Warlord (Outlaw 4) (34 page)

Those were not my uppermost thoughts at the time, however. I was more concerned with my own demise. Sir Eustace stood before me as I sat there bound and helpless, the dripping lance-dagger in his hand and a killing gleam in his mad black eyes. He was breathing heavily, like a man who had just run a race. And I was certain that nothing would restrain him from plunging that blade into my breast.

The voice spoke again, nearer this time. ‘Eustace, command yourself! You will step away from Sir Alan.’

I wrenched my gaze away from the madman in front of me and glanced left towards the chapel door. Brother Michel was approaching fast, his sandals slapping the stone floor of the chapel like brisk applause. But it was the man walking beside him, a tall dark man in a long black robe, who made me gape in surprise. It was the man whom I had glimpsed in the garden, and the same
man I had seen lurking round and about me in the streets of Paris.

It was my old friend and comrade Reuben of York.

I was dimly aware that a dozen men wearing the white linen surcoats of the Knights of Our Lady had filed into the chapel behind these two men, but my eyes were locked on Reuben’s dark face. Was he friend or foe? What was he – a Jew – doing in this Christian abbey? And why had he been following me so relentlessly through the Paris streets?

Brother Michel stepped forward and placed his hands on the shoulders of Sir Eustace – and I could not help but stare in horrified fascination at the twin thumbs on his left hand. Brother Michel was oblivious to me; he was murmuring quietly to Eustace and eventually he turned him and led him away from my chair to a dim corner of the chapel where he began speaking to him urgently and yet rhythmically, the half-heard drone of his voice oddly soothing. I pulled my attention back to Reuben, standing before me, smiling sadly – his kindly brown face a little more worn, his dark hair now streaked with threads of grey – he looked far older than the last time I had seen him in the Holy Land. But I took comfort from his presence and from his first words:

‘I imagine that you must have many questions, Alan, my friend, but for the moment, keep your silence, I beg you, and know that I am here as Robin’s representative, and that I speak for him. I am so very sorry that I could not save Hanno – but I swear that, if it is in my power, I will not allow any harm to come to you. Hold your tongue and husband your courage, and we will see what can be salvaged from this situation.’

‘Cut me free, Reuben, and give me a weapon,’ I said, glancing at Hanno’s corpse, still slumped gorily against the restraining ropes, and my own voice sounded thick and clogged. I had it in my mind that I would kill Sir Eustace without delay – and Brother Michel too, if I could manage it – before the assembled Knights of Our
Lady, now standing quietly and watching us from the shadows of the chapel, cut me down.

‘Alas, Alan, I cannot do that yet,’ said Reuben. ‘I have told Brother Michel, in the most forceful terms, that killing you would certainly bring the wrath of the Earl of Locksley, and all his considerable might, down on his Order, ensuring its destruction, and possibly Robin’s too – and he has agreed to discuss the matter with me. But I cannot cut you free, not yet. Be patient.’

‘What are you doing here?’ I was still quite astonished to see him in front of me.

‘I am Bishop de Sully’s esteemed new doctor – I have been for three days now. But I fear that the poor man is slowly dying. The Crab is in his stomach, and he may last another year, maybe two at best. There is nothing I can do but make him as comfortable as I can.’

‘I don’t care about de Sully. I mean, what are you doing here in Paris?’

‘Robin summoned me from Montpellier and sent me here to watch over you – but no more questions now, Alan. Stay silent and allow me to see whether I can extricate us from this predicament.’

Over his shoulder I could see Brother Michel striding towards us, his handsome face serene. I was suddenly struck by something that had been in the back of my mind since I had first met him: he resembled Robin. But the resemblance was not one of flesh and bones, or in the angle of eye or mouth, but rather he had that air about him of invisible power and utter, iron-cast confidence, the conviction that whatever task he was about, however wrong it might appear to lesser men, it was the right thing to do because he was doing it. I had the bizarre sensation that if he ordered something, anything, I would obey him.

‘I fear you have upset poor Sir Eustace,’ he said.

I opened my mouth to reply, but caught Reuben’s eye and shut it with a snap.

‘I think perhaps it would be best,’ said Reuben, ‘if we all considered our positions in a calm and reasonable manner. First of all, let us have poor Hanno taken away for burial, and let us release Alan from his bonds, and then perhaps we could discuss this over a glass of wine.’

