Grail Knight: Number 5 in series (Outlaw Chronicles) (31 page)

Tronc’s young brow furrowed at my words. ‘I believe I have heard rumours of this Master and his Knights of Our Lady – but I have not heard of his presence here in Toulouse.’ He paused and looked keenly at me. ‘I have also heard that he had some magical trinket, a golden cup studded with fabulous jewels, an object of enormous value, priceless indeed, that was supposed to be able to make a man immortal or perform other such wonders.’

I said nothing, not wanting to lie to him, but noting privately that this Trencavel, for all his youth and enthusiasm, was no fool.

‘Well, no matter,’ said Tronc. ‘I shall make enquiries in the city tomorrow with a number of people and see if I can bring you any news of this evil fellow, this three-thumbed Master.’

We had all finished eating by this point and were lingering at the table over the wine, when Robin said, ‘Those extraordinary women priests we saw outside this afternoon, the Perfects, I think you called them, and you named their followers Believers – what do they believe?’

‘But where shall I begin,’ said Tronc. ‘I have several friends in Albi and Carcassonne who are Believers – indeed, a large proportion of the people in my own lands, perhaps a third of them, perhaps even as many as half, follow this path to God.’

I filled his wine cup from the jug on the table, and he smiled his thanks. Tuck was leaning forward from the end of the table in an attempt to hear Tronc’s words more clearly.

‘These people are commonly called Cathars, but they think of themselves as Christians, in that they believe that Christ was the son of God who was sent to Earth by his Father and appeared in the illusion of a fleshly form. However, they do not believe that God, the essence of Goodness, has total dominion over the universe; he shares it with another deity. The world, as they see it, was made by the Devil, or Rex Mundi, as they call him, the King of the World, and he has power over all material things; God, in contrast, is manifested in immaterial things, the holy, invisible things of the spirit, and so they reject all the things of the world, things of the flesh, as works of the Devil. They despise wealth, for example, and the eating of meat, and the making of oaths, and carnal relations between men and women, even married men and women desiring to procreate, of which the Church, of course, thoroughly approves.’

I was looking at Tuck’s face as Tronc spoke and far from being offended by what he heard, he seemed fascinated. Robin too was absorbed by our host’s lecture. But Sir Nicholas de Scras, his face flushed with wine, was scowling at the table in general. Then he spoke: ‘How can they possibly believe that the Devil made the world and has dominion over it? What rubbish! We know that God made the world and everything in it – it says so in the Bible.’ He took a deep breath, seeming to make an effort of commanding himself. ‘Surely these wretches are heretics of the vilest sort – a foul poison inside the community of Christians.’

‘Yes, they are heretics – and they are condemned by the Church,’ Tronc replied. ‘Nonetheless there is a certain logic to their argument, I would say. If God made the world and He is omnipotent why does He allow evil to exist? Disease, war, famine, pain … Why does God stand idly by and allow wickedness to flourish? Is it not reasonable to suggest that the Devil rules the world and the body of a man or a woman – and that God rules the spirit, the soul that is imprisoned inside that body, and it therefore follows that the only way to God is through a renunciation of the evil world and all the corruption that our flesh contains?’

‘It is not our place to question the actions of God,’ said Tuck reproachfully. ‘We cannot know His plan – if He allows evil to exist, it must be because of some ineffable scheme…’

But Sir Nicholas was clearly boiling with fury by this point, the dark bruises on his face making him seem inordinately ugly. He glared at our host and said, ‘You seem to know a good deal about these God-damned heretics. Perhaps you are one yourself!’

Tronc looked steadily, coolly, at Sir Nicholas, a man seasoned by more than forty years of life. Our host said nothing, just looked at the former Hospitaller, apparently unperturbed by his extraordinary rudeness. But I could feel Robin gathering himself to rebuke Sir Nicholas. And then, to my great surprise, Sir Nicholas himself suddenly dropped his angry gaze to the table and said, ‘Forgive me, my lord, for my gross and vile discourtesy. I believe I may have taken too much of your good Toulousain wine. I retract my boorish remarks and I beg your leave to retire from the board and seek my bed.’

