Heretic (42 page)

“You lie like a child,” Thomas said scornfully. “You lie about one good man’s death? Then you lie about everything.” He turned and walked away.

“Thomas!” Guy called after him.

Thomas turned back. “You want the Grail, cousin? Then you fight for it. Maybe just you and me? You and your sword against me and my weapon.”

“Your weapon?” Guy asked.

“The Grail,” Thomas said curtly and, ignoring his cousin’s pleas, walked back to the castle.

“S
O WHAT DID HE OFFER?”
Sir Guillaume asked.

“All the kingdoms of the earth,” Thomas said.

Sir Guillaume sniffed suspiciously. “I smell something holy in that answer.”

Thomas smiled. “The devil took Christ into the wilderness and offered him all the kingdoms of the earth if he would give up his mission.”

“He should have accepted,” Sir Guillaume said, “and saved us a pile of trouble. So we can’t leave?”

“Not unless we fight our way out.”

“The ransom money?” Sir Guillaume asked hopefully.

“I forgot to ask about it.”

“Much bloody use you are,” Sir Guillaume retorted in English, then he switched back to French and sounded more cheerful. “But at least we have the Grail, eh? That’s something!”

“Do we?” Genevieve asked.

The two men turned to her. They were in the upper hall, bare of furniture now because the table and stools had been taken down to reinforce the barricade in the courtyard. All that was left was the big iron-bound chest that had the garrison’s money inside and there was plenty of that after a season of raiding. Genevieve sat on the chest; she had the beautiful golden Grail with its green cup, but she also had the box that Thomas had brought from St. Sever’s monastery, and now she took the cup from its golden nest and placed it in the box. The lid would not close because the glass cup was too big. The box, whatever it might have been made for, had not been made for this Grail. “Do we have the Grail?” she asked, and Thomas and Sir Guillaume stared at her as she showed how the cup would not fit in the box.

“Of course it’s the Grail,” Sir Guillaume said dismissively.

Thomas went to Genevieve and took the cup. He turned it in his hands. “If my father did have the Grail,” he asked, “how did it end up with Cardinal Bessières’s brother?”

“Who?” Sir Guillaume demanded.

Thomas stared at the green glass. He had heard that the Grail in Genoa Cathedral was made of green glass, and no one believed that was real. Was this the same grail? Or another green-glass fake? “The man I took it from,” he said, “was the brother of Cardinal Bessières, and if he already had the Grail, then what was he doing in Castillon d’Arbizon? He would have taken it to Paris, or to Avignon.”

“Sweet Jesus Christ,” Sir Guillaume said. “You mean that isn’t real?”

“One way to find out,” Thomas said, and he held the cup high. He saw the tiny specks of gold on the glass and he thought it was a beautiful thing, an exquisite thing, an old thing, but was it the real thing? And so he raised his hand higher, held the cup for another heartbeat and then let it drop to the floorboards.

Where the green glass shattered into a thousand fragments. “Sweet Jesus Christ,” Sir Guillaume said, “sweet Jesus goddamned bloody Christ.”

I
T WAS ON THE MORNING
after the fire had burned out so much of Castillon d’Arbizon that the first people died. Some died in the night, some at dawn, and the priests were busy carrying the consecrated wafers to houses where they would offer the last rites. The shrieks of bereaved families were loud enough to wake Joscelyn who snarled at his squire to go and silence the wretched noise, but the squire, who slept on straw in a corner of Joscelyn’s room, was shivering and sweating and his face had grown evil-looking dark lumps that made Joscelyn wince. “Get out!” he shouted at the squire and then, when the young man did not move, he kicked him towards the door. “Out! Out! Oh, Jesus! You shat yourself! Get out!”

Joscelyn dressed himself, pulling breeches and a leather coat over his linen shirt. “You’re not ill, are you?” he said to the girl who had shared his bed.

“No, lord.”

“Then get me bacon and bread, and mulled wine.”

“Mulled wine?”

“You’re a serving girl, aren’t you? So damn well serve me, then clean up that damned mess.” He pointed at the squire’s bed, then pulled on his boots and wondered why he had not been woken by the cannon which usually fired at cock-crow. The loam in the gun’s barrel set overnight and Signor Gioberti was of the opinion that the dawn shot did the most damage, yet this morning it had still not been fired. Joscelyn strode into the parlor of the house, shouting for the gunner.

“He’s sick.” It was Guy Vexille who answered. He was sitting in a corner of the room, sharpening a knife and evidently waiting for Joscelyn. “There is a contagion.”

