Heretic

Thomas spent his first fortnight readying for a siege. Castillon d'Arbizon's castle possessed a well, which brought up a discoloured and brackish water but meant his men would never die of thirst; the old garrison's storerooms, however, had contained only a few sacks of damp flour, a barrel of sprouting beans, a jar of rancid olive oil and some mouldering cheeses. So, day after day, Thomas sent his men to search the town and the nearby villages and now food was piling into the undercroft. Once those sources had been exhausted, he began raiding. This was war as he knew it, the kind of war that had ravaged Brittany from end to end and reached almost to the gates of Paris. Thomas would leave ten men as a castle guard and the rest would follow him on horseback to some village or farm that owed allegiance to the Count of Berat and they would take the livestock, empty the barns and leave the place burning. After two such raids Thomas was met by a delegation from a village who brought money so that his men would spare them from pillage, and next day two more embassies arrived with bags of coin. Men also came offering their services. Routiers heard there was money and plunder to be gained in Castillon d'Arbizon and before he had been in the town ten days Thomas commanded over sixty men. He had two mounted raiding parties leave each day, and almost every day he sold excess plunder in the market place. He divided the money into three parts, one for the Earl of Northampton, one for himself which he shared with Sir Guillaume and Robbie, and the third part for the men.

Genevieve rode with him. Thomas had not wanted that. Taking women on raids was a distraction and he forbade any of the other men to bring their women, but Genevieve still feared Robbie and the handful of men who seemed to share his hatred of her, and so she insisted on riding alongside Thomas. She had discovered a small haubergeon in the castle stores and polished it with sand and vinegar until her hands were red and sore and the mail glowed like silver, It hung loose on her thin frame, but she belted it with a strip of yellow cloth and hung another strip of the same colour from the crown of her polished helmet, which was a simple iron cap padded with a leather liner. The people of Castillon d'Arbizon, when Genevieve of the silver mail rode into town at the head of a line of mounted men leading packhorses heaped with plunder and driving stolen cattle, called her a draga. Everyone knew about dragas, they were devil's girls, capricious and deadly, and they dressed in glowing white. Genevieve was the devil's woman, they said, and she brought the Englishmen the devil's own luck. Strangely, that rumour made the majority of Thomas's men proud of her. The archers among them had become accustomed to being called the hellequin in Brittany and they were perversely proud of that association with the devil, it made other men fearful, and so Genevieve became their symbol of good luck.

Thomas had a new bow. Most archers, when their old bows wore out, simply purchased a new one from the supplies that were shipped from England, but there were no such supplies in Castillon d'Arbizon and, besides, Thomas knew how to make the weapon and loved doing it. He had found a good yew branch in Galat Lorret's garden and he had sawn and slashed away the bark and outer wood until he had a straight staff that was dark as blood on one half and pale as honey on the other. The dark side was the yew's heartwood that resisted compression, while the golden half was the springy sapwood; when the bow was finished the heartwood would fight against the cord's pull and the sapwood would help snap the bow straight so the arrow would fly like a winged demon.

The new weapon was even bigger than his old bow and some times he wondered if he was making it too big, but he persisted, shaping the wood with a knife until it had a thick belly and gently tapering ends. He smoothed, polished and then painted the bow, for the wood's moisture had to be trapped in the timber if the bow was not to break, and then he took the horn nocks from his old bow and put them on the new. He also took the silver plate from the old bow, the piece of Mass cup that bore his father's badge of a yale holding a grail, and he pinned it to the outer belly of the new bow that he had rubbed with beeswax and soot to darken the wood. The first time he strung it, bending the new staff to take the cord, he marvelled at the strength he needed, and the first time he shot it he watched astonished as the arrow soared out from the castle battlements.

He had made a second bow from a smaller bough, this one a child's bow that needed hardly any strength to draw, and he gave it to Genevieve who practised with blunt arrows and amused the men as she sprayed her missiles wildly about the castle's yard. Yet she persevered, and there came a day when arrow after arrow struck the inner side of the gate.

That same night Thomas sent his old bow to hell. An archer never threw a bow away, not even if it broke on him; instead, in a ceremony that was an excuse for drinking and laughter, the old bow was committed to the flames. It was being sent to hell, the archers said, going ahead to wait for its owner. Thomas watched the yew burn, saw the bow bend for the last time, then snap in a shower of sparks, and he thought of the arrows it had sent. His archers stood respectfully around the great hall's hearth, and behind them the men-at-arms were silent, and only when the bow was a broken strip of ash did Thomas raise his wine. To hell," he said in the old invocation.

To hell,“ the archers agreed and the men-at-arms, privileged to be admitted to this archers” ritual, echoed the words. All but Robbie, who stood apart. He had taken to wearing a silver crucifix about his neck, hanging it above his mail coat to make it obvious that it was there to ward off evil.

That was a good bow,“ Thomas said, watching the embers, but the new one was just as good, maybe better, and two days later Thomas carried it when he led his biggest raid yet. He took all his men except the handful needed to guard the castle. He had been planning this raid for days and he knew it would be a long ride and so he left long before dawn. The sound of the hooves echoed from the house fronts as they clattered down to the western arch where the watchman, now carrying a staff decorated with the Earl of Northampton's badge, hurriedly pulled apart the gates, then the horsemen trotted across the bridge and vanished into the southern trees. The English were riding, no one knew where. They were riding east, to Astarac. Riding to the place where Thomas's ancestors had lived, to the place where perhaps the Grail had once been hidden. Is that what you expect to find?” Sir Guillaume asked him. You think we'll trip over it?“ I don't know what we'll find,” Thomas admitted. There's a castle there, yes?"

