Heretic (30 page)

“It is a strange sickness,” the Bishop said, “that leaves a man with a slit throat.”

A murmur sounded in the yard and swelled to a roar of indignation. Sir Henri Courtois and some of the old Count’s men-at-arms put hands to their sword hilts, but Joscelyn was equal to the challenge. “What do you accuse me of?” he snarled at the bishop.

“I accuse you of nothing,” the bishop said. He was not willing to pick a fight with the new Count, not yet, but instead attacked through Joscelyn’s hirelings. “But I do accuse your men. This man,” he drew Michel forward, “saw them cut your uncle’s throat.”

A murmur of disgust sounded in the yard and some of the men-at-arms moved towards Sir Henri Courtois as if assuring him of their support. Joscelyn ignored the protest and instead looked for Villesisle. “I sent you,” he said loudly, “to seek an audience with my dear uncle. And now I hear that you killed him?”

Villesisle was so taken aback by the accusation that he said nothing. He just shook his head in denial, but so uncertainly that every man there was sure of his guilt. “You want justice, bishop?” Joscelyn called over his shoulder.

“Your uncle’s blood cries for it,” the bishop said, “and the legitimacy of your inheritance depends on it.”

Joscelyn drew his sword. He was not in armor, just breeches, boots and a belted woolen jerkin, while Villesisle wore a leather coat that would be proof against most sword strokes, but Joscelyn jerked his blade to indicate that Villesisle should draw his own weapon. “A trial by combat, bishop,” he said.

Villesisle backed away. “I only did what you.” he began, then had to retreat fast because Joscelyn had attacked him with two quick strokes. Villesisle became frightened that this was no dumb show put on to placate a troublesome bishop, but a real fight. He drew his sword. “My lord,” he pleaded with Joscelyn.

“Make it look good,” Joscelyn said softly, “and we can sort everything out afterwards.”

Villesisle felt a surge of relief, then grinned and made an attack of his own that Joscelyn parried. The watching men were fanning out to make a half-circle around the fire in front of which the two men could fight. Villesisle was no novice, he had fought in tournaments and skirmishes, but he was wary of Joscelyn who was taller and stronger, and Joscelyn attacked now, making use of those advantages, scything his sword in massive strokes that Villesisle parried desperately. Each clash of blades echoed twice, once from the castle’s curtain wall and once from the big keep, one triple ring fading as the next began, and Villesisle was backing away, backing away, and then he leaped aside to let one of Joscelyn’s murderous cuts waste itself on the smoky air and immediately pressed forward, lunging with the point, but Joscelyn had been waiting for it and he turned the lunge and bulled forward, throwing Villesisle off his feet so that he sprawled on the cobbles and Joscelyn loomed over him. “I might have to imprison you after this,” he said almost in a whisper, “but not for long.” Then he raised his voice. “I ordered you to go and talk with my uncle. Do you deny it?”

Villesisle was happy to play along with the deception. “I do not deny it, lord,” he said.

“Say it again!” Joscelyn ordered. “Louder!”

“I do not deny it, lord!”

“Yet you cut his throat,” Joscelyn said, and he motioned for Villesisle to stand and, once his opponent was up, he moved fast forward, scything the sword, and again the triple rings sounded in the yard. The swords were heavy, the strokes clumsy, yet the men watching reckoned Joscelyn had the greater skill, though Sir Henri Courtois wondered whether Villesisle was using all his skill. He slashed now, but did not try to close on his opponent and it was no trouble for Joscelyn to step back. The burning books and parchments roared beside him, starting sweat from his forehead and he cuffed it away. “If I draw blood from this man, bishop,” Joscelyn called out, “will you take that as a sign of his guilt?”

“I will,” the Bishop said, “but it will not be sufficient punishment.”

“The punishment can wait for God to give,” Joscelyn said and he grinned at Villesisle who grinned back. Then Joscelyn stepped carelessly towards his opponent, opening his right side to a blow; Villesisle understood he was being invited to make a swing and so give the appearance that the fight was real and he obliged, swinging his great, awkward blade in the expectation that Joscelyn would parry it, but instead Joscelyn stepped back and used his sword to propel the blow onwards so that Villesisle was spun around, carried by the heavy blade’s momentum and Joscelyn, cold-eyed and quick as lightning, brought his own blade back and gave it the merest flick of a wrist and the tip of the sword sliced into Villesisle’s throat. It stuck there, caught on Villesisle’s gullet, and Joscelyn pushed it forward, twisted the steel, pushed again and he was smiling as he did it and the blood was streaming down the blade, cascading from its edges and Joscelyn still smiled as Villesisle, a look of utter astonishment on his face, fell to his knees. His sword fell with a clang. Breath was bubbling red at the rent in his throat and now Joscelyn gave the sword a great shove so that it tore down into Villesisle’s chest. The dying man was caught there, suspended by the sword that had been rammed down his windpipe, and then Joscelyn gave the blade another twist, put both hands on the hilt and ripped the steel free with a monstrous heave that made Villesisle’s body shudder and blood fountain up across Joscelyn’s arms.

