Germain had finally passed out, and had to be carried to the vestry at the back of the church. The one-eyed monk, as soon as his Lobsters had got over the shock of his appearance, had them lay him face down on his cot, no easy matter in a room into which he crowded everything he had salvaged from the once thriving religious house. There were books, brass candlesticks and crucifixes, parts of tapestries and half-burnt altar cloths. A writing stand stood in the way of the cot, surrounded by all the things necessary for illuminating manuscripts. Parts of the choir stalls, heavy craved oak, had been stacked in one corner, in such a way that they looked as though they would topple over. There were horse collars, yokes and leather bits and girths, saddles and the wheels off what had probably been a dog-cart, as well as a mass of unused church candles.
But there was also a whole chest full of proper surgical instruments, saws, cleavers and ampoules for bleeding, including the probes necessary to undertake an extraction. Another contained jars of pounded herbs, which the monk assured them would act to help save the captain’s life. Men were sent to fetch water from the well house, and a fire was lit in the grate to heat it. The operation took place immediately that was ready, while Germain was still unconscious, watched with morbid fascination by as many of the men who could dodge their duties.
Gibbons wasn’t one of them. He had found a couple of cells where the roof could be repaired. Candles were fetched and one was allocated to Ghislane, with the next-door cell for her maid. Another larger room, more open to the elements, contained Aramon and de Puy, plus the three servants.
It was curious to observe the cleric fidget. So close to the prize he sought, he had lost some of his self-assurance. The relationship between him and de Puy now seemed altered, with the latter making it clear that nothing could be achieved in the dark. Clearly the cavalry officer was now in charge. It didn’t seem to trouble him, the way he was constrained in his movements by the watchful eyes of the four men who shared his accommodation. If fact, as soon as he could he made up a bed. Then with a determination that could only be explained by his newfound superiority, he lay down and went straight to sleep.
Markham himself found a separate billet for the Lobsters, a former stable close to the exit. He wanted them all in one place, with an easy way out, so that they could depart in the pre-dawn hours without fuss. If anyone wondered why the two horses were in the cell of a monk instead of here, let them do so. Fouquert was placed in a corner, furthest from the doorway, where they could keep an eye on him. Markham tied him to a ring bolt in the wall, removing his gag only when he was secure. That began a long and loud complaint at his treatment, the noise of which threatened to carry to the ears of the other civilians. Markham didn’t threaten him personally. He sent Rannoch in to do that. As soon as Fouquert saw the look of hate in the Highlander’s eyes, and the way the man was caressing his bayonet, he ceased to moan.
Markham paced the rim of the courtyard, checking each cell and room, while trying to think what to do next. He was dog-tired but had too much on his mind to even contemplate sleep. The whole party had to be fed, and now it was dark that meant consuming more of his rations or asking the monk what he had. Judging by the man’s sparse, aesthetic frame that would not amount to much.
He had to get his men ready, and brief them on what he planned, make sure that they took with them only what was needed to ensure that they moved with maximum speed. That meant abandoning some of their kit, which wouldn’t please them since regulations stated that replacements had to be paid for out of their pay. Then there was the notion of what they thought they had come here to recover. What were the words Rannoch had used, ‘Gold and silver, as well as jewels the size of bird’s eggs.’ Perhaps, with that in mind, they’d refuse to move at all.
The news that they were leaving would have to be left till later, so that they did not give the game away by loud carping. Then there was the captain. He could hardly go without seeing Germain. He hoped the patient would still be unconscious, so that he could leave him a note rather than proffering a verbal explanation to a man who would probably become a prisoner of the French. All that about arrangement for his ship to pick him up was stuff and nonsense.
And finally he had to consider Aramon and de Puy. Should he write out some kind of explanation for leaving them high and dry, perhaps striking a confident note that the forthcoming battle on the frontier, made successful by his prompt action, would solve the problem for them by opening the road to Rome. Deep down he knew that would be more a missive aimed at Ghislane Moulins that either of the two men. She was the only person to whom he would want to explain his conduct.
Aramon he’d never had much time for. But de Puy had slipped from the respect he’d enjoyed at Calvi to something a great deal less. Whatever reason he had for his secrecy, had it never occurred to him that it potentially jeopardised them all? That once they were ashore in France it would have been better to have been open and honest so that each and everyone of his men could have been sure they were risking their life for some purpose other than Germain’s reputation.
Even though sleep was vital, so that his men would be rested and fully fit at dawn, he would have to post piquets on the walls. Really he should put guards out closer to the woods, so as to give ample warning of any incursions. But they were too weary. At the very least he, Rannoch and Halsey would have to split the twelve hours of duty between them so that they each got the maximum amount of rest. Since he would be leading them out in the morning, the last should be his, which meant that he should get his head down right now. Yet he still had to eat, and formulate some plan, as well as a route, from the map he’d failed to return to de Puy. And that should include a talk with Rannoch.
