The Grail Quest Books 1-3: Harlequin, Vagabond, Heretic

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘Was it?’ Planchard asked.

  ‘It was brought here,’ Vexille insisted.

  ‘I know nothing of it,’ Planchard said.

  ‘I think you do,’ Vexille retorted. ‘It was brought here before the fall of Montsegur, brought here to keep it safe. But then the French crusaders came to Astarac and the Grail was taken away again.’

  Planchard smiled. ‘This all happened before I was born. How would I know of it?’

  ‘Seven men took the Grail away,’ Vexille said.

  ‘The seven dark lords,’ Planchard said, smiling. ‘I have heard that story.’

  ‘Two of them were Vexilles,’ Guy Vexille said, ‘and four of them were knights who had fought for the Cathars.’

  ‘Seven men fleeing the forces of France and the Church’s crusaders,’ Planchard said musingly, ‘into a Christendom that hated them. I doubt they survived.’

  ‘And the seventh man,’ Vexille ignored the abbot’s words, ‘was the Lord of Mouthoumet.’

  ‘Which was always an insignificant fief,’ Planchard said dismissively, ‘scarce able to support two knights from its mountain pastures.’

  ‘The Lord of Mouthoumet,’ Vexille went on, ‘was a heretic’ He turned suddenly for a noise had come from deep in the ossuary. It had sounded something like a stifled sneeze and was followed by a rattle of bones. He lifted the lantern and walked back to where the arches had been desecrated.

  ‘There are rats here,’ Planchard said. ‘The abbey’s drains cross the end of the vault and we believe some of the brickwork has collapsed. You often hear strange noises down here. Some of the more superstitious brethren believe they are made by ghosts.’

  Vexille was standing among the bones, the lantern held high, listening. He heard nothing more and so turned back to the abbot. ‘The Lord of Mouthoumet,’ he said, ‘was one of the seven. And his name was Planchard.’ Vexille paused. ‘My lord,’ he added mockingly.

  Planchard smiled. ‘He was my grandfather. He did not ride with the others, but went to Toulouse and threw himself on the mercy of the Church. He was lucky, I think, not to be burned, but he was reconciled with the true faith even though it cost him his fief, his title and what passed for his fortune. He died in a monastery. The tale was told in our family, of course it was, but we never saw the Grail and I can assure you that I know nothing of it.’

  ‘Yet you are here,’ Guy Vexille accused the abbot harshly.

  ‘True,’ Planchard acknowledged. ‘And I am here by design. I first entered this house as a young man and I came here because the tales of the dark lords intrigued me. One of them was supposed to have taken the Grail, and the others were sworn to protect him, but my grandfather claimed he never saw the cup. Indeed, he thought it did not exist, but was merely invented to tantalize the Church. The crusaders had destroyed the Cathars and the revenge of the dark lords was to make them think they had destroyed the Grail along with the heresy. That, I think, is the devil’s work.’

  ‘So you came here,’ Vexille asked scornfully, ‘because you did not believe the Grail existed?’

  ‘No, I came here because if ever the descendants of the dark lords were to seek the Grail then they would come here, I knew that, and I wanted to see what would happen. But that curiosity died long ago. God gave me many years, He was pleased to make me abbot, and He has enfolded me in His mercy. And the Grail? I confess I searched for memories of it when I first came here, and my abbot chided me for that, but God brought me to my senses. I now think my grandfather was right and that it is a tale invented to spite the Church and a mystery to make men mad.’

  ‘It existed,’ Vexille said.

  ‘Then I pray to God that I find it,’ Planchard said, ‘and when I do I shall hide it in the deepest ocean so that no more folk will ever die in its pursuit. But what would you do with the Grail, Guy Vexille?’

  ‘Use it,’ Vexille said harshly.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To cleanse the world of sin.’

  ‘That would be a great work,’ Planchard said, ‘but even Christ could not achieve it.’

  ‘Do you abandon weeding between the vines simply because the weeds always grow back?’ Vexille asked.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then Christ’s work must go on,’ Vexille said.

  The abbot watched the soldier for a time. ‘You are Christ’s instrument? Or Cardinal Bessières’s tool?’

  Vexille grimaced. ‘The Cardinal is like the Church, Planchard. Cruel, corrupt and evil.’