There was,“ Thomas said, but my father said it had been slighted.” A slighted castle was one that had been demolished and Thomas expected to find nothing but ruins.

So why go?" Sir Guillaume asked.

The Grail/ Thomas answered curtly. In truth he was going because he was curious, but his men, who did not know what he sought, had detected there was something unusual in this raid. Thomas had merely said they were going to a distant place because they had plundered everything that was close, but the more thoughtful of the men had noticed Thomas's nervousness. Sir Guillaume knew the significance of Astarac, as did Robbie, who now led the advance guard of six archers and three men-at arms who rode a quarter-mile ahead to guard against ambush. They were guided by a man from Castillon d'Arbizon who claimed to know the road and who led them up into the hills where the trees were low and scanty and the views unrestricted. Every few minutes Robbie would wave to signify that the way ahead was clear. Sir Guillaume, riding bare-headed, nodded at the distant figure. So that friendship's over?" he asked. I hope not/ Thomas said.

You can hope what you bloody like/ Sir Guillaume said, but she came along/ Sir Guillaume's face had been disfigured by Thomas's cousin, leaving the Norman with only his right eye, a scarred left cheek and a streak of white where the sword had cut into his beard. He looked fearsome, and so he was in battle, but he was also a generous man. He looked now at Genevieve who rode her grey mare a few yards to the side of the path. She was in her silver armour, her long legs in pale grey cloth and brown boots. You should have burned her/ he said cheerfully. You still think that?" Thomas asked.

No/ Sir Guillaume admitted. I like her. If Genny's a beghard then let's have more of them. But you know what you should do with Robbie?"

Fight him?"

Christ's bones, no!“ Sir Guillaume was shocked that Thomas should even suggest such a thing. Send him home. What's his ransom?”

Three thousand florins."

Christ in his bucket, that's cheap enough! You must have that much coin in the chests, so give it to him and send him packing. He can buy his freedom and go and rot in Scotland.“ I like him,” Thomas said, and that was true. Robbie was a friend and Thomas hoped that their old closeness could be restored. You might like him/ Sir Guillaume retorted tartly, but you don't sleep with him, and when it comes to a choice, Thomas, men always choose the one who warms their bed. It may not give you a longer life, but it will certainly be a happier one/ He laughed, then turned to search the lower ground for any enemy. There was none. It appeared that the Count of Berat was ignoring the English garrison that had so suddenly taken a part of his territory, but Sir Guillaume, who was older in war than Thomas, suspected that was only because the Count was marshalling his forces. He'll attack when he's ready/ the Norman said. And have you noticed that the coredors are taking an interest in us?"

I have/ Thomas said. On every raid he had been aware of the ragged bandits watching his men. They did not come close, certainly not within bowshot, but they were there and he expected to see them in these hills very soon.

Not like bandits to challenge soldiers/ Sir Guillaume said. They haven't challenged us yet/

They're not watching us for amusement/ Sir Guillaume added drily.

I suspect/ Thomas replied, that there's a price on our heads. They want money. And they'll get brave one day. I hope so/ He patted the new bow, which was bolstered in a long leather tube sewn to his saddle.

By midmorning the raiders were crossing a succession of wide fertile valleys separated by high rocky hills that ran north and south. From the summit of the hills Thomas could see dozens of villages, but once they descended and were among the trees again, he could see none. They saw two castles from the heights, both small, both with flags flying from their towers, but both were too far away to distinguish the badge on the flags, which Thomas assumed would be that of the Count of Berat. The valleys all had rivers running north, but they had no trouble crossing them for the bridges or fords were not guarded. The roads, like the hills and valleys, went north and south and so the lords of these rich lands did not guard against folk travelling east or west. Their castles stood sentinel over the valley entrances where the garrisons could skim taxes from the merchants on the roads.

Is that Astraac?“ Sir Guillaume asked when they crossed yet another ridge. He was staring down at a village with a small castle. Astarac's castle is ruined,” Genevieve answered. It's a tower and some walls on a crag, nothing like that."

You've been there?" Thomas asked.

My father and I always went for the olive fair.“ Olive fair?”

On the feast of Saint Jude/ she said. Hundreds of folk came. We made good money."

And they sold olives?"

Jars and jars of the first pressing,“ she said, and in the evening they soaked young pigs with the oil and people tried to catch them. There was bull-fighting and dancing.” She laughed at the memory, then spurred on. She rode well, straight-backed and with her heels down, while Thomas, like most of his archers, rode a horse with all the grace of a sack of wheat.

It was just past midday when they rode down into Astarac's valley. The coredors had seen them by now and a score of the ragged bandits were dogging their footsteps, but not daring to come close. Thomas ignored them, staring instead at the black outline of the broken castle that stood on its rocky knoll a half-mile south of a small village. Farther north, in the distance, he could see a monastery, probably Cistercian for its church had no tower. He looked back at the castle and knew his family had once held it, that his ancestors had ruled these lands, that his badge had flown from that broken tower, and he thought he ought to feel some strong emotion, but instead there was only a vague disappointment. The land meant nothing to him, and how could something

as precious as the Grail belong to that pathetic pile of shattered stone?

