“I will,” the Bishop said, “but it will not be sufficient punishment.”
“The punishment can wait for God to give,” Joscelyn said and he grinned at Villesisle who grinned back. Then Joscelyn stepped carelessly towards his opponent, opening his right side to a blow; Villesisle understood he was being invited to make a swing and so give the appearance that the fight was real and he obliged, swinging his great, awkward blade in the expectation that Joscelyn would parry it, but instead Joscelyn stepped back and used his sword to propel the blow onwards so that Villesisle was spun around, carried by the heavy blade’s momentum and Joscelyn, cold-eyed and quick as lightning, brought his own blade back and gave it the merest flick of a wrist and the tip of the sword sliced into Villesisle’s throat. It stuck there, caught on Villesisle’s gullet, and Joscelyn pushed it forward, twisted the steel, pushed again and he was smiling as he did it and the blood was streaming down the blade, cascading from its edges and Joscelyn still smiled as Villesisle, a look of utter astonishment on his face, fell to his knees. His sword fell with a clang. Breath was bubbling red at the rent in his throat and now Joscelyn gave the sword a great shove so that it tore down into Villesisle’s chest. The dying man was caught there, suspended by the sword that had been rammed down his windpipe, and then Joscelyn gave the blade another twist, put both hands on the hilt and ripped the steel free with a monstrous heave that made Villesisle’s body shudder and blood fountain up across Joscelyn’s arms.
The spectators let out a breath as Villesisle fell sideways and died. His blood trickled between the yard’s cobbles to hiss where it met the fire.
Joscelyn turned and looked for the second man, Villesisle’s murderous companion, and that man tried to run, but he was caught by the other men-at-arms and thrust into the open space where he fell to his knees and begged Joscelyn for mercy. “He wants mercy,” Joscelyn called to the bishop. “Would you give it to him?”
“He deserves justice,” the bishop said.
Joscelyn wiped his bloody sword on the skirts of his jerkin, then sheathed it and looked at Sir Henri Courtois. “Hang him,” he ordered curtly.
“Lord…” the man began an appeal, but Joscelyn turned and kicked him in the mouth so hard that he dislocated the man’s jaw and, when the man recovered his balance, Joscelyn raked his foot back, half tearing off an ear with his spur. Then, in an apparent paroxysm of rage, Joscelyn leaned down to haul the bleeding man upright. He held him at arm’s length for a heartbeat and then, with all the strength of a man trained to the tournament, he threw him backwards. The man screamed as he tripped and fell into the fire. His clothes flared. The spectators gasped, some even looked away as the burning man tried to stagger free of the flames, but Joscelyn, risking being burned himself, thrust him back in. The man screamed again. His hair caught fire and blazed bright, he jerked in terrible spasms and then collapsed into the hottest part of the fire.
Joscelyn turned on the bishop. “Satisfied?” he asked, then walked away, brushing embers from his sleeves.
The bishop was not done. He caught up with Joscelyn in the great hall, which had now been stripped of its books and shelves, and where the new Count, thirsty after his exertions, was pouring himself red wine from a jug. Joscelyn turned a sour look on the bishop.
“The heretics,” the Bishop said. “They are in Astarac.”
“There are probably heretics everywhere,” Joscelyn said carelessly.
“The girl who killed Father Roubert is there,” the bishop insisted, “and the man who refused our orders to burn her.”
Joscelyn remembered the golden-haired girl in the silver armor. “That girl,” he said, interest in his voice, then he drained the cup and poured another. “How do you know they’re there?” he asked.
“Michel was there. He was told by the monks.”
“Ah yes,” Joscelyn said, “Michel.” He stalked towards his uncle’s squire with murder in his eyes. “Michel,” Joscelyn said, “who tells stories. Michel who runs to the bishop instead of coming to his new lord.”
Michel hurriedly stepped back, but the bishop saved him by stepping in front of Joscelyn. “Michel serves me now,” he said, “and to lay a hand on him is to attack the Church.”