  Planchard did not contradict him. ‘So?’

  ‘So a new Church is needed. A clean Church, a sinless Church, a Church filled with honest men who live in God’s fear. The Grail will bring that.’

  Planchard smiled. ‘The Cardinal, I am sure, would not approve.’

  ‘The Cardinal sent his brother here,’ Vexille said, ‘and doubtless he has orders to kill me when I have been useful.’

  ‘And your usefulness is what?’

  ‘To find the Grail. And to do that I must first find my cousin.’

  ‘You think he knows where it is?’

  ‘I think his father possessed it,’ Guy Vexille said, ‘and I think the son knows of it.’

  ‘He thinks the same of you,’ Planchard said. ‘And I think the two of you are like blind men who each thinks the other can see.’

  Vexille laughed at that. ‘Thomas,’ he said, ‘is a fool. He brought men to Gascony for what? To find the Grail? Or to find me? But he failed and now he’s a fugitive. A good few of his men have pledged their allegiance to the Count of Berat and the rest are trapped at Castillon d’Arbizon and how long will they last? Two months? He has failed, Planchard, failed. He might be blind, but I see, and I will have him and I will take what he knows. But what do you know?’

  ‘I have told you. Nothing.’

  Vexille paced back to the chamber and stared at the abbot. ‘I could put you to the torture, old man.’

  ‘You could,’ Planchard agreed mildly, ‘and I would doubtless scream to be spared the torment, but you will find no more truth in those screams than I have told you willingly here.’ He tucked his beads away and stood to his full height. ‘And I would beg you in the name of Christ to spare this community. It knows nothing of the Grail, it can tell you nothing, and it can give you nothing.’

  ‘And I will spare nothing,’ Vexille said, ‘in the service of God. Nothing.’ He drew his sword. Planchard watched expressionless, and did not even flinch as the sword was pointed at him. ‘Swear on this,’ Vexille said, ‘that you know nothing of the Grail.’

  ‘I have told you all I know,’ Planchard said and, instead of touching the sword, he raised the wooden crucifix that hung about his neck, and kissed it. ‘I will not swear on your sword, but I do make oath on my dear Lord’s cross that I know nothing of the Grail.’

  ‘But your family still betrayed us,’ Vexille said.

  ‘Betrayed you?’

  ‘Your grandfather was one of the seven. He recanted.’

  ‘So he betrayed you? By cleaving to the true faith?’ Planchard frowned. ‘Are you telling me you keep the Cathar heresy, Guy Vexille?’

  ‘We come to bring light to the world,’ Vexille said, ‘and to purge it of the Church’s foulness. I have kept the faith, Planchard.’

  ‘Then you are the only man who has,’ Planchard said, ‘and it is an heretical faith.’

  ‘They crucified Christ for heresy,’ Vexille said, ‘so to be named a heretic is to be one with Him.’ Then he rammed the blade forward, into the base of Planchard’s throat, and the old man, amazingly, did not appear to put up any struggle, but just clutched his crucifix as the blood surged from his throat to turn his white robe red. He took a long time to die, but eventually he slumped over and Vexille withdrew his sword and wiped the blade clean on the hem of the abbot’s robe. He sheathed the blade and picked up the lantern.

  He glanced about the ossuary, but saw nothing to worry him and so he climbed the stairs. The door shut, cutting
off all light. And Thomas and Genevieve, hidden in the dark, waited.

  —«»—«»—«»—

  They waited all night. It seemed to Thomas he did not sleep at all, but he must have dozed for he woke once when Genevieve sneezed. Her wound was hurting, but she said nothing of it, just waited and half slept.

  They had no idea when morning came for it was pitch dark in the ossuary. They had heard nothing all night. No footsteps, no screams, no chanted prayers, just the silence of the tomb. And still they waited until Thomas could abide the wait no longer and he wriggled out of their hole, across the bones and down to the floor. Genevieve stayed where she was as Thomas felt his way through the scattered bones to the stairs. He crept up, listened at the top for a while, heard nothing and so eased the broken door open.

  The abbey church was empty. He knew it was morning for the light came from the east, but it was hard to tell how high the sun had risen for the light was soft-edged, diffuse, and Thomas guessed there was a morning fog.

