Heretic (16 page)

“The Church Fathers,” the priest said, “doubt that the psalmist means drunk, not as we mean it. Suffused with joy, perhaps? ‘My cup delights me’?”

“But what cup?” the Count asked pointedly. There was silence except for the sound of rain and the crackle of logs, then the friar looked again at the contract, pushed back his chair and went to the Count’s shelves. He took down a great chained book that he placed carefully on the lectern, unclasped the cover and opened the huge, stiff pages. “What book is that?” the Count inquired.

“The annals of St. Joseph’s monastery,” Father Roubert said. He turned the pages, seeking an entry. “We know,” he went on, “that the last Count of Astarac was infected with the Cathar heresy. It’s said that his father sent him to be a squire to a knight in Carcassonne and thus he became a sinner. He eventually inherited Astarac and lent his support to the heretics, and we know he was among the last of the Cathar lords.” He paused to turn another page. “Ah! Here it is. Montségur fell on St. Joevin’s day in the twenty-second year of the reign of Raymond VII.” Raymond had been the last great Count of Toulouse, dead now almost a hundred years. Father Roubert thought for a second. “That would mean Montségur fell in 1244.”

The Count leaned over the table and picked up the contract. He peered at it and found what he wanted. “And this is dated the eve of St. Nazarius of the same year. Saint Nazarius’s feast is at the end of July, yes?”

“It is,” Father Roubert confirmed.

“And St. Joevin’s day is in March,” the Count said, “which proves that the Count of Astarac didn’t die in Montségur.”

“Someone ordered the Latin carved,” the Dominican allowed. “Maybe it was his son?” He turned the big pages of the annals, flinching at the crudely illuminated capitals, until he found the entry he wanted. “‘And in the year of our Count’s death, when there was a great plague of toads and vipers,’” he read aloud, “‘the Count of Berat took Astarac and slew all that were inside.’”

“But the annals do not say that Astarac himself died?”

“No.”

“So what if he lived?” The Count was excited now and had left his chair to start pacing up and down. “And why would he desert his comrades in Montségur?”

“If he did,” Father Roubert sounded dubious.

“Someone did. Someone with authority to hire a mason. Someone who wanted to leave a message in stone. Someone who…” The Count suddenly stopped. “Why would they describe the date as the eve of St. Nazarius’s feast?” he asked.

“Why not?”

“Because that is St. Pantaleon’s day. Why not call it that?”

“Because,” Father Roubert was about to explain that St. Nazarius was a good deal better known than St. Pantaleon, but the Count interrupted him.

“Because it is the Seven Sleepers’ Day! There were seven of them, Roubert! Seven survivors! And they wanted the date inscribed to make that obvious!”

The friar thought the Count was stretching the evidence exceedingly thin, but he said nothing. “And think of the story!” The Count urged him. “Seven young men under threat of persecution, yes? They flee the city, which was it? Ephesus, of course, and hide in a cave! The Emperor, Decius wasn’t it? I’m sure it was, and he ordered every cave sealed and years later, over a hundred years later if I remember rightly, the seven young men are found there, and not one of them has aged a day. So seven men, Roubert, fled Montségur!”

Father Roubert replaced the annals. “But a year later,” he pointed out, “your ancestor defeated them.”

“They could have survived,” the Count insisted, “and everyone knows that members of the Vexille family fled. Of course they survived! But think, Roubert,” he was unconsciously calling the Dominican by his childhood name, “why would a Cathar lord leave the last stronghold if it not to take the heretics’ treasures to safety? Everyone knows the Cathars possessed great treasures!”

Father Roubert tried not to get caught up in the Count’s excitement. “The family,” he said, “would have taken the treasures with them.”

“Would they?” the Count demanded. “There are seven of them. They go their different ways. Some to Spain, others to northern France, one at least to England. Suppose you are hunted, wanted by the Church and by every great lord. Would you take a great treasure with you? Would you risk that it falls into your enemies’ hands? Why not hide it and hope that one day whoever of the seven survives can return to recover it?”

The evidence was now stretched impossibly thin and Father Roubert shook his head. “If there was treasure in Astarac,” he said, “it would have been found long ago.”

