by Alys Clare
‘Hmm.’ The man was still scowling.
Josse hurried to join Gus. ‘We’ll both help you,’ he said firmly. ‘With three of us heaving at this wheel, we ought to get it out of the rut.’
The man with the whip apparently saw the sense of that and reverted to pulling on the oxen’s harness and reminding the animals what was in store for them back in their pen. Soon the combined efforts of Josse, Gus and the other carter got the wheel moving and the cart trundled on its way.
The man who had been pushing at the wheel hung back, sweating and panting, to thank his unexpected helpers. ‘That’s a rare act of Christian kindness,’ he observed, wiping his face with a dirty scarf. ‘And we haven’t seen many of those around here of late, I can tell you.’
Nodding at Gus to see to the horses, Josse fell into step beside the man as he slowly followed behind the cart. ‘Looks to have been a bad business,’ he remarked, his gaze turning to the ruined castle. ‘He was after treasure, or so I heard.’
‘He was,’ the man agreed. He seemed as reluctant as Josse to refer to the late king by name. ‘Not that there was any. They say there was a pot of old coins, but I never saw hide nor hair of it. The rest of it — all that talk of huge gold statues and the like — was just a wild story. I have no idea who or what began it,’ he added piously.
I wonder, Josse thought. It seemed highly likely that something had started the rumour; people didn’t normally invent such things totally out of the blue. Perhaps some man out ploughing with his ox team — this ox team? — had turned up something else besides the gold coins and, although he had tried to hide his discovery and keep his new-found riches to himself, word had leaked out and, in time, reached the ears of the king. It was possible, Josse thought.
‘So the king ended up empty-handed,’ he said.
‘The king ended up dead,’ the man corrected him. ‘God save his soul,’ he added, giving Josse a crafty glance.
‘Amen,’ Josse murmured.
‘The aftermath was vicious,’ the man said heavily. ‘Oh, not straight away after he was shot — it all went quiet then, while everyone waited to see if- to see what would happen. The king, he sends for the archer who shot him and asks why, and the archer says, “Well, you killed my father and my brothers, and you were doing your best to kill me too, so do what you like with me and I’ll gladly accept it if it means you’ll be dead at the end of it, because it’ll be worth it.”’
‘That was quite a speech,’ Josse said, impressed.
‘The king thought so too. He forgave the archer and said he was to be released.’
‘Surely that was a Christian act?’ Josse said.
The man gave a bitter laugh. ‘It would have been, if the king’s orders had been obeyed.’
‘Oh. Weren’t they?’
‘No, of course not. Soon as he was dead, that captain of mercenaries of his got the archer back, flayed him alive and hanged him.’
Josse, who knew of the mercenary Mercadier and his reputation, said nothing.
‘They stormed the castle the night the king died,’ the man went on matter-of-factly. ‘Those who didn’t die in the fighting were hanged from the battlements.’
‘Nobody was left alive?’ Josse was hardly surprised; it was the usual way if a besieged castle refused to surrender and was ultimately defeated and, this time, the fury of the king’s men would have been further fuelled by his death.
‘Not a one, out of those caught inside.’ The man sighed. ‘They do say a few slipped out by night once it was certain what would happen, but who knows what’s become of them?’ He shrugged.
Who knows indeed? Josse thought.
They walked on in silence. Glancing round, Josse saw that Gus was pacing along behind, leading the horses. He said to the man beside him, ‘I’m looking for a knight by the name of Philippe de Loup. Have you heard of him?’ It was a long shot to suggest that if King Richard had come here to Chalus, then de Loup had come with him, but it was worth a try.
Immediately Josse was very glad he had made that try, for the man turned to spit in the ground and said, ‘Him. Yes, I have.’
‘I heard tell — ’ Josse lowered his voice to a murmur — ‘that he belongs to some strange group called the Thirteen Knights, or something, and I-’
‘I don’t know nothing about the Thirteen Nobles,’ the man said very firmly, although his unconscious correction of ‘Thirteen Knights’ to ‘Thirteen Nobles’ suggested quite the opposite.
‘But you know of de Loup?’
After a pause, the man said, ‘Yes.’
‘He has lands around here?’