The task of getting back to Syilphide, to a fatigued mind, looked insurmountable. He could see in his mind’s eye all the things that could go wrong. They had no time to make any errors of judgement, since he’d never know what might hold them up. They could traverse the whole forest only to find some unknown factor that would delay his access to the shoreline. That meant getting there as early as possible, which in turn left little margin on the journey. Any man hurt by a wound or a fall would have to be left behind, and that, in deep forest, could easily be a sentence of death. And it might very well be him.
George Markham was not a pessimist, and was incapable of maintaining such a gloomy state. Confidence soon reasserted itself.
‘Food, boyo, that’s the first thing. Then sleep. You’ll feel a different man then.’
At first he thought the scream came from the back of the church, from Germain’s pain as the monk, who might be a butcher as well as a healer, probed his wound. It didn’t help that it was so loud that it echoed all around the inside of the walls. But then he realised that he could not have heard it from that source, the vestry being buried at the very back of the church. That impression was confirmed by the yelling and shouting now coming from the stables. He ran to the entrance, and saw Rannoch struggling with the one-eyed monk, the brief impression he had of Fouquert showed him cowering in the corner, still attached to his ring bolt.
He was amazed that Rannoch, huge and as strong as an ox, was struggling against such a seemingly feeble foe. He was desperately trying to hold on to a hand that held a surgical cleaver. The single eye of the monk, gazing over the Scotsman’s shoulder had no more expression now than it had contained before. But the nature of his movements was frenzied. He was kicking and biting, pulling like a madman to get his arm free, cursing and swearing like the trooper he had once been, a wholly different animal from the tense calm creature Markham had met not two hours before.
The strength of the man was phenomenal, and Markham understood why Rannoch was having such a fight as he tried to assist. The first task was to get that cleaver well away from the Highlander’s head, but the grip the monk had taken seemed unbreakable. Markham smashed his hand against the stone of the wall to no avail. It must have caused excruciating pain, but perhaps that was nothing to a man who’d suffered so
much. Halsey and Dornan ran in, and it was only the latter’s strength, applied solely to bending back the monk’s thumb, which persuaded him to let go. It took all four of them to pin him, still spitting incomprehensible abuse, to the wall.
‘What in God’s name set him off?’ demanded Markham, too busy to be aware of the ambiguity.
Rannoch was breathing almost as heavily as the monk. ‘Damn me, Lieutenant I do not know.’
Dornan hit the monk, full force, in the stomach, driving all the air from his lungs and temporarily reducing his struggles. Even though his officer yelled ‘belay that’, Markham was grateful, since the victim slumped down, a sob breaking from his lips.
‘He walked in here looking for you,’ Rannoch continued, easing the pressure of his grip. ‘He then told me to pass on the message that the musket ball had been removed, and that with God’s will the captain would be all right.’
‘And then he went berserk?’
‘No. He spotted that slug in the corner.’
‘Fouquert?’
The name set the monk off again, and having relaxed their grip it took some effort to restrain him.
‘He asked who he was and I told him. Then he went to have a look and wanted to know if he could be released. I said no and he departed, with me thinking nothing of it. Two minutes later he came through that door like a bat out of hell, swinging that cleaver and screaming abuse.’
‘At you?’
‘Not me.’
Markham looked over his shoulder to the cowering Fouquert. He dropped his head so that he could at least partially look in to the monk’s face. If he’d been ugly before he was doubly so now. Whatever had been benign had gone completely. The skin was even more gnarled than it had been before and tears were streaming from the ducts of that single eye.
‘You know this man?’
The monk must have realised that he could not prevail. His body went limp. The head was nodding slowly, and the screaming and shouting had turned to continuous sobbing.
‘Was he here when the church was burnt?’ That just brought forth another sob, so Markham released his grip and walked over to gaze down at Fouquert. ‘Look at me, damn you.’
The black eyes that fixed on his showed real terror, the kind Markham supposed that Fouquert had seen in the eyes of his victims just before he went to work on them. There was a trickle of saliva running from the corner of his mouth, and he was shaking slightly.
‘Were you here when this place was burnt?’ The head dropped again. ‘Answer me, Fouquert, or as God is my witness I’ll walk out of here and leave you alone with that monk and his cleaver.’
‘Yes.’
Markham was trying to remember who it was had said to him that Fouquert had the face of a Jesuit. It wouldn’t come but the thought remained and it had resonance. You didn’t need to know too much about history to realise how much death and destruction the Catholic Church had visited on the world. Priests had condoned, sometimes even carried out, the kind of work of which Fouquert had been so proud. It took no great leap of the imagination to see Monsignor Aramon in the same light. Both he and Fouquert had the certainty of a cause to sustain them, as they spread misery, poverty and death.
The monk was crumpled now, the words he was mouthing prayers rather than curses. Markham indicated that his men should cease to hold him and step back. It was just as well that he was stood between the monk and his intended victim. He didn’t actually stop the headlong dive, but he did deflect it, so that the man had only just got his arms round Fouquert’s throat before the four of them intervened.
It took several minutes to get him off and back to the far side of the room. Now it was Fouquert who was sobbing, demanding to be released so that he could defend himself. Markham was bent over the monk, repeating over and over again a request to be told what had happened. It came out slowly, in all its horror, loud enough for the perpetrator to hear, mixed with a repeated chant of the monks’ sin of vanity, and cries to le Bon Dieu to lift the curse it had brought.