“But the Cardinal Archbishop is looking for it,” the Count said. “Why else does he want to read our archives?” He picked up the stonemason’s contract and held it over a candle so that the three Latin words and the demand to cut the date in the stone were scorched out of existence. He stamped his fist on the charred, glowing edge to extinguish the fire, then put the damaged parchment into the basket of documents that would be given to the monk. “What I should do,” he said, “is go to Astarac.”

Father Roubert looked alarmed at such hot-headedness. “It is wild country, my lord,” he warned, “infested with
coredors.
And not that many miles from the English in Castillon d’Arbizon.”

“Then I shall take some men-at-arms.” The Count was excited now. If the Grail was in his domain then it made sense that God had placed the curse of barrenness on his wives as a punishment for failing to search for the treasure. So he would put it right. “You can come with me,” he told Father Roubert, “and I’ll leave Sir Henri, the crossbowmen and most of the men-at-arms to defend the town.”

“And your nephew?”

“Oh, I’ll take him with me! He can command my escort. It will give him the illusion that he’s useful.” The Count frowned. “Isn’t St. Sever’s near Astarac?”

“Very close.”

“I’m sure Abbot Planchard will give us accommodation,” the Count said, “and he’s a man who might very well help us!”

Father Roubert thought Abbot Planchard was more likely to tell the Count he was an old fool, but he could see that the Count was caught up in the enthusiasm. Doubtless he believed that if he found the Grail then God would reward him with a son, and perhaps he was right. And perhaps the Grail needed to be found to put the whole world right, and so the friar fell to his knees in the great hall and prayed that God would bless the Count, kill the heretic and reveal the Grail.

At Astarac.

T
HOMAS AND HIS MEN
left Astarac in the early afternoon, riding horses that were weighed down with cuts of meat, cooking pots, anything at all that was of value and that could be sold in Castillon d’Arbizon’s marketplace. Thomas kept looking back, wondering why he felt nothing for this place, but also knowing he would be back. There were secrets in Astarac and he must unlock them.

Robbie alone rode a horse that was not encumbered with plunder. He had been the last to join the raiders, coming from the monastery with a strangely contented expression. He offered no explanation for his lateness, nor why he had spared the Cistercians. He just nodded at Thomas and fell into the column as it started westwards.

They would be late home. It would probably be dark, but Thomas was not concerned. The
coredors
would not attack, and if the Count of Berat had sent forces to intercept their homeward journey then they should see those pursuers from the ridge tops and so he rode without worries, leaving behind misery and smoke in a shattered village.

“So did you find what you were looking for?” Sir Guillaume asked.

“No.”

Sir Guillaume laughed. “A fine Sir Galahad you are!” He glanced at the things hanging from Thomas’s saddle. “You go for the Holy Grail and come back with a heap of goatskins and a haunch of mutton.”

“That’ll roast well with vinegar sauce,” Thomas said.

Sir Guillaume looked behind to see a dozen
coredors
had followed them up onto the ridge. “We’re going to have to teach those bastards a lesson.”

“We will,” Thomas said, “we will.”

There were no men-at-arms waiting to ambush them. Their only delay occured when a horse went lame, but it was nothing more than a stone caught in its hoof. The
coredors
vanished as the dusk approached. Robbie was again riding in the vanguard, but when they were halfway home and the sun was a sinking red ball before them, he turned back and fell in beside Thomas. Genevieve was off to one side and she pointedly moved her mare farther away, but if Robbie noticed he made no comment. He glanced at the goatskins draped behind Thomas’s saddle. “My father once had a cloak of horseskin,” he said by way of breaking the silence that had lasted too long between them, and then, without adding any more details of his father’s curious taste in clothing, he looked embarrassed. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“A dangerous occupation,” Thomas answered lightly.

“Lord Outhwaite let me come with you,” Robbie said, “but would he mind if I left you?”

“Left me?” Thomas was surprised.

“I’ll go back to him, of course,” Robbie said, “eventually.”

“Eventually?” Thomas asked, suspicious. Robbie was a prisoner and his duty, if he was not with Thomas, was to go back to Lord Outhwaite in northern England and wait there until his ransom was paid.

“There are things I have to do,” Robbie explained, “to put my soul straight.”

“Ah,” Thomas said, embarrassed himself now. He glanced at the silver crucifix on his friend’s chest.

Robbie was staring at a buzzard that quartered the lower hill, looking for small game in the dying light. “I was never one for religion,” he said softly. “None of the men in our family are. The women care, of course, but not the Douglas men. We’re good soldiers and bad Christians.” He paused, plainly uncomfortable, then shot a swift glance at Thomas. “You remember that priest we killed in Brittany?”