The man shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. He came with the king, along with a few others including that light-eyed friend of his
… What’s his name?’ he added to himself, his brow creasing in concentration. There was a brief pause, and then he snapped his fingers and said, ‘Ambrois de Quercy, that’s the man.’
‘Is de Loup still here?’ It seemed too much to hope that he was.
‘No, he’s long gone,’ the man replied.
Josse felt himself slump in dejection. It had seemed promising for a moment and now ‘De Quercy’s not left, if that’s any use to you,’ the man said.
‘Where is he?’ The question snapped out of Josse and he hoped his informant would not take offence and clam up.
Fortunately, the man did not seem to have noticed; he was pointing into the distance, where beyond the woodland and the grieving women Josse could make out a group of tents. ‘That there’s where they tend the wounded. You’ll find de Quercy in the end tent.’
‘He was wounded in the fighting?’
The man laughed hoarsely. ‘No. He’s tortured with the bellyache and his bowels have turned to water. With any luck,’ he added viciously, ‘the bugger’ll die.’
A short while later, Josse and Gus drew up beside the tents and, dismounting, Josse handed over Horace’s reins. He had given the carter a couple of coins and, hiding them under his tunic so fast that they appeared to vanish, the man had laid a finger to the side of his nose and given Josse a wink, as if to say, All that’s our little secret, isn’t it? If the man dying of dysentery could put Josse on to de Loup’s trail, as he was fervently hoping he could, then those coins were a small price to pay.
He entered the tent. On both sides were rows of low cots and straw mattresses, each bearing a sick or wounded man. In attendance were black-clad nuns, vividly bringing to Josse’s mind the Hawkenlye nursing sisters, and one of them approached him with a look of enquiry on her weary face.
‘I seek Ambrois de Quercy,’ Josse said without preamble. The sister, he was sure, was in no mood for small talk.
‘Over there.’ She gestured. ‘Second cot down. He’s very sick,’ she added in a hiss. ‘You’d better be quick.’
Josse walked across to the bed where de Quercy lay. He did indeed look near death. His face was as pale as the linen sheet drawn up to his neck, and his eyes had sunk in his skull. His hair was wet with sweat.
‘Ambrois de Quercy?’ Josse said softly.
The man’s eyes flew open. They were pale and almost colourless. ‘Who wants to know?’ he rasped.
‘Hugh de Villiers,’ Josse said, making a name up out of the air.
‘What do you want?’ De Quercy’s eyes closed again.
‘I seek Philippe de Loup.’
The man smiled, the expression stretching his skin horribly. ‘You do, do you? You and a hundred others.’
Josse stored that away to think about later. ‘Is he here?’
‘No.’ Unconsciously echoing the carter’s words, de Quercy added, ‘Long gone.’
‘Where?’
The dying man’s eyes opened again. ‘Get me some water,’ he commanded, jerking his head towards a jug and a cup that stood on the floor beside his cot. Josse did as he was asked, holding the cup to de Quercy’s lips. After a couple of sips he turned his head away. Then, ‘Chartres.’
‘Chartres?’
&
nbsp; ‘Yes, he has gone to Chartres,’ the man repeated, saying the words with insulting slowness and clarity as if addressing an idiot.
‘Why?’ Josse was still stunned by the news.
‘They are building a new cathedral there. Have you not heard?’ De Quercy persisted with the same insulting tone. ‘De Loup wishes to make his own special contribution.’ The cracked, bleeding lips spread in a cruelly sardonic smile.
Why, Josse wondered, the emphasis on the word ‘special’? ‘You mean-’ he began.
But de Quercy had started coughing, so violently that his whole frame shook. Josse refilled the cup and offered it. De Quercy drank greedily, coughed some more and started to choke. One of the nuns hurried over, elbowed Josse out of the way and, putting one strong arm behind de Quercy’s shoulders, raised him up off his pillow. She thumped his back and a lump of something bloody shot out of his mouth to land with a plop on the sheet. The coughing lessened and then stopped, and she laid him back on his mattress, pulling back the stained sheet and sponging at it with her apron.
Josse stared down at de Quercy’s tunic, uncovered now. On the left breast, over the heart, there was a small embroidered insignia of a woman in a horned headdress standing in a boat shaped like the crescent moon.
