by Hana Cole
Chapter Eleven
Amaury of Maintenon leaned back in his chair. Looking up at the chubby- fingered cherubs that danced on the ceiling, he said, ‘So what have you done about it?’
De Nogent, who had not been invited to sit, gave a grimace of a smile that was not meant to conceal his affront. ‘They have left Tours and are being pursued.’
‘By the same retinue who let them escape?’
The inquisitor felt his jaw tighten.‘ You said they were your best men.’
The leather of the nobleman’s glove crunched as he clenched his hand into a fist and released it. ‘Their information came from you.’
‘Le Coudray will be returned to Chartres by the end of the month,’ the inquisitor said, folding his hands together with a finality he hoped would draw the conversation to a close. He had been working on his Nogentian Creed when Maintenon’s messenger interrupted him. The creed was to be the founding stone of his proposal for a new monastic order. A statement of faith he hoped in time would be added to the other great creeds of Christendom. He intended to present it to the pontiff in person before the summer when his eminence retreated to the cool hills above Rome.
Pope Innocent had already begun what de Nogent anticipated would be a flurry of approvals for new mendicant orders. A couple of years before it had been the merchant of Assisi, and lately his female cohorts, the Poor Clares - this pope’s reforming zeal extended even to women! De Nogent had spent hard years fighting the heretics of Provence alongside followers of the preacher Dominic, and now rumour had it the Spaniard was seeking approval for his own order - an order dedicated to the eradication of heresy no less. No, he had no time to tarry, least of all flattering the vanity of petty secularity.
‘And the boy?’ The gruff voice interrupted.
De Nogent pursed his lips. ‘The boy?’
‘Damn it man, you take me for a fool?’ Maintenon banged his fist on the table with an unexpected force that, to his irritation, made the inquisitor flinch.
‘My lord, the boy is an irrelevance,’ he hissed.
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘What I mean is that he is just a boy. The bastard of a heretic and a disgraced priest. Once his parents are apprehended he will find himself in the workhouse if not on the pyre. From what my informants tell me he is likely already dead.’
‘Like the Le Coudray girl was dead?’
Before de Nogent could respond to the provocation, the bell outside the reception room rang. Forefinger resting on his temple, the nobleman raised his head and smiled as his butler announced the guest. The man entered, a large, ostrich feather, dyed cobalt, waving ludicrously from his velvet hat. He removed it with a flourish and bowed, bearing his polished teeth.
‘I believe you are acquainted,’ Maintenon said.
De Nogent flushed crimson as the spy who called himself Christian strode jauntily towards him.
‘How very resourceful of you,’ he muttered.
The spy grinned. ‘I told you I was good.’
‘My compliments on your excellent timing,’ Maintenon said. ‘We were just talking about the boy, weren’t we, Bernard?’
The inquisitor scowled at the informant, loathing his foppery, his casual deceit, making himself an inward promise of vengeance.
‘Ah yes, the boy.’ The spy preened the feather in his cap and popped it back on his head. ‘He is journeying towards Marseille with a band of shepherd boys. They seek transport overseas to reclaim the holy land.’
De Nogent could feel the blood pulsing at his temples, pumping the urgent desire to grab hold of the treacherous spy and shake the life breath from him.
Maintenon lent forward and said, ‘Do they now. How many of them?’
De Nogent watched the machinations flicker behind the noblemen’s eyes with a sense of mounting dread, as the spy continued.
‘Well I came across two or three groups myself, at least ten score in all. The merchants I encountered told me the boys numbered in their thousands. Dismissed by the king, now each seeks his own way abroad.’
The inquisitor felt the dull knell of misadventure clang in his gut as Amaury of Maintenon rubbed his face and began to laugh.
‘How can you be sure the Le Coudray boy is among them?’ De Nogent snapped at Christian.
‘I’m glad you asked that, your reverence.’ The spy glanced back at him, mockery twinkling in his eyes. ‘Le Coudray told me herself.’
De Nogent felt the air leave his lungs in a gasp of outrage.
‘What?’ Maintenon uttered a carnal growl.
