The Grail Quest Books 1-3: Harlequin, Vagabond, Heretic (111 page)

‘Then we had best give the monk permission to search,’ the Count said, ‘but we must also make sure that we find what he is looking for before he does. You will go through the muniments, Father Roubert, and only pass on to Brother Jerome those records that do not mention treasures or relics or grails. You understand?’

‘I will seek the permission of my regent to perform that duty,’ Father Roubert responded stiffly.

‘You will seek nothing but the Grail!’ The Count slapped the arm of his chair. ‘You will start now, Roubert, and you will not stop till you have read every parchment on those shelves. Or would you rather I evicted your mother, your brothers and sisters from their houses?’

Father Roubert was a proud man and he bridled, but he was not a foolish man and so, after a pause, he bowed. ‘I will search the documents, my lord,’ he said humbly.

‘Starting now,’ the Count insisted.

‘Indeed, my lord,’ Father Roubert said, and sighed because he would not see the girl burn.

‘And I will help you,’ the Count said enthusiastically.
Because no Cardinal Archbishop would take from Berat the holiest treasure on earth or in heaven.
The Count would find it first.

The Dominican friar arrived at Castillon d’Arbizon in the autumn dusk, just as the watchman was shutting the western gate. A fire had been kindled in a big brazier that stood inside the gate’s arch to warm the town’s watchmen on what promised to be the first chill night of the waning year. Bats were flickering above the town’s half-repaired walls and about the tower of the high castle which crowned Castillon d’Arbizon’s steep hill.

‘God be with you, father,’ one of the watchmen said as he paused to let the tall friar through the gate, but the watchman spoke in Occitan, his native tongue, and the friar did not speak that language and so he just smiled vaguely and sketched a sign of the cross before he hitched up his black skirts and toiled up the town’s main street towards the castle. Girls, their day’s work finished, were strolling the lanes and some of them giggled for the friar
was
a fine-looking man despite a very slight limp. He had ragged black hair, a strong face and dark eyes. A whore called to him from a tavern doorway and prompted a cackle of laughter from men drinking at a table set in the street. A butcher sluiced his shopfront with a wooden pail of water so that dilute blood swilled down the gutter past the friar while above him, from a top-floor window where she was drying her washing on a long pole, a woman screamed insults at a neighbour. The western gate crashed shut at the foot of the street and the locking bar dropped into place with a thud.

The friar ignored it all. He just climbed to where the church of St Sardos crouched beneath the pale bastion of the castle and, once inside the church, he knelt at the altar steps, made the sign of the cross and then prostrated himself. A black-dressed woman praying at the side altar of St Agnes, disturbed by the friar’s baleful presence, made the sign of the cross too and hurried from the church. The friar, lying flat on the top step, just waited.

A town sergeant, dressed in Castillon d’Arbizon’s livery of grey and red, had watched the friar climb the hill. He had noticed that the Dominican’s robe was old and patched and that the friar himself was young and strong, and so the sergeant went to find one of the town’s consuls and that official, cramming his fur-trimmed hat onto his grey hair, ordered the sergeant to bring two more armed men while he fetched Father Medous and one of the priest’s two books. The group assembled outside the church and the consul ordered the curious folk who had gathered to watch the excitement to stand back. There is nothing to see,’ he said officiously.

But there was. A stranger had come to Castillon d’Arbizon and all strangers were cause for suspicion, and so the crowd stayed and watched as the consul pulled on his official robe of grey and red cloth trimmed with hare fur,
then
ordered the three sergeants to open the church door.

What did the people expect?
A devil to erupt from St Sardos’s?
Did they think to see a great charred beast with crackling black wings and a trail of smoke behind his forked tail? Instead the priest and the consul and two of the sergeants went inside, while the third sergeant, his stave of office showing the badge of Castillon d’Arbizon, which was a hawk carrying a sheaf of rye, guarded the door. The crowd waited. The woman who had fled the church said that the friar was praying. ‘But he looks evil,’ she added, ‘he looks like the devil,’ and she hurriedly made the sign of the cross once more.