Josse slipped out of the tent before anyone could think to ask just what he thought he had been doing disturbing a sick man like that. He hurried over to where Gus stood with the horses, and said curtly, ‘Mount up, Gus — we must get away from here.’
Gus instantly obeyed. As Josse set off up the track leading around the woodland and off to the north, kicking Horace to a canter and then, as people, animals and tents were quickly left behind, to a gallop, he could hear the hoofs of Gus’s horse pounding along behind. When they had been riding fast for some time, he slowed, then stopped. Turning to Gus, he told him what de Quercy had said.
‘Philippe de Loup’s gone to Chartres!’ Gus looked every bit as surprised as Josse had been. Then, surprise turning to apprehension, Gus whispered, ‘That’s where Abbess Helewise has gone.’
‘Aye, lad, I know, but I doubt she’ll be there yet,’ Josse said reassuringly, ‘and even if she is, de Loup doesn’t know her, nor she him. There’s no danger to her from him, I’m certain.’ He wasn’t quite as sure as he was making out, but there was no need to admit it. ‘Come on, Gussie,’ he added, quite sharply, for Gus was still shaking his head anxiously. ‘I need you to think.’
‘Sorry, Sir Josse. What am I to think about?’
Josse smiled, and Gus’s tense expression eased. ‘De Quercy told me that de Loup has gone to Chartres because they’re building the new cathedral and de Loup wants to make some special contribution,’ he explained. ‘Now what, young Gussie, are we to make of that?’
Gus rested an elbow on his saddle-bow and leaned on it. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment, ‘he could just have meant that, like most rich folk, de Loup is going to pay for a bit of glass, or a statue, or something.’
‘De Loup?’ Josse said disbelievingly. ‘The man who owns that evil tower and puts it to unimaginably terrible use?’
‘Maybe making a show of giving money for the new cathedral is intended to cover up how evil he is,’ Gus said shrewdly.
‘Perhaps.’ Josse sighed. ‘But it doesn’t seem right…’
‘On the other hand,’ Gus went on slowly, ‘maybe he’s planning mischief. Maybe “special contribution” means he’s going to do something destructive.’
‘The cathedral has suffered more than its fair share of mysterious fires,’ Josse murmured. ‘Is it- Could it be that a man of Philippe de Loup’s nature cannot bear to see something good and holy rising from the ashes, and so has gone to Chartres to make sure it doesn’t?’
‘They had a fire five years back.’ Gus spoke eagerly now, his words tumbling out. ‘One of the pilgrims back at Hawkenlye told me. Lightning struck the old cathedral and started the blaze and everyone feared that their precious relic had gone up in flames. At Chartres, they’ve got the Blessed Virgin’s nightgown, you know, Sir Josse, the one she wore when she gave birth to Our Lord.’
Josse smiled. ‘So I’ve heard, Gussie. I believe it’s called the Sancta Camisia.’
‘Anyway, it turned out that some of the old priests had managed to grab the nightie and they’d hidden in the crypt or something with it, and it was quite undamaged.’ His face awestruck, he whispered, ‘It was a miracle, wasn’t it, Sir Josse?’
‘Perhaps it was, Gussie, or-’
But Gus wasn’t listening. ‘What if someone like de Loup or one of his old knights started that fire and it wasn’t the lightning at all?’ he said. ‘And, now that they’re getting on with building the new cathedral, he’s gone to Chartres to burn that one down too?’
‘Why would he do that, Gussie?’ Josse asked, although, remembering the palpable malevolence in the room in the tower, he thought he already knew.
‘Because he’s bad,’ Gus said simply.
Josse had heard enough. He gathered his reins, nudged Horace’s sides with his knees and moved off. ‘Come on,’ he said. Gus, understanding, clicked to his horse and took up his place beside Josse.
By Josse’s best calculations, the abbess and her party could hardly have reached Chartres before today, but he and Gus were still two hundred miles away. They had been riding hard since they left Oleron; both they and their horses needed a few lazy days, not another long journey.
But that was just too bad.