Most of the monks and priests had begged for mercy, some had even gone as far as to renounce their god rather than face the violence from the mob Fouquert had brought along. Not this monk! His vanity forced him into outright defiance. Faced with a handsome and proud man, who would not bow the knee to him, Fouquert had taken a torch from one of his men and, full of the wines looted from the cellars, personally burnt the skin off the man’s face.
It had been done slowly, piece by piece, the eye that was missing going because the drunken torturer staggered and poked the torch too hard. The screams of pain and anguish only egged him on, The hair was on fire as he left the torch on the nose, so that what had been fine and patrician, ended up as the stump it now was. None of his men could understand a word of the explanation, but they could observe his growing pallor and wonder. And maybe they understood the pleas to God for forgiveness that punctuated the telling.
Markham had to fight back his own feelings. How could he explain to someone who’d suffered so much that he was to be barred from his legitimate revenge? How could he return this man to the level of piety and peace he displayed when they’d arrived? Even if Markham could calm him now, would he stay that way? He couldn’t take the chance. They had to keep Fouquert alive, and it was with a voice as heavy as his heart that he ordered his men to tie the monk up.
Only when he said that, did he realise that Aramon was standing at the door. Filthy as he was, he still wore his ecclesiastical robes. And the man had presence. Markham suddenly realised that the monk had no idea that the Monsignor was here. He must have looked, standing in the doorway in the flickering candlelight, like the vengeance of the Lord personified. The one eye settled on that and the monk sank to his knees, begging forgiveness in a pitiful tone.
‘Hand him over to me,’ Aramon said. ‘The man’s soul is troubled. He requires the power of prayer, not the bonds of restraint.’
This was a real dilemma. How to explain the paramount need to keep a piece of scum alive; that he could take no risks with his life without even hinting at the information he had in his head, all that without even a hint at his intentions. It was as well that no one else knew them. He had enough difficulty himself in appearing ingenuous.
‘If he does murder, it is his soul that will suffer in hell, Lieutenant, you know that.’
Markham had a happy thought then, of both the monk and Fouquert in the eternal flames, with the former still in a position to inflict pain on the latter.
‘Might I suggest, Monsignor, that he be left in peace till tomorrow, here in the stable with my men to guard him. In the calming light of day, he may be less disturbed.’
‘It has merit,’ Aramon replied, moving forward, ‘as long as I can confess him.’
‘You would do that here?’
‘It is obviously not perfect, but if you will not release him what choice do I have?’
‘The sanctity of the confessional is too sacred to break. If you give me your word that you will keep him from harming himself or others, then you may take him to a quieter place.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ said Aramon, genuinely surprised.
The Monsignor looked at Fouquert, which made Markham’s heart jump. But the words he used soothed that.
‘I should confess you too, monsieur. But I heard what this poor creature said and understood some of what he suffered. I cannot, in all conscience, deny you the sacrament. But I will risk Our Saviour’s wrath by delaying it until tomorrow.’
‘I have no need of your superstition.’
‘You do my son. If what I have heard here tonight is even half-true, more than anyone else.’
‘I burnt God out of that man’s head.’
‘No!’ the monk screamed, the ugly head shaking.
It was now Fouquert’s turn to shout, trying to get the words out before Aramon got to him. ‘Do not deny it, monk. You denied Our Lord to save what was left of your face. You …’
The sentence was never finished. For the sec
ond time, mouthing on this occasion some Latin form of eternal damnation, the Monsignor hit Fouquert, this time dashing his head against the stone of the wall. Markham had moved too, and was just in time to save a second blow by grabbing the cleric’s arm. As he pulled with all his might, only just managing to stop Aramon, he wondered if all men of the cloth were gifted extra strength by their faith.
‘Why do you protect this filth?’
Markham couldn’t answer, and for once he could not look Aramon in the eye. The priest violently threw off his restraining hand and turned back towards the doorway. Gently, he raised the monk to his feet and, with an arm around his shoulder, and soft comforting words about the behaviour of St Peter himself, he led him out into the night.
Fouquert was out cold, a long, bleeding gash on his right temple where his head had struck the wall. Markham had to call for water and bandages to bathe and cover the wound. He came round while he was carrying that out, shaking his head and groaning.
‘I want them dead.’
‘Shut up, Fouquert.’
He repeated himself in a louder voice. ‘I want them dead! If you do not help me I will find a way to lose my memory.’
Markham grabbed him by the front of his shirt, nearly raising him bodily off the ground, his voice harsh and uncompromising as he shook him back and forth.
‘You parcel of shite. You are going where I take you, and when you get there you will tell them what you know. If you don’t the only thing that will stop them from hanging you will be my request to bring you back here, light a big fire, and leave you with that monk.’
Weeping was the last thing he expected. But Fouquert began to cry genuine tears, the fluid streaking down his face, unable to wipe it away because of his tied hands.
‘You’ve no idea how sick you make me, Fouquert,’ said Markham sadly, before pushing him roughly back against the wall. ‘Sergeant Rannoch, let’s get the guard details worked out.’
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