‘You have powder?’
Gioberti gestured at the second wagon, loaded perilously high with kegs.
‘And missiles? Balls?’
‘Bolts, my lord,’ Gioberti corrected him, and pointed at yet another wagon. ‘We have more than enough.’
‘Then we shall all go!’ Joscelyn said enthusiastically. He was fascinated by the cannon, a thing as ugly as it was impressive. It was nine feet long, four feet across the bulbous breech, and had a squat, evil air. It looked devilish, an unnatural thing, and he was tempted to demand a demonstration right there in the castle’s courtyard, but he understood that such a demonstration would take precious time. Better to watch the device in action against the stubborn fools in Castillon d’Arbizon.
Sir Henri Courtois was already beginning that siege. When he reached the town he left his crossbowmen and men-at-arms outside the western gate and rode to the castle with only a young priest for company. He called up to the sentinels on the wall and, when Sir Guillaume saw it was only a single man-at-arms and a priest who wanted entrance he gave permission for the gates to be opened.
Sir Guillaume met the two men in the courtyard where Sir Henri dismounted and named himself. Sir Guillaume returned the courtesy, then the two men sized each other up. Each recognized the other as a soldier like himself. ‘I come from the Count of Berat,’ Sir Henri said formally.
‘Bring the money, did you?’ Sir Guillaume demanded.
‘I brought what I was ordered to bring and I doubt it will make you happy,’ Sir Henri said, then he took a long professional look at the archers and men-at-arms who had come to see the visitors. Tough bastards, he thought, before looking back to Sir Guillaume. ‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘Been riding all day. Do you have any wine in this place?’
‘Berat’s short of wine, is he?’ Sir Guillaume asked.
‘He’s short of sense,’ Sir Henri said, ‘but not of wine.’
Sir Guillaume smiled. ‘Inside,’ he said, then led his guest up the keep stairs to the upper hall and, because this conversation would affect the destiny of all the garrison, he allowed those men who were not on guard to follow and listen.
Sir Guillaume and Sir Henri sat either side of the long table. The priest, who was there as a token that Sir Henri meant no harm, sat as well, while the men-at-arms and archers stood against the wall. The fire was revived, wine and food served, and as that was being done Sir Henri unlooped the shield from about his neck, unbuckled his breastplate and backplate and laid them all on the floor. He stretched, then nodded thanks for the wine which he drained. Finally he took the sealed parchment from his pouch and pushed it across the table.
Sir Guillaume lifted the seal with his knife, unfolded the document and read it. He did so slowly, for he was not a good reader, and when he had read it twice he looked angrily at Sir Henri. ‘What the hell does this mean?’
‘I’ve not seen it,’ Sir Henri confessed. ‘May I?’ He reached for the parchment and the watching men of the garrison made a low threatening noise, sensing Sir Guillaume’s fury.
Sir Henri could not read so he gave the parchment to the priest who tilted it towards one of the high narrow windows. The priest was a very young man and nervous. He read it, glanced at the horribly scarred Sir Guillaume and looked even more nervous.
‘Tell us what it says,’ Sir Henri said. ‘No one’s going to kill you.’
‘It says two things,’ the priest said. ‘That Sir Guillaume and his men have two days to leave Castillon d’Arbizon unmolested.’
‘The other thing,’ Sir Guillaume snarled.
The priest frowned. ‘It is a draft of money from a man called Robert Douglas,’ he explained to Sir Henri, ‘and if Sir Guillaume presents it to Jacques Fournier then he will be paid six thousand, six hundred and sixty florins.’ He put the document onto the table as though it was smeared with poison.
‘Who, in Christ’s name,’ Sir Guillaume asked, ‘is Jacques Fournier?’
‘A goldsmith in Berat,’ Sir Henri explained, ‘and I doubt Jacques has that much cash in his cellars.’
‘Robbie arranged this?’ Sir Guillaume asked angrily.
‘Robbie Douglas is sworn to the Lord of Berat now,’ Sir Henri said. He had watched the brief ceremony when Robbie had sworn his allegiance, he had seen the kisses exchanged and noticed the look of triumph on Joscelyn’s face. ‘This is my lord’s doing.’
‘He thinks we’re fools?’
‘He thinks you won’t dare show your faces in Berat,’ Sir Henri said.
