Grail Knight: Number 5 in series (Outlaw Chronicles) (22 page)

Mercadier looked behind him, and I saw that he recognized me. He smiled grimly, and hauled the horse round, jerking viciously on its reins. Roland was exchanging blows with the remaining mercenary, the skinny, familiar-looking man; my cousin’s shield was up, his blows were fast and precise, rhythmical and even elegant, but his right leg was sheeted with blood and his face under his helmet was bone white.

Mercadier trotted over to me. He lifted his sword and said, ‘So you have sunk to murder and robbery on the Queen’s highway, Sir Knight. I am not at all surprised. Your villein’s blood was bound to come to the fore. And I shall enjoy seeing the colour of it.’

And his horse leaped towards mine.

I should have been concentrating on my enemy – for he was a truly formidable man – but my eye was dragged to Roland and his opponent, hammering at each other sword and shield, sword and shield. Then Roland mistimed his block, and the mercenary’s sword clanged off his helmet. My friend reeled in the saddle. The thin man closed with Roland and launched a flurry of blows at his head and shoulders. My cousin just managed to parry and block them – but he was weakened by the blow to the head, and if I could see it from ten paces away, so could his opponent.

Yet Mercadier’s sword was arcing down at my own head. I took the full force of the strike on my shield, and cut back at him laterally, aiming for his waist. But the dark mercenary captain had already spurred out of range and my long blade hissed through air.

I stole a quick glance at Roland, and to my surprise saw that he still lived. He was lolling in the saddle somewhat but his enemy had apparently decided to break off the engagement and flee. The familiar-looking mercenary was now fifty yards down the road, galloping towards the Château de Rouillac.

I had not time to ponder his prudence – or cowardice – for Mercadier’s destrier barged into my horse’s shoulder, and the scarred fighter cut left and right and right again at my upper body with astounding speed and strength and, to be honest, I was very hard-pressed to keep his steel from my flesh. I blocked with shield and sword, and even managed a low lunge that made him rein back and keep his distance. But he pressed back again, as fast as a cat. His horse peeled back its lips and snapped its huge yellow teeth at the muzzle of my mount, scaring the poor beast and causing him to rear alarmingly. And while I was busy merely keeping my seat, Mercadier launched a hacking blow that would have split my skull if it had landed. I just got my sword beneath it in time, catching his blade with my cross-guard. But a sideways slice came next, flowing seamlessly from Mercadier’s first blow, and that chopped the corner from my shield, the small triangle of leather-covered wood striking me in the face. I cut back at Mercadier’s shoulder, missed, and was very nearly skewered by his lightning counterstroke. I was going to lose this duel – I knew it in my heart. His warhorse was better trained, to be sure, and that gave him a huge advantage – but he was also, without a shred of doubt, a better swordsman than me.

However, I was not alone. And he was.

Roland recovered his battered wits, straightened in the saddle, jammed back his spurs. His horse bounded forward; my cousin hacked down once from behind – and sunk his blade deep into Mercadier’s waist, hauling it free in a spray of red mist. The mercenary captain gave a short desperate bark of pain; and now the gore welled thick and dark from his opened side, drenching his leg and the horse’s flank. He stared round at Roland, a look of almost comical indignation on his face. And he was down, slipping from his saddle to crumple into the dust of the road. Roland dismounted slowly, with great difficulty – his right leg was badly gashed – and he pulled a dagger from the sheath at his belt. He hobbled over to where Mercadier was lying, a dark pool spreading beneath his body.

‘Remember me?’ said Roland, his body casting a shadow over Mercadier’s scarred face and staring, agonized eyes. The mercenary said nothing but I thought I saw him give the merest shake of his head.

‘Let me remind you,’ said my cousin quietly. And he bent down and flicked the blade of the dagger through Mercadier’s right eyeball. The fallen man gave a grunt of pain, no more, as blood and pale jelly oozed from the eye socket.

‘Still nothing?’ said Roland. ‘Well, you’ll doubtless meet many men in Hell that you have wronged – men who, even if you do not recall them, I am certain will recall you. May the Devil allow their revenge to be slower and more painful than mine.’

And he stabbed down once with the dagger, squarely piercing Mercadier’s remaining eye and driving the blade deep into his brain.