Robbie rode back. Genevieve moved aside and he ignored her. Doesn't look like much," Robbie said, his silver crucifix shining in the autumn sun.

It doesn't/ Thomas agreed.

Robbie twisted in his saddle, making the leather creak. Let me take a dozen men-at-arms to the monastery,“ he suggested. They might have full storerooms.”

Take a half-dozen archers with you as well,“ Thomas suggested, and the rest of us will ransack the village.” Robbie nodded, then looked back at the distant coredors. Those bastards won't dare attack."

I doubt it,“ Thomas agreed, but my suspicion is that there's a price on our heads. So keep your men together.” Robbie nodded and, still without even glancing at Genevieve, spurred away. Thomas ordered six of his archers to go with the Scotsman, then he and Sir Guillaume rode down to the village where, as soon as the inhabitants saw the approaching soldiers, a great fire was lit to spew a plume of dirty smoke into the cloudless sky. A warning/ Sir Guillaume said. That'll happen every

where we go now."

A warning?"

The Count of Berat has woken up/ Sir Guillaume said. Everyone will be ordered to light a beacon when they see us. It warns the other villagers, tells them to hide their livestock and lock away their daughters. And the smoke will be seen in Berat. It tells them where we are."

We're a long damn way from Berat."

They won't ride today. They'll never catch us/ Sir Guillaume agreed.

The purpose of the visit, so far as Thomas's men was concerned, was to plunder. In the end, they believed, such depredations would bring out the forces of Berat and so they would have a chance to fight a proper battle in which, if God or the devil favoured them, they would take some valuable prisoners and so make themselves even richer, but for now they simply stole or destroyed. Robbie rode to the monastery, Sir Guillaume led the other men into the village while Thomas and Genevieve turned south and climbed the rough path to the ruined castle.

It was ours once, Thomas was thinking. It was here that his ancestors had lived, yet still he could feel nothing. He did not think of himself as a Gascon, let alone a Frenchman. He was English, yet still he gazed at the ruined walls and tried to imagine when the castle was whole and his family had been its masters. He and Genevieve picketed their horses at the broken gate, then stepped over fallen stone into the old courtyard. The curtain wall was almost entirely gone, its stones carried away to make houses or barns. The biggest remnant was the tower keep, but even that was half shattered, its southern side open to the wind. A hearth showed halfway up the northern wall and there were great stones jutting from the inner flank to show where the joists supporting the floors had once been. A broken stair wound up the eastern side, leading to nothing.

Beside the tower, sharing the highest part of the rock crag, were the remnants of a chapel. Its floor was flagstones and on one of them was Thomas's badge. He put his bow down and crouched by the stone, trying to feel some sense of belonging. One day,“ Genevieve was standing on the broken southern wall, staring south down the valley, you'll tell me why you're here.”

To raid," Thomas said shortly.

She took off her helmet and shook out her hair, which she wore loose, like a young girl. The blonde strands lifted in the wind as she smiled. Do you take me for a fool, Thomas?“ No,” he said warily.

You travel a long way,“ she said, from England, and you come to a little town called Castillon d'Arbizon, and then you ride here. There were a dozen places we could have raided on the way, but it is here we come. And here there is the same badge as the one you carry on your bow.”

There are many badges/ Thomas said, and they often resemble each other."

She shook her head dismissively. What is that badge?" A yale/ he said. A yale was a beast invented by the heralds, all teeth, claws, scales and threat. Thomas's badge, the one pinned to his bow, showed the yale holding a cup, but the yale on the flagstone held nothing in its taloned paw.

Genevieve looked past Thomas to where Sir Guillaume's men were herding livestock into a pen. We used to hear so many stories,“ she said, my father and I, and he liked stories so he tried to remember them, and in the evenings he would tell them to me. Tales of monsters in the hills, of dragons flying across the rooftops, reports of miracles at holy springs, of women giving birth to monsters. A thousand tales. But there was one story we heard again and again whenever we came to these valleys.” She paused.

Go on," Thomas said. The wind gusted, lifting the long fine strands of her hair. She was more than old enough to tie it up, to mark herself as a woman, but she liked it unbound and Thomas thought it made her look still more like a draga.

We heard,“ Genevieve said, about the treasures of the Perfect.” The Perfect had been forerunners of the beghards, heretics who had denied the authority of the Church, and their evil had spread through the south until the Church, with the help of the French King, had crushed them. The fires of their deaths had died a hundred years ago, yet still there were echoes of the Cathars, as the Perfect had been called. They had not spread into this part of Gascony, though some churchmen claimed the heresy had infested all Christendom and was still hidden away in its remotest parts. The treasures of the Perfect," Thomas said tonelessly.

You come to this little place,“ Genevieve said, from far away, yet you carry a badge that comes from these hills. And whenever my father and I came here we heard stories of Astarac. They still tell them here.”

Tell what?"

How a great lord fled here for refuge and brought the treasures of the Perfect with him. And the treasures, they say, are still here."

Thomas smiled. They would have dug them up long ago.“ If a thing is hidden well,” Genevieve said, then it is not found easily."

Thomas looked down at the village where bellows and screeches and bleatings came from the pen where the livestock was being slaughtered. The best cuts of bleeding, fresh meat would be tied to the saddles and taken back for salting or smoking, while the villagers could have the horns, offal and hides. They tell stories everywhere," he said dismissively.

