The Grail Quest Books 1-3: Harlequin, Vagabond, Heretic (39 page)

He saw no movement in the marshes, though he could see the smear of smoke coming from the French camp-fires that misted the fading light north of Abbeville. Tomorrow, he thought, the French would cross the bridge and file through the town's gates to confront the English army whose fires burned to the south, and the size of the smoke plumes witnessed how much larger the French army was than the English.

Jake appeared from a nearby cottage with a sack in his hand. 'What is it?' Thomas called.

'Grain!'
Jake hefted the sack.
'Bloody damp.
Sprouting.'

'No eels?'

'Of course there are no bloody eels,' Jake grumbled. 'Bloody eels got more sense than to live in a hovel like this.'

Thomas grinned and looked off to the sea that lay like a blood-reddened swordblade to the west. There was one distant sail, a speck of white, on the clouded horizon. Gulls wheeled and soared above the river that here was a great wide channel, broken by reeds and banks, sliding towards the sea. It was hard to distinguish between river and marsh, so tangled was the landscape. Then Thomas wondered why the gulls were screaming and diving. He stared at them and saw what at first looked like a dozen cattle on the riverbank. He opened his mouth to call that news to Jake,
then
he saw that there were men with the cattle.
Men and women, perhaps a score of them?
He frowned, staring, realizing that the folk must have come from this village. They had presumably seen the English archers approaching and they had fled with their livestock, but to where?
The marsh?
That was sensible, for the wetlands probably had a score of secret paths where folk could hide, but why had they risked going onto the sand ridge where Thomas could see them? Then he saw that they were not trying to hide, but to escape, for the villagers were now wading across the wide waters towards the northern bank.

Sweet Jesus, he thought, but there was a ford! He stared, not daring to believe his own eyes, but the folk were forging steadily across the river and dragging their cows with them. It was a deep ford, and he guessed it could only be crossed at low tide, but it was there. 'Jake!' he shouted. 'Jake!'

Jake ran across to the church and Thomas leaned far down and hauled him onto the rotting thatch. The building swayed perilously under their weight as Jake scrambled to the ridge, took hold of the sun-bleached wooden cross and looked where Thomas was pointing.

'God's arse,' he said, 'there's a bloody ford!'

'And there are bloody Frenchmen,' Thomas said, for on the river's far bank where firmer land rose from the tangle of marsh and water there were now men in grey mail. They were newly arrived, or else Thomas would have seen them earlier, and their first cooking fires pricked the dark stand of trees where they camped. Their presence showed that the French knew of the ford's existence and wanted to stop the English crossing, but that was none of Thomas's business. His only duty was to let the army know that there was a ford; a possible way out of the trap.

Thomas slid down the church's thatch and jumped to the ground. 'You go back to Will,' he told Jake, 'and tell him there's a ford. And tell him I'll burn the cottages one at a time to serve as a beacon.' It would be dark soon and without a light to guide them no one would be able to find the village.

Jake took six men and rode back to the south. Thomas waited. Every now and then he climbed back to the church roof and stared across the ford and each time he thought he saw more fires among the trees. The French, he reckoned, had placed a formidable force there, and no wonder, for it was the last escape route and they were blocking it. But Thomas still fired the cottages one by one to show the English where that escape might lie.

The flames roared into the night, scattering sparks across the marshes. The archers had found some dried fish concealed in a hut wall and that, with brackish water, was their supper. They were disconsolate, and no wonder.

'We should have stayed in Brittany,' one man said.

'They're going to corner us,' another suggested. He had made a flute from a dried reed and had been playing a melancholy air.

'We've got arrows,' a third man said.

'Enough to kill all those bastards?'

'Have to be enough.'

The flute player blew some faint notes, then became bored and tossed the instrument into the closest fire. Thomas, the night dragging hard on his patience, strolled back to the church, but instead of climbing onto the roof he pushed open the ramshackle door and then opened the one window's shutters to let in the firelight. Then he saw it was not a proper church, but a fishermen's shrine. There was an altar made from sea-whitened planks balanced on two broken barrels, and on the altar was a crude doll-like figure draped with strips of white cloth and crowned with a band of dried seaweed. The fishermen at Hookton had sometimes made such places, especially if a boat was lost at sea, and Thomas's father had always hated them. He had burned one to the
ground,
calling it a place of idols, but Thomas reckoned fishermen needed the shrines. The sea was a cruel place and the doll, he thought it was female, perhaps represented some saint of the area. Women whose men were long gone to sea could come to pray to the saint, begging that the ship would come home.