When the priest, the consul and the two guards went into the church the friar was still lying flat before the altar with his arms spread wide so that his body made the shape of the cross. He must have heard the nailed boots on the nave’s uneven flagstones, but he did not move, nor did he speak.

‘Paire?’
Castillon d’Arbizon’s priest asked nervously. He spoke in Occitan and the friar did not respond.
‘Father?’
The priest tried French.

‘You are a Dominican?’ The consul was too impatient to wait for any response to Father Medous’s tentative approach. ‘Answer me!’ He also spoke in French, and sternly too, as befitted Castillon d’Arbizon’s leading citizen. ‘Are you a Dominican?’

The friar prayed a moment longer, brought his hands together above his head, paused for a heartbeat, then stood and faced the four men.

‘I have
come
a long way,’ he said imperiously, ‘and need a bed, food and wine.’

The consul repeated his question. ‘You are a Dominican?’

‘I follow the blessed St Dominic’s way,’ the friar confirmed. ‘The wine need not be good, the food merely what your poorest folk eat, and the bed can be of straw.’

The consul hesitated, for the friar was tall, evidently strong and just a bit frightening, but then the consul, who was a wealthy man and properly respected in Castillon d’Arbizon, drew himself up to his full height. ‘You are young,’ he said accusingly, ‘to be a friar.’

‘It is to the glory of God,’ the Dominican said dismissively, ‘that young men follow the cross instead of the sword. I can sleep in a stable.’

‘Your name?’ the consul demanded.

‘Thomas.’

‘An English name!’ There was alarm in the consul’s voice and the two sergeants responded by hefting their long staves.

‘Tomas,
if you prefer,’ the friar said, seemingly unconcerned as the two sergeants took a menacing pace towards him. ‘It is my baptismal name,’ he explained, ‘and the name of that poor disciple who doubted Our Lord’s divinity. If you have no such doubts then I envy you and I pray to God that he grants me such certainty.’

‘You are French?’ the consul asked.

‘I am a Norman,’ the friar said, then nodded. ‘Yes, I am French.’ He looked at the priest. ‘Do you speak French?’

‘I do.’ The priest sounded nervous. ‘Some.
A little.’

‘Then may I eat in your house tonight, father?’

The consul would not let Father Medous answer, but instead instructed the priest to give the friar the book. It was a very old book with worm-eaten pages and a black leather cover that the friar unwrapped.

‘What do you want of me?’ the friar demanded.

‘Read from the book.’ The consul had noticed that the friar’s hands were scarred and the fingers slightly twisted. Damage, he thought, more fitting for a soldier than a priest. ‘Read to me!’ the consul insisted.

‘You cannot read for yourself?’ the friar asked derisively.

‘Whether I read or not,’ the consul said, ‘is not your business. But whether you can read, young
man,
is our business, for if you are not a priest then you will not be able to read. So read to me.’

The friar shrugged, opened a page at random and paused. The consul’s suspicions were roused by the pause and he raised a hand to beckon the sergeants forward, but then the Dominican suddenly read aloud. He had a good voice, confident and strong, and the Latin words sounded like a melody as they echoed from the church’s painted walls. After a moment the consul held up a hand to silence the friar and looked quizzically at Father Medous. ‘Well?’

‘He reads well,’ Father Medous said weakly. The priest’s own Latin was not good and he did not like to admit that he had not entirely understood the echoing words, though he was quite sure that the Dominican could read.

‘You know what the book is?’ the consul demanded.

‘I assume,’ the friar said, ‘that it is the life of St Gregory. The passage, as you doubtless recognized,’ there was sarcasm in his voice, ‘describes the pestilence that will afflict those who disobey the Lord their God.’ He wrapped the limp black cover about the book and held it out to the priest. ‘You probably know the book as the
Flores Sanctorum?’

‘Indeed.’ The priest took the book and nodded at the consul.

That official was still not entirely reassured. ‘Your hands,’ he said, ‘how were they injured?
And your nose?
It was broken?’