‘He stays there,’ Brother Michel said quietly. ‘Sir Alan is a formidable man, even unarmed – I am told he dispatched my Guillaume, an iron-hard fellow and skilled with a knife, in a matter of moments. Sir Alan, I’m afraid, must remain bound till we have determined his fate.’

‘But my dear Brother Michel …’ Reuben began in a soothing tone.

‘You may call me Master – Jew. I am the Master of the Order of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Our Lady and the Temple of Solomon,’ the monk’s voice was icy, and he drew himself up to his full height and made a bold gesture with his right hand behind him to the exquisite stained-glass window. ‘I serve the Queen of Heaven, the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of Our Lord Jesus Christ. And, knowing this, Jew, you will accord me the appropriate honour to my station and address me as Master!’

‘Very well, “Master” it shall be,’ said Reuben, with a wide agreeable smile. ‘Now, Master, could we perhaps—’

‘You fought in Spain,’ I said, looking directly at Brother Michel. It was somehow hard to look at him, as if he were a bright and shining light that burnt my eyes. Of course, it came from the low sun shining through the magnificent window behind him, but still its glare was painful and I closed my eyes and continued: ‘And you scrambled to the top of the dung pile, to the title of Master, over the bodies of your comrades. Even when they disbanded the Order, you kept it alive, in secret; a handful of knights at first, and then more, younger ones, men who wished to serve God with their swords but would never have been accepted as true Templars.’

‘You are insolent, my friend, but not inaccurate – do you think knowledge will help to save your life? Keep talking and we shall see. What else do you know?’

I opened my eyes and squinted at him through the harsh light. ‘I know that my father protected you from bullies at Notre-Dame and that you repaid his kindness by blackening his name and allowing him to take the blame for your crime against Bishop Heribert. I know that you are Trois Pouces!’

The superior smile on the Master’s face was wiped away by my words. He tucked his hands across his chest, back into their habitual position in the sleeves of his robe, and stared at me stone-faced.

‘I have not been called that for a long, long time,’ he said slowly. ‘And were it not for the dire threats that this Jew has made to me on behalf of the Earl of Locksley, I would kill you now, this very instant, for those words.’

He paused for a few moments, and I caught Reuben’s eye. He was frowning at me, glaring and shaking his head – it was almost comical. Then Brother Michel said: ‘But God has taught us that to lie is a sin, any lie, and indeed I must own my actions. Yes, I did steal from Bishop Heribert, and yes, I did allow your father to take the blame for my crime, and yes, I did order his death at the hands of Sir Ralph Murdac because I feared that he would expose me. I admit all of that, freely. And I will answer to God for it on Judgment Day – but, I tell you Sir Alan, I would do it all over again, a hundred times, if I had to. For I serve a higher purpose, one that soars above the concerns of petty morality, above the life or death of one man, even a dozen men, a hundred; I serve the highest purpose of all. I serve the Queen of Heaven! I serve Our Lady! All that I do, everything, from the moment I wake to the time I fall exhausted into my miserable cot, is directed towards that one aim. And every day, when I contemplate my sins, I can look out of my window and see that monument to
her greatness, the superb embodiment of her majesty, that goal that I strive for, rising, slowly, inexorably, week after week, month after month—’

‘The cathedral of Notre-Dame,’ I said.

‘Yes, Sir Alan, yes. The cathedral! It will be the most magnificent church in Christendom and a fitting tribute to the Mother of God. When I returned to Paris from Spain, my Order disbanded, destroyed by those blind fools of the Temple, I found that the work had almost ceased on the cathedral for lack of funds to pay the workmen. It was almost too much to bear: the Order gone, the grand church of Our Lady half-built, abandoned and silent. It was I who found the necessary silver for de Sully to continue the work; and it was I who breathed new life into the Knights of Our Lady. I saved them both – all for her glory!’

‘And does the venerable Bishop de Sully know that the money for the cathedral comes from banditry? That it comes to him stained by the blood of the travellers robbed and murdered by the likes of Guillaume du Bois?’

Brother Michel remained silent.

‘Does he?’

‘The cathedral is everything, nothing else matters. That impious old fool closes his eyes. I tell him the money comes from the donations of pilgrims, from the thousands of faithful who come to see Notre-Dame and pray before its holy relics, and he chooses to believe it. It is not important. Only the work of building for her glory is important.’