‘Yes, yes. I came across her by the will of the good Lord, in a tavern in Tours. Quite the beauty, isn’t she?’ the spy chirruped. ‘Happenstance I was able to overhear a conversation between her and a gang of hauliers before her good priest arrived and I called in your retainers.’ Eyes round with self-congratulation, he smiled at the two men. ‘Some local inquiries and I was able to find a wealth of interesting nuggets.’
Interesting enough for you to seek a higher bidder behind my back, thought de Nogent as Maintenon studied Christian from beneath his brow.
‘Were you really?’ Maintenon said.
‘Indeed so.’ Christian tapped the end of his nose. ‘Before your retainers bungled the arrest.’
Drumming his fingertips together, Maintenon cast a leaden look towards de Nogent. The inquisitor did his best not to let his indignation show.
‘You saw at least two hundred of these boys?’ Maintenon asked.
‘I did,’ said Christian with an emphatic nod. ‘On the road to Bourges. In rag tag groups.’
‘And there are thousands of these boys at large?’
‘Scattered in various locations, but yes, most likely several thousand.’
The steel grey eyes narrowed lasciviously. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘I can only relay what I have heard.’ Christian laid his hand at his heart. ‘And seen with my own eyes.’
‘Let us be modest then and say there are five thousand peasant children at large,’ said Maintenon. ‘It has been some time since I was in the Holy Land, but from what I remember from my time overseas, you would pay between four and eight ducats for a good, strong Saracen slave with plenty of work in him.’
‘Up to ten for a virgin housemaid in Italy,’ chimed Christian with a wink.
Bernard de Nogent closed his eyes.
‘More for a mature, light-skinned convert. Isn’t that right?’ Christian addressed Maintenon.
‘How would I know?’ barked the nobleman.
‘Enough of this blasphemy!’ De Nogent interrupted.
‘Really, your reverence,’ said the spy. ‘No need to be squeamish. Everyone knows the Venetians cater to… Moorish tastes. Every merchant household in Italy worth its salt has a pagan house slave.’
De Nogent noted that the sly nod Christian gave to Maintenon went unacknowledged by the nobleman. Moving a stack of parchment carefully to one side, Maintenon lent his arms on the desk and said, ‘Please go on. You seem to know a lot about this trade.’
‘More than most.’ Christian puffed up his chest, warming to the task. ‘Blond Christians fetch most in the Tartar markets, but the Egyptian market is booming too. Allowing a modest average of five ducats, minus shipping costs and expenses, currency exchange and so forth, even if we could only gather a thousand healthy boys...’
‘Close on half the demesne revenue of the Champagne in a single trade,’ Maintenon said, and he smoothed his hand along the ridge of his desk with a contrived tenderness that made de Nogent feel distinctly uncomfortable.
‘Prices are rising all the time,’ continued Christian blithely. ‘Revenue from slaves is set to rival all the other markets. It’s the next spice, everyone is saying it.’
‘If the Italians are getting fat off it then why shouldn’t we?’ said Maintenon. ‘Inquisitor de Nogent, I require your help.’
The inquisitor felt his heart grow heavy.
Ticking his index finger emphatically back and fo
rth, Maintenon continued, ‘Or rather should I say the capital for completion of the abbey requires your help.’
‘My lord, I really do not see how I could possibly be of help with this.’
‘I have connections from my time overseas, I’ll admit, but with this sort of scale we will need a wholesaler of some means. You have connections with the bishops of the southern lands, whom, I believe from my experience, run a decent business in slaves from Mediterranean ports.’
‘My lord, such as the Church may conduct commercial activities for its earthly mission, the trade in heathens only is permitted.’
‘I know,’ Maintenon said flatly. ‘Nonetheless, I am sure the Church has connections in the mercantile world who show no such - how did our informant friend put it? Squeamishness.’
‘Given my lord’s desire to insert a third party between himself and the point of sale I suggest he seek someone of a more, secular disposition. The penalty for such a trade if caught would be excommunication!’
