feral. She sat in the filthy straw, her arms wrapped about her drawn-up knees to hide her nakedness, then took a deep breath is if summoning her last dregs of courage. ‘You’re English,’ she said in French. Her voice was hoarse from her screaming.

‘I’m English,’ Thomas agreed.

‘But an English priest is as bad as any other,’ she accused him.

‘Probably,’ Thomas agreed. He put the lantern on the floor and sat beside the open door because the stench in the cell was so overwhelming. ‘I want you to stop your screaming,’ he went on, ‘because it upsets people.’

She rolled her eyes at those words. ‘Tomorrow they are going to burn me,’ she said, ‘so you think I care if fools are upset tonight?’

‘You should care for your soul,’ Thomas said, but his fervent words brought no response from the beghard. The rush wick burned badly and its horn shade turned the dim light a leprous, flickering yellow. ‘Why did they leave you naked?’ he asked.

‘Because I tore a strip from my dress and tried to strangle the jailer.’ She said it calmly, but with a defiant look as though daring Thomas to disapprove.

Thomas almost smiled at the thought of so slight a girl attacking the stout jailer, but he resisted his amusement. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked instead.

She was still defiant. ‘I have no name,’ she said. ‘They made me a heretic and took my name away. I’m cast out of Christendom. I’m already halfway to the next world.’ She looked away from him with an expression of indignation and Thomas saw that Robbie Douglas was standing in the half-open door. The Scot was gazing at the beghard with a look of wonderment, even awe, and Thomas looked at the girl again and saw that under the scraps of straw and embedded filth she was beautiful. Her hair was like pale gold, her skin was unscarred from pox and her face was strong. She had a high forehead, a full mouth and sunken cheeks. A striking face, and the Scotsman just stared at her and the girl, embarrassed by his frank gaze, hugged her knees closer to her breasts.

‘Go,’ Thomas told Robbie. The young Scotsman fell in love, it seemed to Thomas, like other men became hungry, and it was plain from Robbie’s face that he had been struck by the girl’s looks with the force of a lance hammering into a shield.

Robbie frowned as though he did not quite understand Thomas’s instruction. ‘I meant to ask you,’ he said, then paused.

‘Ask me what?’

‘Back in Calais,’ Robbie said, ‘did the Earl tell you to leave me behind?’

It seemed an odd question in the circumstances, but Thomas decided it deserved a response. ‘How do you know?’

‘That priest told me. Buckingham.’

Thomas wondered why Robbie had even talked to the priest, then realized that his friend was simply making conversation so he could stay near to the latest girl he had fallen so hopelessly in love with. ‘Robbie,’ he said, ‘she’s going to burn in the morning.’

Robbie shifted uneasily. ‘She doesn’t have to.’

‘For God’s sake,’ Thomas protested, ‘the Church has condemned her!’

‘Then why are you here?’ Robbie asked.

‘Because I command here. Because someone has to keep her quiet.’

‘I can do that,’ Robbie said with a smile, and when Thomas did not respond the smile turned into a scowl. ‘So why did you let me come to Gascony?’

‘Because you’re a friend.’

‘Buckingham said I’d steal the Grail,’ Robbie said. ‘He said I’d take it to Scotland.’

‘We have to find it first,’ Thomas said, but Robbie was not listening. He was just looking hungrily at the girl who huddled in the corner. ‘Robbie,’ Thomas said firmly, ‘she’s going to burn.’

‘Then it doesn’t matter what happens to her tonight,’ the Scotsman said defiantly.

Thomas fought to suppress his anger. ‘Just leave us alone, Robbie,’ he said.

‘Is it her soul you’re after?’ Robbie asked. ‘Or her flesh?’

‘Just go!’ Thomas snarled with more force than he meant and Robbie looked startled, even belligerent, but then he blinked a couple of times and walked away.

The girl had not understood the English conversation, but she had recognized the lust on Robbie’s face and now turned it on Thomas. ‘You want me for yourself, priest?’ she asked in French.

Thomas ignored the sneering question. ‘Where are you from?’

She paused, as if deciding whether or not to answer, then shrugged. ‘From Picardy,’ she said.

‘A long way north,’ Thomas said. ‘How does a girl from Picardy come to Gascony?’

She hesitated again. She was, Thomas thought, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, which made her overripe for marriage. Her eyes, he noticed, had a curious piercing quality, which gave him the uncomfortable sensation that she could see right through to the dark root of his soul. ‘My father,’ she said. ‘He was a juggler and flame-eater.’

‘I’ve seen such men,’ Thomas said.

‘We went wherever we wished,’ she said, ‘and made money at fairs. My father made folk laugh and I collected the coins.’

‘Your mother?’

‘Dead.’ She said it carelessly as if to suggest she could not even remember her mother. ‘Then my father died here. Six months ago. So I stayed.’

‘Why did you stay?’

She gave him a sneering look as if to suggest the answer to his question was so obvious that it did not need stating, but then, presuming him to be a priest who did not understood how real people lived, she gave him the answer. ‘Do you know how dangerous the roads are?’ she asked. ‘There are coredors.’

‘Coredors?’

‘Bandits,’ she explained. ‘The local people call them coredors. Then there are the routiers who are just as bad.’ Routiers were companies of disbanded soldiers who wandered the highways in search of a lord to employ them and when they were hungry, which was most of the time, they took what they wanted by force. Some even captured towns and held them for ransom. But, like the coredors, they would regard a girl travelling alone as a gift sent by the devil for their enjoyment. ‘How long do you think I would have lasted?’ she asked.

‘You could have travelled in company?’ Thomas suggested.

‘We always did, my father and I, but he was there to protect me. But on my own?’ She shrugged. ‘So I stayed. I worked in a kitchen.’

‘And cooked up heresy?’

‘You priests do so love heresy,’ she said bitterly. ‘It gives you something to burn.’

‘Before you were condemned,’ Thomas said, ‘what was your name?’

‘Genevieve.’

‘You were named for the saint?’

‘I suppose so,’ she said.

