The Grail Quest Books 1-3: Harlequin, Vagabond, Heretic

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘If I were ugly,’ she asked, speaking for the first time since he had released her, ‘would I be alive?’

  ‘Yes,’ Thomas said.

  ‘So why did you let me live?’ she asked. . Thomas pulled up a sleeve and showed her the scars on his arm. ‘It was a Dominican who tortured me too,’ he said.

  ‘Burning?’

  ‘Burning,’ Thomas said.

  She rose from her knees and put her arms about his neck and her head on his shoulder and held him. She said nothing, nor did he, neither did they move. Thomas was remembering the pain, humiliation, terror, and suddenly felt as if he wanted to cry.

  And then the hall door squealed open and someone came in. Thomas had his back to the door so could not see who it was, but Genevieve raised her head to look at whoever had interrupted them and there was a moment’s silence, then the sound of the door closing and footsteps going back down the stairs. Thomas knew it had been Robbie. He did not even need to ask.

  Genevieve put her head back on his shoulder. She said nothing. He could feel her heart beating.

  ‘The nights are the worst,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ Thomas said.

  ‘In daylight,’ she said, ‘there are things to look at. But in the dark there are only memories.’

  ‘I know.’

  She pulled her face back, leaving her hands linked behind his neck, and she looked at him with an expression of intense seriousness. ‘I hate him,’ she said, and Thomas knew she was talking of her torturer. ‘He was called Father Roubert,’ she went on, ‘and I want to see his soul in hell.’

  Thomas, who had killed his own torturer, did not know what to say, so retreated into an evasion. ‘God will look after his soul.’

  ‘God seems very far away sometimes,’ Genevieve said, ‘especially in the dark.’

  ‘You must eat,’ he said, ‘and you must sleep.’

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Thomas said, ‘you can,’ and he took her hands from his neck and led her back to the dais and behind the tapestry. He stayed there.

  And next morning Robbie was not talking to Thomas, but their estrangement was diffused because there was so much work to be done. Food had to be levied from the town and stored in the castle. The blacksmith had to be taught how to make English arrow heads, and poplars and ash were cut to make the shafts. Geese lost their wing feathers to fledge the arrows, and the work kept Thomas’s men busy, but they were still sullen. The jubilation that had followed their easy capture of the castle had been replaced by unrest and Thomas, whose first command this was, knew he had reached a crisis.

  Sir Guillaume d’Evecque, much older than Thomas, made it explicit. ‘It’s about the girl,’ he said. ‘She must die.’

  They were again in the great hall and Genevieve, sitting by the fire, understood this conversation. Robbie had come with Sir Guillaume, but now, instead of looking at Genevieve with longing, he watched her with hatred.

  ‘Tell me why,’ Thomas said. He had been rereading the copy of his father’s book with its strange hints about the Grail. It had been copied in a hurry and some of the handwriting was barely decipherable, and none of it made much sense, but he believed that if he studied it long enough then some meaning would emerge.

  ‘She’s a heretic!’ Sir Guillaume said.

  ‘She’s a goddamned witch,’ Robbie put in vehemently. He spoke some French now, enough to understand the conversation, but preferred to make his protest in English.

  ‘She wasn’t accused of witchcraft,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Hell, man! She used magic!’

  Thomas put the parchment aside. ‘I’ve noticed,’ he said to Robbie, ‘that when you are worried you touch wood. Why?’

  Robbie stared at him. ‘We all do!’

  ‘Did a priest ever tell you to do it?’

  ‘We do it! That’s all.’

  ‘Why?’

  Robbie looked angry, but managed to find an answer. ‘To avert evil. Why else?’

  ‘Yet nowhere in the scriptures,’ Thomas said, ‘and nowhere in the Church Fathers’ writings will you find such a command. It is not a Christian thing, yet you do it. So must I send you to the bishop to stand trial? Or should I save the bishop’s time and just burn you?’

  ‘You’re blathering!’ Robbie shouted.

  Sir Guillaume hushed Robbie. ‘She is a heretic,’ the Norman said to Thomas, ‘and the Church has condemned her and if she stays here she will bring us nothing but ill luck. That’s what’s worrying the men. Jesus Christ, Thomas, but what good can come from harbouring a heretic? The men all know it will bring evil.’

