Heretic (8 page)

“Then if you won’t let me kill her now,” Sir Guillaume said, “at least shut her goddamned mouth.” He drew his knife and offered it to Thomas. “Cut her tongue out.”

Thomas ignored the blade. He had still not found time to change out of his friar’s robe, so he lifted its skirts and went down to the dungeons where the girl was shouting in French to tell the captives in the other cells that they would all die and that the devil would dance on their bones to a tune played by demons. Thomas lit a rush lantern from the flickering remnants of a torch, then went to the beghard’s cell and pulled back the two bolts.

She quietened at the sound of the bolts and then, as he pushed the heavy door open, she scuffled back to the cell’s far wall. Jake had followed Thomas down the steps and, seeing the girl in the lantern’s dim light, he sniggered. “I can keep her quiet for you,” he offered.

“Go and get some sleep, Jake,” Thomas said.

“No, I don’t mind,” Jake persisted.

“Sleep!” Thomas snapped, suddenly angry because the girl looked so vulnerable.

She was vulnerable because she was naked. Naked as a new-laid egg, arrow-thin, deathly pale, flea-bitten, greasy-haired, wide-eyed and feral. She sat in the filthy straw, her arms wrapped about her drawn-up knees to hide her nakedness, then took a deep breath is if summoning her last dregs of courage. “You’re English,” she said in French. Her voice was hoarse from her screaming.

“I’m English,” Thomas agreed.

“But an English priest is as bad as any other,” she accused him.

“Probably,” Thomas agreed. He put the lantern on the floor and sat beside the open door because the stench in the cell was so overwhelming. “I want you to stop your screaming,” he went on, “because it upsets people.”

She rolled her eyes at those words. “Tomorrow they are going to burn me,” she said, “so you think I care if fools are upset tonight?”

“You should care for your soul,” Thomas said, but his fervent words brought no response from the beghard. The rush wick burned badly and its horn shade turned the dim light a leprous, flickering yellow. “Why did they leave you naked?” he asked.

“Because I tore a strip from my dress and tried to strangle the jailer.” She said it calmly, but with a defiant look as though daring Thomas to disapprove.

Thomas almost smiled at the thought of so slight a girl attacking the stout jailer, but he resisted his amusement. “What’s your name?” he asked instead.

She was still defiant. “I have no name,” she said. “They made me a heretic and took my name away. I’m cast out of Christendom. I’m already halfway to the next world.” She looked away from him with an expression of indignation and Thomas saw that Robbie Douglas was standing in the half-open door. The Scot was gazing at the beghard with a look of wonderment, even awe, and Thomas looked at the girl again and saw that under the scraps of straw and embedded filth she was beautiful. Her hair was like pale gold, her skin was unscarred from pox and her face was strong. She had a high forehead, a full mouth and sunken cheeks. A striking face, and the Scotsman just stared at her and the girl, embarrassed by his frank gaze, hugged her knees closer to her breasts.

“Go,” Thomas told Robbie. The young Scotsman fell in love, it seemed to Thomas, like other men became hungry, and it was plain from Robbie’s face that he had been struck by the girl’s looks with the force of a lance hammering into a shield.

Robbie frowned as though he did not quite understand Thomas’s instruction. “I meant to ask you,” he said, then paused.

“Ask me what?”

“Back in Calais,” Robbie said, “did the Earl tell you to leave me behind?”

It seemed an odd question in the circumstances, but Thomas decided it deserved a response. “How do you know?”

“That priest told me. Buckingham.”

Thomas wondered why Robbie had even talked to the priest, then realized that his friend was simply making conversation so he could stay near to the latest girl he had fallen so hopelessly in love with. “Robbie,” he said, “she’s going to burn in the morning.”

Robbie shifted uneasily. “She doesn’t have to.”

“For God’s sake,” Thomas protested, “the Church has condemned her!”

“Then why are you here?” Robbie asked.

“Because I command here. Because someone has to keep her quiet.”

“I can do that,” Robbie said with a smile, and when Thomas did not respond the smile turned into a scowl. “So why did you let me come to Gascony?”

“Because you’re a friend.”

“Buckingham said I’d steal the Grail,” Robbie said. “He said I’d take it to Scotland.”