‘And whenever Genevieve prayed,’ Thomas said, ‘the devil blew out her candles.’

‘You priests are full of stories,’ Genevieve mocked. ‘Do you believe that? You believe the devil came into the church and blew out her candles?’

‘Probably.’

‘Why didn’t he just kill her if he’s the devil? What a pathetic trick, just to blow out candles! He can’t be much of a devil if that’s all he does.’

Thomas ignored her scorn. ‘They tell me you are a beghard?’

‘I’ve met beghards,’ she said, ‘and I liked them.’

‘They are the devil’s spawn,’ Thomas said.

‘You’ve met one?’ she asked. Thomas had not. He had only heard of them and the girl sensed his discomfort.

‘If to believe that God gave all to everyone and wants everyone to share in everything, then I am as bad as a beghard,’ she admitted, ‘but I never joined them.’

‘You must have done something to deserve the flames.’

She stared at him. Perhaps it was something in his tone that made her trust him, but the defiance seemed to drain out of her. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall and Thomas suspected she wanted to cry. Watching her delicate face, he wondered why he had not seen her beauty instantly as Robbie had done. Then she opened her eyes and gazed at him. ‘What happened here tonight?’ she asked, ignoring his accusation.

‘We captured the castle,’ Thomas said.

‘We?’

‘The English.’

She looked at him, trying to read his face. ‘So now the English are the civil power?’

He supposed she had learned the phrase at her trial. The Church did not burn heretics, they merely condemned them, and then the sinners were handed to the civil power for their deaths. That way the Church kept clean hands, God was assured that his Church was undefiled and the devil gained a soul. ‘We are the civil power now,’ Thomas agreed.

‘So the English will burn me instead of the Gascons?’

‘Someone must burn you,’ Thomas said, ‘if you are a heretic.’

‘If?’ Genevieve asked, but when Thomas did not answer she closed her eyes and rested her head on the damp stones again. ‘They said I insulted God.’ She spoke tiredly. ‘That I claimed the priests of God’s Church were corrupt, that I danced naked beneath the lightning, that I used the devil’s power to discover water, that I used magic to cure people’s ills, that I prophesied the future and that I put a curse on Galat Lorret’s wife and on his cattle.’

Thomas frowned. ‘They did not convict you of being a beghard?’ he asked.

‘That too,’ she added drily.

He was silent for a few heartbeats. Water dripped somewhere in the dark beyond the door and the rush-light flickered, almost died and then recovered. ‘Whose wife did you curse?’ Thomas asked.

‘Galat Lorret’s wife. He’s a cloth merchant here and very rich. He’s the chief consul and a man who would like younger flesh than his wife.’

‘And did you curse her?’

‘Not just her,’ Genevieve said fervently, ‘but him too. Have you never cursed anyone?’

‘You prophesied the future?’ Thomas asked.

‘I said they would all die, and that is an evident truth.’

‘Not if Christ comes back to earth, as he promised,’ Thomas said.

She gave him a long, considering look and a small smile half showed on her face before she shrugged. ‘So I was wrong,’ she said sarcastically.

‘And the devil showed you how to discover water?’

‘Even you can do that,’ she said. ‘Take a forked twig and walk slowly across a field and when it twitches, dig.’

‘And magical cures?’

‘Old remedies,’ she said tiredly. ‘The things we learn from aunts and grandmothers and old ladies. Take iron from a room where a woman is giving birth. Everyone does it. Even you, priest, touch wood to avert evil. Is that piece of magic sufficient to send you to the fire?’

Again Thomas ignored her answer. ‘You insulted God?’ he asked her.

‘God loves me, and I do not insult those who love me. But I did say his priests were corrupt, which you are, and so they charged me with insulting God. Are you corrupt, priest?’

‘And you danced naked under the lightning,’ Thomas concluded the indictment.

‘To that,’ she said, ‘I plead guilty.’

‘Why did you dance?’

‘Because my father always said that God would give us guidance if we did that.’

‘God would do that?’ Thomas asked, surprised.

‘So we believed. We were wrong. God told me to stay in Castillon d’Arbizon and it only led to torture and tomorrow’s fire.’

‘Torture?’ Thomas asked.

Something in his voice, a horror, made her look at him, and then she slowly stretched out her left leg so that he could see her inner thigh and the raw, red, twisted mark that disfigured the white skin. ‘They burned me,’ she said, ‘again and again. That was why I confessed to being what I was not, a beghard, because they burned me.’ She was crying suddenly, remembering the pain. ‘They used red-hot metal,’ she said, ‘and when I screamed they said it was the devil trying to leave my soul.’ She drew up her leg and showed him her right arm, which had the same scars. ‘But they left these,’ she said angrily, suddenly revealing her small breasts, ‘because Father Roubert said the devil would want to suck them and the pain of his jaws would be worse than anything the Church could inflict.’ She drew her knees up again and was silent for a while as the tears ran down her face. ‘The Church likes to hurt people,’ she continued after a while. ‘You should know that.’

‘I do,’ Thomas said, and he very nearly lifted the skirts of his Dominican’s robe to show her the same scars on his body, the scars of the hot iron that had been pressed on his legs to make him reveal the secrets of the Grail. It was a torture that drew no blood for the Church was forbidden to draw blood, but a skilled man could make a soul scream in torment without ever breaking the skin. ‘I do,’ Thomas said again.

‘Then damn you,’ Genevieve said, recovering her defiance, ‘damn you and damn all the damned priests.’

Thomas stood and lifted the lantern. ‘I shall fetch you something to wear.’

‘Frightened of me, priest?’ she mocked.

‘Frightened?’ Thomas was puzzled.

‘By this, priest!’ she said and showed him her nakedness and Thomas turned away and closed the door on her laughter. Then, when the bolts were shot, he leaned on the wall and stared at nothing. He was remembering Genevieve’s eyes, so full of fire and mystery. She was dirty, naked, unkempt, pale, half starved and a heretic and he had found her beautiful, but he had a duty in the morning and he had not expected it. A God-given duty.

He climbed back to the yard to find everything quiet. Castillon d’Arbizon slept.

