The chest was cunningly made, for it seemed to have no lid. On one side—Bessières assumed it was the top—was inset a silver cross that had become tarnished over the years, but there was no writing on the box and no clue as to what might be inside. Bessières shook it and heard something rattle. He paused then. He was thinking that perhaps the real Grail was in his hands, but if the box proved to hold something else then this might be a good time to take the fake Grail from the quiver at his belt and pretend he had discovered it beneath Astarac’s ruined altar.
“Open it,” one of his men said.
“Shut your mouth,” Bessières said, wanting to think some more. The Englishman was still at large, but he would probably be caught, and suppose he had the Grail and the one at his hip was thus revealed as a fake? Bessières faced the same dilemma that had puzzled him in the ossuary when he’d had a simple chance to kill Vexille. Produce the Grail at the wrong time and there would be no easy life in the papal palace at Avignon. So it was best, he thought, to wait for the Englishman’s capture and thus make sure there was only one Grail to be carried to Paris. Yet perhaps this box contained the treasure?
He carried it up to the daylight and there he drew his knife and hacked at the box’s well-made joints. One of his men offered to use the blacksmith’s hammer to splinter the wood apart, but Bessières cursed him for a fool. “You want to break what’s inside?” he asked. He cuffed the man aside and went on working with the knife until he finally succeeded in splitting one side away.
The contents were wrapped in white woolen cloth. Bessières eased them out, daring to hope that this was the great prize. His men crowded around expectantly as Bessières unwound the old, threadbare cloth.
To find bones.
A skull, some foot bones, a shoulder-blade and three ribs. Bessières stared at them, then cursed. His men began to laugh and Bessières, in his anger, kicked the skull so that it flew down into the vault, rolled for a few paces, and then was still.
He had blunted his good knife to find the few remaining bones of the famous healer of angels, St. Sever.
And the Grail was still hidden.
THE COREDORS HAD BEEN INTRIGUED by the activity around Astarac. Whenever armed men pillaged a town or village there would be fugitives who made easy pickings for desperate and hungry outlaws, and Destral, who led close to a hundred coredors, had watched the harrowing of Astarac and noted the folk fleeing the soldiers and watched where they went.
Most of the coredors were fugitives themselves, though not all. Some were just men down on their luck, others had been discharged from the wars and a handful had refused to accept their given place as serfs belonging to a master. In summer they preyed on the flocks taken to the high pastures and ambushed careless travelers in the mountain passes, but in winter they were forced to lower ground to find victims and shelter. Men came and went from the band, bringing and taking their women with them. Some of the men died of disease, others took their plunder and left to make a more honest living, while a few were killed in fights over women or wagers, though very few died in fights with outsiders. The old Count of Berat had tolerated Destral’s band so long as they did no great damage, reckoning it a waste of money to hire men-at-arms to scour mountains riven with gullies and thick with caves. Instead he put garrisons wherever there was wealth to attract coredors and made sure the wagons carrying his tax tribute from the towns were well guarded. Merchants, traveling away from the main roads, took care to move in convoy with their own hired soldiers, and what was left was the coredors’ pickings, which sometimes they had to fight for because routiers encroached on their territory.
A routier was almost a coredor, except that routiers were better organized. They were soldiers without employment, armed and experienced, and routiers would sometimes take a town and ransack it, garrison it, keep it till it was wrung dry and then travel again. Few lords were willing to fight them for the routiers were trained soldiers and formed small vicious armies that fought with the fanaticism of men who had nothing to lose. Their preda-tions stopped whenever a war started and the lords offered money for soldiers. Then the routiers would take a new oath, go to war and fight until a truce was called, and then, knowing no trade except killing, they would go back to the lonelier stretches of countryside and find a town to savage.