  He went back down to the ossuary. He kicked something wooden as he crossed the floor and he stooped to find the empty grail box. For a moment he was tempted to return it to its chest, then he decided to keep it. It would just fit into his bag, he reckoned. ‘Genevieve!’ he called softly. ‘Come.’

  She pushed their bags, his bow and the arrows, the mail and their cloaks across the bones, then followed, wincing at the pain in her shoulder. Thomas had to help her put on the mail and he hurt her when he lifted her arm. He put on his own, draped the cloaks about their shoulders, then strung his bow so he could wear it on his back. He belted his sword in place, put the box in his bag, which he hung from his belt, and then, carrying the arrow sheaves, turned to the stairs and saw, because just enough light spilled from the open door, the white robe in the treasury chamber. He motioned Genevieve to stay where she was and crept up the vault. Rats scampered away as he came to the low arch and there he stopped and stared. Planchard was dead.

  ‘What is it?’ Genevieve asked.

  ‘The bastard killed him,’ Thomas said in astonishment.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The abbot!’ He spoke in a whisper and, though he was excommunicated, he made the sign of the cross. ‘He killed him!’ He had listened to the end of Vexille and Planchard’s conversation and had been puzzled that the abbot fell silent, and equally puzzled that he had only heard one set of feet climb the stairs, but he had never imagined this. Never. ‘He was a good man,’ he said.

  ‘And if he’s dead,’ Genevieve said, ‘they’ll blame us. So come on! Come!’

  Thomas hated to leave the bloody corpse in the cellar, but knew he had no choice. And Genevieve was right, they would be blamed. Planchard had died because his grandfather had recanted a heresy, but no one would believe that, not when two condemned heretics were there to blame.

  He led her up the stairs. The church was still empty, but now Thomas thought he could hear voices beyond the open western door. There was a fog outside and some of it was spilling into the nave and spreading gently across the flagstones. He thought of going back to the ossuary and hiding again, then wondered whether his cousin would make a more thorough search of the whole monastery today and that decided him to keep going. ‘This way.’ He took Genevieve’s hand and led her to the southern side of the church where a door led to the inner cloister. It was the door the monks used when they came for prayers, a devotion that had evidently been denied them this morning.

  Thomas pushed the door, flinching when its hinges creaked, and peered through. At first he thought the cloister, like the church, was empty; then he saw a group of black-cloaked men at its far side. They were standing at a doorway, evidently listening to someone inside, and none looked round as Thomas and Genevieve flitted under the shadowed arcade and chose a door at random. It opened onto a corridor and at its end they found themselves in the monastery kitchen where two monks were stirring a vast cauldron above a fire. One of them saw Genevieve and looked as if he was about to protest at a woman’s presence, but Thomas hissed at him to be silent. ‘Where are the other monks?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘In their cells,’ the frightened cook replied, then watched as the two of them ran across the kitchen, past the table with its cleavers and spoons and bowls and beneath the hooks where two goat carcasses hung, and disappeared out of the far door, which led into the olive grove where Thomas had abandoned their horses. Those horses were gone.

  The gate to the lazar house was open. Thomas glanced at it, then turned westwards, but Genevieve plucked at his cloak and pointed through the fog and Thomas saw a black-cloaked rider beyond the trees. Was the man part of a cordon? Had Vexille placed men all about the monastery? It seemed likely and it seemed even more likely that the horseman would turn and see them, or that the two kitchen monks might raise the alarm, but then Genevieve plucked his cloak again and led him across the olive grove and into the lazar house.

  It was empty. All men feared lepers and it seemed to Thomas that Vexille must have driven them away so his men could search the sheds. ‘We can’t hide here,’ he whispered to Genevieve. ‘They’ll search again.’

  ‘We don’t hide,’ she said, and she went into the biggest shed and came out with two grey robes. Thomas understood then. He helped drape one robe over Genevieve, pulling its hood over her golden hair, donned the other and then took two clappers from the handful left on the table. Genevieve, meanwhile, had put the arrow sheaves and Thomas’s bow on a sledge that the lepers used to gather firewood and Thomas heaped some of the firewood over the weapons and put the sledge’s looped rope over his shoulders. ‘Now we go,’ Genevieve said.

