The Grail Quest Books 1-3: Harlequin, Vagabond, Heretic (116 page)

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 hauber-geon. 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 hauber-geon 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 largissi-mae.”‘
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.’