Destral hated routiers. He hated all soldiers for they were the natural enemies of coredors, and though, as a rule, he avoided them, he would allow his men to attack them, if he had a great advantage in numbers. Soldiers were a good source for weapons, armor and horses, and so, on the evening when the smoke from the burning village and lazar house was smearing the sky above Astarac, he allowed one of his deputies to lead an attack on a half-dozen black-cloaked men-at-arms who had strayed a short way into the trees. The attack was a mistake. The riders were not alone, there were others just beyond the woods, and suddenly the gloom beneath the trees was loud with horses’ hooves and the scrape of swords leaving scabbards.
Destral did not know what was happening at the wood’s edge. He was deeper among the trees in a place where a limestone crag reared up from the oaks and a small stream fell from the heights. Two caves offered shelter, and this was where Destral planned to spend his winter, high enough in the hills to offer protection, but close enough to the valleys so his men could raid the villages and farms, and it was here that the two fugitives from Astarac had been brought. The pair had been captured at the edge of the ridge and escorted back to the clearing in front of the caves where Destral had prepared fires, though he would not light the wood until he was sure the soldiers were dealt with. Now, in the evening’s twilight, he saw his men had brought him a greater prize than he had dared dream of because one of the two captives was an English archer and the other was a woman, and women were always scarce among the coredors. She would have her uses, but the Englishman would have a greater value. He could be sold. He also possessed a bag of money, a sword and a mail coat, which meant his capture, for Destral, was a triumph made even sweeter because this was the same man who had killed half a dozen of his men with his arrows. The coredors searched Thomas’s haversack and stole his flint and steel, the spare bowcords and the few coins Thomas had stored there, but they threw away the spare arrow heads and the empty box which they considered a thing of no value. They stripped him of his arrows and gave his bow to Destral who tried to draw it and became enraged when, despite his strength, he could not haul the string back more than a few inches. “Just chop off his fingers,” he snarled, throwing down the bow, “and strip her naked.”
Philin intervened then. A man and a woman had seized Genevieve and were hauling the mail shirt over her head, ignoring her shrieks of pain, and Thomas was trying to break away from the two men holding his arms, when Philin shouted that they were all to stop.
“Stop?” Destral turned on Philin in disbelief at the challenge. “You’ve gone soft?” he accused Philin. “You want us to spare him?”
“I asked him to join us,” Philin said nervously. “Because he let my son live.”
Thomas did not understand any of the conversation, which was being held in the local tongue, but it was plain that Philin was pleading for his life, and it was equally plain that Destral, whose nickname came from the great axe that was slung on his shoulder, was in no mood to grant the request. “You want him to join us?” Destral roared. “Why? Because he spared your son? Jesus Christ, but you’re a weak bastard. You’re a lily-livered piece of snot-nosed shit.” He unslung the axe, looped the cord tied to its handle about his wrist, and advanced on the tall Philin. “I let you lead men and you have half of them killed! That man and his woman did that, and you’d have him join us? If it wasn’t for the reward I’d kill him now. I’d slit his belly and hang him by his own rotten guts, but instead he’ll lose a finger for every man of mine he killed.” He spat towards Thomas then pointed the axe at Genevieve. “Then he can watch her warm my bed.”
“I asked him to join us,” Philin repeated stubbornly. His son, his
leg in a splint and with crude crutches cut from oak boughs beneath his shoulders, swung across to stand beside his father.
“Will you fight for him?” Destral asked. He was not as tall as Philin, but he was broad across the shoulders and had a squat brute strength. His face was flat with a broken nose and he had eyes like a mastiff; eyes that almost glowed with the thought of violence. His beard was matted, strung with dried spittle and scraps of food. He swung the axe so its head glittered in the dying light. “Fight me,” he said to Philin, his voice hungry.
“I just want him to live,” Philin said, unwilling to draw a sword on his mad-eyed leader, but the other coredors had smelt blood, plenty of it, and they were making a rough circle and egging Destral on. They grinned and shouted, wanting the fight, and Philin backed away until he could go no farther.
“Fight!” the men shouted. “Fight!” Their women were screaming as well, shouting at Philin to be a man and face the axe. Those closest to Philin shoved him hard forward so that he had to jump aside to stop himself colliding with Destral who, scornful, slapped him in the face and then tugged his beard in insult.
