Standard of Honor (17 page)

“The body of the priest was presented as evidence that the poor fellow had been murdered by my son.”

“Explain that.”

Sir Henry St. Clair nodded his head in acquiescence.

“From what I have been able to piece together, my liege, the three miscreants stole the bodies, cut off their dead companion's head, and threw it into the Devil's Pit along with the woman. They then took his body back with them because he had a deformed hand that identified him beyond doubt as one Father
Gaspard de Leon, a visiting priest from Arles. They then told a tale of how, on their way to join their nowdead brother, they had witnessed him in the act of apprehending a sinner in the act of committing sodomy with a young boy—”

“Pardon me—,” de Sablé began, but Richard waved him to silence.

“Go on, Henry. Were you about to say they accused young André of sodomy with a boy?”

“Aye, my lord. I was.”

“Say on, then. Tell me.”

“They said that they had seen the scandalized priest challenge the pederast and attempt to save the boy, but the sodomite had sent the boy scurrying away and then seized his sword and killed Father de Leon, cleaving his skull. He had then cut off the priest's head and taken it away with him, wrapped in de Leon's priestly garments, leaving a naked, unidentifiable body behind him. He had not seen them, they said, being separated from them by the swollen river.

“As soon as he had gone, they made their way to the bridge and back to the scene of the murder, then followed the tracks of the killer's horse down the hillside to the Devil's Pit, where they arrived in time to see him throw the severed head down into the abyss. Fearful for their own lives, they hid and waited until the killer left, then made their way directly to the castle of their landlord, Baron Reynauld de la Fourrière, and testified under oath to him, and to their superior, Abbot Thomas, about what they had seen, and adding that
one of them, the priest called de Blois, had recognized the murderer, a local knight called André St. Clair.”

St. Clair looked from one to the other of his listeners, both of whom sat stone faced. When he saw that they had nothing to say, he continued. “I found out all about this the morning after, when a squad of Baron de la Fourrière's men came hammering on my door, demanding that I surrender my son to answer the charges of sodomy and murder brought against him. Fortunately, André had left before they came, and I sent a messenger to find him, warning him to stay away.”

“Sodomy.” Richard's voice was flat and hard. “They accused André of sodomy?”

“Aye, my lord. They did.”

“And you did nothing? I find that hard to credit.”

“What could I do? For that matter, what could
they
do? André was beyond their reach at that time, and I knew I needed to make sure he stayed there, for I saw no hope of his receiving justice in this matter in the verdict of the Church. I asked myself what man of goodwill, in his right mind, would publicly give consideration to the possibility that three distraught priests might have beheaded their companion and disposed of his head to protect themselves, or that the single man accused in this case, who made no denial of having killed the dead man, might be telling the truth when he condemned his three priestly accusers for the rape and the murder of an innocent girl?

“And so I have not set eyes on my son or spoken with him since.”

“Not once? Why not?”

“Because I dare not, my liege. I am watched constantly and, with very few exceptions, I know not whom to trust. There is a price on my son's head, sufficiently high to tempt any man to turn him over to the Church and what it must see as justice.”

Sir Robert de Sablé glanced at Richard. “May I speak, my liege?”

“Of course you may. Speak up.”

“It unsettles me that the woman has not been either identified or claimed, or even reported missing. I find that to be not merely incredible but deeply troubling, for much of it makes nonsense of both sides of this sorry tale.” He looked directly at St. Clair. “Have you discussed this with your son at all?”

St. Clair's headshake was brief. “No. When first he told me of it, her identity did not appear to have great import. The urgency for me at that moment lay in taking immediate steps to retrieve her body, and her assailant's. There should have been ample time thereafter to establish who she was. But then the bodies vanished, and that set everything at odds.”

“But surely—”

“Surely we should have discussed it later, is that what you were about to say? We would have, without fail, but la Fourrière's people arrived soon after dawn the following morning and by then André was already gone.”

“Hmm …” De Sablé looked down at his hands and then back to his host. “I trust you will believe me when I say I have no wish to cast doubts upon what you have
told us, Sir Henry, but much of this affair, as I see it, bears upon the total absence of this woman's body and the apparent fact that no one has stepped forward to enquire about a missing woman. That, in itself, speaks strongly on behalf of your son's accusers, as I am sure you are aware. So I must ask you this, because your son's accusers will present it as their case: is it possible, or is it even remotely probable, that there never was a woman there and that these priests are telling the truth? Might not your son, taken in a guilty and forbidden act, have panicked and done murder to protect himself? And then might he not have taken the step of beheading the priest to conceal the true nature of the man's fatal wounds? If that were the case, then, he might easily have lied about the supposed woman and lied to cover up his own guilt and save his own life.”

Richard laughed aloud, interrupting his earnest vassal, and as de Sablé's eyes opened wide in astonished protest, the Duke rose swiftly to his feet and turned his back on both men, walking away only to swing around again and lean forward against the high back of his own chair.

“Then where's the
boy
, Robert, the boy who was being buggered? Think you a gaggle of mortified priests would not have turned this county of Poitou upside down to find the little brat—and all of Anjou and Aquitaine too, should that have been required—merely to prove their case beyond all doubt?” He grinned. “Besides, it's evident you know nothing at all about young André St. Clair. I do. I knighted him myself three years ago, and he was foremost among all my
candidates that year, and most other years, to tell truth. I found him honest, upstanding, courageous to a fault, and utterly, completely masculine in every aspect of his character. I swear to you, Robert, I have never met— and nor could you—a more unlikely pederast. André lacks nothing in charm and seductive powers, but it is all of it reserved exclusively for women, and he has never suffered from any lack of those. So let there be an end of this nonsense. The priests are lying, and I feel sure God in His Heaven is amazingly unsurprised. And as for the missing head, were it to be produced in evidence, transfixed from crown to chin with a bolt that obviously fell on it, it might cast the priestly version into doubt, would you not agree?” He glanced from one to the other. “Surely both those points are self-evident?

