Knight Assassin

by James Boschert

  The whole crowd quieted and the men in front of the court knelt in respectful silence.

  Count Roger took a seat off to the side where he acknowledged the bows of the three judges as they came past him. The three men who were to judge the case walked forward and took their seats behind the cloth-covered table in solemn silence.

  One of the monks who had been acting as a scribe stood up and walked to the center of the dais to face the tribunal. “The case to be decided today is one of land ownership, my Lords,” he said in a loud voice. “The disputed land is that of the former knight, Sir Rufus d’Albi, who is the uncle of the knight present today, Sir Guillabert, and his only daughter, the wife of Sir Hughes de Gilles, who is also present today. Sir Rufus died of the plague in the year of our Lord 1167 in the month of August.”

  “What are the claims in this case?” Lord Theudebert asked first.

  “The claimant is Sir Guillabert, my Lord, who states that he was bequeathed the land on Sir Rufus’s deathbed.”

  Bartholomew nudged Talon and winked. Talon half smiled uncertainly. Did Bartholomew know something?

  “Who contests the will of Sir Rufus?” Father Eustache asked.

  “I do, my Lord.” Sir Hughes stepped forward.

  “My Lord, on behalf of Sir Hughes, I do,” Bartholomew said, stepping forward to stand next to Sir Hughes, who looked at him with irritation, not understanding. Bartholomew looked directly at Sir Hughes and said quietly, “I would be honored to speak for you, Sir.”

  Sir Hughes nodded but remained looking puzzled. He looked back at Talon, who nodded. Sir Hughes shrugged and stood aside.

  “Who are you?” demanded Father Eustache irritably.

  “I am an Advocate who is representing the family De Gilles in this dispute, My Lord.”

  “They can speak for themselves, can they not?” the secretary asked, glancing at Roger, who was himself looking interested.

  “Indeed they can, My Lords, but they have asked me to present their point of view because of the complexity of this issue,” Bartholomew replied quickly.

  “Utter rubbish, never heard of this before,” Lord Theudebert grumbled, tugging at his moustaches, bristling uncertainly.

  “Sir Hughes should stand up for himself in this matter... we should continue,” Father Eustache stated dismissively.

  “I feel compelled to ask this man his credentials, my Lords,” Count Roger put in. “From where do you come that you can presume to be able to dispute this case on behalf of the family de Gilles?” he demanded, a tiny smile on his lips.

  “I come from the University of Montpellier and the colleges of Paris with my diplomas in Canon law and estates that entitle me to wear the coat of the Advocate.” Bartholomew bowed politely to the Count. He then produced from his brown over cloak parchments bearing impressive seals that he had brought with him for the occasion. He passed them to one of the monks, who in turn passed them to Count Roger, who read them carefully. Sir Roger passed them to the monks, pointing at certain parts of the writing. The two monks squinted at the parchments while he spoke. “These are sufficient evidence of your qualifications, sir,” he said. “I am prepared to listen to your learned arguments.”

  Talon realized that he, along with his father, was gaping and shut his mouth with a click. He had the impression that Roger was enjoying the situation and wanted to see where it would go. Indeed, the monks who had read the parchments carefully seemed impressed. They then presented them to the judges. One of whom, Lord Theudebert, peered at them without comprehension. The secretary and Father Eustace could both read Latin, but it was clear that Lord Theudebert could not, so he pretended to read them and then passed them along.

  Neither Father Eustace nor the secretary really wanted to dispute the situation with the young Count so they gave only a cursory glance at the sealed papers and handed them back to the monk.

  “Very well,” Father Eustache said, “you may represent the De Gilles although I find it very irregular.” He glanced pointedly at the Count who ignored him, calmly watching the crowd.

  “We shall hear from Sir Guillabert first, as he is clearly the plaintiff in this case,” Father Eustache continued in what appeared to Talon an attempt to regain control of the court and take attention away from Bartholomew.

