‘It is not altogether improbable, as to how it might have left Constantinople,’ I said at last. ‘But Cathars … No, my lord, if the Mandylion survived at all it became some crossbowman’s bed linen or his wife’s hosen – forgive me if I speak plainly, but there you have it. In any other matter, however, I would be more than delighted to be of assistance.’
Bishop Ranulph blinked, and the whites of his eyes receded. He hefted his mace and smiled stiffly.
‘No doubt you are right,’ he said. ‘The quickness of youth. It has been an entertaining morning, my son. You fight altogether too well for one whose vocation is the translation of holy relics, but I can hardly disapprove. One may serve God …’ He paused and studied me intently.
‘With the sword as well as the pen,’ I finished. ‘I prefer to serve Him with the ledger and, if need be, the lantern in dusty old chapels and tombs, for time and ignorance have hidden His greatest wonders in such places. And I insist: I am at your service.’
‘And I shall hold you to it, my son,’ said the bishop. He smiled benevolently, then without warning hefted and swung his mace in a violent arc that decapitated an old yew stump in a cloud of dun splinters. ‘Callings are difficult things, my son. The important thing, the only thing, is to serve.’
And with that he turned and stalked away, back towards the sparring knights, head up, eyes already upon another encounter. I found I had nipped the inside of my mouth, and spat a red-streaked gob onto the shattered yew.
Chapter Eleven
It was the twentieth day of May when we landed at Royan, a cosy little port at the mouth of the Gironde. We had had a horrible crossing, first becalmed, then storm-tossed, but after putting in at Finisterre we sailed into the mouth of the Gironde and descended upon the sleepy town. We had been delayed at Portsmouth while the king prayed and fussed over his clothes, and while he had the royal ship painted with scenes to delight him as he crossed over to France. Earl Richard was beside himself with fury, or so Letice told me, for Henry was already squandering the money he had raised from his barons – thirty casks of silver, no less – for no one wanted to fight in this useless war, and Henry was charging three marks in scutage tax for every knight who did not join the army. I was beginning to see why Henry had been besieged at court by angry nobles, indeed I thought it was a wonder that he dared show his face. But I did not care to understand the ways of kings. It was my business to part them from their money, after all, not to wonder where that money might come from. As it was, the ships that left Portsmouth carried near to sixteen hundred knights, twenty thousand foot soldiers and a thousand crossbowmen. We stayed in the port for nearly two months while Henry exchanged barbed letters with Louis. Hughues de Lusignan, the rebel count of Marche – a splenetic-looking fellow with grey hair and a pointed black beard – rode in with his wife Isabella, the king’s mother herself, at the head of his own army of Poitevins and swelled our own small army to a great, stinking town that hung off innocent Royan like a canker on a dog’s belly. We would trounce the French, said the gentle-women, and the knights, and the drunkards. So we might, I thought, if we ever got free of the stifling and increasingly panicked gentility of Royan.
I was standing in the street with William and Gervais when the Lusignan party rode in. The common soldiers were pressing in and I had stepped back into a doorway, but still I caught a glimpse of the Queen, Isabella, who had been married to King John Lackland. She was tall, slender and sat as straight as a reed in her saddle. Her face was shadowed by the long wimple she wore, kept in place by a simple gold circlet, but I saw her hands: they were long and white as candlewax. Her husband was calling in a hoarse voice to someone on the other side of the street and then they had passed on. I was cupping my hands around my mouth to yell at Gervais, who was looking for me a few yards away, when I caught sight of someone in the Queen’s retinue. He was an equerry and was wearing a magnificent tabard adorned with the blue and silver device of the Lusignans. His face was oddly familiar, though. I could not place it. He looked … he did not look like a tax-collector. That was it. How very strange: I might have sworn, at that moment, that he was one of the men who had so alarmed Letice as we rode down to Devon, one of the men who had seemed to be following us. I put the thought out of my mind. The man at the inn had not been a tax collector, so why should he have been a royal equerry? And here was Gervais, come to drag me off to some tavern or other. I forgot all about it.