Of all the treasures,“ Genevieve said softly, ignoring his disparagement, there is one that is prized above all the others. But only a Perfect can find it, they say.”

Then God alone can find it," Thomas said.

Yet that doesn't stop you looking, Thomas, does it?“ Looking?”

For the Grail/

The word was said, the ridiculous word, the impossible word, the name of the thing that Thomas feared did not exist, yet which he sought. His father's writings suggested he had possessed the Grail, and Thomas's cousin, Guy Vexille, was certain that Thomas knew where the relic was, and so Vexille would follow Thomas to the ends of the earth. Which was why Thomas was here, in Astarac, to draw his murderous cousin within range of the new bow. He looked up at the tower's ragged top. Sir Guillaume knows why we are here,“ he told her, and Robbie knows. But none of the others do, so don't tell them.”

I won't,“ she said, but do you think it exists?” No," he said with far more certainty than he felt. It does/ Genevieve said.

Thomas went to stand beside her and he stared southwards to where a stream twisted soft through meadows and olive groves. He could see men there, a score of them, and he knew they were coredors. He would have to do something about them, he thought, if his men were not to be dogged by the ragged bands through the winter. He did not fear them, but he did fear that one of his men would wander off the path and be seized, so it would be better to frighten the bandits off before that happened.

It does exist," Genevieve insisted.

You can't know that/ Thomas said, still watching the ragged men who watched him.

The Grail is like God/ Genevieve said. It is everywhere, all around us, obvious, but we refuse to see it. Men think they can only see God when they build a great church and fill it with gold and silver and statues, but all they need do is look. The Grail exists, Thomas, you just need to open your eyes."

Thomas strung his bow, took one old arrow from his bag, then pulled the cord back as far as it would go. He could feel the muscles in his back aching from the unexpected strain of the new bow. He held the arrow low, level with his waist, and cocked his left hand high so that when he released the string the arrow flew into the sky, the white feathers getting smaller and smaller, and then it plummeted to earth, thumping into the stream bank over three hundred yards away. The coredors understood the message and backed away.

Waste of a good arrow/ Thomas said. Then he took Genevieve's arm and went to find his men.

Robbie marvelled at the monastery's lands, all tended by white robed Cistercians who gathered up their skirts and ran when they saw his mailed men ride out from the village. Most of the fields were given over to vines, but there was a pear orchard and an olive grove, a pasture of sheep and a fish pond. It was, he thought, a fat land. For days now he had been hearing how the harvest in southern Gascony had been poor, yet it seemed to him that this was a very heaven compared to the hard, thin lands of his northern home. A bell began to toll its alarm from the monastery. They've got to have a treasure house/ Jake, one of his archers, spurred alongside Robbie and nodded at the monastery. And we'll kill him," he spoke of a solitary monk who had come from the monastery gatehouse and now walked calmly towards them, then the rest won't be no trouble/

You'll kill no one/ Robbie snapped. He motioned his men to stop their horses. And you'll wait here/ he told them, then he swung out of his saddle, threw his reins to Jake and walked towards the monk, who was very tall, very thin and very old. He had wispy white hair about his tonsure, and a long, dark face that somehow conveyed wisdom and gentleness. Robbie, striding in his coat of mail with his shield slung on his back and his uncle's long sword at his side, felt clumsy and out of place.

The right sleeve of the monk's white robe was smeared with ink, making Robbie wonder if the man was a scrivener. He had plainly been sent to negotiate with the raiders, perhaps buy them off or try to persuade them to respect God's house, and Robbie thought how he had helped plunder the great priory of the Black Canons at Hexham, just across the English border, and he remem bered the friars pleading with the invaders, then threatening God's vengeance, and how the Scots had laughed at them, then stripped Hexham bare. But God had wreaked his vengeance by letting the English army win at Durham, and that memory, the sudden real ization that perhaps the desecration of Hexham had led directly to the defeat at Durham, gave Robbie pause so that he stopped, frowned and wondered what exactly he would say to the tall monk, who now smiled at him. You must be the English raiders?" the monk said in very good English.

Robbie shook his head. I'm a Scot,“ he retorted. A Scot! A Scot riding with the English! I once spent two years in a Cistercian house in Yorkshire and the brothers never said a good word of the Scots, yet here you are, with the English, and I thought I had witnessed every marvel that this sinful world has to offer.” The monk still smiled. My name is Abbot Planchard and my house is at your mercy. Do what you will, young man, we will not fight you." He stepped to one side of the path and gestured towards the monastery as if inviting Robbie to draw his sword and start the plunder.

Robbie did not move. He was thinking of Hexham. Thinking of a friar dying in the church there, his blood running from beneath his black robe and trickling down a step, and of the drunken Scottish soldiers stepping over the man with their spoils. candle sticks, crosses and embroidered copes.

Of course,“ the abbot said, if you prefer, you can have some wine? It's our own wine and not the best. We drink it too young, but we have some fine goat cheese and Brother Philippe makes the best bread in the valley. We can water your horses, but alas I have little hay.”

No/ Robbie said abruptly, then turned and shouted at his men. Go back to Sir Guillaume!"

We do what?“ one of the men-at-arms asked, puzzled. Go back to Sir Guillaume. Now!”