‘You have my leave to retire, certainly, but before you go I will answer your question. No, I am not a heretic. In my minority, after my father died, my tutor Bertrand de Saissac naturally instructed me in the theology of the Cathars, since he was a Believer himself. But he left me free to choose my own religion – and I am a faithful son of Holy Mother Church. However, I cannot hate the Cathars, whatever the bishops might decree. While their beliefs do not coincide with my own, this is the Languedoc, and we know that there are good men and women to be found in all creeds. My father’s senechal, for example, was a Jew, and a very fine man just the same. No, Sir Nicholas, I am no God-damned heretic, as you put it, but neither am I the enemy of heretics.’

‘I will thank you, my lord, for this fine feast and bid you good night, then,’ said Sir Nicholas rising from his seat. ‘I apologise again for my discourtesy; I am deeply ashamed of my inexcusable behaviour.’

At Sir Nicholas’s departure, most of the rest of the Companions also took their leave – trooping out of the hall and across the courtyard to the guest hall that had been prepared by Tronc’s legion of servants. But Robin and Tuck and I remained at the table. ‘If it does not tax your good nature, sir, may I enquire a little more about these strange Cathars,’ said Robin. ‘Do they have their own churches, sacrifices and rituals?’

I looked at my lord – I had long known that he had little love for the true Church, and that he had indulged in some unspeakable pagan rites in the past, but I had always believed that, at heart, he was largely indifferent to spiritual matters. Now he seemed to be burning with curiosity about these southern heretics. Tuck was also looking at Robin, with a worried frown wreathing his already wrinkled brow.

Tronc said, ‘I will tell you a little more, but I do not wish this pleasant evening to be burdened with too much talk of faith. It divides men, I find, and leads to disharmony, even violence and unnecessary deaths. And, furthermore, my heart yearns to hear some of Alan’s famous music before we sleep. But I shall tell you a little more about them, if you will it, so that you may come to a better understanding of these matters…

‘So, you asked about Cathar churches – no, they do not have churches as such, merely houses where the Perfects gather and minister to their Believers. And as for rituals, there is but one main one, called the
consolamentum
, and roughly equivalent to our baptism, except that it occurs, usually, towards the end of a man’s life and transforms a Believer into a Perfect. Before receiving the
consolamentum
, a Believer is not expected to follow the tenets of their faith: avoiding meat, milk and eggs, and so on. But, once a Believer is made into a Perfect, he or she must avoid the temptations of the world, fleshly love, for example, and the coveting of money. A Perfect must keep himself pure until the day of his death, when his immaculate soul can be taken up out of this evil world and into the arms of God.’

‘And what if a Perfect were to die unclean?’ asked Robin.

‘There are some who say that an unclean soul of a Perfect will go into another body, of a newborn baby or perhaps even an animal, and so it is reincarnated again and again until the soul has been purified … But that is quite enough of these solemn matters – Sir Alan, I beg you, will you not take up my vielle and give us some of your wonderful music?’

For the rest of the evening and long into the night we sang and played and gave ourselves up to the pleasures of poetry. I found that my bowing skills were a little creaky from disuse, but I was surprised by Tronc’s dexterity with words – for his own poems and
cansos
, though a little unsophisticated, were most pleasing to the ear. We even induced Robin to sing, some of the old English country songs, although Tuck declined to take any role except that of entranced listener, and so we played and sang and ended the night in good fellowship and perfect harmony.

Tronc left early in the morning with a small retinue of men-at-arms – and the Companions took the opportunity to wallow in the Viscount’s lavish hospitality. We tended to our hurts, and slept, and ate another huge meal at noon prepared by his many servants and, afterwards, I spent a few hours working on a tune that I picked out on Tronc’s old vielle, a eulogy to the lord of Trencavel and his generosity, which I hoped to play for our kind host later.

I also stepped out to visit the cathedral of St-Sernin, a mere hundred yards to the west, and there I prayed for Goody and asked God to preserve her until I could take possession of the Grail.