The shrine's roof was low and it was more comfortable to kneel. Thomas said a prayer. Let me live, he prayed, let me live, and he found himself thinking of the lance, thinking of Brother Germain and Sir Guillaume and of their fears that a new evil, born of the dark lords, was brewing in the south. It is none of your business, he told himself. It is superstition. The Cathars are dead, burned in the church's fires and gone to hell. Beware of madmen, his father had told
him,
and who better than his father to know that truth? But was he a Vexille? He bowed his head and prayed that God would keep him from the madness.

'And what are you praying for now?' a voice suddenly asked, startling Thomas, who turned to see Father Hobbe grinning from the low doorway. He had chatted with the priest during the last few days, but he had never been alone with him. Thomas was not even sure he wanted to be, for Father Hobbe's presence was a reminder of his conscience.

'I'm praying for more arrows, father.'

'Please God the prayer's answered,' Father Hobbe said, then settled on the church's earthen floor. 'I had the devil's own task finding my way across the swamp, but I had a mind to talk with you. I have this feeling you've been avoiding me.'

'Father!'
Thomas said chidingly.

'So here you are, and with a beautiful girl as well! I tell you, Thomas, if they forced you to lick a leper's arse you'd taste nothing but sweetness. Charmed, you are. They can't even hang you!'

'They can,' Thomas said, 'but not properly.'

'Thank God for that,' the priest said, then smiled. 'So how is the penance going?'

'I haven't found the lance,' Thomas answered curtly.

'But have you even looked for it?' Father Hobbe asked,
then
drew a piece of bread from his pouch. He broke the small loaf and tossed half to Thomas. 'Don't ask where I got it, but I didn't steal it. Remember, Thomas, you can fail in a penance and still have absolution if you have made a sincere effort.'

Thomas grimaced, not at Father Hobbe's words, but because he had bitten down on a scrap of millstone grit caught in the bread. He spat it out. 'My soul isn't
so
black as you make it sound, Father.'

'How would you know? All our souls are black.'

'I've made an effort,' Thomas said, then found himself telling the whole tale of how he had gone to Caen and sought out Sir Guillaume's house, and how he had been a guest there, and about Brother Germain and the Cathar Vexilles, and about the prophecy from Daniel and the advice of Mordecai.

Father Hobbe made the sign of the cross when Thomas talked of Mordecai. 'You can't take the word of such a man,' the priest said sternly. 'He may or may not be a good doctor, but the Jews have ever been Christ's enemy. If he is on anyone's side it must be the
devil's
.'

'He's a good man,' Thomas insisted.

'Thomas! Thomas!' Father Hobbe said sadly,
then
frowned for a few heartbeats. 'I have heard,' he said after a while, 'that the Cathar heresy still lives.'

'But it can't challenge France and the Church!'

'You would know?' Father Hobbe asked. 'It reached out across the sea to steal the lance from your father, and you say it reached across France to kill Sir Guillaume's wife. The devil works his business in the dark, Thomas.'

'There's more,' Thomas said, and told the priest the story that the Cathars had the Grail. The light of the burning cottages flickered on the walls and gave the seaweed-crowned image on the altar a sinister cast. 'I don't think I believe any of it,' Thomas concluded.

'And why not?'

'Because if the story is true,' Thomas said, 'then I am not Thomas of Hookton, but Thomas Vexille. I'm not English, but some half-breed Frenchman. I'm not an archer, but noble born.'

'It gets worse,' Father Hobbe said with a smile. 'It means that you have been given a task.'

'They're just stories,' Thomas said scornfully. 'Give me another penance, Father. I'll make a pilgrimage for
you,
I'll go to Canterbury on my knees if that's what you want.'