And Thomas, bastard son of a priest, prayed.

The tower stood in woodland a day’s ride east of Paris, on a low ridge not far from Soissons. It was a lonely place. The tower had once been home to a lord whose serfs farmed the valleys on either flank of the ridge, but the lord had died without children and his distant relatives had squabbled over ownership which meant the lawyers had become rich and the tower had decayed and the fields had been overgrown by hazel, and then by oak, and owls had nested in the high stone chambers where the winds blew and the seasons passed. Even the lawyers who had argued over the tower were now dead and the small castle was the property of a Duke who had never seen it and would never dream of living there, and the serfs, those that remained, worked fields closer to the village of Melun where the Duke’s tenant had a farm.

The tower, the villagers said, was haunted. White spirits wreathed it on winter nights. Strange beasts were said to prowl the trees. Children were told to stay away, though inevitably the braver ones went to the woods and some even climbed the tower to find it empty.

But then the strangers came.

They came with the faraway Duke’s permission. They were tenants, but they did not come to farm or to thin the ridge of its valuable timber. They were soldiers. Fifteen hard men, scarred from the wars against England, with mail coats and crossbows and swords. They brought their women who made trouble in the village and no one dared to complain because the women were as hard as the soldiers, but not as hard as the man who led them. He was tall, thin, ugly, scarred and vengeful. His name was Charles and he had not been a soldier and he never wore mail, but no one liked to ask him what he was or what he had been for his very glance was terrifying.

Stonemasons came from Soissons. The owls were ejected and the tower repaired. A new yard was made at the tower’s foot, a yard with a high wall and a brick furnace, and soon after that work was finished a wagon, its contents hidden by a linen canopy, arrived at the tower and the new gate in the yard’s wall slammed shut behind it. Some of the braver children, curious about the strange happenings at the tower, sneaked into the woods, but they were seen by one of the guards and they fled, terrified, as he pursued them, shouting, and his crossbow bolt narrowly missed a boy. No child went back. No one went there. The soldiers bought food and wine in the market, but even when they drank in Melun’s tavern they did not say what happened at the tower. ‘You must ask Monsieur Charles,’ they said, meaning the ugly, scarred man, and no one in the village would dare approach Monsieur Charles.

Smoke sometimes rose from the yard. It could be seen from the village, and it was the priest who deduced that the tower was now the home of an alchemist. Strange supplies were taken up the ridge and one day a wagon loaded with a barrel of sulphur and ingots of lead paused in the village while the carter drank wine. The priest smelt the sulphur. ‘They are making gold,’ he told his housekeeper, knowing she would tell the rest of the village.

‘Gold?’ she asked.

‘It is what the alchemists do.’ The priest was a learned man who might have risen high in the Church except that he had a taste for wine and was always drunk by the time the angelus bell sounded, but he remembered his student days in Paris and how he had once thought that he might join the search for the philosopher’s stone, that elusive substance which would meld with any metal to make it gold. ‘Noah possessed it,’ he said.

‘Possessed what?’

‘The philosopher’s stone, but he lost it.’

‘Because he was drunk and naked?’ the housekeeper asked. She had a dim memory of the story of Noah. ‘Like you?’

The priest lay on his bed, half drunk and fully naked, and he remembered the smoky workrooms of Paris where silver and mercury, lead and sulphur, bronze and iron were melted and twisted and melted again. ‘Calcination,’ he recited, ‘and dissolution, and separation, and conjunction, and putrefaction, and congelation, and cibation, and sublimation, and fermentation, and exaltation, and multiplication, and projection.’

The housekeeper had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Marie Condrot lost her child today,’ she told him. ‘Born the size of a kitten, it was. All bloody and dead. It had hair though. Red hair. She wants you to christen it.’

‘Cupellation,’ he said, ignoring her news, ‘and cementation, and reverberation, and distillation. Always distillation. Per ascendum is the preferred method.’ He hiccupped. ‘Jesus,’ he sighed, then thought again. ‘Phlogiston. If we could just find phlogiston we could all make gold.’

‘And how would we make gold?’

‘I just told you.’ He turned on the bed and stared at her breasts that were white and heavy in the moonlight. ‘You have to be very clever,’ he said, reaching for her, ‘and you discover phlogiston which is a substance that burns hotter than hell’s fires, and with it you make the philosopher’s stone that Noah lost and you place it in the furnace with any metal and after three days and three nights you will have gold. Didn’t Corday say they built a furnace up there?’

‘He said they made the tower into a prison,’ she said.

‘A furnace,’ he insisted, ‘to find the philosopher’s stone.’

The priest’s guess was closer than he knew, and soon the whole neighbourhood was convinced that a great philosopher was locked in the tower where he struggled to make gold. If he was successful, men said, then no one would need to work again for all would be rich. Peasants would eat from gold plate and ride horses caparisoned in silver, but some people noted that it was a strange kind of alchemy for two of the soldiers came to the village one morning and took away three old ox-horns and a pail of cow dung. ‘We’re bound to be rich now,’ the housekeeper said sarcastically, ‘rich in shit,’ but the priest was snoring.

Then, in the autumn which followed the fall of Calais, the Cardinal arrived from Paris. He lodged in Soissons, at the Abbey of St-Jean-de-Vignes which, though wealthier than most monastic houses, could still not cope with all the Cardinal’s entourage and so a dozen of his men took rooms in a tavern where they airily commanded the landlord to send the bill to Paris. ‘The Cardinal will pay,’ they promised, and then they laughed for they knew that Louis Bessières, Cardinal Archbishop of Livorno and Papal Legate to the Court of France, would ignore any trivial demands for money.

Though of late His Eminence had been spending it lavishly. It had been the Cardinal who restored the tower, built the new wall and hired the guards, and on the morning after he arrived at Soissons he rode to the tower with an escort of sixty armed men and fourteen priests. Halfway to the tower they were met by Monsieur Charles who was dressed all in black and had a long, narrow-bladed knife at his side. He did not greet the Cardinal respectfully as other men would, but nodded a curt acknowledgement and then turned his horse to ride beside the prelate. The priests and men-at-arms, at a signal from the Cardinal, kept their distance so they could not overhear the conversation.