“So if I kill him, as he deserves,” Joscelyn sneered, “you’ll burn me, eh?” He spat towards Michel, then turned away. “So what do you want?” he asked the bishop.
“I want the heretics captured,” the bishop said. He was nervous of this new and violent Count, but he forced himself to be brave. “I demand in the name of God and in the service of His Holy Church that you send men to find the beghard who was known as Genevieve and the Englishman who calls himself Thomas. I want them brought here. I want them burned.”
“But not before I have talked with them.” A new voice spoke, a voice as cutting as it was cold, and the Bishop and Joscelyn, indeed every man in the hall, turned to the door where a stranger had appeared.
Joscelyn had been aware, ever since he had stalked away from the courtyard, of the sound of hooves, but he had thought nothing of it. The castle had been loud with comings and goings all morning, but now he realized that strangers must have arrived in Berat and a half-dozen of them were now in the doorway of the hall. Their leader was the man who had spoken and he was taller even than Joscelyn, and spare, with a hard, long, sallow face that was framed with black hair. He was dressed all in black. Black boots, black breeches, black jerkin, black cloak, black broad-brimmed hat and a sword scabbard sheathed in black cloth. Even his spurs were made from black metal and Joscelyn, who had as much religion in his soul as an inquisitor possessed mercy, felt a sudden urge to make the sign of the cross. Then, when the man removed his hat, he recognized him. It was the Harlequin, the mysterious knight who had made so much money on the tournament fields of Europe, the one man Joscelyn had never beaten. “You’re the Harlequin,” Joscelyn said, accusation in his tone.
“I am sometimes known by that name,” the man said, and the bishop and all his clergy made the sign of the cross for the name meant that this man was beloved by the devil. Then the tall man took another step forward and added, “But my real name, my lord, is Guy Vexille.”
The name meant nothing to Joscelyn, but the bishop and his clergy all crossed themselves a second time and the bishop held out his staff as if to defend himself.
“And what the hell are you doing here?” Joscelyn demanded.
“I have come,” Vexille said, “to bring light to the world.”
And Joscelyn, fifteenth Count of Berat, shivered. He did not know why. He just knew he was frightened of the man called the Harlequin who had come to bring light to the darkness.
THE BONE-SETTER CLAIMED she could not do much, and whatever she did do caused Genevieve excruciating pain, but after it was done, and when her shoulder and left breast were soaked with new blood, Brother Clement gently cleaned her and then poured honey onto the wound, which he bound up with sacking again. The good thing was that Genevieve was suddenly ravenously hungry and she ate whatever Thomas brought her, though God knew that was little enough for his own raid on Astarac had left the village bereft of food and the monastery’s supplies had been depleted to feed the villagers. Still, there was some cheese, pears, bread and honey, and Brother Clement made more mushroom soup. The lepers, clappers sounding, went into the woods to find the mushrooms that were served to all the monks. Twice a day some of them rattled their way around the back of the monastery and up a flight of steps into a bare stone room where a small window overlooked the altar of the abbey church. This was where they were permitted to worship and Thomas, on his second and third day after his talk with Abbot Planchard, went with them. He did not go willingly, for his excommunication meant he was no longer welcome in any church, but Brother Clement would pluck his arm insistently, then smile with genuine pleasure when Thomas indulged him.
Genevieve came with him on the day after the bone-setter had made her scream. She could walk well enough, though she was still weak and could scarce
ly move her left arm. Yet the arrow had missed her lungs and that, Thomas decided, was why she had lived. That and Brother Clement’s care. “I thought I was going to die,” she confessed to Thomas.
He remembered the coming plague. He had heard no more about it and, for the moment, he did not tell Genevieve. “You won’t die,” he told her, “but you must move the arm.”
“I can’t. It hurts.”