He took his horse from Jake, then walked beside the abbot to the monastery. He did not say anything, but Abbot Planchard seemed to understand from his silence that the young Scot wanted to talk. He told the gatekeeper to look after the destrier, then invited Robbie to leave his sword and shield in the lodge. Of course you may keep them,“ the abbot said, but I thought you might be more comfortable without them. Welcome to Saint Sever's.” Saint Sever?" Robbie asked as he unslung the shield from about his neck.

He is reputed to have mended an angel's wing in this valley. I find that quite hard to believe sometimes, but God likes to test our faith and so I pray to Saint Sever every night and thank him for his miracle and ask him to mend me as he mended the white wing."

Robbie smiled. You need mending?"

We all do. When we are young it is the spirit that breaks, and when we are old it is the body.“ Abbot Planchard touched Robbie's elbow to guide him towards a cloister where he picked a spot in the sun and invited his visitor to sit on the low wall between two pillars. Tell me,” he asked, settling on the wall beside Robbie, are you Thomas? Isn't that the name of the man who leads the English?"

I'm not Thomas,“ Robbie said, but you've heard of us?” Oh indeed. Nothing so exciting has happened in these parts since the angel fell,“ the abbot said with a smile, then turned and asked a monk to bring wine, bread and cheese. And perhaps some honey! We make very good honey,” he added to Robbie. The lepers tend the hives."

Lepers!"

They live behind our house,“ the abbot said calmly, a house which you, young man, wanted to plunder. Am I right?” Yes," Robbie admitted.

Instead you are here to break bread with me.“ Planchard paused, his shrewd eyes searching Robbie's face. Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

Robbie frowned at that, then looked puzzled. How did you know?"

Planchard laughed. When a soldier comes to me, armed and armoured, but with a crucifix hanging over his mail, then I know he is a man who is not unmindful of his God. You wear a sign, my son,“ he pointed at the crucifix, and even after eighty-five years I can read a sign.”

Eighty-five!“ Robbie said in wonderment, but the abbot said nothing. He just waited and Robbie fidgeted for a while and then he blurted out what was on his mind. He described how they had gone to Castillon d'Arbizon, and how they had found the beghard in the dungeons and how Thomas had saved her life. It's been worrying me,” Robbie said, staring at the grass, and I'm thinking that no good will come to us so long as she lives. The Church condemned her!"

So it did/ Planchard said, then fell silent.

She's a heretic! A witch!"

I know of her,“ Planchard said mildly, and I heard that she lives.”

She's here!“ Robbie protested, pointing south towards the village. Here in your valley!”

Planchard looked at Robbie, seeing an honest, blunt soul, but one in turmoil, and he sighed to himself, then poured some wine and pushed the board of bread, cheese and honey towards the young man. Eat/ he said gently.

It isn't right!" Robbie said vehemently.

The abbot did not touch the food. He did sip the wine, then he spoke softly as he stared at the plume of smoke that drifted from the village's warning pyre. The beghard's sin is not yours, my son/ he said, and when Thomas released her it was not your doing. You worry about other people's sins?"

I should kill her!" Robbie said.

No, you should not/ the abbot said firmly.

No?" Robbie sounded surprised.

If God had wanted that, the abbot said, then he would not have sent you here to talk to me. God's purposes are not always

easy to understand, but I have found that his methods are not as indirect as ours. We complicate God because we do not see that goodness is so very simple.“ He paused. You told me that no good could come to you while she lives, but why would God want good to come to you? This region has been at peace, except for bandits, and you disturb it. Would God make you more vicious if the beghard died?”

Robbie said nothing.

You speak to me,“ Planchard said more firmly, of other people's sin, but you do not talk of your own. Do you wear the crucifix for others? Or for yourself?”

For myself," Robbie said quietly.

Then tell me of yourself," the abbot said.

So Robbie did.

Joscelyn, Lord of Beziers and heir to the great county of Berat, slammed the breastplate onto the table so hard that it started dust from the cracks in the timber.

His uncle, the Count, frowned. There is no need to beat the wood, Joscelyn,“ he said placidly. There is no woodworm in the table. At least I hope not. They treat it with turpentine as a preventative.” My father swore by a mix of lye and urine,“ Father Roubert said, and an occasional scorching.” He was sitting opposite the Count, sifting through the mouldering old parchments that had lain undisturbed since they had been removed from Astarac a century before. Some were charred at the edges, evidence of the fire that had been set in the fallen castle.

Lye and urine? I should try that.“ The Count scratched beneath his woollen hat, then peered up at his angry nephew. You do know Father Roubert, Joscelyn? Of course you do.” He peered at another document, saw it was a request that two more watchmen be appointed to the Astarac town guard, and sighed. If you could read, Joscelyn, you could help us."

I'll help you, uncle,“ Joscelyn said savagely. Just let me off the leash!”

That can go to Brother Jerome." The Count put the request for extra watchmen in the big basket which would be carried down to the room where the young monk from Paris read the parchments. And mix in some other documents/ he told Father Roubert,

just to confuse him. Those old tax rolls from Lemierre should keep him busy for a month!"