While Nur salved and bandaged Roland’s wounded leg in the infirmary of the Abbey of St Andrew, I went in search of an old friend, my former music teacher Bernard de Sezanne, who now served Queen Eleanor and whom I had bumped into the day before at the Easter feast.

I was experiencing the familiar flat, melancholic humour that I always had after a bout of bloody combat. Roland and I had barely spoken during our slow ride back to Bordeaux, and I had taken him directly to the Abbey’s infirmary before carefully sponging the spatters of blood from the horses’ hides and their saddles and returning them to the livery stable by the western gate. There were two things that greatly concerned me that afternoon: firstly, I could see that Roland’s wound was deep, and I worried that our reckless revenge might result in the loss of his leg, or even his life; the second thing was the mercenary who had fled so abruptly from the fight and escaped down the road to Rouillac. If he was familiar to me, was I, too, familiar to him? And would his fellow mercenaries – knowing that I had been responsible for the death of their captain – come seeking their own revenge? Had I, in short, begun a dangerous, bloody feud with these
routiers
, these lawless killers-for-hire?

The death of Mercadier, Queen Eleanor’s fighting man and her protector on the dangerous roads of France, would soon be reported in Bordeaux; the hue and cry would doubtless be raised and a culprit would be sought. And so I needed to find my old mentor Bernard. I did not need his advice, nor his music, nor yet one of his funny stories – I wanted his help with another of his special talents.

I found Bernard in a tavern in the least reputable part of the city, surrounded by a gang of oafish, drunken cronies, a brimming beaker before him, his silk-clad elbow in a small lake of spilled wine, his face blotched, his head already lolling on his shoulders, although it was only an hour or so past noon.

‘The hour of day is entirely irrelevant, my dear boy,’ slurred Bernard, when I pointed this out. ‘A great artist such as myself must nourish his Muse with the fruit of the vine from dawn to dusk or it will surely wither and die. I drink to live, I live to drink, and I drink to you, my friend, my brother in art … once my most promising pupil, a musician of talent but now reduced to little more than an armed thug, a killer of men, the hallowed Muse long flown from his soul, her delicate sensibilities put to flight by the hideous screams of battle…’

Bernard drew a breath and sank the entire contents of his beaker before continuing. His cronies were grinning in anticipation. I had heard this refrain before: my friend believed I was squandering my talent by choosing the life of a knight, of a warrior, rather than that of a musician and poet.

‘When was the last time you tuned your vielle? When did you last pluck a tender note?’ he said, squinting at me out of one eye.

‘I must confess, Bernard, that it has been a few weeks; my vielle was destroyed in a fire when Westbury was attacked…’ And I told him briefly about that night.

‘You see, you see – the wages of sin! Your chosen life of barbarism and brutality has laid you low. Now that sacred box, the heavenly machine that once allowed us to hear the very whispers of the voice of God, is no more – destroyed by beast-like killers, burned to ashes by uncouth men of the sword, violent men cut from the very same cloth as yourself.’

I was beginning to become irritated. ‘I need your help, Bernard,’ I said through my teeth. ‘And I need it rather urgently.’

‘Of course you do, my boy, of course you do. And it is not too late – oh no, no – it is not yet too late for you to turn aside from the red path of violence and rediscover your gentler, finer musical self. Even a gore-soaked slaughterman such as yourself can be saved. But first we must find you a new instrument. I know of a vielle-maker in Toulouse, a well-regarded man but expensive…’

The oafish cronies were hooting by now. And while I knew that Bernard was merely making sport with me for his own sodden amusement, I feared that I would do something rash, something I’d regret, if I did not shut off his teasing forthwith. So I grasped him by the elbow, my thumb digging into the soft point behind the knob of bone, and raised him up from the wine-stained table. He squawked a good deal but meekly allowed me to lead him to a table on the far side of the tavern away from his cackling friends.

‘My wine…’ he bleated.

‘No more wine for the moment, Bernard. I need you as sober as possible – so that you can help your old pupil and friend.’

My former mentor sat forlornly at the empty table, staring at me with a sort of bemused aggrievement in his eyes, as I pulled up a stool and sat down opposite him.

‘You’ve become just like him, you know,’ he said miserably.

‘Who?’