‘You look well, Charles,’ the Cardinal said in a mocking voice.

‘I’m bored.’ The ugly Charles had a voice like iron dragging through gravel.

‘God’s service can be hard,’ the Cardinal said.

Charles ignored the sarcasm. The scar went from his lip to his cheekbone, his eyes were pouchy, his nose broken. His black clothes hung from him like a scarecrow’s rags and his gaze constantly flicked from side to side of the road as though he feared an ambush. Any travellers, meeting the procession, had they dared raise their eyes to see the Cardinal and his ragged companion, would have taken Charles to be a soldier, for the scar and the sword suggested he had served in the wars, but Charles Bessières had never followed a war banner. He had cut throats and purses instead, he had robbed and murdered, and he had been spared the gallows because he was the Cardinal’s eldest brother.

Charles and Louis Bessières had been born in the Limousin, the eldest sons of a tallow merchant who had given the younger son an education while the elder ran wild. Louis had risen in the Church as Charles had roamed dark alleys, but different though they were, there was a trust between them. A secret was safe between the tallow merchant’s only surviving sons and that was why the priests and the men-at-arms had been ordered to keep their distance.

‘How is our prisoner?’ the Cardinal asked.

‘He grumbles. Whines like a woman.’

‘But he works?’

‘Oh, he works,’ Charles said grimly. ‘Too scared to be idle.’

‘He eats? He is in good health?’

‘He eats, he sleeps and he nails his woman,’ Charles said.

‘He has a woman?’ The Cardinal sounded shocked.

‘He wanted one. Said he couldn’t work properly without one so I fetched him one.’

‘What kind?’

‘One from the stews of Paris.’

‘An old companion of yours, perhaps?’ the Cardinal asked, amused. ‘But not one, I trust, of whom you are too fond?’

‘When it’s all done,’ Charles said, ‘she’ll have her throat cut just like him. Simply tell me when.’

‘When he has worked his miracle, of course,’ the Cardinal said.

They followed a narrow track up the ridge and, once at the tower, the priests and the armed men stayed in the yard while the brothers dismounted and went down a brief winding stair that led to a heavy door barred with three thick bolts. The Cardinal watched his brother draw the bolts back. ‘The guards do not come down here?’ he asked.

‘Only the two who bring food and take away the buckets,’ Charles said, ‘the rest know they’ll get their throats cut if they poke their noses where they’re not wanted.’

‘Do they believe that?’

Charles Bessières looked sourly at his brother. ‘Wouldn’t you?’ he asked, then drew his knife before he shot the last bolt. He stepped back as he opened the door, evidently wary in case someone beyond the door attacked him, but the man inside showed no hostility, instead he looked pathetically pleased to see the Cardinal and dropped to his knees in reverence.

The tower’s cellar was large, its ceiling supported by great brick arches from which a score of lanterns hung. Their smoky light was augmented by daylight that came through three high, small, thickly barred windows. The prisoner who lived in the cellar was a young man with long fair hair, a quick face and clever eyes. His cheeks and high forehead were smeared with dirt, which also marked his long, agile fingers. He stayed on his knees as the Cardinal approached.

‘Young Gaspard,’ the Cardinal said genially and held out his hand so the prisoner could kiss the heavy ring that contained a thorn from Christ’s crown of death. ‘I trust you are well, young Gaspard? You eat heartily, do you? Sleep like a babe? Work like a good Christian? Rut like a hog?’ The Cardinal glanced at the girl as he said the last words, then he took his hand away from Gaspard and walked further into the room towards three tables, on which were barrels of clay, blocks of beeswax, piles of ingots, and arrays of chisels, files, augurs and hammers.

The girl, sullen, red-haired and dressed in a dirty shift that hung loose from one shoulder, sat on a low trestle bed in a corner of the cellar. ‘I don’t like it here,’ she complained to the Cardinal.

The Cardinal stared at her in silence for a good long time, then he turned to his brother, ‘If she speaks to me again, Charles, without my permission,’ he said, ‘whip her.’

‘She means no harm, your eminence,’ Gaspard said, still on his knees.

‘But I do,’ the Cardinal said, then smiled at the prisoner. ‘Get up, dear boy, get up.’

‘I need Yvette,’ Gaspard said, ‘she helps me.’

‘I’m sure she does,’ the Cardinal said, then stooped to a clay bowl in which a brownish paste had been mixed. He recoiled from its stench, then turned as Gaspard came to him, dropped to his knees again, and held up a gift.

‘For you, your eminence,’ Gaspard said eagerly, ‘I made it for you.’

The Cardinal took the gift. It was crucifix of gold, not a hand’s breadth high, yet every detail of the suffering Christ was delicately modelled. There were strands of hair showing beneath the crown of thorns, the thorns themselves could prick, the rent in his side was jagged edged and the spill of golden blood ran past his loincloth to his long thigh. The nail heads stood proud and the Cardinal counted them. Four. He had seen three true nails in his life. ‘It’s beautiful, Gaspard,’ the Cardinal said.

‘I would work better,’ Gaspard said, ‘if there was more light.’

‘We would all work better if there were more light,’ the Cardinal said, ‘the light of truth, the light of God, the light of the Holy Spirit.’ He walked beside the tables, touching the tools of Gaspard’s trade. ‘Yet the devil sends darkness to befuddle us and we must do our best to endure it.’

‘Upstairs?’ Gaspard said. ‘There must be rooms with more light upstairs?’

‘There are,’ the Cardinal said, ‘there are, but how do I know you will not escape, Gaspard? You are an ingenious man. Give you a large window and I might give you the world. No, dear boy, if you can produce work like this’ – he held up the crucifix – ‘then you need no more light.’ He smiled. ‘You are so very clever.’