“We have to find it first,” Thomas said, but Robbie was not listening. He was just looking hungrily at the girl who huddled in the corner. “Robbie,” Thomas said firmly, “she’s going to burn.”

“Then it doesn’t matter what happens to her tonight,” the Scotsman said defiantly.

Thomas fought to suppress his anger. “Just leave us alone, Robbie,” he said.

“Is it her soul you’re after?” Robbie asked. “Or her flesh?”

“Just go!” Thomas snarled with more force than he meant and Robbie looked startled, even belligerent, but then he blinked a couple of times and walked away.

The girl had not understood the English conversation, but she had recognized the lust on Robbie’s face and now turned it on Thomas. “You want me for yourself, priest?” she asked in French.

Thomas ignored the sneering question. “Where are you from?”

She paused, as if deciding whether or not to answer, then shrugged. “From Picardy,” she said.

“A long way north,” Thomas said. “How does a girl from Picardy come to Gascony?”

She hesitated again. She was, Thomas thought, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, which made her overripe for marriage. Her eyes, he noticed, had a curious piercing quality, which gave him the uncomfortable sensation that she could see right through to the dark root of his soul. “My father,” she said. “He was a juggler and flame-eater.”

“I’ve seen such men,” Thomas said.

“We went wherever we wished,” she said, “and made money at fairs. My father made folk laugh and I collected the coins.”

“Your mother?”

“Dead.” She said it carelessly as if to suggest she could not even remember her mother. “Then my father died here. Six months ago. So I stayed.”

“Why did you stay?”

She gave him a sneering look as if to suggest the answer to his question was so obvious that it did not need stating, but then, presuming him to be a priest who did not understood how real people lived, she gave him the answer. “Do you know how dangerous the roads are?” she asked. “There are
coredors.”

“Coredors?”

“Bandits,” she explained. “The local people call them
coredors.
Then there are the routiers who are just as bad.” Routiers were companies of disbanded soldiers who wandered the highways in search of a lord to employ them and when they were hungry, which was most of the time, they took what they wanted by force. Some even captured towns and held them for ransom. But, like the
coredors,
they would regard a girl traveling alone as a gift sent by the devil for their enjoyment. “How long do you think I would have lasted?” she asked.

“You could have traveled in company?” Thomas suggested.

“We always did, my father and I, but he was there to protect me. But on my own?” She shrugged. “So I stayed. I worked in a kitchen.”

“And cooked up heresy?”

“You priests do so love heresy,” she said bitterly. “It gives you something to burn.”

“Before you were condemned,” Thomas said, “what was your name?”

“Genevieve.”

“You were named for the saint?”

“I suppose so,” she said.

“And whenever Genevieve prayed,” Thomas said, “the devil blew out her candles.”

“You priests are full of stories,” Genevieve mocked.

“Do you believe that? You believe the devil came into the church and blew out her candles?”

“Probably.”

“Why didn’t he just kill her if he’s the devil? What a pathetic trick, just to blow out candles! He can’t be much of a devil if that’s all he does.”

Thomas ignored her scorn. “They tell me you are a beghard.”

“I’ve met beghards,” she said, “and I liked them.”

“They are the devil’s spawn,” Thomas said.

“You’ve met one?” she asked. Thomas had not. He had only heard of them and the girl sensed his discomfort. “If to believe that God gave all to everyone and wants everyone to share in everything, then I am as bad as a beghard,” she admitted, “but I never joined them.”

“You must have done something to deserve the flames.”

She stared at him. Perhaps it was something in his tone that made her trust him, but the defiance seemed to drain out of her. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall and Thomas suspected she wanted to cry. Watching her delicate face, he wondered why he had not seen her beauty instantly as Robbie had done. Then she opened her eyes and gazed at him. “What happened here tonight?” she asked, ignoring his accusation.

“We captured the castle,” Thomas said.

“We?”

“The English.”

She looked at him, trying to read his face. “So now the English are the civil power?”

He supposed she had learned the phrase at her trial. The Church did not burn heretics, they merely condemned them, and then the sinners were handed to the civil power for their deaths. That way the Church kept clean hands, God was assured that his Church was undefiled and the devil gained a soul. “We are the civil power now,” Thomas agreed.