Thirty men, uncle/ Joscelyn insisted, that's all I ask! You have eighty-seven men-at-arms! Just give me thirty!" Joscelyn, Lord of Beziers, was an impressive figure. He was hugely tall, broad in the chest and long-limbed, but his appearance was spoiled by a round face of such vacancy that his uncle sometimes wondered whether there was any brain at all behind his nephew's protuberant eyes. He had straw-coloured hair that was almost always marked by the pressure caused by a helmet's leather liner and he had been blessed with strong arms and sturdy legs, and yet, though Joscelyn was all bone and muscle, and possessed scarcely a single idea to disturb either, he was not without his virtues. He was diligent, even if his diligence was directed solely towards the tournament yard where he was one of the most celebrated fighters in Europe. He had won the Paris tourney twice,

humiliated the best English knights at the big Tewkesbury gathering, and even in the German states, where men believed no one

was better than they, Joscelyn had brought off a dozen top prizes. He had famously put Walther of Siegenthaler on his broad rump twice in one bout, and the only knight who had consistently defeated Joscelyn was the black-armoured man called the Harlequin who had ridden grim and relentlessly about the tournament circuit to raise money. But the Harlequin had not been

seen for three or four years now and Joscelyn suspected that his absence meant Joscelyn could make himself the champion of Europe.

He had been raised near Paris by the Count's younger brother who had died of the flux seventeen years before. There had been little money in Joscelyn's house and the Count, notoriously mean, had sent the widow hardly an ecu to save her distress, yet Joscelyn had made money with his lance and sword, and that, the Count reckoned, was to his credit. And he had brought two men-at-arms with him, both of them hardened warriors, whom Joscelyn paid from his own money and that, the Count thought, showed that he was able to lead men. But you really should learn to read/ he finished his thought aloud. The mastery of letters civilizes a man, Joscelyn."

Shit on civilization/ Joscelyn said, there are English bandits in Castillon d'Arbizon and we're doing nothing! Nothing!“ We're hardly doing nothing/ the Count demurred, scratching again under his woollen cap. He had an itch there, and he wondered if it presaged some worse ailment. He made a mental note to consult his copies of Galen, Pliny and Hippocrates. We've sent word to Youlouse and to Paris/ he explained to Joscelyn, and I shall protest to the seneschal in Bordeaux. I shall protest very firmly!” The seneschal was the English King's regent in Gascony and the Count was not sure he would send the man a message, for such a protest might well provoke more English adventurers to seek land in Berat.

Damn protests/ Joscelyn said, just kill the bastards. They're breaking the truce!"

They're English/ the Count said, they always break truces. Trust the devil before an Englishman."

So kill them/ Joscelyn persisted.

I've no doubt we shall/ the Count replied. He was deciphering the terrible handwriting of a long-dead clerk who had written a contract with a man called Sestier to line Astarac's castle's drains with elmwood. In time/ he added absently.

Give me thirty men, uncle, and I'll scour them out in a week!“ The Count discarded the document and picked up another. The ink had turned brown and was badly faded, but he could just make out that it was a contract with a stonemason. Joscelyn/ he asked, still peering at the contract, how will you scour them out in a week?”

Joscelyn stared at his uncle as though the old man was mad. Go to Castillon d'Arbizon, of course/ he said, and kill them.“ I see, I see/ the Count said, as though grateful for the expla nation. But the last time I was in Castillon d'Arbizon, and that was many years ago, just after the English left, but when I was there, Joscelyn, the castle was made of stone. How will you defeat that with sword and lance?” He smiled up at his nephew.

For God's sake! They'll fight."

Oh, I am sure they will. The English like their pleasures, as do you. But these Englishman have archers, Joscelyn, archers. Have you ever encountered an English archer on the tournament field?“ Joscelyn ignored the question. Only twenty archers,” he complained instead.

The garrison tell us twenty-four,“ the Count said pedantically. The survivors of Castillon d'Arbizon's garrison had been released by the English and had fled to Berat where the Count had hanged two as an example and then questioned the others. Those others were now all imprisoned, waiting to be taken south and sold as galley slaves. The Count anticipated that source of income with a smile, then was about to put the stonemason's contract in the basket when a word caught his eye and some instinct made him hold onto the document as he turned back to his nephew. Let me tell you about the English war bow, Joscelyn. he said patiently. It is a simple thing, made of yew, a peasant's tool, really. My huntsman can use one, but he is the only man in Berat who has ever mastered the weapon. Why do you think that is?” He waited, but his nephew made no answer. I'll tell you anyway,“ the Count went on. It takes years, Joscelyn, many years to master the yew bow. Ten years? Probably that long, and after ten years a man can send an arrow clean through armour at two hundred paces.” He smiled. Splat! A thousand ecus of man, armour and weaponry fallen to a peasant's bow. And it isn't luck, Joscelyn. My huntsman can put an arrow through a bracelet at a hundred paces. He can pierce mail coat at two hundred. I've seen him put an arrow through an oak door at a hundred and fifty, and the door was three inches thick!"

I have plate armour,“ Joscelyn said sullenly. So you do. And at fifty paces the English will pick out the eye slits in your visor and send arrows into your brain. You, of course, might survive that.”

Joscelyn did not recognize the insult. Crossbows,“ he said. We have thirty crossbowmen,” the Count said, and none are as young as they were, and some are ill, and I wouldn't really think they can survive against this young man, what is his name?“ Thomas of Hookton,” Father Roubert interjected. Strange name. the Count said, but he seems to know his business. A man to be treated with care, I'd say."

Guns!" Joscelyn suggested.