Gaspard was indeed clever. He had been a goldsmith’s apprentice in one of the small shops on the Quai des Orfèvres on the Île de la Cité in Paris where the Cardinal had his mansion. The Cardinal had always appreciated the goldsmiths: he haunted their shops, patronized them and purchased their best pieces, and many of those pieces had been made by this thin, nervous apprentice who had then knifed a fellow apprentice to death in a sordid tavern brawl and been condemned to the gallows. The Cardinal had rescued him, brought him to the tower and promised him life.

But first Gaspard must work the miracle. Only then could he be released. That was the promise, though the Cardinal was quite sure that Gaspard would never leave this cellar unless it was to use the big furnace in the yard. Gaspard, though he did not know it, was already at the gates of hell. The Cardinal made the sign of the cross, then put the crucifix on a table. ‘So show me,’ he ordered Gaspard.

Gaspard went to his big work table where an object was shrouded in a cloth of bleached linen. ‘It is only wax now, your eminence,’ he explained, lifting the linen away, ‘and I don’t know if it’s even possible to turn it into gold.’

‘It can be touched?’ the Cardinal asked.

‘Carefully,’ Gaspard warned. ‘It’s purified beeswax and quite delicate.’

The Cardinal lifted the grey-white wax, which felt oily to his touch, and he carried it to one of the three small windows that let in the shadowed daylight and there he stood in awe.

Gaspard had made a cup of wax. It had taken him weeks of work. The cup itself was just big enough to hold an apple, while the stem was only six inches long. That stem was modelled as the trunk of a tree and the cup’s foot was made from the tree’s three roots that spread from the bole. The tree’s branches divided into filigree work that formed the lacy bowl of the cup, and the filigree was astonishingly detailed with tiny leaves and small apples and, at the rim, three delicate nails. ‘It is beautiful,’ the Cardinal said.

‘The three roots, your eminence, are the Trinity,’ Gaspard explained.

‘I had surmised as much.’

‘And the tree is the tree of life.’

‘Which is why it has apples,’ the Cardinal said.

‘And the nails reveal that it will be the tree from which our Lord’s cross was made,’ Gaspard finished his explanation.

‘That had not escaped me,’ the Cardinal observed. He carried the beautiful wax cup back to the table and set it down carefully. ‘Where is the glass?’

‘Here, your eminence.’ Gaspard opened a box and took out a cup that he offered to the Cardinal. The cup was made of thick, greenish glass that looked very ancient, for in parts the cup was smoky and elsewhere there were tiny bubbles trapped in the pale translucent material. The Cardinal suspected it was Roman. He was not sure of that, but it looked very old and just a little crude, and that was surely right. The cup from which Christ had drunk his last wine would probably be more fit for a peasant’s table than for a noble’s feast. The Cardinal had discovered the cup in a Paris shop and had purchased it for a few copper coins and he had instructed Gaspard to take off the ill-shapen foot of the glass which the prisoner had done so skilfully that the Cardinal could not even see that there had once been a stem. Now, very gingerly, he put the glass cup into the filigree wax bowl. Gaspard held his breath, fearing that the Cardinal would break one of the delicate leaves, but the cup settled gently and fitted perfectly.

The Grail. The Cardinal gazed at the glass cup, imagining it cradled in a delicate lacework of fine gold and standing on an altar lit by tall white candles. There would be a choir of boys singing and scented incense burning. There would be kings and emperors, princes and dukes, earls and knights kneeling to it.

Louis Bessières, Cardinal Archbishop of Livorno, wanted the Grail and, some months before, he had heard a rumour from southern France, from the land of burned heretics, that the Grail existed. Two sons of the Vexille family, one a Frenchman and the other an English archer, sought that Grail as the Cardinal did, but no one, the Cardinal thought, wanted the Grail as much as he did. Or deserved it as he did. If he found the relic then he would command such awesome power that kings and Pope would come to him for blessing and when Clement, the present Pope, died, then Louis Bessières would take his throne and keys – if only he possessed the Grail. Louis Bessières wanted the Grail, but one day, staring unseeing at the stained glass in his private chapel, he had experienced a revelation. The Grail itself was not necessary. Perhaps it existed, probably it did not, but all that mattered was that Christendom believed that it existed. They wanted a Grail. Any Grail, so long as they were convinced it was the true and holy, one and only Grail, and that was why Gaspard was in this cellar, and why Gaspard would die, for no one but the Cardinal and his brother must ever know what was being made in the lonely tower among the windswept trees above Melun. ‘And now,’ the Cardinal said, carefully lifting the green glass from its wax bed, ‘you must make the common wax into heavenly gold.’

‘It will be hard, your eminence.’

‘Of course it will be hard,’ the Cardinal said, ‘but I shall pray for you. And your freedom depends on your success.’ The Cardinal saw the doubt on Gaspard’s face. ‘You made the crucifix,’ he said, picking up the beautiful gold object, ‘so why can you not make the cup?’

‘It is so delicate,’ Gaspard said, ‘and if I pour the gold and it does not melt the wax then all the work will be wasted.’

‘Then you will start again,’ the Cardinal said, ‘and by experience and with the help of God you will discover the way of truth.’

‘It has never been done,’ Gaspard said, ‘not with anything so delicate.’

‘Show me how,’ the Cardinal ordered and Gaspard explained how he would paint the wax cup with the noxious brown paste that had repelled the Cardinal. That paste was made from water, burned ox-horn that had been pounded to powder and cow dung, and the dried layers of the paste would encase the wax and the whole would then be entombed in soft clay, which had to be gently pressed into place to cradle the wax, but not distort it. Narrow tunnels would run through the clay from the outside to the entombed wax, and then Gaspard would take the shapeless clay lump to the furnace in the yard where he would bake the clay and the beeswax inside would melt and run out through the tunnels and, if he did it well, he would be left with a hard clay mass within which was concealed a delicate cavity in the shape of the tree of life.

‘And the cow dung?’ the Cardinal asked. He was genuinely fascinated. All beautiful things intrigued him, perhaps because in his youth he had been denied them.

‘The dung bakes hard,’ Gaspard said. ‘It makes a hard shell around the cavity.’ He smiled at the sullen girl. ‘Yvette mixes it for me,’ he explained. ‘The layer closest to the wax is very fine, the outer layers are coarser.’