‘Cheated! Jesus Christ! We’ve been cheated!’ Sir Guillaume glared at his visitors. ‘Is this what passes for honour in Berat?’ he demanded, and when Sir Henri offered no answer, Sir Guillaume thumped the table. ‘I could hold you two prisoner!’ The men around the walls growled their agreement.
‘You could,’ Sir Henri agreed equably, ‘and I wouldn’t blame you. But the Count won’t ransom me and he certainly won’t ransom him.’ He nodded at the timid priest. ‘We’ll just be two more mouths to feed.’
‘Or two more corpses to bury,’ Sir Guillaume retorted.
Sir Henri shrugged. He knew that the offer of money from the goldsmith’s cellars was dishonourable, but it was not of his doing.
‘So you can tell your master,’ Sir Guillaume said, ‘that we’ll leave this castle when we have six thousand, six hundred and sixty florins. And every week you make us wait the price goes up by another hundred.’
His men murmured approval. Sir Henri did not seem surprised by the decision. ‘I’m here,’ he told Sir Guillaume, ‘to make sure you don’t leave. Unless you wish to go today or tomorrow?’
‘We stay,’ Sir Guillaume said. It was not a decision he had thought about, and he might have chosen differently had he been given the time to think, but being cheated of money was a sure way to rouse his pugnacity. ‘We stay, damn it!’
Sir Henri nodded. ‘Then I stay also.’ He pushed the parchment across the table. I’ll send a message to my lord and tell him that it would be sensible for young Douglas to pay the coins, that it will save money and lives if he does.’
Sir Guillaume took the parchment and thrust it into his jerkin. ‘You’re staying?’ he asked. ‘Where?’
Sir Henri looked at the men against the wall. These were not men he could surprise by a sudden escalade. Besides, Sir Henri’s own men were mostly the forces of the old Count and they had grown lazy, no match for this garrison. ‘You can hold the castle,’ he told Sir Guillaume, ‘but you don’t have enough men to garrison the two town gates. You’re leaving that to the constables and watchmen. So I’ll take over from them. You can always fight your way through, of course, but I’ll have crossbowmen on the gate towers and men-at-arms under the arches.’
‘You’ve faced English bowmen?’ Sir Guillaume asked threateningly.
Sir Henri nodded. ‘In Flanders,’ he said, ‘and I didn’t enjoy it. But how many archers can you afford to lose in a street brawl?’
Sir Guillaume acknowledged the sense of that. Send his archers against the town gates and they would be fighting at close quarters, shooting up from gardens, yards and windows, and Sir Henri’s crossbowmen would be crouched behind their pavises or behind windows in the houses and some of their quarrels would be bound to hit. In a few minutes Sir Guillaume could lose four or five bowmen and that would seriously weaken him. ‘You can have the town gates,’ he allowed.
Sir Henri poured himself more wine. ‘I’ve got forty-two men-at-arms,’ he revealed, ‘and thirty-three crossbows, and all the usual servants and women and clerks. They all need shelter. Winter’s coming.’
‘So freeze,’ Sir Guillaume suggested.
‘We could do that,’ Sir Henri agreed, ‘but I propose you let us use the houses between the west gate and St Callic’s church, and I’ll guarantee we won’t use any building east of Wheelwright’s Alley or south of Steep Street.’
‘You know the town?’ Sir Guillaume asked.
‘I was castellan here once. Long time ago.
’
Then you know about the mill gate?’ Sir Guillaume was referring to the small door in the town wall that led to the water mill, the gate that Thomas and Genevieve had used to escape.
‘I know about it,’ Sir Henri said, ‘but it’s too close to the castle and if I put men to guard it then your archers can skewer them from the tower’s top.’ He paused to drink the wine. ‘If you want me to besiege you, I can. I’ll close my men up to the castle and let the crossbows practise on your sentries, but you know and I know that we’ll only kill men and you’ll still be inside. I assume you have food?’
‘More than enough.’
Sir Henri nodded. ‘So I’ll stop your horsemen leaving by the two big gates. You can still slip men out of the mill gate, but so long as they don’t interfere with me, I’ll not notice them. You’ve got nets in the mill pond?’
‘We do.’
‘I’ll leave them alone,’ Sir Henri offered. ‘I’ll tell my men the mill’s out of bounds to them.’