‘Your master, the Earl of Locksley – you and he are quite a pair. Always in a hurry and always wanting something from me.’

‘Bernard, I’m sorry, but I really do need your help urgently.’

‘You know that you have fresh blood on your hose?’ he asked.

‘Yes, that is what I need to talk to you about.’

Robin’s happiness was coming off him in a kind of glow, like Mediterranean sunshine reflecting from a white stone wall. All the Companions were gathered in the refectory of the Abbey of St Andrew, and were eating a supper of roasted mutton with wild garlic on trenchers of fine white bread – a rare treat for the refectory of a religious house, which was due to the fact that it was the evening of Easter Monday, a holy day. Roland, too, while he had an obvious limp, seemed to be inordinately cheerful, beaming at his fellows and calling out bawdy jests across the table to Little John. I believe that Nur, when she had finished treating the bloody gash in his leg, may have given him some powerful drug for the pain, but perhaps I am maligning my cousin – perhaps the joy of his successful revenge was the sole cause of his hectic spirits. He and Robin, who was joyful after two full days in his beloved’s company, gave the whole gathering a festive spirit, and we were all, I think, even silent, black-shrouded Nur, enlivened by their exuberant gaiety.

We had only just started eating when Robin, who was beside me, gave a shout of happiness and leaped up from the bench. Then my lord was embracing a squat, fat figure in a black robe with thin hair the colour of rabbit fur cut in the tonsure. Then Robin was introducing him to the table: ‘This, my friends, is Father Tuck! An old comrade and a very good man. Come, sit down here beside young Alan. Have some of this tender mutton…’

And I found myself smiling into a round, red face with a lumpy nose and kind, mellow eyes the colour of hazelnuts.

‘Hello, Alan,’ said Tuck, ‘how have you been keeping?’

While my old friend and I exchanged our news, I took in the changes that time had wrought on the Countess of Locksley’s personal chaplain. The former monk and follower of Robin in the old days in Sherwood seemed a little greyer and a little fatter than last time I had seen him – but for a man of more than fifty years he still seemed to be strong and tough enough for two men. Tuck might be a man of God but he was also a warrior to his fingertips – very skilled in the yew bow and with sword and quarterstaff. And while he might tend to the Countess of Locksley’s spiritual needs, he also was quite capable of guarding her body against anyone who might wish to harm her. We had barely finished catching up with each other’s lives, when Robin was on his feet once more.

‘My friends, I have an announcement to make,’ said my lord happily. ‘I am very pleased to inform you that Father Tuck here will be joining us on our quest. He has long been interested in the particular object of our search and I believe that his knowledge of the Grail will prove invaluable to us all.’

There were universal calls of approval from those who knew Tuck, and polite smiles and nods from those who did not. Sir Nicholas de Scras called out, ‘The blessing of Our Lord Jesus Christ be upon you, Father. And be welcome among us: we could sorely use a man of God in our company!’

‘I’m so pleased you are coming with us,’ I told my plump neighbour, who had helped himself to an enormous piece of succulent shoulder meat from the common dish and spooning about a pint of the garlic sauce over the top. With his mouth bulging with mutton, the grease running down his chin, Tuck told me that Robin had engaged a troop of the Queen’s Gascon men-at-arms to act as his Countess’s temporary protectors over the next few weeks while Tuck took leave of his mistress and joined the Companions in their quest. Tuck, it seemed, had been fascinated by the Grail ever since Robin had mentioned it to him some years ago in Yorkshire. And he had been making his own researches in his idle hours at Eleanor’s court while it travelled about in her southern lands. Indeed, it was he who had confirmed to Robin that Amanieu d’Albret, Nur’s brutal Templar, was in residence at the Jealous Castle. But that was not all he had to contribute to our fellowship.

‘I have seen it, Alan,’ he said to me with quiet but simmering excitement and a small belch. ‘I have seen the Grail.’

His words jolted me. I knew, of course, that this wondrous object did truly exist in a physical form in the world – I had seen the Master carrying the very wooden box that contained it, and the purple cushion the box was set to rest upon, but I had never seen the Grail itself – and his words gave the holy vessel a reality that was in some way rather shocking.

‘Have you truly laid your eyes on the cup of Christ?’ I said, searching Tuck’s face for the truth.