“You must,” he said. When his own arms and hands had been scarred by the torturer he had thought he would never use them again, but his friends, Robbie chief among them, had forced him to practice with the bow. It had seemed hopeless at first, yet little by little the ability had come back. He wondered where Robbie was now, whether he had stayed at Castillon d’Arbizon, and that thought frightened him. Would Robbie seek him here at Astarac? Had friendship really turned to hate? And if not Robbie, who else might come? The news of his presence in the monastery would spread in the unseen way such news always did, tales told in taverns, peddlers carrying the gossip from one village to the next, and soon enough someone in Berat would take notice. “We have to go soon,” he told Genevieve.
“Where?”
“A long way away. England, perhaps?” He knew he had failed. He would not find the Grail here and, even if his cousin did come, how could Thomas defeat him? He was one man with only a wounded woman to help him and Guy Vexille travelled with a whole conroi of men-at-arms. The dream was over and it was time to go.
“I’m told it’s cold in England,” Genevieve said.
“The sun always shines,” Thomas said gravely, “the harvest never fails and fish jump straight from the rivers into the frying pan.”
Genevieve smiled. “Then you must teach me English.”
“You know some already.”
“I know goddamn,” she said, “and I know goddamn bloody, bloody goddamn and Christ goddamn bloody help us.”
Thomas laughed. “You’ve learned archers’ English,” he said, “but I’ll teach you the rest.”
He decided they would leave next day. He made a bundle of his arrows, then he cleaned the caked blood from Genevieve’s coat of mail. He borrowed a pair of pincers from the monastery’s carpenter and did his best to mend the mail where the crossbow bolt had pierced it, bending and closing the shattered links until at least they were crudely joined, though the rent was still obvious. He tethered the horses in the olive grove to let them graze and then, because it was still early in the afternoon, he walked south to the castle. He was determined to have one last glimpse of the stronghold where his ancestors had been lords.
He met Philin as he left the monastery. The coredor had brought his son from the infirmary and, with the boy’s leg firmly splinted with a half-dozen of the chestnut stakes used to hold the monastery’s vines, he had put him on a horse and was leading him southwards. “I don’t want to stay here too long,” he told Thomas. “I’m still wanted for murder.”
“Planchard would give you sanctuary,” Thomas insisted.
“He would,” Philin agreed, “but that wouldn’t stop my wife’s family sending men to kill me. We’re safer in the hills. His leg will mend there as well as anywhere. And if you’re looking for refuge.?”
“Me?” Thomas was surprised by the offer.
“We can always use a good archer.”
“I think I’ll go home. Home to England.”
“God look after you anyway, my friend,” Philin said, then he struck off to the west and Thomas walked south through the village where some of the folk made the sign of the cross which was evidence enough that they knew who he was, but none tried to take revenge on him for the harm his men had caused. They might have wanted such a revenge, but he was tall, strong and wearing a long sword at his belt. He climbed the path to the ruins and noticed that three men had followed him. He paused to face them, but they made no hostile move, just watched him from a safe distance.
It was a good place for a castle, Thomas thought. Certainly better than Castillon d’Arbizon. Astarac’s stronghold was built on a crag and could only be approached by the narrow path he had climbed to the broken gate. Once past the gate the crag had originally been topped by a curtain wall encircling the courtyard, though that was now nothing more than heaps of mossy stone that were never higher than a man’s waist. An oblong of broken walls with a semi-circular extension at their eastern end showed where the chapel had been and Thomas, walking the wide flagstones beneath which his ancestors were buried, saw that those stones had been disturbed recently. Raw marks betrayed where they had been prized up. He thought of trying to raise one of the flagstones himself, but knew he had neither the time nor the tools, and so he walked on to the western side of the crag where the old keep had stood, a broken tower now, hollow to the wind and rain. He turned when he reached the old tower and saw how his three followers had lost interest in him when he left the chapel. Were they there to guard something? The Grail? That thought seethed like a bolt of fire in his veins, but then he dismissed it. There was no Grail, he thought. It was his father’s madness that had touched him with its hopeless dream.