Sir Guillaume thought about it, drumming his fingers on the table’s edge. There was a continual small murmur from the men against the wall as the French conversation was translated into English. ‘You can have the houses between the west gate and St Callic’s church,’ Sir Guillaume agreed after a moment, ‘but what about the taverns?’
‘Essential things,’ Sir Henri acknowledged.
‘My men like the Three Cranes.’
‘It’s a good house,’ Sir Henri said.
‘So your men stay away from it,’ Sir Guillaume demanded.
‘Agreed, but they can use the Bear and Butcher?’
‘Agreed,’ Sir Guillaume said, ‘but we’d also better insist now that no man can carry swords or bows to either.’
‘Knives only,’ Sir Henri said, ‘that’s sensible.’ Neither man wanted drunken soldiers conducting wild forays in the night. ‘And if any problems crop up,’ Sir Henri added, ‘I’ll come and talk to you.’ He paused, frowning as he tried to remember something. ‘You were in Flanders, weren’t you? With the Count of Coutances?’
‘I was in Flanders,’ Sir Guillaume confirmed, ‘with that spavined, gutless bastard.’ The Count, his liege lord, had treacherously turned against him and taken his land.
‘They’re all bastards,’ Sir Henri said. ‘But the old Count of Berat wasn’t bad. He was mean, of course, and spent his life poking into books. Books! What use are they? He knew every book in Christendom, he did, and had read most of them twice, but he didn’t have the sense of a chicken! You know what he was doing in Astarac?’
‘Looking for the Holy Grail?’ Sir Guillaume asked.
‘Exactly,’ Sir Henri said and both men laughed. ‘Your friend’s there now,’ Sir Henri added.
‘Robbie Douglas?’ Sir Guillaume asked coldly. He had no love for Robbie now.
‘Not him, he’s at Berat. No, the archer and his heretic woman.’
‘Thomas?’ Sir Guillaume could not hide his surprise. ‘At Astarac? I told him to go home.’
‘Well, he didn’t,’ Sir Henri said. ‘He’s in Astarac. Why didn’t he just burn the girl?’
‘He’s in love.’
‘With the heretic? So he’s a prick-for-brains, is he? He won’t have either soon.’
‘He won’t?’
‘Some bastard’s come from Paris. Got a small army. Gone to catch him, which means there’ll be fires in Berat’s marketplace before long. You know what a priest told me once? That women burn brighter then men. Strange that.’ Sir Henri pushed his chair back and stood. ‘So we’re agreed?’
‘We’re agreed,’ Sir Guillaume said and leaned over the table to shake the other man’s hand. Then Sir Henri picked up his armour and shield and beckoned the priest to follow him to the courtyard where he gazed up at the sky. ‘Looks like rain.’
‘Get your armour under cover,’ Sir Guillaume advised, knowing the advice was not needed.
‘And light some fires, eh? Coldest autumn I can remember here.’
Sir Henri went. The gates slammed shut and Sir Guillaume climbed laboriously to the top of the castle keep. But he was not looking to watch where his amenable enemy was going, but east towards unseen Astarac, and wondering what he could do to help Thomas.
Nothing, he thought, nothing. And doubtless, he reckoned, the bastard from Paris was Guy Vexille, the man called the Harlequin, who had once given Sir Guillaume three wounds. Three wounds needing vengeance, but Sir Guillaume could do nothing now. For he was besieged and Thomas, he reckoned, was doomed.
—«»—«»—«»—
Charles Bessières and a half-dozen of his men went to the ossuary beneath the abbey church in search of plunder. One carried a burning candle and, by its uncertain light, they began hauling down the serried bones, evidently expecting to discover treasure, though all they revealed were more bones, but then one of them discovered the small chamber at the vault’s western end and shouted in triumph because it contained the big iron-bound chest. One of the men forced the chest’s lock with his sword and Bessières seized the silver paten and the candlestick. ‘Is that all?’ he asked, disappointed. Another of his men found the grail box, but none of them could read and even if they could they would not have understood the Latin inscription and when they saw the box was empty they hurled it back down the vault to fall among the scattered bones. Charles Bessières then picked up the leather bag that supposedly contained St Agnes’s girdle. He swore when he found it contained nothing but a length of embroidered linen, but the bag was big enough to hold the plundered silver. ‘They’ve hidden their wealth,’ Bessières said.