The spectators let out a breath as Villesisle fell sideways and died. His blood trickled between the yard’s cobbles to hiss where it met the fire.

Joscelyn turned and looked for the second man, Villesisle’s murderous companion, and that man tried to run, but he was caught by the other men-at-arms and thrust into the open space where he fell to his knees and begged Joscelyn for mercy. “He wants mercy,” Joscelyn called to the bishop. “Would you give it to him?”

“He deserves justice,” the bishop said.

Joscelyn wiped his bloody sword on the skirts of his jerkin, then sheathed it and looked at Sir Henri Courtois. “Hang him,” he ordered curtly.

“Lord…” the man began an appeal, but Joscelyn turned and kicked him in the mouth so hard that he dislocated the man’s jaw and, when the man recovered his balance, Joscelyn raked his foot back, half tearing off an ear with his spur. Then, in an apparent paroxysm of rage, Joscelyn leaned down to haul the bleeding man upright. He held him at arm’s length for a heartbeat and then, with all the strength of a man trained to the tournament, he threw him backwards. The man screamed as he tripped and fell into the fire. His clothes flared. The spectators gasped, some even looked away as the burning man tried to stagger free of the flames, but Joscelyn, risking being burned himself, thrust him back in. The man screamed again. His hair caught fire and blazed bright, he jerked in terrible spasms and then collapsed into the hottest part of the fire.

Joscelyn turned on the bishop. “Satisfied?” he asked, then walked away, brushing embers from his sleeves.

The bishop was not done. He caught up with Joscelyn in the great hall, which had now been stripped of its books and shelves, and where the new Count, thirsty after his exertions, was pouring himself red wine from a jug. Joscelyn turned a sour look on the bishop.

“The heretics,” the Bishop said. “They are in Astarac.”

“There are probably heretics everywhere,” Joscelyn said carelessly.

“The girl who killed Father Roubert is there,” the bishop insisted, “and the man who refused our orders to burn her.”

Joscelyn remembered the golden-haired girl in the silver armor. “That girl,” he said, interest in his voice, then he drained the cup and poured another. “How do you know they’re there?” he asked.

“Michel was there. He was told by the monks.”

“Ah yes,” Joscelyn said, “Michel.” He stalked towards his uncle’s squire with murder in his eyes. “Michel,” Joscelyn said, “who tells stories. Michel who runs to the bishop instead of coming to his new lord.”

Michel hurriedly stepped back, but the bishop saved him by stepping in front of Joscelyn. “Michel serves me now,” he said, “and to lay a hand on him is to attack the Church.”

“So if I kill him, as he deserves,” Joscelyn sneered, “you’ll burn me, eh?” He spat towards Michel, then turned away. “So what do you want?” he asked the bishop.

“I want the heretics captured,” the bishop said. He was nervous of this new and violent Count, but he forced himself to be brave. “I demand in the name of God and in the service of His Holy Church that you send men to find the beghard who was known as Genevieve and the Englishman who calls himself Thomas. I want them brought here. I want them burned.”

“But not before I have talked with them.” A new voice spoke, a voice as cutting as it was cold, and the Bishop and Joscelyn, indeed every man in the hall, turned to the door where a stranger had appeared.

Joscelyn had been aware, ever since he had stalked away from the courtyard, of the sound of hooves, but he had thought nothing of it. The castle had been loud with comings and goings all morning, but now he realized that strangers must have arrived in Berat and a half-dozen of them were now in the doorway of the hall. Their leader was the man who had spoken and he was taller even than Joscelyn, and spare, with a hard, long, sallow face that was framed with black hair. He was dressed all in black. Black boots, black breeches, black jerkin, black cloak, black broad-brimmed hat and a sword scabbard sheathed in black cloth. Even his spurs were made from black metal and Joscelyn, who had as much religion in his soul as an inquisitor possessed mercy, felt a sudden urge to make the sign of the cross. Then, when the man removed his hat, he recognized him. It was the Harlequin, the mysterious knight who had made so much money on the tournament fields of Europe, the one man Joscelyn had never beaten. “You’re the Harlequin,” Joscelyn said, accusation in his tone.