‘As a child,’ the friar said, holding out his hands, ‘I slept with the cattle. I was trampled by an ox. And my nose was broken when my mother struck me with a skillet.’

The consul understood those everyday childhood accidents and visibly relaxed. ‘You will understand, father,’ he said to the friar, ‘that we must be cautious of visitors.’

‘Cautious of God’s priests?’ the Dominican asked caustically.

‘We had to be sure,’ the consul explained. ‘A message came from Auch which said the English are riding, but no one knows where.’

‘There is a truce,’ the friar pointed out.

‘When did the English ever keep a truce?’ the consul retorted.

‘If they are indeed English,’ the Dominican said scornfully. ‘Any troop of bandits is called the English these days. You have men,’ he gestured at the sergeants who did not understand a word of the French conversation, ‘and you have churches and priests, so why should you fear bandits?’

‘The bandits are English,’ the consul insisted. ‘They carried war bows.’

‘
Which does not alter the fact that I have come a long way, and that I am hungry, thirsty and tired.
’

‘Father Medous will look after you,’ the consul said. He gestured at the sergeants and led them back down the nave and out into the small square. ‘There is nothing to worry about!’ the consul announced to the crowd. ‘Our visitor is a friar. He is a man of God.’

The small crowd dispersed. Twilight wreathed the church tower and closed about the castle’s battlements. A man of God had come to Castillon d’Arbizon and the small town was at peace.

—«»—«»—«»—

The man of God ate a dish of cabbage, beans and salt bacon. He explained to Father Medous that he had made a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in Spain to pray at the tomb of St James and now he was walking to Avignon to fetch new orders from his superiors. He had seen no raiders, English or otherwise.

‘We have seen no English in many years,’ Father Medous replied, making a hasty sign of the cross to avert the evil he had just mentioned, ‘but not so long ago they ruled here.’ The friar, eating his meal, appeared not to be interested. ‘We paid taxes to them,’ Father Medous went on, ‘but then they went and now we belong to the Count of Berat.’

‘I trust he is a godly man?’ Friar Thomas asked.

‘Very pious,’ Father Medous confirmed. ‘He keeps some straw from the manger at Bethlehem in his church. I would like to see that.’

‘His men garrison the castle?’ the friar demanded, ignoring the more interesting topic of the baby Jesus’s bedding.

‘Indeed,’ Father Medous confirmed.

‘Does the garrison hear Mass?’

Father Medous paused, obviously tempted to tell a lie,
then
settled for a half-truth. ‘Some do.’

The friar put down his wooden spoon and stared sternly at the uncomfortable priest. ‘How many are they? And how many of them hear Mass?’

Father Medous was nervous. All priests were nervous when Dominicans appeared, for the friars were God’s ruthless warriors in the fight against heresy and if this tall young man reported that the folk of Castillon d’Arbizon were less than pious then he could bring the Inquisition and its instruments of torture to the town. There are ten of them in the garrison,’ Father Medous said, ‘and they are all good Christians. As are all my people.’

Friar Thomas looked sceptical. ‘All of them?’

‘They do their best,’ Father Medous said loyally, ‘but . . .’ He paused again, evidently regretting that he had been about to add a qualification and, to cover his hesitation, he went to the small fire and added a log. The wind fretted at the chimney and sent a back-draught of smoke whirling about the small room. ‘A north wind,’ Father Medous said, ‘and it brings the first cold night of the autumn. Winter is not far off, eh?’

‘But?’
The friar had noted the hesitation.

Father Medous sighed as he took his seat. ‘There is a girl.
A heretic.
She was not from Castillon d’Arbizon, God be thanked, but she stayed here when her father died. She is a beghard.’

‘I did not think the beghards were this far south,’ the friar said. Beghards were beggars, but not just any importunate folk. Instead they were heretics who denied the Church and denied the need to work and claimed all things came from God and therefore that all things should be free to all men and women. The Church, to protect itself against such horrors, burned the beghards wherever they were found.