‘Or they’re poor,’ one of his men suggested.
‘They’re bloody monks! Of course they’re rich.’ Bessières hung the bag of silver at his waist. ‘Go and find their damned abbot,’ he told two of his men, ‘and we’ll beat the truth out of the bastard.’
‘You will do nothing of the sort.’ A new voice spoke and the men in the treasury chamber turned to see that Guy Vexille had come down to the ossuary. He was holding a lantern and its light glinted dark from his black-lacquered plate armour. He held the lantern high and looked at the tumbled bones. ‘Have you no respect for the dead?’
‘Fetch the abbot.’ Charles Bessières ignored Vexille’s question and spoke to his men instead. ‘Bring him here.’
‘I have already sent for the abbot,’ Vexille said, ‘and you will not beat any truth from him.’
‘You don’t command me,’ Bessières bridled.
‘But I command my sword,’ Vexille said calmly, ‘and if you cross me then I shall slit your belly open and spill your foul guts to feed the worms. You are here merely as your brother’s watchman, nothing else, but if you wish to do something useful then go to the lazar house and search it for the Englishman. But don’t kill him! Bring him to me. And put that silver back where you found it.’ He nodded at the neck of the candlestick that protruded from the leather bag at Bessières’s waist.
Vexille was alone and facing seven men, but such was his confidence that none thought to oppose him. Even Charles Bessières, who feared few men, meekly put the silver down. ‘But I’m not leaving this valley empty-handed,’ he growled as a parting defiance.
‘I trust, Bessières,’ Vexille said, ‘that we shall leave this valley with the greatest treasure of Christendom in our keeping. Now go.’
Vexille grimaced when the men went. He put the lantern on the floor and started putting the bones back in their alcoves, but he stopped when footsteps sounded on the steps. He turned then and watched as Planchard, tall and white-robed, came down to the ossuary.
‘I apologize for this,’ Vexille said, indicating the bones. ‘They were ordered to leave the abbey untouched.’
Planchard said nothing about the desecration; he just made the sign of the cross and then stooped to retrieve the bag of silver. ‘This passes for our treasury,’ he said, ‘but we have never been a wealthy house. Still, you are welcome to steal these poor things.’
‘I did not c
ome here to steal,’ Vexille said.
‘Then why are you here?’ Planchard demanded.
Vexille ignored the question. ‘My name,’ he said instead, ‘is Guy Vexille, Count of Astarac’
‘So your men told me,’ Planchard said, ‘when they summoned me to your presence.’ He said the last words calmly as if to suggest he took no offence at such an indignity. ‘But I think I would have recognized you anyway.’
‘You would?’ Vexille sounded surprised.
‘Your cousin was here. A young Englishman.’ The abbot carried the silver back to the chest, then rescued the strip of linen, which he kissed reverently. ‘The two of you,’ he went on, ‘bear a remarkable resemblance to each other.’
‘Except he’s bastard born,’ Vexille said angrily, ‘and a heretic’
‘And you are neither?’ Planchard asked calmly.
‘I serve Cardinal Archbishop Bessières,’ Vexille said, ‘and His Eminence sent me here to find my cousin. Do you know where he is?’
‘No,’ Planchard said. He sat down on the bench and took a small string of prayer beads from a pocket of his white gown.
‘He was here though?’
‘Certainly he was here last night,’ Planchard said, ‘but where he is now?’ The abbot shrugged. ‘I advised him to leave. I knew men would come searching for him, if only for the pleasure of watching him burn, so I told him to hide himself. I would suggest that he is gone to the woods and your search will be difficult.’
‘It was your duty,’ Vexille said harshly, ‘to give him to the Church.’
‘I have always tried to do my duty to the Church,’ Planchard said, ‘and sometimes I have failed, but doubtless God will punish me for those failings.’
‘Why was he here?’ Vexille asked.
‘I think you know that, my lord,’ Planchard said, and there was, perhaps, a hint of mockery in the last two words.
‘The Grail,’ Vexille said. Planchard said nothing. He just counted his prayer beads, running them through his thumb and forefinger as he looked at the tall young man in black armour. ‘The Grail was here,’ Vexille said.
The Grail Quest Books 1-3: Harlequin, Vagabond, Heretic Page 106