Heart pulsing, de Nogent smoothed down his robes. Maintenon licked his lips. Sensing a tirade, the inquisitor hastily continued, ‘With your permission, I am sure I cannot assist with your plans of a more commercial nature. I will oversee arraignment of Le Coudray and Courville as I have said, but now I really must retreat to concentrate on spiritual concerns.’
‘Perhaps I could make a suggestion?’ The spy inserted himself into the opportunity. ‘As you know I offer my services throughout the kingdom and beyond. I am sure that with the appropriate inquiries I could source us suitable partners.’
De Nogent noted the nobleman bristle at the word ‘us’. The informant blundered on, not noticing the tap of Maintenon’s foot under the desk.
‘It would of course cost, my lord, but I can personally vouch for the discretion of my contacts.’
‘If I require you to do anything,’ Maintenon snapped, ‘it is to make sure we have our net cast as wide as we can. Find out where these groups have gone so we can entice them all to a convenient location.’
De Nogent’s mouth went dry as he felt his plans slipping from his grasp. The chances of this pompous spy finding the Le Coudray bastard seemed unlikely but such a risk could not be permitted. Swallowing, he said, ‘My lord, should we not leave locating the shepherd children to someone with more…’
‘This I can most certainly do, Lord Amaury.’ Christian interrupted, clapping his hands with slow precision as though he were trying to prevent himself from rubbing them together. ‘But, given the understandable reluctance of our reverend prelate to assist, I can assure you that I would be well able to source appropriate trading partners. For an increment in my costs that would be very reasonable. I believe fifteen percent is the market rate.’ The spy encroached upon Maintenon’s desk. ‘Understanding what a prize it is you desire, my lord.’
Maintenon drew his head back as the spy approached, a veil drawing over his gaze. ‘And what would you know about what it is I desire?’
What indeed, thought de Nogent as the spy offered a conniving smile. Instinctively the inquisitor took a pace back as Christian drew his shoulders back and opened his palms like an actor readying to address a crowd.
‘Lord Amaury,’ he began, his voice a little louder than was acceptable in nobler company. ‘With an army of a size this revenue could bring you, think of the campaigns you could join. You could finally win lands and honour worthy of you.’ Christian waved an arc with his hand as though narrating a story to a child. ‘Why, you could attract a union with a family of such nobility that the court gossips of France would soon forget you gained your purchase into their ranks from the coffers of a salt trader …whose daughter and grandson are still at large.’
De Nogent’s eye widened at the spy’s audacity. What a pearl of information you must have found, he mused as the spy continued his theatre. Standing behind the spy, de Nogent could see Maintenon’s attention was now fixed a few inches over the spy’s shoulder, his pupils growing wider inside the disks of cold steel. He cast a glance out the window to avoid them.
‘As I said, fifteen percent seems more than reasonable.’ The neat moustached lips parted in a smile. ‘Utmost discretion of all your dealings…past and present, included,’ he added. ‘A man of your standing must be permitted his mores.’ Christian stretched out the vowels of the last word.
Before the inquisitor had time to digest the possible meanings of the spy’s insinuations, Amaury de Maintenon stood, and in one slick motion retrieved a small hand axe from the desk drawer and cleaved it into the head of the man who was still leaning over his desk. Bernard de Nogent heard himself utter a cry as the spy reeled back, soaking the desk with an arc of blood. Heart pounding, the inquisitor forced his mouth shut. He was aware that he should be doing something, but he found himself unable to move, even as the body of the informant called Christian landed at his feet with a thud.
‘Now.’ Maintenon took a calming breath, pulled off his bloodied gloves and tossed them to the floor. ‘Perhaps we can continue?’
De Nogent fought to suppress the tremor in his legs, a peculiar feeling of shock and fury heating his guts.
‘You wish me to go south and consult with local traders?’ he said.
‘Yes, and now we will need someone else to round up the contingents of this shepherd boys’ crusade.’
‘We will,’ the prelate said.