A shattered stair was built into one flank of the tower and Thomas took it as far as he could climb, which was only to where the missing first floor had spanned the hollow shaft. There was a great gaping hole in the tower wall there, a wall that was over five feet thick, and Thomas could walk into the space. He stared down the valley, following the line of the stream with his eyes and he tried once more to feel some sense of belonging. He tried to snare the echoes of his ancestors, but there was nothing. He had felt emotion when he went back to Hookton, the little of it that remained, but here, nothing. And the thought that Hookton, like this castle, was in ruins made him wonder if there was a curse on the Vexilles. The country folk here claimed that dragas, the devil’s women, left flowers where they walked, but did the Vexilles leave ruins? Maybe the Church was right after all. Maybe he deserved to be excommunicated. He turned to look west in the direction he must travel if he was to go home.
And saw the horsemen.
They were on the western ridge, way to the north of him, coming, he thought, from the direction of Berat. There was a large band of them, and they were soldiers right enough for what had caught his eye was the glint of light reflecting from a helmet or mail coat.
He stared, not wanting to believe what he saw, and then, coming to his senses, he ran. He went down the stairs, across the weed-thick courtyard, out through the ruined gate where he barged past the three men, and then down the path. He ran through the village and then northwards and he was out of breath by the time he banged on the gate of the lazar house. Brother Clement opened it and Thomas pushed past him. “Soldiers,” he said in curt explanation, then he went into the hut and picked up his bow, the bundled arrows, their cloaks and mail and bags. “Come quick,” he told Genevieve, who was carefully ladling some of Brother Clement’s newly gathered honey into small jars. “Don’t ask,” he told her, “just come. Bring the saddles.”
They went back outside to the olive grove, but Thomas, looking around, saw soldiers on the road in the valley north of St. Sever’s. Those men were still some way off, but if they saw two people riding from the monastery they would be bound to follow, which meant there could be no escape now, just concealment. He hesitated, thinking.
“What is it?” Genevieve asked.
“Soldiers. Probably from Berat.”
“There, too.” She was looking south, towards the castle, and Thomas saw the villagers hurrying towards the monastery for refuge and that surely meant there were armed men approaching their houses.
He swore. “Leave the saddles,” he told her and, when she had dropped them, he pulled her round the back of the monastery, following the lepers’ path to the church. Someone had begun to toll the monastery bell to warn the brethren that armed strangers had come to their valley.
And Thomas knew why. Knew that if they were found they would both burn in the holy fire and so he ran into the lepers’ part of the church and
climbed the short flight of stairs to the window that overlooked the altar. He pushed his bow through, sent the arrows after it, then the rest of the baggage, and clambered up himself. It was a tight fit, but he squeezed through and dropped clumsily and painfully onto the flagstones. “Come on!” he urged Genevieve. People were coming into the church, thronging the door at the far end of the nave.
Genevieve hissed with pain as she scrambled through the small window. She looked frightened at the drop, but Thomas was beneath and he caught her. “This way.” He picked up his bow and bags and led her down the side of the choir and then behind the side altar where the statue of St. Benedict stared sadly towards the frightened villagers.
The door in the alcove was locked as Thomas expected it to be, but they were hidden here and he did not think anyone had noticed them slip through the shadowed choir. He raised his right leg and kicked his heel against the lock. The noise was huge, a drum bang echoing in the church, and the door shook violently, but did not open. He kicked again, harder, then a third time and was rewarded by a splintering noise as the lock’s tongue tore out the old wood of the frame. “Tread carefully,” he warned her, and he led her down the stairs into the darkness of the bone house. He groped his way to the eastern end, where the arched niche was only half full of bones, and he threw his belongings to the back of the pile, then hoisted Genevieve up. “Go to the back,” he told her, “and start digging.”
He knew he could not climb up himself without spilling dozens of ribs and thigh bones and arm bones, and so he went along the cellar and pulled down stacks of bones. Skulls bounced and rolled, arms and legs clattered, and when the cellar was a mess of scattered skeletons he went back to Genevieve, scrambled up and helped her delve down into the old bones closest to the wall. They made a hole there, pulling the rib cages and pelvises and shoulder-blades apart, scrabbling ever deeper until at last they had made a deep, dark hiding place among the dead.