“So the English will burn me instead of the Gascons?”

“Someone must burn you,” Thomas said, “if you are a heretic.”

“If?” Genevieve asked, but when Thomas did not answer she closed her eyes and rested her head on the damp stones again. “They said I insulted God.” She spoke tiredly. “That I claimed the priests of God’s Church were corrupt, that I danced naked beneath the lightning, that I used the devil’s power to discover water, that I used magic to cure people’s ills, that I prophesied the future and that I put a curse on Galat Lorret’s wife and on his cattle.”

Thomas frowned. “They did not convict you of being a beghard?” he asked.

“That too,” she added drily.

He was silent for a few heartbeats. Water dripped somewhere in the dark beyond the door and the rushlight flickered, almost died and then recovered. “Whose wife did you curse?” Thomas asked.

“Galat Lorret’s wife. He’s a cloth merchant here and very rich. He’s the chief consul and a man who would like younger flesh than his wife.”

“And did you curse her?”

“Not just her,” Genevieve said fervently, “but him too. Have you never cursed anyone?”

“You prophesied the future?” Thomas asked.

“I said they would all die, and that is an evident truth.”

“Not if Christ comes back to earth, as he promised,” Thomas said.

She gave him a long, considering look and a small smile half showed on her face before she shrugged. “So I was wrong,” she said sarcastically.

“And the devil showed you how to discover water?”

“Even you can do that,” she said. “Take a forked twig and walk slowly across a field and when it twitches, dig.”

“And magical cures?”

“Old remedies,” she said tiredly. “The things we learn from aunts and grandmothers and old ladies. Take iron from a room where a woman is giving birth. Everyone does it. Even you, priest, touch wood to avert evil. Is that piece of magic sufficient to send you to the fire?”

Again Thomas ignored her answer. “You insulted God?” he asked her.

“God loves me, and I do not insult those who love me. But I did say his priests were corrupt, which you are, and so they charged me with insulting God. Are you corrupt, priest?”

“And you danced naked under the lightning,” Thomas concluded the indictment.

“To that,” she said, “I plead guilty.”

“Why did you dance?”

“Because my father always said that God would give us guidance if we did that.”

“God would do that?” Thomas asked, surprised.

“So we believed. We were wrong. God told me to stay in Castillon d’Arbizon and it only led to torture and tomorrow’s fire.”

“Torture?” Thomas asked.

Something in his voice, a horror, made her look at him, and then she slowly stretched out her left leg so that he could see her inner thigh and the raw, red, twisted mark that disfigured the white skin. “They burned me,” she said, “again and again. That was why I confessed to being what I was not, a beghard, because they burned me.” She was crying suddenly, remembering the pain. “They used red-hot metal,” she said, “and when I screamed they said it was the devil trying to leave my soul.” She drew up her leg and showed him her right arm, which had the same scars. “But they left these,” she said angrily, suddenly revealing her small breasts, “because Father Roubert said the devil would want to suck them and the pain of his jaws would be worse than anything the Church could inflict.” She drew her knees up again and was silent for a while as the tears ran down her face. “The Church likes to hurt people,” she continued after a while. “You should know that.”

“I do,” Thomas said, and he very nearly lifted the skirts of his Dominican’s robe to show her the same scars on his body, the scars of the hot iron that had been pressed on his legs to make him reveal the secrets of the Grail. It was a torture that drew no blood for the Church was forbidden to draw blood, but a skilled man could make a soul scream in torment without ever breaking the skin. “I do,” Thomas said again.

“Then damn you,” Genevieve said, recovering her defiance, “damn you and damn all the damned priests.”

Thomas stood and lifted the lantern. “I shall fetch you something to wear.”

“Frightened of me, priest?” she mocked.

“Frightened?” Thomas was puzzled.

“By this, priest!” she said and showed him her nakedness and Thomas turned away and closed the door on her laughter. Then, when the bolts were shot, he leaned on the wall and stared at nothing. He was remembering Genevieve’s eyes, so full of fire and mystery. She was dirty, naked, unkempt, pale, half starved and a heretic and he had found her beautiful, but he had a duty in the morning and he had not expected it. A God-given duty.