The assault on his nerves still throbbing in his bowel, the inquisitor’s carriage departed for the city. Christian the spy was not possessed of a pious bone in his body, but to fell him without accusation or trial in front of a man of God! Clutching his crucifix, Bernard de Nogent crossed himself, and brought the trinket to rest on his lips.
Up ahead the sheriff’s men were hooking down the remains of a highwayman from a roadside cage. At least the informant’s demise had been quick, he considered – an altogether better end than rotting under the sun, or some similar fate as inevitably would have awaited a man like Christian.
What did you find out that he silenced you so? Did it concern the boy? Le Coudray? How was it Maintenon had put it when he had first told him of her capture? She could have spread her lies to anyone who would listen. The hair on his neck bristled with a cold shudder of anticipation. The Holy Ghost was moving within him.
He drummed his fingers impatiently on the rim of the carriage window. He would feel far better once he had that whore back in custody. And what better bait to draw her to him than her bastard son? Now the task of locating the crusader children had fallen to him, he could hasten directly to Marseille. With their contingents heading south, if he moved fast enough he would soon have his hands upon the boy. Le Coudray would surely follow. And if there were secrets to be told about Amaury of Maintenon, his techniques would prise them from her. The prelate cast his eyes heavenward in a prayer, asking that all he needed be provided.
The carriage jolted over the ruts of the dusty track, putting distance between him and the venal whims of Amaury of Maintenon. Slowly, he felt his stomach settle. Nothing but a test, he thought. For what man would be worthy of History who was not prepared to be sorely tested for his prize? Maintenon he could care take of in good time, and he would have to, no doubt about it now. But he was not yet ready. More information was required. And money. The inquisitor sighed. More money was always required. Such was the way of worldly existence, he told himself. Drawing level with the Sheriff’s men, he watched them toss the liquefying cadaver onto the back of their wagon and cover it with a shovel of lime, enveloping his carriage in a choking cloud.
Chapter Twelve
‘The storm will be over soon.’
All heads swivel towards Jean, now sitting bolt upright. Etienne’s heart feels as though it is going to leap out of his chest. They have been on the road now for more weeks than he wants to remember and it has started to take its toll on the weakest among them. Jean fell sick after they were caught out in a storm. For three nights he has lain in their bivouac, barely breathing, pale as death, while the boys
argue about how much longer they should give him. Most of them want to give him up to a local priest but Etienne has convinced them to wait until first light. Now, as he watches his friend rise from the dead like Lazarus, he isn’t sure miracles as big as this one are even possible, and he mutters a prayer of gratitiude that God has seen fit to answer him, a shepherd boy from a small village. He must truly be pleased at their efforts.
Jean coughs and asks for a sip of water. His skin is grey, eyes huge and sunken in his head. For a moment he surveys them in silence, then just as Etienne thinks he is going to slip away again, he squints at their amazed faces and he tells them that his soul departed from his body during the long sleep. Guided by angels - tall, graceful creatures that radiated golden light - he was shown places so miraculous and beautiful that they are impossible to describe. The angels said God was pleased and would bless their undertaking. They need the blessing of no earthly pope when Christ and his archangels watch over them.
Off in the distance, thunder grumbles. The rain has eased to a trickle now and a pale yellow sliver of light melts through the iron clouds. Their belongings are soaked – sleeping blankets, the tents, clothes, what food they have. Etienne lifts himself up on his walking stick and surveys the dripping fields.
At first he thinks his eyes are deceiving him, but as the silhouettes approach they begin to take shape - a group of young men, shoulders propelling them through the long grasses, boots laced all the way up to the knees, like the soldiers of some lost legion.
‘Yes,’ he mutters, and gallops out into their path.
‘Daniel!’ he cries and the convoy stalls.
The dark-haired boy at the front of the group laughs. ‘Etienne!’
‘We were half a day ahead of you when we heard that some children were hurt, so we came back.’ Daniel’s face softens into an apologetic smile.
He looks to his cohorts resting easy on their walking poles, their sympathetic gazes on Etienne as though he were a lamb stuck on a rocky outcrop.
‘We have been blessed,’ says one of Daniel’s friends. ‘And it’s only right to share our blessings.’