  Sir Guillabert came forward and struck a pose in the center of the hall. He was dressed in full chain mail with a russet cloak suspended from his bullish shoulders on a silver chain. The cloak hung almost to the floor. He stood bare-headed with his chain head cowl pushed back off his head and with his hand on the pommel of his sword. He knew he presented a formidable and commanding figure to the crowd behind him.

  “I am here to claim what was given to me by my uncle on his deathbed. That is all the lands that commence at the river Tarn and go for forty hectares south and east. I also claim as my right the mills and the fishing rights that are part of the landholding, along with the village and the fort that this usurper Hughes has occupied in defiance of the law. This I was granted by my uncle on his deathbed as his dying wish.”

  The court was silent as they listened to him speak. Guillabert turned from the judges and pointed to Sir Hughes. “This man came back from the Outré Mere and took what is mine without just cause or good reason. I wish him no ill but that he should vacate the land which is not his and leave.”

  The monks were scribbling furiously at their table while the judges watched Guillabert.

  “What proof do you have to support your claim, Sir Guillabert?” the secretary asked.

  “What other proof do I need other than the word of a dying man?” demanded Guillabert truculently. “I am a knight. My word is my bond, my Lords,” he added smugly. He turned and looked challengingly at Sir Hughes. “All this man has is the word of my cousin, who was in Palestine when my uncle died and, as such, has no rights to the lands.”

  The judges nodded. They obviously thought this was pretty much the end of the discussion. Talon’s heart sank. This was not what he had hoped for at all. Sir Guillabert was taking center stage and winning the battle before it had begun.

  “A man is dying and wants to make sure his lands are taken care of. If he has no direct descent and his only daughter is in foreign lands, then it sounds right to me,” Lord Theudebert stated with a comfortable shrug of his bony shoulders.

  Eustace gave him an approving look and placed both elbows on the table with his hands together in a steepled form in front of his nose and looked pious. To Talon it seemed he obviously thought that the case was almost over.

  Bartholomew took a step forward. “My Lords, may I speak?” he asked respectfully of the court.

  The three judges looked at him and then each other somewhat taken aback. It was clear that they had not expected and disliked this intrusion by the upstart young man with diplomas. Father Eustache was not keen on the idea at all but the secretary, remembering his place, glanced over to the Count, who nodded.

  “Stand forward and speak,” said the secretary.

  Bartholomew walked toward Sir Guillabert and bowed to him from a discreet distance, then bowed more formally to the judges and Sir Roger.

  “Learned Sirs, My Lord. With the indulgence of the court, I would like to ask some questions of Sir Guillabert... just to establish the facts, you will understand.”

  The three judges looked at one another again and nodded reluctantly.

  Bartholomew faced the truculent knight from a distance of about ten feet and with a voice that carried well, he asked, “Have you ever had the plague, sir?”

  Sir Guillabert made the sign of the cross. “Would I be here if I had? What kind of question is that? No, thank the Lord, and I never hope to, either.”

  “So you, like most of us, fear the cursed plague and would avoid it at all costs?”

  “I would of course. I am not a fool, churl.” He turned to the judges irritably. “My Lords, what is the fool asking of me?”

  “I agree with Sir Guillabert, what is the point of these questi
ons, sir?” Father Eustache asked with a frown.

  “My Lords, Father, I will demonstrate very shortly where I am going with the questions. I beg your patience for a little longer,” Bartholomew responded respectfully.

  Lord Theudebert waved his hand as though to tell him to get on with it. Bartholomew turned back to Sir Guillabert. “Sir, how did your uncle inform you of his will?”

  Sir Guillabert smirked. “Why like any dying man would, he whispered it on his last breath.”

  “He whispered it?”

  “I was close to him; he whispered it into my ear. I heard him distinctly.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but how close?”

  “I had my ear to his face as he whispered. God damn you for a stupid man,” Sir Guillabert roared.

  Bartholomew nodded. “Had he not written his will and given it to some cleric in readiness of his death?’

  “Not that I am aware. He told me that he had not had the chance to do so.”