“Fight me,” Destral said, “or else slice off the Englishman’s fingers yourself.”
Thomas still did not know what was being said, but the unhappy look on Philin’s face told him it was nothing good. “Go on!” Destral said. “Cut off his fingers! Either that, Philin, or I’ll cut off your fingers.”
Galdric, Philin’s son, drew his own knife and pushed it towards his father. “Do it,” the boy said, and when his father would not take the knife he looked at Destral. “I’ll do it!” the boy offered.
“Your father will do it,” Destral said, amused, “and he’ll do it with this.” He unlooped the wrist strap and offered the axe to Philin.
And Philin, too terrified to disobey, took the weapon and walked towards Thomas. “I’m sorry,” he spoke in French.
“For what?”
“Because I have no choice.” Philin looked miserable, a humiliated man, and he knew the other coredors were enjoying his shame. “Put your hands on the tree,” he said, then repeated the order in his own language and the men holding Thomas forced his arms up until both his crooked hands were flat against the bark. They held Thomas by the forearms as Philin came close. “I’m sorry,” Philin said again. “You must lose your fingers.”
Thomas watched him. Saw how nervous he was. Understood that the axe blow, when it came, was as likely to chop him at the wrist instead of the fingers. “Do it quickly,” he said.
“No!” Genevieve shouted and the couple holding her laughed.
“Quickly,” Thomas said, and Philin drew the axe back. He paused, licked his lips, took one last anguished look into Thomas’s eyes, then swung.
Thomas had let the men force him against the tree; he didn’t try to pull away from them until the axe came. Only then did he use his huge strength to tear himself from their grasp. The two men, astonished by the power of an archer trained to use the long yew bow, flailed as Thomas snatched the axe out of the air and with a bellow of rage turned it on the man holding Genevieve. His first swing split that man’s skull, the woman instinctively let go of Genevieve’s other arm and Thomas wheeled back to beat down the men who had been holding his arms against the tree. He was screaming his war cry, the battle shout of England: “St. George! St. George!” and he lashed the heavy blade at the nearest man just as the horsemen came from the trees.
For a heartbeat the coredors were caught between the need to overwhelm Thomas and the danger of the horsemen, then they realized the riders were by far the more dangerous enemy and they did what all men instinctively did when faced by galloping men-at-arms. They ran for the trees and Guy Vexille’s black-robed riders spurred among them, swinging swords and killing with brutal ease. Destral, oblivious of their threat, had run straight at Thomas and Thomas thrust the axehead into the squat man’s face, shattering the bridge of his nose and hurling him backwards, then Thomas let go of the clumsy weapon, seized his bow and arrow bag and snatched Genevieve’s wrist.
They ran.
There was safety in the trees. The trunks and low branches stopped the horsemen running free in the wood, and the darkness was coming fast to obscure their view, but in the clearing the horsemen were wheeling, cutting, wheeling again, and the coredors who had failed to escape into the trees were dying like sheep savaged by wolves.
Philin was beside Thomas now, but his son, on his awkward crutches, was still in the clearing and a horseman saw the boy, turned and lined his sword. “Galdric!” Philin shouted, and he started to run to save the boy, but Thomas tripped him, then put an arrow on the string.
The rider was holding the sword low, intending to jab the point into the small of Galdric’s back. He touched his horse with his spurs and it accelerated just as the arrow whipped from the shadows to slice his throat open. The horse wheeled away, its rider spilling from the saddle in a stream of blood. Thomas shot a second arrow that flashed past the boy to spit Destral through one eye, then he looked for his cousin among the horsemen, but it was so dim now that he could not make out any faces.
“Come!” Genevieve urged him. “Come!”