‘So the dung mixture forms the hard surface of the mould?’ the Cardinal asked.

‘Exactly.’ Gaspard was pleased that his patron and saviour understood.

Then, when the clay was cold, Gaspard would pour molten gold into the cavity and he must hope that the liquid fire would fill every last cranny, every tiny leaf and apple and nail, and every delicately modelled ridge of bark. And when the gold had cooled and become firm the clay would be broken away to reveal either a grail-holder that would dazzle Christendom or else a mess of misshapen gold squiggles. ‘It will probably have to be done in separate pieces,’ Gaspard said nervously.

‘You will try with this one,’ the Cardinal ordered, draping the linen cloth back over the wax cup, ‘and if it fails you will make another and try again, and then again, and when it works, Gaspard, I shall release you to the fields and to the sky. You and your little friend.’ He smiled vaguely at the woman, made the sign of a blessing over Gaspard’s head, then walked from the cellar. He waited as his brother bolted the door. ‘Don’t be unkind to him, Charles.’

‘Unkind? I’m his jailer, not his nurse.’

‘And he is a genius. He thinks he is making me a Mass cup, so he has no idea how important his work is. He fears nothing, except you. So keep him happy.’

Charles moved away from the door. ‘Suppose they find the real Grail?’

‘Who will find it?’ the Cardinal asked. ‘The English archer has vanished and that fool of a monk won’t find it in Berat. He’ll just stir up the dust.’

‘So why send him?’

‘Because our Grail must have a past. Brother Jerome will discover some stories of the Grail in Gascony and that will be our proof, and once he has announced that the records of the Grail exist then we shall take the cup to Berat and announce its discovery.’

Charles was still thinking of the real Grail. ‘I thought the Englishman’s father left a book?’

‘He did, but we can make nothing of it. They are the scribblings of a madman.’

‘So find the archer and burn the truth from him,’ Charles said.

‘He will be found,’ the Cardinal promised grimly, ‘and next time I’ll loose you on him, Charles. He’ll talk then. But in the meantime we must go on looking, but above all we must go on making. So keep Gaspard safe.’

‘Safe now,’ Charles said, ‘and dead later.’ Because Gaspard would provide the means for the brothers to go to Avignon’s papal palace and the Cardinal, climbing to the yard, could taste the power already. He would be Pope.

At dawn that day, far to the south of the lonely tower near Soissons, the shadow of Castillon d’Arbizon’s castle had fallen across the heap of timbers ready for the heretic’s burning. The firewood had been well constructed, according to Brother Roubert’s careful instructions, so that above the kindling and around the thick stake to which a chain had been stapled there were four layers of upright faggots that would burn bright, but not too hot and without too much smoke, so that the watching townsfolk would see Genevieve writhe within the bright flame and know that the heretic was going to Satan’s dominion.

The castle’s shadow reached down the main street almost to the west gate where the town sergeants, already bemused by the discovery of the dead watchman on the walls, stared up at the bulk of the castle’s keep outlined by the rising sun. A new flag flew there. Instead of showing the orange leopard on the white field of Berat it flaunted a blue field, slashed with a diagonal white band that was dotted with three white stars. Three yellow lions inhabited the blue field and those fierce beasts appeared and disappeared as the big flag lifted to an indifferent wind. Then there was something new to gape at for, as the town’s four consuls hurried to join the sergeants, men appeared at the top of one of the bastions that protected the castle gate and they dropped a pair of heavy objects from the rampart. The two things dropped, then jerked to a stop at the end of ropes. At first the watching men thought that the garrison was airing its bedding, then they saw that the lumps were the corpses of two men. They were the castellan and the guard, and they hung by the gate to reinforce the message of the Earl of Northampton’s banner. Castillon d’Arbizon was under new ownership.

Galat Lorret, the oldest and richest of the consuls, the same man who had questioned the friar in the church the previous night, was the first to gather his wits. ‘A message must go to Berat,’ he ordered, and he instructed the town’s clerk to write to Castillon d’Arbizon’s proper lord. ‘Tell the Count that English troops are flying the banner of the Earl of Northampton.’

‘You recognize it?’ another consul asked.

‘It flew here long enough,’ Lorret responded bitterly. Castillon d’Arbizon had once belonged to the English and had paid its taxes to distant Bordeaux, but the English tide had receded and Lorret had never thought to see the Earl’s banner again. He ordered the four remaining men of the garrison, who had been drunk in the tavern and thus escaped the English, to be ready to carry the clerk’s message to distant Berat and he gave them a pair of gold coins to hasten their ride. Then, grim-faced, he marched up the street with his three fellow consuls. Father Medous and the priest from St Callic’s church joined them and the townsfolk, anxious and scared, fell in behind.

Lorret pounded on the castle gate. He would, he decided, face the impudent invaders down. He would scare them. He would demand that they leave Castillon d’Arbizon now. He would threaten them with siege and starvation, and just as he was summoning his indignant words the two leaves of the great gate were hauled back on screeching hinges and facing him were a dozen English archers in steel caps and mail hauberks, and the sight of the big bows and their long arrows made Lorret take an involuntary step back.

Then the young friar stepped forward, only he was no longer a friar, but a tall soldier in a mail haubergeon. He was bare-headed and his short black hair looked as if it had been cut with a knife. He wore black breeches, long black boots and had a black leather sword belt from which hung a short knife and a long plain sword. He had a silver chain about his neck, a sign that he held authority. He looked along the line of sergeants and consuls, then nodded to Lorret. ‘We were not properly introduced last night,’ he said, ‘but doubtless you remember my name. Now it is your turn to tell me yours.’

‘You have no business here!’ Lorret blustered.

Thomas looked up at the sky, which was pale, almost washed out, suggesting that more unseasonably cold weather might be coming. ‘Father,’ he spoke to Medous now, ‘you will have the goodness to translate my words so everyone can know what is going on.’ He looked back to Lorret. ‘If you will not talk sense then I shall order my men to kill you and then I shall talk to your companions. What is your name?’