  Thomas hauled the sledge, which ran easily on the damp ground. Genevieve went ahead and, once out of the gate, she turned north and west, hoping to avoid the horseman. The fog was their ally, a grey cloak in which their own cloaks melded. A tongue of woodland reached from the western ridge and Genevieve walked towards it, not sounding the clapper, but just watching. She hissed once and Thomas went still. A horse’s hooves sounded; he heard them go away, and he hauled on. He turned after a while and saw that the monastery had vanished. The trees ahead were gaunt black shapes in the vapour. They were following a track that the lepers used when they went to gather mushrooms from the woods. The trees came closer, then the thud of hooves sounded once more and Genevieve rattled her clapper in warning.

  But the horseman was not deterred. He came from behind them and Thomas shook his own clapper as he turned. He kept his head low so his face would not be seen under the robe’s hood. He saw the horse’s legs, but not the rider. ‘Mercy, kind sir,’ he said, ‘mercy.’

  Genevieve reached out her hands as if seeking charity, and the scars on her skin left by Father Roubert looked grotesque. Thomas did the same, revealing his own scars, the skin white and ridged. ‘Alms,’ he said, ‘of your kindness, sir, alms.’

  The unseen horseman stared at them and they dropped to their knees. The horse’s breath came as great clouds of thicker fog. ‘Have pity on us.’ Genevieve spoke in the local tongue, using a rasping voice. ‘For God’s sake, have pity.’

  The horseman just sat there and Thomas dared not look up. He felt the abject fear of a defenceless man at the mercy of a mailed rider, but he also knew that the man was torn by indecision. He had doubtless been ordered to look for two people escaping the monastery, and he had found just such a couple, but they appeared to be lepers and his fear of leprosy was fighting with his duty. Then, suddenly, more clappers sounded and Thomas sneaked a look behind him to see a group of grey-shrouded figures coming from the trees, sounding their warnings and calling out for alms. The sight of more lepers, coming to join the first two, was more than the horseman could take. He spat at them, then wrenched his reins to turn away. Thomas and Genevieve waited, still on their knees, until the man was half cloaked in the fog and then they hurried on to the trees where at last they could throw down the clappers, strip off the stinking grey robes and retrieve the bow and arrow sheaves. The other lepers, driven
from their refuge at the monastery, just stared at them. Thomas took a handful of coins from those Sir Guillaume had given him and left them on the grass. ‘You have not seen us,’ he said to them, and Genevieve repeated the words in the local language.

  They walked on west, climbing out of the fog, keeping to the trees until there were no more woods, only a rocky slope going up to the ridge. They scrambled up, trying to stay behind boulders or in gullies, while behind them the fog burned off the valley. The roof of the abbey church appeared first, then the other roofs, and by mid-morning the whole monastery was visible, but Thomas and Genevieve were already on the crest, going south. If they had kept going westwards they would descend into the valley of the River Gers where the villages lay thick, while to the south was emptier, wilder country and that was where they were headed.

  At midday they stopped to rest. ‘We have no food,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Then we go hungry,’ Genevieve said. She smiled at him. ‘And where are we going?’

  ‘Castillon d’Arbizon,’ Thomas said, ‘eventually.’

  ‘Going back there!’ She was surprised. ‘But they threw us out: why would they take us back?’

  ‘Because they need us,’ Thomas said. He did not know that, not for sure, but he had listened to Vexille talking to Planchard and had learned that some of the garrison had gone over to the Count of Berat, and he reckoned Robbie must have led that group. He could not imagine Sir Guillaume breaking his allegiance to the Earl of Northampton, but Robbie had no allegiance outside of Scotland. It was Thomas’s guess that the men left at Castillon d’Arbizon were his own men, the men he had recruited outside Calais, the Englishmen. So he would go there, and if he found the castle slighted and the garrison dead then he would go on, ever westwards, until he reached the English possessions.

  But first they would go southwards for that was where the great woods stretched in folds across the ridges running out of the mountains. He picked up his baggage and, as he did, the grail box, which had been stuffed into his archer’s bag on top of the spare arrow heads, sharpening stone and cords, fell out. He sat again and picked up the box. ‘What is it?’ Genevieve asked.