  “Did he say anything else at all, other than that the land was to become yours on his death?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “Was there not a priest present to provide the last rites as is normal in these instances?”

  “If there was I was not present at the time it was given,” Guillabert growled, shifting uneasily.

  “But you just stated that he bequeathed you the land with his very last breath. Did you not, sir?”

  Guillabert looked irritated. “Yes, I did. Can you not hear? What of it?”

  “He did not beg for a priest to come and shrive him?”

  “No, he whispered to me that his lands were to be mine on his death,” Guillabert said loudly.

  Bartholomew turned to the judges. “I am puzzled, my Lords. It is customary for a priest to be present at the death bed of a knight of the stature of Sir Rufus. He was a landowner of not inconsiderable wealth in these parts. Yet Sir Guillabert informs us that there was no priest present at the time of his death. This means that Sir Rufus died unshriven. Sir Guillabert was there to hear Sir Rufus’ last wishes delivered without a request for a priest. This is extraordinary, my Lords. A man who is going to face his maker will beg for a chance to be forgiven his sins with his dying breath. I find it hard to believe he would spend his last breath bequeathing his property to even his nephew without asking for a priest.”

  The judges looked confused. People in the listening crowd were nodding and commenting to one another. Father Eustache, who was beginning to see Sir Guillabert made a fool of, glared at Bartholomew and was about to say something when Lord Theudebert spoke up.

  “Young man you make a good argument, but where is all this taking us?”

  Bartholomew bowed toward the judges. “My Lords with respect to Sir Guillabert here, I nevertheless find it incredible that in the first instance Sir Rufus had not demanded a priest at his deathbed. Sir Guillabert assures us that there was none; but he, Sir Guillabert, was there nonetheless.” He turned back to Sir Guillabert. “Sir, how long were you present with your uncle during this time?”

  “Long enough to hear his last words to me,” Guillabert snapped, looking annoyed.

  “You appear to have spent some time with him discussing the will, is that not so?”

  “Yes, we talked, or rather he whispered,” Guillabert said with a patronizing smirk. “He was dying, you know.”

  Bartholomew nodded. “Yes, he was, indeed. How long would you say you spent with the dying man discussing this will, my Lord?”

  “How in God’s name would I know? Maybe an hour or less?”

  Bartholomew paused as though pondering something, and then said, “My Lords, it is common knowledge that Sir Rufus died of the plague.”

  Father Eustace gave a start. He flushed angrily as he realized the trap that Bartholomew had laid for Guillabert.

  “We have heard enough from this man, my Lords,” he stated dismissively.

  “My Lords, if I might conclude...” Bartholomew said respectfully.

  The secretary looked to the young Count who was watching the proceedings with an amused look on his young features. The Count nodded.

  “We should let the man complete his arguments,” the secretary said firmly.

  Father Eustace shrugged irritably. “Then let it be quick; I have heard nothing of interest here so far.”

  Bartholomew bowed to the judges and then again to the Count. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I should remind the noble assembly that it was the plague that took the life of Sir Rufus along with many, many other people at the time of his death. There was a fear in the land and people fled those areas where it struck so that whole villages were deserted for a time because of the dreadful nature of the disease that passed without effort from one person to another, taking life after life. My Lords, as you will I am sure remember, such was the fear and terror of contracting the disease that not even a priest would visit the dying to administer the last rites. I should also remind the court that Sir Guillabert has stated clearly that he, too, has a deathly fear of the plague. Was that not so?” he asked the red-faced knight in front of him.

  Sir Guillabert did not answer, he simply glared, and Bartholomew hurried on.

  “How is it, then, that Sir Guillabert could spend so long with his dying uncle—who was dying of the plague, you understand—yet not fear to incur this dread disease? He himself has informed us that he put his head close to the man’s lips to hear his last wishes. Did he not fear to die as his uncle was dying in front of him, un-shriven and helpless, convulsing in the final agonies of the Black Death?” He almost shouted the last words.