I had but one friend in this place and that was Letice, but I saw precious little of her, for she had made friends with the court ladies who had come over with the army, and they formed a gossipy, giggling clique that had no time for an upstart like myself. I suspected, though, that the good ladies had decided to find Letice a new husband, for they were forever holding little gatherings to which a selection of chinless, thick-necked Norman knights were invited and I was not. God alone knew what tales their new friend was telling about me, but, while I was not party to their gatherings, I began to get some interested looks from two or three of them. One in particular, a lady-in-waiting called Margarete, began to arrange little coincidences by which we would come across each other apparently by accident. I took the hint gladly, and found that Lady Margarete was more than interested in stealing an hour here and there with me, and that her rather dainty appearance and her coyly freckled face hid a much warmer spirit. There is much to be said for bawdiness when it is enjoyed by both lovers for its own sake, and, as is the way of the world, something about my demeanour must have changed, for I suddenly found myself unaccountably popular with the other ladies-in-waiting. I might not have been allowed into their gracious little parties, but I was by no means unwelcome in the bedchamber. Still, I spent my days wandering up and down the beach, avoiding the bishop and wondering what in Hell’s name I was doing here.
It was almost a week since we had landed at Royan. I was down on the beach, skipping stones across the flat waters of the turning tide, when an officious cleric, sweating in his heavy robes, scuttled out of the dunes and hailed me irritably. It was a summons from my lord the Bishop of Balecester, as I had known it would be, if only because I had, of late, been getting the reverse of what I wished for, and I had been earnestly wishing that the bishop would leave me alone. But I smiled accommodatingly and followed the man back into town.
Balecester had taken over the rectory. I was shown into the parlour, a cosy room whose walls seemed to cringe away from the hard bulk of Bishop Ranulph. He was seated at a table by the largest window, and opposite him sat a man of about thirty-five years, who turned towards me at a nod from the bishop. He was a Norman, with straight, corn-coloured hair and a pleasant, open face, although his nose had been broken badly at some point. He was clean-shaven, and there were dark circles under his eyes as though he had been sleeping poorly. His dress was noble but plain: very pricey cloth cut for a soldier’s needs. I bowed and waited for my introduction.
‘Simon, this is the fellow I have spoken of: Petrus Zennorius, from the company of the Cormaran. Zennorius, the Earl of Leicester honours us with a visit. You will join us.’
Thus I met Simon de Montfort, sixth Earl of Leicester. He gave me a brusque but friendly smile, and gestured to the empty chair next to him. I moved it until I was a polite distance between the two men and sat down.
‘Earl Simon has just arrived in Royan,’ said Balecester.
‘Last night, in fact,’ said de Montfort. ‘I hear that you have joined our army?’
‘I have been so honoured,’ I replied. Behind the earl’s genial face there was something implacable, I realised, for he was taking my measure coolly and efficiently. I could feel it.
‘He has a new-fangled way with a sword,’ said Balecester. ‘But some skill, for a commoner.’
‘My lord is too kind.’
‘Skill is always welcome, Master Petrus,’ said the earl. ‘Nevertheless it is skill of a different kind that has brought you to this table.’
‘You recall our talk at Portsmouth,’ said Balece
ster. I nodded. ‘I told you that I had enquired of my lord Leicester as to the truth behind these tales of a Cathar crucifix.’ Again I nodded, my heart sinking. This above all other things I did not want to discuss with these two dangerous and clever men.
‘I should point out straight away that while I share my lord bishop’s zeal for the faith, I do not have his passion for relics – I mean that I am a soldier and not a churchman, and I leave the knowledge of such things to holy men – I seek only to worship,’ de Montfort added, smoothly. ‘But you may know that I spent my youth in the lands of Toulouse, watching as my father battled against the heretics and later joining the battle myself. I have some holdings there, and that is where I have been since returning from the Holy Land.’
I made the appropriate show of respect, but de Montfort held up his hand modestly. ‘I am His servant, nothing more,’ he said. ‘But to the matter in hand: my lord bishop has written to me more than once about a particularly foul blasphemy that has sprung up amongst the Albigensian rabble, this so-called crucifix.’