Ah! Guns. the Count exclaimed as though he had not thought of that himself. We could certainly take cannon to Castillon d'Arbizon, and I daresay the machines will tear down the castle gate and generally make a regrettable mess, but where are we to find the things? There is one in Youlouse, I'm told, but it needs eighteen horses to move it. We could send to Italy, of course, but they are very expensive things to hire and their expert mechanics are even more expensive, and I very much doubt that they will fetch the things here before the spring. God preserve us till then.“ We can't do nothing!” Joscelyn protested again. True, Joscelyn, true. the Count agreed genially. Rain hammered at the horn panels that covered the windows. It was falling in grey swathes all across the town. It cascaded down the gutters, flooded the latrine pits, dripped through thatch and swept like a shallow stream through the town's lower gates. No weather for fighting, the Count thought, but if he did not allow his nephew some freedom then he suspected the young fool would ride off and get himself killed in an ill-considered skirmish. We could bribe them, of course. he suggested.

Bribe them?“ Joscelyn was outraged by the suggestion. It's quite normal, Joscelyn. They're nothing but bandits and they only want money, so I offer them coins to yield the castle. It works often enough.”

Joscelyn spat. They'll take the money then stay where they are and demand more."

That's very good!“ The Count of Berat smiled approvingly at his nephew. That's precisely what I had concluded. Well done, Joscelyn! So I won't try to bribe them. I have written to Youlouse, though, and requested the service of their gun. No doubt it will be disgustingly expensive, but if it's necessary, we shall unleash it on the English. I hope it doesn't come to that. Have you spoken with Sir Henri?” he asked.

Sir Henri Courtois was the Count's garrison commander and a soldier of experience. Joscelyn had indeed talked with him and been given the same answer that his uncle had just delivered: beware of English archers. Sir Henri's an old woman. Joscelyn complained.

With that beard? I doubt it. the Count said, though I did once see a bearded woman. It was in Tarbes, at the Easter fair. I was very young then, but I distinctly remember her. A great long beard, she had. We paid a couple of coins to see her, of course, and if you paid more you were allowed to tug the beard, which I did, and it was the true thing, and if you paid more still they revealed her breasts which destroyed any suspicion that she was really a man. They were very nice breasts, as I recall. He looked at the stonemason's contract again and at the Latin word that had caught his eye. Calix. A memory from his childhood stirred, but would not come.

Thirty men!" Joscelyn pleaded.

The Count let the document rest. What we will do, Joscelyn, is what Sir Henri suggests. We shall hope to catch the Englishmen when they are away from their lair. We shall negotiate for the gun at Youlouse. We are already offering a bounty for every English archer captured alive. A generous bounty, so I have no doubt every routier and coredor in Gascony will join the hunt and the English will find themselves surrounded by enemies. It won't be a pleasant life for them.

Why alive?“ Joscelyn wanted to know. Why not dead English archers?”

The Count sighed. Because then, my dear Joscelyn, the core dors will bring in a dozen corpses a day and claim they are Englishmen. We need to talk to the archer before we kill him to make sure he is the real thing. We must, so to speak, inspect the breasts to ensure the beard is real. He stared at the word, calix, willing the memory to surface. I doubt we'll capture many archers," he went on, they hunt in packs and are dangerous, so we shall also do what we always do when the coredors become too impudent. Wait patiently and ambush them when they make a mistake. And they will, but they think we shall make the mistake first. They want you to attack them, Joscelyn, so they can riddle you with arrows, but we have to fight them when they are not expecting a fight. So ride with Sir Henri's men and make sure the beacons are laid and, when the time comes, I will release you. That is a promise.

The beacons were being laid in every village and town of the county. They were great heaps of wood which, when fired, would send a signal of smoke to say that the English raiders were in the vicinity. The beacons warned other nearby communities and also told the watchmen on the tower of Berat's castle where the English were riding. One day, the Count believed, they would come too close to Berat, or be in a place where his men could ambush them, and so he was content to wait until they made that mistake. And they would make it, coredors always did, and these English, though they flew the badge of Northampton's Earl, were no better than common bandits. So go and practise your weapons, Joscelyn,“ he told his nephew, because you will use them soon enough. And take that breastplate with you.”

Joscelyn left. The Count watched as Father Roubert fed the fire with new logs, then he looked again at the document. The Count of Astarac had hired a stonemason to carve Calix Meus Inebrians'

above the gate of Astarac's castle and specified that the date on the contract was to be added to the legend. Why? Why would any man want the words My Cup Makes Me Drunk“ decorating his castle? Father?” he said.

Your nephew will get himself killed,“ the Dominican grumbled. I have other nephews,” the Count said.

But Joscelyn is right,“ Father Roubert said. They have to be fought, and fought soon. There is a beghard to be burned.” Father Roubert's anger kept him awake at night. How dare they spare a heretic? He lay in his narrow bed, imagining the girl's screams as the flames consumed her dress. She would be naked when the cloth had burned and Father Roubert remembered her pale body tied to his table. He had understood temptation then, understood it and hated it and there had been such pleasure in drawing the hot iron up the tender skin of her thighs.

Father! You're half-asleep,“ the Count remonstrated. Look at this.” He pushed the stonemason's contract across the table. The Dominican frowned as he tried to make out the faded hand writing, then nodded as he recognized the phrase. From the psalms of David," he said.

Of course! How stupid of me. But why would a man carve Calix Meus Inebrians“ over his gateway?” The Church Fathers. the priest said, doubt that the psalmist means drunk, not as we mean it. Suffused with joy, perhaps? My cup delights me?"