  The people of the crowd listening murmured in fear and many crossed themselves at his words.

  Bartholomew stopped dramatically to let the words sink in. Talon listened to the silence as he watched the judges’ faces. They looked stunned. It was not as though Bartholomew had provided proof that Guillabert was lying. It was simply that he had sown considerable doubt on the knight’s story.

  Talon wondered if it were enough.

  Bartholomew continued talking to a court that was now prepared to listen to him. The young man had captured everyone’s attention who could hear his voice, who were also relaying his words to others in the crowd behind. There were excited murmurs from the people as they began to get the drift of the argument the young man was making.

  “My Lords, what I have heard from Sir Guillabert is that he braved the horror of the plague to hear his uncle whisper—into his ear, you will also note—and will his land to him. Not only that, but even more remarkably, his uncle disdained the need for forgiveness or to be shriven before he went to his Maker. This I find very hard to believe. However, despite the fearsome nature of the plague, Sir Guillabert is still with us, which means that our Lord was watching over him or...” he let the words hang for a long moment, “Sir Guillabert has fabricated the story and it has no foundation at all!”

  There was an audible gasp from the crowd as the words were passed along. Bartholomew bowed to the judges and stepped back. His brown over-smock that denoted his rank as an Advocate swirled as he turned away.

  Sir Guillabert yelled in rage. “How dare you accuse me of lying, you cur!” he shouted, his hand going for his sword.

  Talon had his own sword halfway out of his scabbard before a shout stopped him.

  The young Count was standing now and he was coldly angry. “Enough. Sir Guillabert, if you draw your sword in this court you will be placed in prison. Guards, stand by me.”

  The retainer knights who were standing nearby strode quickly to his side. Their hands were on their swords and in one case already drawn.

  “This court is governed by the Count of Carcassonne and all will show respect,” Roger stated loudly. “My Lords judges, you will now adjourn with me and debate this issue in private.”

  Bartholomew sidled over to Talon, who let his breath out in a long, low sigh. “You are a wordsmith, Bartholomew. If this is what you have learned in the colleges of law a
nd debate, then I would like to go there, too. I also know an abbot who would like to meet you.”

  Bartholomew shrugged. “Sir Guillabert led himself into the little trap I prepared for him. If he had had an Advocate for himself, it would not have been so easy to ensnare him.”

  Sir Hughes clapped Bartholomew on the shoulder. “I am still not quite sure what you said, Bartholomew, but you certainly made an impression on the judges and I think you made a fool of Guillabert.”

  “Yes, Sir Hughes, I am worried about the latter, but the judges are now having to think more about the circumstances than they were prepared to at the onset of the debate. Talon, your enemy in this court is Father Eustace. Are you aware of that?”

  “Oh, yes, just as was the bishop,” Talon replied.

  Bartholomew shot him a sharp look. “The bishop has recently died, and under odd circumstances, would you not agree?”

  “If you mean he died suddenly then, yes, I agree, but we don’t know how as yet, Bartholomew,” Talon said carefully. He was watching the Guillaberts as they stood in a huddle off to the side of the barn-like building, casting malevolent looks in Talon’s direction.

  Roger had that sneer on his face again and Marcel just looked angry. Sir Guillabert himself seemed to be issuing orders because Roger nodded and then strode away, waving to his groom to bring his horse and then with several of the men-at-arms who attended Sir Guillabert, he rode off down the main street of the town. The crowd let him pass, but there must have been words, for he looked as though he were about to ride down some of the people who shook their fists at him as he rode by. The family of Sir Guillabert was not popular in Albi, it seemed.

  Sir Hughes nudged Talon. “Send one of your men after them and find out what they are about.”

  Talon beckoned to Drudwas, who came over and knuckled his forehead to him and Sir Hughes. “Drudwas, Roger d’Albi, the son of Sir Guillabert, has just ridden off. Do you follow them and find out where they are planning an ambush.”

  Drudwas gave his gap-toothed grin. “I shall follow them like a shadow, m’lord Talon.”