Prayer is a strange thing. Sometimes, in a quiet and holy place, a man can feel that he is genuinely speaking to God and that the Almighty is listening to his every word. And sometimes a prayer, no matter how heartfelt, can feel as if it is falling on empty space. At the cathedral of St-Sernin, I had no sense at all that God was attending to my entreaties. I stayed on my knees on the stone floor for some hours, my eyes screwed shut, holding a picture of my beloved in my mind, and earnestly beseeching the Lord to keep her safe. But, the image of my lovely wife, her face white as bone, her violet-blue eyes huge and infinitely sad, kept slipping away, and I found my mind wandering without direction. Instead of Goody, an image of the Grail came unbidden into my head – a shining golden cup, lavishly bejewelled and glowing with holy power. And then the image changed to that of the Master: I could clearly see his thin pock-marked face and cloying eyes; I saw his deformed thumb; I could actually hear his voice – he has mocking me for my impotence to help Goody. He was laughing at me…

I pushed aside that evil image with some difficulty and opened my eyes to see the monks of the cathedral file into their places in the choir and begin to chant the service of Vespers. As I listened to the grave, deep, familiar cadences, my mind was calmed and I rose from my station, giving relief to my aching knees, and I made my way out.

As I was leaving, I paused at a stall that offered a variety of items to pilgrims – for the cathedral had long been a popular place of pilgrimage. I fingered the little tin medals depicting images of the saints, looked at roughly carved walking staffs and cheap linen shoulder bags, and finally made a purchase of a pear-shaped leather water bottle, the outside stamped with an image of the martyrdom of St Sernin – he was dragged to death by a bull through the streets of Toulouse many hundreds of years ago. I bought it, not because I harbour a particularly deep veneration for the saint, but merely because I thought an extra water container might be useful on our travels, and perhaps as a sort of money offering to the cathedral itself, perhaps even to God, in an effort to persuade him to hear my prayers.

Tronc returned a little after dark with bad news. He had spent the day visiting a good many of his friends – some of them from the noblest families in the Languedoc – and, once he had gathered us all in the hall of the inn, he told us that not one of his many and varied acquaintances had heard even a whisper that the Master was in Toulouse.

‘You hinted that he might have powerful friends here,’ Tronc said, ‘but I do not believe that this Master could be in Toulouse and word of it not come to the ears of the people I know. I may be mistaken, but are you certain that this fellow is in the city?’

The bald truth was, we were not certain at all. All we had to go on was the Seigneur d’Albret’s threat to Sir Nicholas that revealed the Master had gone east. And Nur’s devilish hocus-pocus with a bag of old bones. But east could mean anywhere. And if the Master was not in Toulouse, we had absolutely no idea where he might be. Our quest was dead. My Goody was dead. No wonder the phantom of the Master, which had appeared in the cathedral, had laughed so heartily.

‘Well, I will continue my enquires tomorrow,’ said Tronc, ‘but I am afraid that I may have alerted the authorities to your presence. I hope that is not a problem for you. I have been told that you must make an appearance before the Consuls at the Maison tomorrow at noon.’

‘Who are the Consuls?’ I asked.

Tronc smiled at me: ‘It is they, not my uncle Count Raymond, who truly govern Toulouse. Although, of course, the Count is the nominal ruler in the eyes of God and the Church. The Count owns all the lands hereabouts but Toulouse’s wealth comes from its merchants, and the twenty-four Consuls, the Chapter, as they are known, are elected by the guilds – they are, more or less, the twenty-four richest men in the city.’

‘What do they want from us?’ asked Robin.

‘Officially, the Consuls say that they wish to welcome your esteemed selves to Toulouse – of course, in truth, they most probably just wish to cast an eye over you and will probably demand an accounting for your presence here. The Count himself is away – he left this very morning for his estates – but he left instructions that, in his absence, all armed strangers are to be scrutinized by the Chapter. There have been reports of lawless
routiers
raiding the lands west of here towards Agen, and the Consuls no doubt wish to reassure themselves that you have no ill intent in the Count’s domains. It should be no more than a formality, an hour at most, and I will accompany you and tell them that you are my guests. There is nothing to fear, I assure you.’

I played my eulogy for Tronc after supper, a tale of his musical prowess and his generosity to strangers, and he was quite delighted by it, and insisted on learning it note for note that very night. And then he and I sat up till midnight, long after the others had gone to bed, telling tales of troubadours we had encountered and comparing those we admired or deplored and drinking a little too deeply of his rich red wine.