But what cup?“ the Count asked pointedly. There was silence except for the sound of rain and the crackle of logs, then the friar looked again at the contract, pushed back his chair and went to the Count's shelves. He took down a great chained book that he placed carefully on the lectern, unclasped the cover and opened the huge, stiff pages. What book is that?” the Count enquired.

The annals of Saint Joseph's monastery,“ Father Roubert said. He turned the pages, seeking an entry. We know,” he went on, that the last Count of Astarac was infected with the Cathar heresy. It's said that his father sent him to be a squire to a knight in Carcassonne and thus he became a sinner. He eventually inherited Astarac and lent his support to the heretics, and we know he was among the last of the Cathar lords.“ He paused to turn another page. Ah! Here it is. Montsegur fell on Saint Joevin's day in the twenty-second year of the reign of Raymond VII.” Raymond had been the last great Count of Youlouse, dead now almost a hundred years. Father Roubert thought for a second. That would mean Montsegur fell in 1244."

The Count leaned over the table and picked up the contract. He peered at it and found what he wanted. And this is dated the eve of Saint Nazarius of the same year. Saint Nazarius's feast is at the end of July, yes?"

It is," Father Roubert confirmed.

And Saint Joevin's day is in March,“ the Count said, which proves that the Count of Astarac didn't die in Montsegur.” Someone ordered the Latin carved,“ the Dominican allowed. Maybe it was his son?” He turned the big pages of the annals, flinching at the crudely illuminated capitals, until he found the entry he wanted. And in the year of our Count's death, when there was a great plague of toads and vipers, “ he read aloud, the Count of Berat took Astarac and slew all that were inside.” But the annals do not say that Astarac himself died?“ No.”

So what if he lived?“ The Count was excited now and had left his chair to start pacing up and down. And why would he desert his comrades in Montsegur?”

If he did. Father Roubert sounded dubious.

Someone did. Someone with authority to hire a mason. Someone who wanted to leave a message in stone. Someone who

. . The Count suddenly stopped. Why would they describe the date as the eve of Saint Nazarius's feast?" he asked. Why not?

Because that is Saint Pantaleon's day, why not call it that?" Because. Father Roubert was about to explain that Saint Nazarius was a good deal better known than Saint Pantaleon, but the Count interrupted him.

Because it is the Seven Sleepers“ Day! There were seven of them, Roubert! Seven survivors! And they wanted the date inscribed to make that obvious!”

The friar thought the Count was stretching the evidence exceed ingly thin, but he said nothing. And think of the story!“ The Count urged him. Seven young men under threat of persecution, yes? They flee the city, which was it? Ephesus, of course, and hide in a cave! The Emperor, Decius wasn't it? I'm sure it was, and he ordered every cave sealed and years later, over a hundred years later if I remember rightly, the seven young men are found there, and not one of them has aged a day. So seven men, Roubert, fled Montsegur!”

Father Roubert replaced the annals. But a year later. he pointed out, your ancestor defeated them.

They could have survived. the Count insisted, and everyone knows that members of the Vexille family fled. Of course they survived! But think, Roubert. he was unconsciously calling the Dominican by his childhood name, why would a Cathar lord leave the last stronghold if it not to take the heretics“ treasures to safety? Everyone knows the Cathars possessed great treasures!” Father Roubert tried not to get caught up in the Count's excite ment. The family. he said, would have taken the treasures with them."

Would they?" the Count demanded. There are seven of them. They go their different ways. Some to Spain, others to northern France, one at least to England. Suppose you are hunted, wanted by the Church and by every great lord. Would you take a great treasure with you? Would you risk that it falls into your enemies'

hands? Why not hide it and hope that one day whoever of the seven survives can return to recover it?"

The evidence was now stretched impossibly thin and Father Roubert shook his head. If there was treasure in Astarac. he said, it would have been found long ago."

But the Cardinal Archbishop is looking for it. the Count said. Why else does he want to read our archives?“ He picked up the stonemason's contract and held it over a candle so that the three Latin words and the demand to cut the date in the stone were scorched out of existence. He stamped his fist on the charred, glowing edge to extinguish the fire, then put the damaged parch ment into the basket of documents that would be given to the monk. What I should do. he said, is go to Astarac.” Father Roubert looked alarmed at such hot-headedness. It is wild country, my lord. he warned, infested with coredors. And not that many miles from the English in Castillon d'Arbizon.“ Then I shall take some men-at-arms.” The Count was excited now. If the Grail was in his domain then it made sense that God had placed the curse of barrenness on his wives as a punishment for failing to search for the treasure. So he would put it right. You can come with me. he told Father Roubert, and I'll leave Sir Henri, the crossbowmen and most of the men-at-arms to defend the town."

And your nephew?"

Oh, I'll take him with me! He can command my escort. It will give him the illusion that he's useful.“ The Count frowned. Isn't Saint Sever's near Astarac?”

Very close."

I'm sure Abbot Planchard will give us accommodation. the Count said, and he's a man who might very well help us!" Father Roubert thought Abbot Planchard was more likely to tell the Count he was an old fool, but he could see that the Count was caught up in the enthusiasm. Doubtless he believed that if he found the Grail then God would reward him with a son, and perhaps he was right? And perhaps the Grail needed to be found to put the whole world right, and so the friar fell to his knees in the great hall and prayed the God would bless the Count, kill the heretic and reveal the Grail.

At Astarac.