Joscelyn strapped on his sword belt. “Gioberti’s sick?”

Guy Vexille sheathed the knife. “He’s vomiting, my lord, and sweating. He has swellings in his armpits and groin.”

“His men can fire the damned gun, can’t they?”

“Most of them are sick as well.”

Joscelyn stared at Vexille, trying to understand what he was hearing. “The gunners are sick?”

“Half the town seems to be sick,” Vexille said, standing. He had washed, put on clean black clothes and oiled his long black hair so that it lay sleek along his narrow skull. “I heard there was a pestilence,” he said, “but I didn’t believe it. I was wrong, God forgive me.”

“A pestilence?” Joscelyn was scared now.

“God punishes us,” Vexille said calmly, “by letting the devil loose, and we could not hope for a clearer sign from heaven. We have to assault the castle today, lord, seize the Grail and thus end the plague.”

“Plague?” Joscelyn asked, then heard a timid knock on the door and hoped it was the serving girl bringing him food. “Come in, damn you,” he shouted, but instead of the girl it was Father Medous who looked frightened and nervous.

The priest went on his knees to Joscelyn. “People are dying, lord,” he said.

“What in God’s name do you expect me to do?” Joscelyn asked.

“Capture the castle,” Vexille said.

Joscelyn ignored him, staring at the priest. “Dying?” he asked helplessly.

Father Medous nodded. There were tears on his face. “It is a pestilence, lord,” he said. “They sweat, vomit, void their bowels, show black boils and they’re dying.”

“Dying?” Joscelyn asked again.

“Galat Lorret is dead; his wife is ill. My own housekeeper has the sickness.” More tears rolled down Medous’s face. “It is in the air, lord, a pestilence.” He stared up at Joscelyn’s blank, round face, hoping that his lord could help. “It is in the air,” he said again, “and we need doctors, my lord, and only you can command them to come from Berat.”

Joscelyn pushed past the kneeling priest, ducked out into the street and saw two of his men-at-arms sitting in the tavern door with swollen faces running with sweat. They looked at him dully and he turned away, hearing the wailing and screeching of mothers watching their children sweat and die. Smoke from the previous day’s fire drifted thin through the damp morning and everything seemed covered in soot. Joscelyn shivered, then saw Sir Henri Courtois, still healthy, coming from St. Callic’s church and he almost ran and embraced the old man in his relief. “You know what’s happening?” Joscelyn asked.

“There is a pestilence, my lord.”

“It’s in the air, yes?” Joscelyn asked, snatching at what Father Medous had told him.

“I wouldn’t know,” Sir Henri said tiredly, “but I do know that more than a score of our men are sick with it, and three are already dead. Robbie Douglas is sick. He was asking for you, my lord. He begs you to find him a physician.”

Joscelyn ignored that request and sniffed the air instead. He could smell the remnants of the fires, the stench of vomit and dung and urine. They were the smells of any town, the everyday smells, yet somehow they seemed more sinister now. “What do we do?” he asked helplessly.

“The sick need help,” Sir Henri said. “They need physicians.” And gravediggers, he thought, but did not say it aloud.

“It’s in the air,” Joscelyn said yet again. The stink was rank now, besieging him, threatening him, and he felt a tremor of panic. He could fight a man, fight an army even, but not this silent insidious reek. “We go,” he decided. “Any man untouched by the disease will leave now. Now!”

“Go?” Sir Henri was confused by the decision.

“We go!” Joscelyn said firmly. “Leave the sick behind. Order the men to get ready and saddle their horses.”

“But Robbie Douglas wants to see you,” Sir Henri said. Joscelyn was Robbie’s lord and so owed him the duty of care, but Joscelyn was in no mood to visit the sick. The sick could damn well look after themselves and he would save as many men from the horror as he could.

They left within the hour. A stream of horsemen galloped out of the town, fleeing the contagion and riding for the safety of Berat’s great castle. Almost all of Joscelyn’s crossbowmen, abandoned by their knights and men-at-arms, followed and many of the townsfolk were also leaving to find a refuge from the pestilence. A good number of Vexille’s men vanished too, as did those few gunners who were not touched by the plague. They abandoned Hell Spitter, stole sick men’s horses and rode away. Of Joscelyn’s healthy men only Sir Henri Courtois stayed. He was middle-aged, he had lost his fear of death, and men who had served him for many years were lying in agony. He did not know what he could do for them, but what he could, he would.