‘You’re the friar,’ Lorret said accusingly.

‘No,’ Thomas said, ‘but you thought I was because I can read. I am the son of a priest and he taught me letters. Now, what is your name?’

‘I am Galat Lorret,’ Lorret said.

‘And from your robes,’ Thomas gestured at Lorret’s fur-trimmed gown, ‘I assume you have some authority here?’

‘We are the consuls,’ Lorret said with what dignity he could muster. The other three consuls, all younger than Lorret, tried to look unworried, but it was difficult when a row of arrow heads glittered beneath the arch.

‘Thank you,’ Thomas said courteously, ‘and now you must tell your people that they have the good fortune to be back under the Earl of Northampton’s rule and it is his lordship’s wish that his people do not stand about the street when there is work to be done.’ He nodded at Father Medous who offered a stammering translation to the crowd. There were some protests, mainly because the shrewder folk in the square understood that a change of lordship would inevitably mean more taxes.

‘The work this morning,’ Lorret said, ‘is burning a heretic.’

‘That is work?’

‘God’s work,’ Lorret insisted. He raised his voice and spoke in the local language. ‘The people were promised time from their labour to watch the evil burned from the town.’

Father Medous translated the words for Thomas. ‘It is the custom,’ the priest added, ‘and the bishop insists that the people see the girl burn.’

‘The custom?’ Thomas asked. ‘You burn girls often enough to have a custom about it?’

Father Medous shook his head in confusion. ‘Father Roubert told us we must let the people see.’

Thomas frowned. ‘Father Roubert,’ he said, ‘that’s the man who told you to burn the girl slowly? To stand the faggots upright?’

‘He is a Dominican,’ Father Medous said, ‘a real one. It was he who discovered the girl’s heresy. He should be here.’ The priest looked about him as if expecting to see the missing friar.

‘He’ll doubtless be sorry to miss the amusement,’ Thomas said, then he gestured to his row of archers who moved aside so that Sir Guillaume, armoured in mail and with a great war sword in his hand, could bring Genevieve out of the castle. The crowd hissed and jeered at the sight of her, but their anger went silent when the archers closed up behind the girl and hefted their tall bows. Robbie Douglas, in a mail haubergeon and with a sword at his side, pushed through the archers and stared at Genevieve who now stood beside Thomas. ‘This is the girl?’ Thomas asked.

‘She is the heretic, yes,’ Lorret said.

Genevieve was staring at Thomas with some disbelief. The last time she had seen him he had been wearing a friar’s robes, yet now he was palpably not a priest. His mail haubergeon, a short coat that came to his thighs, was of good quality and he had polished it during the night, which he had spent guarding the cells so that no one would abuse the prisoners.

Genevieve was no longer ragged. Thomas had sent two of the castle’s kitchen maids to her cell with water, cloths and a bone comb so she could clean herself, and he had provided her with a white gown that had belonged to the castellan’s wife. It was a dress of expensively bleached linen, embroidered at its neck, sleeves and hem with golden thread, and Genevieve looked as though she had been born to wear such finery. Her long fair hair was combed back to a plait secured with a yellow ribbon. She stood beside him, surprisingly tall, with her hands tied before her as she stared defiantly at the townsfolk. Father Medous timidly gestured towards the waiting timbers as if to suggest that there was no time to waste.

Thomas looked again at Genevieve. She was dressed as a bride, a bride come to her death, and Thomas was astonished at her beauty. Was that what had offended the townsfolk? Thomas’s father had always declared that beauty provoked hate as much as love, for beauty was unnatural, an offence against the mud and scars and blood of common life, and Genevieve, so tall and slender and pale and ethereal, was uncommonly lovely. Robbie must have been thinking the same for he was staring at her with an expression of pure awe.

Galat Lorret pointed at the waiting pyre. ‘If you want folk to work,’ he said, ‘then get the burning done.’

‘I’ve never burned a woman,’ Thomas said. ‘You must give me time to decide how best to do it.’

‘The chain goes round her waist,’ Galat Lorret explained, ‘and the blacksmith fastens it.’ He beckoned to the town’s smith who was waiting with a staple and hammer. ‘The fire will come from any hearth.’

‘In England,’ Thomas said, ‘it is not unknown for the executioner to strangle the victim under the cover of smoke. It is an act of mercy and done with a bowstring.’ He took just such a string from a pouch at his belt. ‘Is that the custom here?’

‘Not with heretics,’ Galat Lorret said harshly.

Thomas nodded, put the bowstring back in the pouch, then took Genevieve’s arm to walk her to the stake. Robbie started forward, as if to intervene, but Sir Guillaume checked him. Then Thomas hesitated. ‘There must be a document,’ he said to Lorret, ‘a warrant. Something which authorizes the civil power to carry out the Church’s condemnation.’

‘It was sent to the castellan,’ Lorret said.

‘To him?’ Thomas looked up at the fat corpse. ‘He failed to give it to me and I cannot burn the girl without such a warrant.’ He looked worried, then turned to Robbie. ‘Would you look for it? I saw a chest of parchments in the hall. Perhaps it’s there? Search for a document with a heavy seal.’

Robbie, unable to take his eyes from Genevieve’s face, looked as if he intended to argue, then he abruptly nodded and went into the castle. Thomas stepped back, taking Genevieve with him. ‘While we wait,’ he told Father Medous, ‘perhaps you will remind your townsfolk why she is to burn?’

The priest seemed flummoxed by the courteous invitation, but gathered his wits. ‘Cattle died,’ he said, ‘and she cursed a man’s wife.’

Thomas looked mildly surprised. ‘Cattle die in England,’ he said, ‘and I have cursed a man’s wife. Does that make me a heretic?’

‘She can tell the future!’ Medous protested. ‘She danced naked under the lightning and used magic to discover water.’

‘Ah.’ Thomas looked concerned. ‘Water?’

‘With a stick!’ Galat Lorret interjected. ‘It is the devil’s magic.’