‘My lord Balecester and I have discussed this at some length,’ I put in. ‘It is my sincere opinion …’
‘No one is questioning your sincerity,’ snapped Balecester. An unsaid ‘yet’ hung heavy on the air.
‘Or your expertise,’ said de Montfort, warmly. ‘Which is why my lord wanted you here. And I agree: you sound like the very man.’
‘My lords, for what?’ I asked.
Balecester nodded at the earl and both men rose to their feet. ‘Follow,’ said Balecester, as if addressing his hound. I obeyed, and we made our way from the parlour and along the corridor to the back of the house. Through the kitchen, where five clearly annoyed French women were preparing lunch, and out into the little walled courtyard. A soldier with a big beer gut stretching his surcoat was sitting against the far wall next to a low door, dozing. A slug-trail of spit shone on his pink, bristly chops. The bishop gave him a hard kick on the thigh and he leapt to his feet, not even quite awake, his breath coming in gasps.
‘Open the door,’ said de Montfort. The man had been gripping an old key, and its rust had stained his palm. He turned it in the keyhole and pushed the door open. It was the rectory stable barn, empty save for a scattering of hay upon the cobbled floor and a small cart piled with sacks of grain standing in the corner. I guessed the army had taken the hay. So what was in here? Not … I blinked my eyes, for the only light inside came in through a slit window, and the air was full of straw dust. No, not the Mandylion. That would be blasphemy, I thought with a nervous giggle that did not get further than my windpipe.
It was not the Mandylion, but something far worse. Face down beneath the tiny window lay the figure of an emaciated man. His arms were pulled tightly behind his back and bound at the elbows and wrists, and his ankles were also bound.
‘Who is that?’ I asked carefully.
‘A Cathar. I thought it might be interesting to ask one of the vermin in person,’ said de Montfort breezily. He knelt beside the man and rolled him over. A grey, sunken face appeared, crusted with old vomit. ‘We found this on him.’
De Montfort took a small bundle from the guard and shook it, unfurling the dirty parcel of linen into a long, single sheet. My blood jumped into my ears for a moment, for the dark figure of a bearded man stood before me, but when I looked closer I saw my mistake. It was the figure from the Mandylion, all right, but a crude copy done in some dark reddish pigment by someone who could not really draw, but who, it was plain, had been using the shroud itself for his model. This painting seemed to show an act of torture, for Christ’s hands were nailed to a single post above his head and there was no cross-bar. But it was the man from the shroud. There were too many likenesses for it to be otherwise: the wounds on the brow, the bearded face. Except that this Christ’s eyes were open and he looked, if truth be told, like a farmer who has just walked in on his wife swiving the local tax-collector: rather than the finality of death, there was nothing but an almost comic surprise.
‘This is worthless,’ I told them. ‘No older than last year. What is it?’
‘Is it not … ?’De Montfort was almost interested. ‘No, of course it isn’t.’
‘It is interesting, though,’ I said, thinking how best to turn their attention away from the shroud and the man. ‘And it could be some heretical idol from the East. The Bogomili, I think they are called, the heretics who taught your Cathars their creed, copied all sorts of old icons and paintings from the Greeks. I would guess this is some half-remembered portrait of an emperor or, who knows? The Patriarch of Constantinople. Or it might just be a copy – the face, I mean – of the Volto Santo of Lucca – there are heretics in Italy, too, you know.’
‘The Holy Face of Lucca? King Henry’s favourite relic,’ said de Montfort. ‘By the Holy Face! He is apt to shout that out on the slightest pretext.’
‘But this is nonsense, that I can assure you,’ I said, twitching the painted sheet disdainfully. ‘Painted by a fool. Look: they even left out the cross-beam. Not enough space, I suppose.’
The man on the floor twitched and moaned. He seemed to be waking up, and it was bringing him nothing but pain and fear.
‘Is he ill?’ I asked.