“Of course I do,” Thomas said. Bernard de Taillebourg had been a Dominican friar and the Inquisitor who had tortured Thomas. The priest had also helped Guy Vexille kill Robbie’s brother, and together Thomas and Robbie had chopped him down in front of an altar.

“I wanted to kill him,” Robbie said.

“You said,” Thomas reminded him, “that there was no sin that some priest could not undamn, and that, I assume, includes killing priests.”

“I was wrong,” Robbie said. “He was a priest and we shouldn’t have killed him.”

“He was the bastard turd of the devil,” Thomas said vengefully.

“He was a man who wants what you want,” Robbie said firmly, “and he killed to get it, but we do the same, Thomas.”

Thomas made the sign of the cross. “Are you worried about my soul,” he asked caustically, “or yours?”

“I was talking to the abbot in Astarac,” Robbie said, ignoring Thomas’s question, “and I told him about the Dominican. He said I’d done a dreadful thing and that my name was on the devil’s list.” That had been the sin Robbie had confessed, though Abbot Planchard was a wise enough man to know that something else worried the young Scot and that the something else was probably the beghard. But Planchard had taken Robbie at his word and become stern with him. “He ordered me to do a pilgrimage,” Robbie went on. “He said I had to go to Bologna and pray at the blessed Dominic’s tomb, and that I would be given a sign if St. Dominic forgives me for the killing.”

Thomas, after his earlier conversation with Sir Guillaume, had already decided that it would be best if Robbie went, and now Robbie was making it easy for him. Yet he pretended to be reluctant. “You can stay through the winter,” he suggested.

“No,” Robbie said firmly. “I’m damned, Thomas, unless I do something about it.”

Thomas remembered the Dominican’s death, the fire flickering on the tent walls, the two swords chopping and stabbing at the writhing friar who twitched in his dying blood. “Then I’m damned too, eh?”

“Your soul is your concern,” Robbie said, “and I can’t tell you what to do. But the abbot told me what I should do.”

“Then go to Bologna,” Thomas said and hid his relief that Robbie had decided to leave.

It took two days to discover how best Robbie could make the journey, but after talking to a pilgrim who had come to worship at St. Sardos’s tomb in the town’s upper church they decided he would do best to go back to Astarac and from there strike south to St. Gaudens. Once at St. Gaudens he would be on a well-travelled road where he would find companies of merchants travelling together and they would welcome a young, strong man-at-arms to help protect their convoys. “From St. Gaudens you should go north to Toulouse,” the pilgrim said, “and make sure you stop at the shrine of St. Sernin and ask for his protection. The church has one of the whips used to scourge our Lord and if you pay they will let you touch it and you will never suffer blindness. Then you must continue to Avignon. Those roads are well patroled, so you should be safe. And at Avignon you must seek the Holy Father’s blessing and ask someone else how to journey farther east.”

The most dangerous part of the journey was the first and Thomas promised he would escort Robbie to within sight of Astarac to make sure he was not troubled by any
coredors.
He also gave him a bag of money from the big chest in the hall. “It’s more than your share,” Thomas told him.

Robbie weighed the bag of gold. “It’s too much.”

“Christ, man, you have to pay in taverns. Take it. And for God’s sake don’t gamble it away.”

“I’ll not do that,” Robbie said. “I promised Abbot Planchard I’d give up gambling and he made me take an oath in the abbey.”

“And lit a candle, I hope?” Thomas asked.

“Three,” Robbie said, then made the sign of the cross. “I’m to give up all sins, Thomas, until I’ve prayed to Dominic. That’s what Planchard said.” He paused, then smiled sadly. “I’m sorry, Thomas.”

“Sorry? For what?”

Robbie shrugged. “I’ve not been the best companion.” He sounded embarrassed again and he said no more, but that night, when they all ate together in the hall to say farewell to Robbie, the Scotsman made a great effort to be courteous to Genevieve. He even gave her a portion of his mutton, a succulent piece, spiking it on his knife and insisting she let him put it on her plate. Sir Guillaume rolled his surviving eye in astonishment, Genevieve was gracious in her thanks and, next morning, under the lash of a cold north wind, they left to escort Robbie away.