Thomas looked thoughtful. He glanced at Genevieve who was trembling slightly, then he looked back to Father Medous. ‘Tell me, father,’ he said, ‘am I not right in thinking that Moses struck a rock with his brother’s staff and brought water from the stone?’

It had been a long time since Father Medous had studied the scriptures, but the story seemed familiar. ‘I remember something like it,’ he admitted.

‘Father!’ Galat Lorret said warningly.

‘Quiet!’ Thomas snarled at the consul. He raised his voice. ‘“Cumque elevasset Moses manum”,’ he was quoting from memory, but thought he had the words right, ‘“percutiens virga bis silicem egressae sunt aquae largissimae.”’ There were not many advantages to being the bastard son of a priest or to having spent some weeks at Oxford, but he had picked up enough learning to confound most churchmen. ‘You have not interpreted my words, father,’ he told the priest, ‘so tell the crowd how Moses struck the rock and brought forth a gush of water. And then tell me that if it pleases God to find water with a staff, how can it be wrong for this girl to do the same with a twig?’

The crowd did not like it. Some shouted and it was only the sight of two archers appearing on the rampart above the two dangling corpses that quietened them. The priest hurried to translate their protests. ‘She cursed a woman,’ he said, ‘and prophesied the future.’

‘What future did she see?’ Thomas asked.

‘Death.’ It was Lorret who answered. ‘She said the town would fill with corpses and we would lie in the streets unburied.’

Thomas looked impressed. ‘Did she foretell that the town would return to its proper allegiance? Did she say that the Earl of Northampton would send us here?’

There was a pause and then Medous shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.

‘Then she does not see the future very clearly,’ Thomas said, ‘so the devil cannot have inspired her.’

‘The bishop’s court decided otherwise,’ Lorret insisted, ‘and it is not up to you to question the proper authorities.’

The sword came from Thomas’s scabbard with surprising speed. The blade was oiled to keep it from rusting and it gleamed wetly as he prodded the fur-trimmed robe at Galat Lorret’s chest. ‘I am the proper authorities,’ Thomas said, pushing the consul backwards, ‘and you had best remember it. And I have never met your bishop, and if he thinks a girl is a heretic because cattle die then he is a fool, and if he condemns her because she does what God commanded Moses to do then he is a blasphemer.’ He thrust the sword a last time, making Lorret step hurriedly back. ‘What woman did she curse?’

‘My wife,’ Lorret said indignantly.

‘She died?’ Thomas asked.

‘No,’ Lorret admitted.

‘Then the curse did not work,’ Thomas said, returning the sword to its scabbard.

‘She is a beghard!’ Father Medous insisted.

‘What is a beghard?’ Thomas asked.

‘A heretic,’ Father Medous said rather helplessly.

‘You don’t know, do you?’ Thomas said. ‘It’s just a word for you, and for that one word you would burn her?’ He took the knife from his belt, then seemed to remember something. ‘I assume,’ he said, turning back to the consul, ‘that you are sending a message to the Count of Berat?’

Lorret looked startled, then tried to appear ignorant of any such thing.

‘Don’t take me for a fool,’ Thomas said. ‘You are doubtless concocting such a message now. So write to your Count and write to your bishop as well, and tell them that I have captured Castillon d’Arbizon and tell them more …’ He paused. He had agonized in the night. He had prayed, for he tried hard to be a good Christian, but all his soul, all his instincts, told him the girl should not burn. And then an inner voice had told him he was being seduced by pity and by golden hair and bright eyes, and he had agonized even more, but at the end of his prayers he knew he could not put Genevieve to the fire. So now he cut the length of cord that tied her bonds and, when the crowd protested, he raised his voice. ‘Tell your bishop that I have freed the heretic.’ He put the knife back in its sheath and put his right arm around Genevieve’s thin shoulders and faced the crowd again. ‘Tell your bishop that she is under the protection of the Earl of Northampton. And if your bishop wishes to know who has done this thing, then give him the same name that you provide to the Count of Berat. Thomas of Hookton.’

‘Hook ton,’ Lorret repeated, stumbling over the unfamiliar name.

‘Hookton,’ Thomas corrected him, ‘and tell him that by the grace of God Thomas of Hookton is ruler of Castillon d’Arbizon.’

‘You? Ruler here?’ Lorret asked indignantly.

‘And as you have seen,’ Thomas said, ‘I have assumed the powers of life and death. And that, Lorret, includes your life.’ He turned away and led Genevieve back into the courtyard. The gates banged shut.

And Castillon d’Arbizon, for lack of any other excitement, went back to work.

For two days Genevieve did not speak or eat. She stayed close to Thomas, watching him, and when he spoke to her she just shook her head. Sometimes she cried silently. She made no noise when she wept, not even a sob, she just looked despairing as the tears ran down her face.

Robbie tried to talk with her, but she shrank from him. Indeed she shuddered if he came too close and Robbie became offended. ‘A bloody goddamned heretic bitch,’ he cursed her in his Scottish accent and Genevieve, though she did not speak English, knew what he was saying and she just stared at Thomas with her big eyes.

‘She’s frightened,’ Thomas said.

‘Of me?’ Robbie asked indignantly, and the indignation seemed justified for Robbie Douglas was a frank-faced, snub-nosed young man with a friendly disposition.

‘She was tortured,’ Thomas explained. ‘Can’t you imagine what that does to a person?’ He involuntarily looked at the knuckles of his hands, still malformed from the screw-press that had cracked the bones. He had thought once he would never draw a bow again, but Robbie, his friend, had persevered with him. ‘She’ll recover,’ he added to Robbie.

‘I’m just trying to be friendly,’ Robbie protested. Thomas gazed at his friend and Robbie had the grace to blush. ‘But the bishop will send another warrant,’ Robbie went on. Thomas had burned the first, which had been discovered in the castellan’s iron-bound chest along with the rest of the castle’s papers. Most of those parchments were tax rolls, pay records, lists of stores, lists of men, the small change of everyday life. There had been some coins too, the tax yield, the first plunder of Thomas’s command. ‘What will you do?’ Robbie persisted. ‘When the bishop sends another warrant?’