“I would find it far more interesting to know how André knew
precisely
how to aim that shot he loosed? It was no accident, I swear, for though fate may play a part in where a cast shot falls, it takes skill and unerring confidence to cast it perfectly in the first place. I doubt I could have done what he did, so smoothly and unerringly. I will have to speak with him about it as soon as may be.”

Neither man responded to that, although both were now convinced, through Richard's expostulations, of André St. Clair's innocence of homosexuality, and therefore of all the charges against him. For there could be no doubting the Duke's championship of the younger man, it being known, but seldom openly discussed, that Richard shunned the company of
women and surrounded himself at all times with young and comely men and boys of his own persuasion. It was the single aspect of Richard's character that repelled the staid St. Clair most profoundly. He found himself marveling now that he could ever be grateful for it.

Now, however, the regal Duke was leaning towards him, frowning and pointing an admonitory finger. “So,” Richard said, more softly than his frown had led Henry to expect, “we agree that this nonsense of the priests is tomfoolery, and murderous tomfoolery at that. But before I decide what I must now do, there is one more thing I require of you, for Robert is right. The matter of the woman troubles me, too. Bring in your son, Henry, and do it tonight. I have a need to talk with him, and no one will dare accost him here, with me present.” He crossed to where the two long swords lay on the arms of the chair, tossing de Sablé's to him and hefting his own like a walking staff. “Now it is late, and Robert and I will need some sleep before we make such a momentous decision as is in my mind, so take us to where we can lay our heads, my friend, and then send for the boy. Have him here when we awake and we will talk with him after we three have broken fast.”

TWO

S
ir Henry found his son asleep the following morning on a bench in the great hall, and he stood over the young man for long minutes, taking note of the disrepair of his clothes, the ragged, unkempt look of his hair and short beard, the reek of his unwashed body, and the lined gauntness that marked his face after two months of solitary hiding. He did not know how long his son had been sleeping there, but it had been after two in the morning when he had sent Jonquard, his stable master, to fetch the lad, and it was not yet seven, so it was improbable that the two could have returned more than an hour ago. He heard noises coming from an anteroom, where servants were cleaning up the debris of the previous night, and he decided to leave the boy to sleep undisturbed for as long as he could, for he doubted that his guests would be stirring for at least another hour and perhaps longer. He went directly then to the kitchens, where he instructed the cook to prepare enough hot water for a full bath, and to have some of his scullions transport it upstairs to the master's chamber; they were to light the fire in the brazier there and then to prepare his bath and summon him when it was ready.

The cook offered no sign that he saw anything strange in any of that, although Sir Henry had not used the wooden bath in his chamber since his wife died, but had bathed in the kitchens, like everyone else in his household, as recently as two months earlier. He merely nodded and told his master it would be done immediately.

Henry then made his way to the main gate tower, where he stood for a while, observing the scene beyond his walls and searching for any sign that he and his were under surveillance. When a servant came looking for him, something over a half hour later, to tell him that his bath had been prepared, Henry went to wake André.

André sprang awake, wide eyed and tense, as soon as his father touched him, and then he spent several moments peering about him, as though wondering where he was. Henry put him at his ease at once.

“You could not have had much rest, I fear.”

André blinked rapidly, clearing his eyes of sleep.

“Enough to do me, Father. I had slept for almost seven hours before Jonquard came with your summons, so I am well rested. I lay down here simply because the house was quiet when I arrived, and I must have dozed. What's wrong? Why did you send for me?”

“Duke Richard is here. He came late last night, alone save for another knight, and I told him your story. He asked me many questions, but he believes your tale, although he requires more information than I could give him, before he can do anything. And so he ordered me to summon you.” He smiled down at his son. “But you are hardly fit to meet a Duke and a future King,
looking and …
smelling
as you do. There is a fresh hot bath prepared in my chamber. Go you and use it, then make yourself presentable. Dress in some of your own finery so that you look like a knight rather than an indigent beggar. You have time. There is no need for breakneck speed, for Richard has not yet risen, although he may at any moment. When he comes down he and I will break fast together, and he told me last night he will wish to see you immediately after that, so do
not
fall asleep in the bath, no matter how tempting it might be. I will send for you when it is time.”

André's relief was plainly evident to Sir Henry, who felt much the same way, and a moment later the boy was gone, obedient to his father's wishes.

The Duke appeared not long after that, in company with de Sablé, and both men greeted their host cordially, Richard asking immediately if André had yet appeared. Henry confirmed that he had and would join them when summoned, and then he led them into the anteroom, where Ector, showing remarkably few signs of having been awake for half the previous night, awaited them with a solid breakfast that he cooked personally for them, over a brazier set in the main fireplace, now swept clean of ashes from the previous night's fire. As soon as they were ready, he served the three men fresh duck eggs whisked in a flat pan with goat's milk and butter until they were solid, then salted and folded over fresh mushrooms and onions and accompanied by light, fluffy fresh-baked rolls straight from the kitchen ovens. They ate him out of stock, and after Ector had supervised the
removal of the remnants of their meal and left the room, Richard turned to Sir Henry.

“Bring in young André and let's hear what he has to say for himself. But before you do, let me warn you that, if my suspicions prove correct, you might hear things for which you are unprepared. If that should be the case, I want you to say nothing, is that clear?”

St. Clair nodded, not even curious about what Richard thought he might be unprepared for. In his estimation, nothing could surpass his relief at seeing his son's name cleared. “It is, my liege.”