Guy Vexille went to St. Callic’s church and ordered the women who were praying to the image of the saint and to the statue of the Virgin Mary to get out. He wanted to be alone with God and, though he believed the church was a place where a corrupted faith was practiced, it was still a house of prayer and so he knelt by the altar and stared at the broken body of Christ that hung above the altar. The painted blood flowed thick from the awful wounds and Guy gazed at that blood, ignoring a spider that span a web between the lance cut in the Saviour’s side and the outstretched left hand. “You are punishing us,” he said aloud, “scourging us, but if we do your will then you will spare us.” But what was God’s will? That was the dilemma, and he rocked back and forth on his knees, yearning for the answer. “Tell me,” he told the man hanging on the cross, “tell me what I must do.”

Yet he knew already what he must do: he must seize the Grail and release its power; but he hoped that in the church’s dim interior, beneath the painting of God enthroned in the clouds, a message would come. And it did, though not as he had wanted. He had hoped for a voice in the darkness, a divine command that would give him surety of success, but instead he heard feet in the nave and when he looked round he saw that his men, those that remained and were not sick, had come to pray with him. They came one by one as they heard he was at the altar, and they knelt behind him and Guy knew that such good men could not be beaten. The time had come to take the Grail.

He sent a half-dozen men through the town with orders to find every soldier, every crossbowman, every knight and man-at-arms who could still walk. They must arm themselves,” he said, “and we meet by the gun in one hour.”

He went to his own quarters, deaf to the cries of the sick and their families. His servant had been struck by the sickness, but one of the sons of the house where Guy had his room was still fit and Guy ordered him to help with his preparations.

First he put on leather breeches and a leather jerkin. Both garments had been made tight-fitting so that Vexille had to stand still while the clumsy boy tied the laces at the back of the jerkin. Then the lad took handfuls of lard and smeared the leather so it was well greased and would let the armor move easily. Vexille wore a short mail haubergeon over the jerkin that provided extra protection for his chest, belly and groin, and that too needed greasing. Then, piece by piece, the black plate armor was buckled into place. First came the four cuisses, the rounded plates that protected the thighs, and beneath them the boy buckled the greaves that ran from knee to ankle. Vexille’s knees were protected by roundels and his feet by plates of steel attached to boots that were buckled to the greaves. A short leather skirt on which were riveted heavy square plates of steel was fastened about his waist, and when that was adjusted Vexille lifted the plate gorget into place about his neck and waited as the youth did up the two buckles behind. Then the lad grunted as he lifted the breast-and backplates over Vexille’s head. The two heavy pieces were joined by short leather straps that rested on his shoulders and the plates were secured by more straps at his sides. Then came the rerebraces that protected his upper arms, and the vambraces that sheathed his forearms, the espaliers to cover his shoulders and two more roundels that armored his elbow joints. He flexed his arms as the boy worked, making sure that the straps were not so tight that he could not wield a sword. The gauntlets were of leather that had been studded with overlapping steel plates that looked like scales; then came the sword belt with its heavy black scabbard holding the precious blade made in Cologne.

The sword was a whole ell in length, longer than a man’s arm, and the blade was deceptively narrow, suggesting the sword might be fragile, but it had a strong central rib that stiffened the long steel and made it into a lethal lunging weapon. Most men carried cutting swords that blunted themselves on armor, but Vexille was a master with the thrusting blade. The art was to look for a joint in the armor and ram the steel through. The handle was sheathed with maple wood and the pommel and hand-guard were of steel. It bore no decoration, no gold leaf, no inscriptions on the blade, no silver inlay. It was simply a workman’s tool, a killing weapon, a fit thing for this day’s sacred duty.

“Sir?” the boy said nervously, offering Vexille the big tournament helm with its narrow eye slits.

“Not that one,” Vexille said. “I’ll take the bascinet and the coif.” He pointed to what he wanted. The big tournament helm gave very restricted vision and Vexille had learned to distrust it in battle for it prevented him seeing enemies at his flanks. It was a risk to face archers without any visor, but at least he could see them, and now he pulled the mail coif over his head so that it protected the nape of his neck and his ears, then took the bascinet from the boy. It was a simple helmet, with no rim and with no faceplate to constrict his vision. “Go and look after your family,” he told the boy, and then he picked up his shield, its willow boards covered with boiled, hardened leather on which was painted the yale of the Vexilles carrying its Grail. He had no talisman, no charm. Few men went to battle without such a precaution, whether it was a lady’s scarf or a piece of jewelry blessed by a priest, but Guy Vexille had only one talisman, and that was the Grail.