“I am sometimes known by that name,” the man said, and the bishop and all his clergy made the sign of the cross for the name meant that this man was beloved by the devil. Then the tall man took another step forward and added, “But my real name, my lord, is Guy Vexille.”

The name meant nothing to Joscelyn, but the bishop and his clergy all crossed themselves a second time and the bishop held out his staff as if to defend himself.

“And what the hell are you doing here?” Joscelyn demanded.

“I have come,” Vexille said, “to bring light to the world.”

And Joscelyn, fifteenth Count of Berat, shivered. He did not know why. He just knew he was frightened of the man called the Harlequin who had come to bring light to the darkness.

T
HE BONE-SETTER CLAIMED
she could not do much, and whatever she did do caused Genevieve excruciating pain, but after it was done, and when her shoulder and left breast were soaked with new blood, Brother Clement gently cleaned her and then poured honey onto the wound, which he bound up with sacking again. The good thing was that Genevieve was suddenly ravenously hungry and she ate whatever Thomas brought her, though God knew that was little enough for his own raid on Astarac had left the village bereft of food and the monastery’s supplies had been depleted to feed the villagers. Still, there was some cheese, pears, bread and honey, and Brother Clement made more mushroom soup. The lepers, clappers sounding, went into the woods to find the mushrooms that were served to all the monks. Twice a day some of them rattled their way around the back of the monastery and up a flight of steps into a bare stone room where a small window overlooked the altar of the abbey church. This was where they were permitted to worship and Thomas, on his second and third day after his talk with Abbot Planchard, went with them. He did not go willingly, for his excommunication meant he was no longer welcome in any church, but Brother Clement would pluck his arm insistently, then smile with genuine pleasure when Thomas indulged him.

Genevieve came with him on the day after the bone-setter had made her scream. She could walk well enough, though she was still weak and could scarcely move her left arm. Yet the arrow had missed her lungs and that, Thomas decided, was why she had lived. That and Brother Clement’s care. “I thought I was going to die,” she confessed to Thomas.

He remembered the coming plague. He had heard no more about it and, for the moment, he did not tell Genevieve. “You won’t die,” he told her, “but you must move the arm.”

“I can’t. It hurts.”

“You must,” he said. When his own arms and hands had been scarred by the torturer he had thought he would never use them again, but his friends, Robbie chief among them, had forced him to practice with the bow. It had seemed hopeless at first, yet little by little the ability had come back. He wondered where Robbie was now, whether he had stayed at Castillon d’Arbizon, and that thought frightened him. Would Robbie seek him here at Astarac? Had friendship really turned to hate? And if not Robbie, who else might come? The news of his presence in the monastery would spread in the unseen way such news always did, tales told in taverns, peddlers carrying the gossip from one village to the next, and soon enough someone in Berat would take notice. “We have to go soon,” he told Genevieve.

“Where?”

“A long way away. England, perhaps?” He knew he had failed. He would not find the Grail here and, even if his cousin did come, how could Thomas defeat him? He was one man with only a wounded woman to help him and Guy Vexille travelled with a whole
conroi
of men-at-arms. The dream was over and it was time to go.

“I’m told it’s cold in England,” Genevieve said.

“The sun always shines,” Thomas said gravely, “the harvest never fails and fish jump straight from the rivers into the frying pan.”

Genevieve smiled. “Then you must teach me English.”

“You know some already.”

“I know goddamn,” she said, “and I know goddamn bloody, bloody goddamn and Christ goddamn bloody help us.”

Thomas laughed. “You’ve learned archers’ English,” he said, “but I’ll teach you the rest.”

He decided they would leave next day. He made a bundle of his arrows, then he cleaned the caked blood from Genevieve’s coat of mail. He borrowed a pair of pincers from the monastery’s carpenter and did his best to mend the mail where the crossbow bolt had pierced it, bending and closing the shattered links until at least they were crudely joined, though the rent was still obvious. He tethered the horses in the olive grove to let them graze and then, because it was still early in the afternoon, he walked south to the castle. He was determined to have one last glimpse of the stronghold where his ancestors had been lords.