Five
In a well-concealed encampment close to the city of Chartres, Joanna sat on the fringe of a circle of her people thinking back over the past two years. This was her third visit to the city and the tension in the air was far more noticeable than ever before. Her people’s habitual expression was one of serenity that changed readily and frequently to joy; now they moved through their daily round looking preoccupied and worried. What was more, as Joanna well knew, matters could only get worse.
The grave problem facing Joanna and all her kind was that the cathedral of Chartres had been built on one of their most sacred places. Beneath the hill where successive cathedrals had been sited there was an ancient sanctuary cave; within the cave, the Well of the Strong poured out its vital earth energy. To Joanna’s people, this precious, holy spot was the dwelling place of the Mother Goddess and for countless generations they had honoured her there, setting up her image in the form of a beautiful dark-wood statue of the fecund, heavily pregnant goddess.
The original church, they had told Joanna, had been erected over the sanctuary centuries ago, when the new religion started to spread. Successive constructions had followed, each larger and more ornate than its predecessor, each steadily nudging out the ancient spirituality of the site and putting in its place the version that the new priests believed to be the only one. Ironically, Joanna’s teacher said, the Virgin Mary, whom the new men worshipped, was not in fact very different in character and nature from the Mother Goddess. It was only the black-robed priests who insisted that it was heresy to say so.
For the people who still followed the old ways, this was the problem. To them, it did not matter in which guise the Great Mother was revered and they would have been perfectly happy to share their sacred place with the newcomers. To them, as the old teacher put it, all gods were one god and behind them was the truth. It was evident, as in the beginning they tried to explain to the new priests, that the power coming from the figure who now had to be called the Virgin Mary was the same dynamism that the people of the old religion had sensed so forcefully emanating from the Mother Goddess. As the decades and the centuries slowly passed, however, it became clear that the priests did not feel the same tolerance towards them.
The beginning of the end had come, the old teacher sadly told Joanna, when three hundred years ago Charles the Bald, grandson of Charlemagne, presented the cathedral with its most precious relic. Legend had it that this relic had been given to Charlemagne by the patriarch of Jerusalem while the great emperor was on a pilgrimag
e to the Holy City. It was, or so they said, the tunic worn by the Virgin Mary when she gave birth to her holy son.
‘And is it?’ Joanna had demanded.
The old man had sighed. ‘Child, it makes no difference whether it is or it isn’t. The pilgrims who come to the cathedral believe that it is and so to them that has become a truth. The garment itself has responded to the faith of the worshippers and, even were it not sacred to begin with, it has acquired sanctity now.’
Joanna had puzzled over this. ‘But if it isn’t the Virgin’s tunic — ’ and she could not find it in her to believe that it was, thinking it far more likely that a clever Jerusalem merchant had got hold of some old cloth and made several such garments to sell at great cost to gullible Crusaders — ‘how can it acquire sanctity?’
The old man took her hand and held it in a hard grip. ‘Because worship imbues a place, or indeed an object, with special powers,’ he said. His grip tightened. ‘That is why we are here, child! That is why we cannot give up our most sacred place without a struggle! It was holy from the start of time, which is why our forebears were first attracted to it. Over the centuries, our people have gone there to praise the Great Mother and take offerings to her, and they have poured out their love, their prayers, their hopes, joys, aspirations and sorrows into her receptive ears. She is there, she always was, and she always will be. But also we are there; she holds our past as a people.’ He paused, then added softly, ‘She holds our heart.’
Joanna understood as well as she believed she was going to. She understood quite enough, anyway, to pour her whole being into her people’s final battle to protect what was theirs. They had taught her well, those revered men and women, and in the course of her earlier visits she had absorbed everything that they had tried to explain to her. It had been tough; the elders were not known for being gentle or patient teachers. The first time, Joanna had been at the secret encampment outside the city for the entire summer and she had been made to study for long periods every single day. Her second visit, the previous autumn, had been shorter and its purpose had been to assemble as many of the people as possible to attend the great Samhain celebration at the end of October. That night was burned into Joanna’s heart, soul and mind; she knew she would never forget the moment when the elders had called to the people to add their power to the circle and the vast cone of power had risen up like a vortex from the depths of the ancient sanctuary to blast its light into the night sky. The good folk of Chartres had cowered in their beds and nervously reassured each other in the morning that it must have been a peculiar sort of lightning.