  Thomas slapped the table, startling Genevieve. ‘You,’ he pointed at Sir Guillaume, ‘burned my village, killed my mother and murdered my father who was a priest, and you tell me of evil?’

  Sir Guillaume could not deny the charges any more than he could explain how he had become a friend of the man he had orphaned, but nor would he back down in the face of Thomas’s anger. ‘I know evil,’ he said, ‘because I have done evil. But God forgives us.’

  ‘God forgives you,’ Thomas asked, ‘but not her?’

  ‘The Church has decided otherwise.’

  ‘And I decided otherwise,’ Thomas insisted.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ Sir Guillaume said, ‘do you think you’re the bloody Pope?’ He had become fond of English curse words and used them interspersed with his native French.

  ‘She’s bewitched you,’ Robbie growled. Genevieve looked as if she would speak, then turned away. Wind gusted at the window and brought a spatter of rain onto the wide floorboards.

  Sir Guillaume looked at the girl, then back to Thomas. ‘The men won’t stand her,’ he said.

  ‘Because you worry them,’ Thomas snarled, although he knew that it was Robbie, not Sir Guillaume, who had caused the unrest. Ever since Thomas had cut Genevieve’s bonds he had worried about this, knowing his duty was to burn Genevieve and knowing he could not. His father, mad and angry and brilliant, had once laughed at the Church’s idea of heresy. What was heretical one day, Father Ralph had said, was the Church’s doctrine the next, and God, he had said, did not need men to burn people: God could do that very well for himself. Thomas had lain awake, agonizing, thinking, and knowing all the while that he wanted Genevieve too badly. It was not theological doubt that had saved her life, but lust, and the sympathy he felt for another soul who had suffered the Church’s torture.

  Robbie, usually so honest and decent, managed to control his anger. ‘Thomas,’ he said quietly, ‘think why we are here, and consider whether God will give us success if we have a heretic among us.’

  ‘I have thought of little else,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Some of the men are talking of leaving,’ Sir Guillaume warned him. ‘Of finding a new commander.’

  Genevieve spoke for the first time. ‘I will leave,’ she said. ‘I will go back north. I won’t be in your way.’

  ‘How long do you think you’ll live?’ Thomas asked her. ‘If my men don’t murder you in the yard then the townsfolk will kill you in the street.’

  ‘Then what do I do?’ she asked.

  ‘You come with me,’ Thomas said and he crossed to an alcove beside the door where a crucifix hung. He pulled it from its nail and beckoned to her and to Sir Guillaume and Robbie. ‘Come,’ he said.

  He led them to the castle yard where most of his men were gathering to discover the result of Sir Guillaume and Robbie’s deputation to Thomas. They murmured unhappily when Genevieve appeared and Thomas knew he risked losing their allegiance. He was young, very young to be the leader of so many men, but they had wanted to follow him and the Earl of Northampton had trusted him. This was his first test. He had expected to meet that test in battle, but it had come now and he had to solve it, and so he stood on the top of the steps that overlooked the yard and waited until every man was staring at him. ‘Sir Guillaume!’ Thomas called. ‘Go to one of the priests in the town and ask for a wafer. One that has already been
consecrated. One kept for the last rites.’

  Sir Guillaume hesitated. ‘What if they say no?’

  ‘You’re a soldier, they’re not,’ Thomas said and some of the men grinned.

  Sir Guillaume nodded, glanced warily at Genevieve, then gestured two of his men-at-arms to accompany him. They went unwillingly, not wanting to miss whatever Thomas was about to say, but Sir Guillaume growled at them and they followed him through the gate.

  Thomas held the crucifix high. ‘If this girl is the devil’s creature,’ he said, ‘then she cannot look at this and she cannot bear its touch. If I hold it in front of her eyes she will go blind! If I touch her skin it will bleed. You know that! Your mothers told you that! Your priests told you that!’

  Some of the men nodded and all stared open-mouthed as Thomas held the crucifix in front of Genevieve’s open eyes, and then touched it to her forehead. Some men held their breath and most looked puzzled when her eyes remained whole and her clear, pale skin unblemished.

  ‘She has the devil’s help,’ a man growled.