‘Your cathedral is built on the bones and bodies of murdered men and women; its stones are cemented with their blood – it is an abomination—’ I said, my anger rising like a red tide.

But the Master cut me off, saying too loudly: ‘You could not possibly understand the wonder of Our Lady and the gift of love she brings to the world …’

I stole a glance at Hanno’s body. ‘I understand that you are a
gore-glutted monster, a ghoul whose soul is crimson with the blood of innocent men—’ I was almost shouting.

The Master goggled at me: ‘You do not speak to me in that manner.’

I kept my eyes on my dead friend. ‘I understand that you are a weakling and a coward, who caused the deaths of men whose boots you are not fit to lick,’ I said very loudly, my anger making me insanely reckless.

‘Be silent or I will have you gagged!’ The Master was shouting now, too.

‘Alan, please, we must be reasonable about this,’ said Reuben.

‘You caused the deaths of my father, and the priest Jean of Verneuil, and Cardinal Heribert, and Master Fulk, and my loyal friend—’ my voice was harsh, crackling with rage.

‘Sergeant! I want him gagged, now.’ The Master was beckoning to one of the white-surcoated men-at-arms.

‘Alan, please moderate your language, it cannot do us any good to abuse the Master in his own chapel.’ I noticed that as Reuben spoke he was jiggling a small round clay pot in his hands, the kind of common vessel in which doctors store rare ointments. But I was beyond moderation by then: ‘You are a filthy worm, a soft, gelatinous, gently steaming turd! A man you cannot refuse? I refuse you. I refuse to give you the slightest shred of respect; the would-be killer who cowers in the shadows and orders other men to do his bloody work, urging them on to their slaughter in the name of the Mother of God. You are a God-damned, cowardly, three-thumbed, child-fucking pimp—’

The sergeant had managed to wrestle the gag around my mouth by then, a thick, musty-smelling woollen cloth that made it very hard to breathe, let alone rant and rave.

And I was finally silenced.

The Master was glaring at me: ‘You call me a coward? Do you think I am afraid of your master’s wrath? Do you think that I do
not dare to kill you for fear that the Earl of Locksley will fall on me with all his power and might? You are quite wrong!’

He turned to the sergeant standing behind me, and said: ‘Cut his lying throat, this instant!’

And Reuben moved. His arm went back and he threw the small round ointment pot, hard and fast, and directly at the gorgeous, stained-glass window that I had been staring at for the past few hours. The missile smashed straight through the glassy face of the Mother of God, destroying it and leaving a jagged yellow hole of streaming sunlight, an empty space in the spot from which Our Lady had once gazed down so compassionately.

Everything happened very fast.

The Master gave a huge shout of horror at Reuben’s throw. I felt a hard hand on my shoulder as the sergeant behind my chair readied himself to cut my throat. And Reuben was moving again. His brown hand dipped into his robe and emerged bearing a slim black-handled knife. In one smooth flowing movement, Reuben’s hand went back and flicked forward, and for a moment I thought the knife was coming for my face. It whirred past my cheek and I heard a thunk, and a wet, gurgling cry and the rough hand clamped on my shoulder slipped away.

The knights and men-at-arms of the Order had all begun to move towards us the moment the Master had screamed at the desecration of the lovely stained-glass image. They were pulling swords from their scabbards. Reuben had pulled another knife from somewhere. I tugged at my bonds once again but still could not move them.

The huge window exploded into a thousand pieces as a giant black-clad form smashed through it, scattering shards of jewel-like glass in all directions.

Everybody in the chapel froze as the giant figure rose from the wreckage of the window, shrugged off the thick black woollen canon’s robe that had protected him from the broken glass and
revealed itself to be a huge man with an ugly, red, battered face framed by two blond plaits. In his hands he carried an enormous double-headed war axe, and a round iron-bossed shield.

Little John threw back his head and bellowed a war-cry that seemed to shake the stone foundations of the chapel, then turned and, almost gracefully, sunk his mighty axe into the head of the nearest Knight of Our Lady, splitting the helmeted poll in two. He wrenched the blade free and, almost as a continuation of the same stroke, sliced into the waist of another unfortunate soldier. Now more dark figures were leaping through the smashed window – and there was Roland of Alle, and his father the Seigneur, swords in hand – and last of all a smaller figure that revealed itself to be Thomas, my brave squire.