‘No. He is one of their priests,’ said de Montfort. ‘They call themselves perfect – the enemy’s pride has no bounds, does it? The perfecti believe that they can choose when to die. This one is starving himself to death.’ He gave the man a mocking pat on the head. ‘The sooner he gets himself to Hell the better, so far as I’m concerned. You will not have heard, as I brought the news myself, but the Albigensians have outdone even their own wickedness,’ he went on. ‘They have murdered the Inquisitors of Toulouse in some wretched town called Avignonet. The two Inquisitors – a Stephen of Saint Thibéry and one William Arnald – three friars, an arch-deacon and four servants, all butchered with axes. The killers were all men from the heretic stronghold called Montségur, and led by the lord of Mirepoix.’
I raised my eyebrows and shook my head in the disbelief that was required of me. ‘And this wretch?’ I enquired. ‘Is he one of the murderers?’
‘No, no,’ chuckled de Montfort. ‘This one I found sneaking about my villages, trying to corrupt my serfs. I have managed to keep him breathing long enough for Balecester to ask him a few questions. And then my lord bishop thought you might be able to shed more light. So, shall we?’ He looked up at us. Balecester nodded impatiently. The fat soldier muttered ‘excuse me, lords’ and stepped past us. De Montfort said something under his breath and the soldier nodded. He grabbed the man and heaved him upright. It was plain that he weighed no more than a bundle of dry sticks. His eyes tightened and flew open. They were green, bright, although the whites were yellow and blood-flecked. For one ghastly moment I had thought that I would know him, but of course he was a stranger. Meanwhile the soldier, supporting him with one arm, was tying one end of a coil of rope to the cord that bound his wrists. When it was done to his liking, he heaved the coil up and over one of the low beams of the ceiling and without ceremony pulled the man’s arms up so that he stood, leaning sharply forward, his arms jutting behind him at a vicious angle.
The bishop walked up to the man, whose face had gone white as bone, even his lips, which were crushed together. The muscles of his jaws were bunched like walnuts.
‘You worship a mockery of Our Lord’s cross, do you not?’ snarled Balecester. The man looked at him, expressionless. ‘You dare to claim your own heretical crucifix, do you not?’ Balecester drew back his hand and slapped the man hard on the cheek. ‘You will answer!’ But the man did not. He had not taken his green eyes from the bishop’s face, who turned to us, his eyes beady, black as a buzzard’s.
‘Have you got anything out of him, Simon?’
The earl shrugged. ‘I have not tried. This is work I would rather leave to the Inquisition, my lord. For myself, I would have burned the swine when I found him, but I thought you might find him useful. I’m afraid you will ge
t nothing but lies in any event – what else, from a heretic?’
‘That is why I have invited our friend from the Cormaran,’ said Balecester, giving me a look of appalling smugness. Is this the trap you prepared for me, my lord bishop? I wondered to myself. To infect me with your cruelty as if it were the red plague?
‘I am no Inquisitor, my lords,’ I protested. But they were both staring at me now, and to my horror the Cathar was also looking at me almost curiously. There was nothing for it. The poor bastard was dead anyway, no matter what I did. I could do no good, but maybe I would do no more harm.
‘Let him sit,’ I said, trying to sound as if I did these things every day. The soldier, pouting his fat lips, let go of the rope and the Cathar dropped down onto his arse. Feeling less of a man with every step, I went up to him, indicating to the bishop that he should step back. Then I bent my face close to the Cathar’s deathly face.
‘Good morning, my friend,’ I said. ‘I will not ask you to renounce your faith or betray your brothers and sisters. May I ask you some questions?’ He regarded me, breathing painfully through his nose, struggling with the pain from his wrenched arms. Then to my surprise he nodded.
‘Ah …’ I hesitated, watching him. He was fifty or so, and he had been strong once, for his flesh hung from him a little. A nobleman, perhaps, from the way he held his head. But he had lived out of doors for many years, for his skin was coarse from sun and wind. He could have been any man out of a dozen I had sailed with on the Cormaran, exiled, driven out beyond the light, beyond the warmth of his own hearth.
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