  ‘What kind of a fool are you?’ Thomas spat. ‘You claim she can escape by using the devil’s trickery? Then why was she here? Why was she in the cells? Why didn’t she unfold great wings and fly away?’

  ‘God prevented it.’

  ‘Then God would have made her skin bleed when the crucifix touched her,’ Thomas said, ‘wouldn’t He? And if she’s the devil’s creature she’ll have cat’s feet. You all know that!’ Many of the men muttered agreement for it was well known that those whom the devil favoured were given cats’ paws so they could creep about in the dark to work their evil. ‘Take your shoes off,’ Thomas ordered Genevieve, and when her feet were bare he pointed at them. ‘Some cat, eh? She won’t catch many mice with paws like that!’

  Two or three other men offered argument, but Thomas put them to scorn, and then Sir Guillaume came back and Father Medous accompanied him with a small silver casket that he kept ready to take the sacraments to a dying person. ‘It isn’t seemly,’ Father Medous began, but stopped when Thomas glared at him.

  ‘Come here, priest,’ Thomas said and Father Medous obeyed. Thomas took the silver casket from him. ‘She has passed one test,’ he said, ‘but all of you know, all of you, even in Scotland they know this,’ he paused and pointed at Robbie, ‘that the devil himself cannot save his creatures from the touch of Christ’s body. She will die! She will writhe in agony. Her flesh will fall away and the worms will wriggle where she stood. Her screams will be heard in heaven. You all know that!’

  They did know it and they nodded, and they watched as Thomas took a small piece of dry bread from the box and held it towards Genevieve. She hesitated, looking worriedly into Thomas’s eyes, but he smiled at her and she obediently opened her mouth and let him put the thick wafer on her tongue.

  ‘Kill her, God!’ Father Medous called. ‘Kill her! Oh Jesus, Jesus, kill her!’

  His voice echoed from the castle’s yard, then the echo died away as every man in the yard stared at the tall Genevieve as she swallowed.

  Thomas let the silence stretch, then he looked pointedly at Genevieve who still lived. ‘She came here,’ he told his men in English, ‘with her father. He was a juggler who collected pennies at fairs and she carried the hat. We’ve all seen folk like that. Stilt-walkers, fire-eaters, bear-handlers, jugglers. Genevieve collected the coins. But her father died and she was left here, a stranger, among folk who spoke a different language. She was like us! No one liked her because she came from far away. She didn’t even speak their language! They hated her because she was different, and so they called her a heretic. And this priest says she’s a heretic! But on the night I came here I was in his house and he has a woman who lives in his house and cooks for him and cleans for him, but he only has one bed.’ That got a laugh as Thomas had known it would. For all he knew Father Medous had a dozen beds, but the priest did not know what was being said. ‘She is no beghard,’ Thomas said, ‘you have just seen that for yourself. She is only a lost soul, like us, and folk took against her because she was not like them. So, if any of you still fear her and still think she will bring us bad luck, kill her now.’ He stepped back, arms folded, and Genevieve, who had not understood anything he said, looked at him with worry on her face. ‘Go on,’ Thomas said to his men. ‘You have bows, swords, knives. I have nothing. Just kill her! It won’t be murder. The Church says she must die, so if you want to do God’s work, do it.’ Robbie took a half-pace forward, then sensed the mood in the yard and stayed still.

  Then someone laughed, and suddenly they were all laughing and cheering and Genevieve still looked puzzled, but Thomas was smiling. He quietened them by raising his hands. ‘She stays,’ he said, ‘she lives, and you have work to do. So go and bloody do it.’

  Robbie spat in disgust as Thomas took Genevieve back to the hall. Thomas hung the crucifix in its niche and closed his eyes. He was praying, thanking God she had passed the test of the wafer. And, better still, that she was staying.