But Thomas, instead of running with her, dashed back into the clearing. He scooped up the empty grail box, looked for his bag of money, plucked up a sheaf of his arrows, then heard Genevieve’s cry of warning as hooves came towards him and he swerved to one side, doubled back, then ran into the trees. The pursuing rider, confused by Thomas’s quick evasions, spurred forward again, then veered away as Thomas ducked under a low branch. Other coredors were fleeing to the caves, but Thomas ignored that refuge and struck south beside the crag. He led Genevieve by the hand while Philin carried Galdric on his shoulders. A handful of the braver horsemen made a brief effort to follow, but some of the surviving coredors had their crossbows and the bolts thumping out of the dark persuaded the riders to be content with their small victory. They had killed a score of bandits, captured as many more and, what was better, taken a dozen of their women. And in doing it they had lost only one man. They took the arrow from his throat, draped his body on his horse and, with their captives tied by strips of cloth, went back northwards.
While Thomas ran. He still had his mail coat, his bow, a bag of arrows and an empty box, but everything else was lost. And he was running in the dark.
To nowhere.
FAILURE WAS HARD, and Guy Vexille knew he had failed. He had sent riders into the woods to beat any fugitives out to the open ground and instead they had become tangled in a bloody, one-sided brawl with coredors that had left one of his men dead. The body was taken down to Astarac where, early next morning, Guy Vexille buried the man. It was raining. The rain had begun at midnight, a steady downpour that flooded the grave, which had been scraped between the olive trees. The bodies of the captured coredors, all of them beheaded the previous night, were lying abandoned at the edge of the olive grove, but Vexille was determined his own man should have a grave. The body had been stripped of everything except his shirt and now the man was rolled into the shallow hole where his head flopped back into the rainwater to expose the wound in his neck. “Why wasn’t he wearing his gorget?” Vexille asked one of the men who had attacked the coredors. A gorget was a piece of plate covering the throat and Vexille remembered that the dead man had been proud of the piece of armor that he had scavenged from some forgotten battlefield.
“He was.”
“A lucky sword thrust then?” Vexille asked. He was curious. All knowledge was useful, and few scraps of knowledge so useful as those that helped a man live in the chaos of battle.
“It wasn’t a sword,” the man said, “he got an arrow.”
“Crossbow?”
“Long arrow,” the man said, “went straight through the gorget. Must have hit plumb.” The man made the sign of the cross, praying that he would not suffer a similar fate. “The archer got away,” he went on. “Ran into the woods.”
And that was when Vexille realized
Thomas must have been among the coredors. It was possible that one of the bandits had been using a hunting bow, but not likely. He demanded to know where the arrow was, but it had been thrown away, no one knew where, so in the morning mist Vexille led his men up to the ridge and then south to the clearing where the bodies still lay. Rain pelted down, dripping from the horses’ trappers and finding its way beneath men’s armor so that the metal and leather chafed chilled skins. Vexille’s men grumbled, but Vexille himself seemed oblivious of the weather. Once at the clearing he looked at the scatter of corpses, then saw what he was looking for. A squat, bearded man had an arrow in his eye and Vexille dismounted to look at the shaft, which proved to be a long ash arrow fledged with goose feathers. Vex-ille pulled it free, tugging it from the dead man’s brains. It had a long, needle-like head, and that suggested it was English, then he looked at the fledging. “Did you know,” he said to his men, “that the English only use feathers from one wing of a goose?” He stroked the damp feathers, which were held in place by twine and by glue that had a greenish tinge. “Either the right wing,” he said, “or the left, doesn’t matter, but you don’t mix feathers from both wings on one arrow.” He suddenly snapped the arrow in a surge of frustration. Goddamn it! It was an English arrow and that meant Thomas had been here, so damned close, and now was gone. But where?
One of his men proposed riding westwards to rake the valley of the Gers, but Vexille snarled at the suggestion. “He’s no fool. He’ll be miles away by now. Miles.” Or perhaps he was just yards away, watching from among the trees or from the rocky heights of the crag, and Vexille stared into the woods and tried to put himself into Thomas’s place. Would he run back to England? But why would he ever have come here in the first place? Thomas had been excommunicated, thrown out from his companions, sent into the wilderness, but instead of fleeing home to England he had come east to Astarac. But there was nothing in Astarac now. It had been harrowed, so where would Thomas go? Guy Vexille looked into the caves, but they were empty. Thomas was gone.