'I want nothing of you, Thomas, but God wants a lot from you.'

'Then tell God to choose someone else.'

'I'm not in the habit of giving advice to the Almighty,' Father Hobbe said, 'though I do listen to His. You think there is no Grail?'

'Men have sought it for a thousand years,' Thomas said, 'and no one has found it.
Unless the thing in Genoa is real.'

Father Hobbe leaned his head against the wattle wall. 'I have heard,' he said quietly, '
that
the real Grail is made of common clay. A simple peasant dish like the one my mother treasured, God rest her soul, for she could only afford the one good dish and then, clumsy fool that I am
,
I broke it one day. But the Grail, I am told, cannot be broken. You could put it in one of those guns that amused everyone at Caen and it would not break even if you dashed it against a castle wall. And when you place the bread and wine, the blood and flesh, of the Mass in that common piece of clay, Thomas, it turns to gold.
Pure, shining gold.
That is the Grail and, God help me, it does exist.'

'So you would have me wander the earth looking for a peasant's dish?' Thomas asked.

'God would,' Father Hobbe said, 'and for good reason.' He looked saddened. 'There is heresy everywhere, Thomas. The Church is besieged. The bishops and the cardinals and the abbots are corrupted by wealth, the village priests stew in ignorance and the devil is brewing his evil. Yet there are some of us, a few, who believe that the Church can be refreshed, that it can glow with God's glory again. I think the Grail could do that. I think God has chosen you.'

'Father!'

'And perhaps me,' Father Hobbe said, ignoring Thomas's protest. 'When this is all over,' he waved a hand to encompass the army and its plight, 'I think I may join you. We shall seek your family together.'

'You?'
Thomas asked. 'Why?'

'Because God calls,' Father Hobbe said simply,
then
jerked his head. 'You must go, Thomas, you must go. I shall pray for you.'

Thomas had to go because the night had been disturbed by the sound of horses' hooves and the strident voices of men. Thomas seized his bow and ducked out of the church to find that a score of men-at-arms were now in the village. Their shields carried the lions and stars of the Earl of Northumberland and their commander was demanding to know who was in charge of the archers.

'I am,' Thomas said.

'Where's this ford?'

Thomas made himself a torch from a sheaf of thatch lashed to a pole and, while its flame lasted, he led them across the marsh towards the distant ford. The flames flickered out after a while, but he was close enough to find his way to where he had seen the cattle. The tide had risen again and black water seeped and flooded all about the horsemen, who huddled on a shrinking ridge of sand.

'You can see where the other side is,' Thomas told the men-at-arms, pointing to the fires of the French, which looked to be about a mile away.

'Bastards are waiting for us?'

'Plenty of them too.'

'We're crossing anyway,' the leading man-at-arms said. 'The King's decided it, and we're doing it when the tide falls.' He turned to his men.
'Off your horses.
Find the path. Mark it.' He pointed to some pollarded willows. 'Cut staves off them, use them as markers.'

Thomas groped his way back to the village, sometimes wading through water up to his waist. A thin mist was seeping from the flooding tide, and had it not been for the blazing huts in the village he could easily have got lost.

The village, built on the highest piece of land in all the marsh, had attracted a crowd of horsemen by the time Thomas returned. Archers and men-at-arms gathered there and some had already pulled down the shrine to make fires from its timbers.

Will Skeat had come with the rest of his archers. 'The women are with the baggage,' he told Thomas. 'Bloody chaos back there, it is. They're hoping to cross everyone in the morning.'

'Be a fight first,' Thomas said.

'Either that or fight their whole damn army later in the day. Did you find any eels?'

'We ate them.'

Skeat grinned,
then
turned as a voice hailed him. It was the Earl of Northampton, his horse's trapper spattered with mud almost to the saddle.

'Well done, Will!'

'Weren't me, my lord, it was this clever bastard.' Skeat jerked a thumb at Thomas.

'Hanging did you good, eh?' the Earl said, then watched as a file of men-of-arms climbed onto the village's sand ridge. 'Be ready to move at dawn, Will, and we'll be crossing when the tide falls. I want your boys in front. Leave your horses here; I'll have good men watch them.'