  Chapter 3

  Thomas spent his first fortnight readying for a siege. Castillon d’Arbizon’s castle possessed a well, which brought up a discoloured and brackish water but meant his men would never die of thirst; the old garrison’s storerooms, however, had contained only a few sacks of damp flour, a barrel of sprouting beans, a jar of rancid olive oil and some mouldering cheeses. So, day after day, Thomas sent his men to search the town and the nearby villages and now food was piling into the undercroft. Once those sources had been exhausted, he began raiding. This was war as he knew it, the kind of war that had ravaged Brittany from end to end and reached almost to the gates of Paris. Thomas would leave ten men as a castle guard and the rest would follow him on horseback to some village or farm that owed allegiance to the Count of Berat and they would take the livestock, empty the barns and leave the place burning. After two such raids Thomas was met by a delegation from a village who brought money so that his men would spare them from pillage, and next day two more embassies arrived with bags of coin. Men also came offering their services. Routiers heard there was money and plunder to be gained in Castillon d’Arbizon and before he had been in the town ten days Thomas commanded over sixty men. He had two mounted raiding parties leave each day, and almost every day he sold excess plunder in the marketplace. He divided the money into three parts, one for the Earl of Northampton, one for himself which he shared with Sir Guillaume and Robbie, and the third part for the men. Genevieve rode with him. Thomas had not wanted that. Taking women on raids was a distraction and he forbade any of the other men to bring their women, but Genevieve still feared Robbie and the handful of men who seemed to share his hatred of her, and so she insisted on riding alongside Thomas. She had discovered a small haubergeon in the castle stores and polished it with sand and vinegar until her hands were red and sore and the mail glowed like silver. It hung loose on her thin frame, but she belted it with a strip of yellow cloth and hung another strip of the same colour from the crown of her polished helmet, which was a simple iron cap padded with a leather liner. The people of Castillon d’Arbizon, when Genevieve of the silver mail rode into town at the head of a line of mounted men leading packhorses heaped with plunder and driving stolen cattle, called her a draga. Everyone knew about dragas, they were devil’s girls, capricious and deadly, and they dressed in glowing white. Genevieve was the devil’s woman, they said, and she brought the Englishmen the devil’s own luck. Strangely, that rumour made the majority of Thomas’s men proud of her. The archers among them had become accustomed to being called the hellequin in Brittany and they were perversely proud of that association with the devil. It made other men fearful, and so Genevieve became their symbol of good luck.

  Thomas had a new bow. Most archers, when their old bows wore out, simply purchased a new one from the supplies that were shipped from England, but there were no such supplies in Castillon d’Arbizon and, besides, Thomas knew how to make the weapon and loved doing it. He had found a good yew branch in G
alat Lorret’s garden and he had sawn and slashed away the bark and outer wood until he had a straight staff that was dark as blood on one half and pale as honey on the other. The dark side was the yew’s heart-wood that resisted compression, while the golden half was the springy sapwood; when the bow was finished the heartwood would fight against the cord’s pull and the sapwood would help snap the bow straight so the arrow would fly like a winged demon.

  The new weapon was even bigger than his old bow and sometimes he wondered if he was making it too big, but he persisted, shaping the wood with a knife until it had a thick belly and gently tapering ends. He smoothed, polished and then painted the bow, for the wood’s moisture had to be trapped in the timber if the bow was not to break, and then he took the horn nocks from his old bow and put them on the new. He also took the silver plate from the old bow, the piece of Mass cup that bore his father’s badge of a yale holding a grail, and he pinned it to the outer belly of the new bow that he had rubbed with beeswax and soot to darken the wood. The first time he strung it, bending the new staff to take the cord, he marvelled at the strength he needed, and the first time he shot it he watched astonished as the arrow soared out from the castle battlements.

  He had made a second bow from a smaller bough, this one a child’s bow that needed hardly any strength to draw, and he gave it to Genevieve who practised with blunt arrows and amused the men as she sprayed her missiles wildly about the castle’s yard. Yet she persevered, and there came a day when arrow after arrow struck the inner side of the gate.

  That same night Thomas sent his old bow to hell. An archer never threw a bow away, not even if it broke on him; instead, in a ceremony that was an excuse for drinking and laughter, the old bow was committed to the flames. It was being sent to hell, the archers said, going ahead to wait for its owner. Thomas watched the yew burn, saw the bow bend for the last time, then snap in a shower of sparks, and he thought of the arrows it had sent. His archers stood respectfully around the great hall’s hearth, and behind them the men-at-arms were silent, and only when the bow was a broken strip of ash did Thomas raise his wine. ‘To hell,’ he said in the old invocation.