Grail Knight: Number 5 in series (Outlaw Chronicles) Page 16

  ‘We shall see,’ said Robin, ‘we shall see.’

  Nur used no magic at all to mend a tear in Gavin’s tunic, just a plain needle and thread – but that handsome lad seemed pleased to have the motherly care of a woman, even one as hideous as Nur. And that was her scheme, I saw. By keeping on her veil all of the time – though it must have been irksome to her as we sailed south and the weather grew warmer – the Companions became used to her masked features and were rarely reminded of the ruin of her face.

  The only man who seemed resistant to her wiles, apart from me, of course, was Sir Nicholas de Scras. He spoke seldom to her and then only if it was absolutely necessary. When he did choose to speak to her, he was abruptly formal, as if attempting through some notion of politeness to conceal a deep contempt and hatred for her. He prayed aloud each evening before bedtime – something that set Gavin and Little John to sniggering like boys – and on more than one occasion I heard him beseeching the Almighty to shine the light of his grace on Nur, to wash her clean of sin and bring her to the path of Our Lord Jesus Christ. But he and I were the only ones, by then, who did not seem to think of Nur as a welcome addition to the fellowship of the Companions.

  She became especially close to Roland during those weeks on The Goose. She mixed a salve for his burn-scarred cheek from seaweed and fish oil that, rubbed in daily, was supposed to make the disfiguration grow less noticeable. To my disgust, my cousin was sickeningly grateful – I had not realized that he was so vain. For me, I noticed no change at all in the shiny pink patch on his cheek, despite his rubbing that foul-smelling goo into it day and night. And what are looks to a warrior? Nothing.

  At a little before noon, on that Wednesday, the two of them were standing on the fore-castle – the slight witch and the tall blond warrior – as we glided past a series of daunting white cliffs off the larboard bow and turned in towards the harbour of Royan on the northern shore of the Gironde. Only just visible two miles in the distance on the starboard side was the southern lip of the estuary, a low barren marshland where a few scrawny sheep took their nourishment from the salty grasses. Samuel the Governor had told us that we must stop at Royan to pay a customs duty on the load of coal that he carried, and to find ourselves a pilot for the treacherous tidal waters of the estuary and to take us up the Garonne River to Bordeaux. As it happened, Royan’s small stone harbour was crammed to overflowing with shipping when The Goose nosed around the point in the middle of the afternoon, and we were obliged to crunch the ship’s bottom on the broad sandy expanse of the beach beside the harbour. As Robin and Samuel trudged across the strand, heading towards the castle high above the beach, the rest of us gratefully disembarked and were able, with a great sense of luxury, to stretch our legs properly for the first time in days.

  We made a fire and Gavin set a pot near to the blaze to cook a thin fish stew for our daily meal. Then we passed an hour or so in weapons practice, happy to have the opportunity in full daylight to loosen our cramped muscles and raise a little healthy sweat. Little John set up a man-sized paling in the sand of the beach, hammering a driftwood pole deep with the flat of his axe blade, and we took turns to swing and jab our swords against it in the classic patterns, imagining that the length of vertical wood was an enemy knight, while the sailors watched us and applauded or jeered according to their whim. By mid-afternoon the food was ready and we were settling down to eat when Robin returned with Samuel.

  The Earl of Locksley was beaming all over his long handsome face when he sat down next to me by the fire and accepted a bowl of stew from Gavin. But my lord said nothing for a good long while, blowing exaggeratedly on his brimming horn spoon to cool its contents and grinning like a madman.

  ‘Did everything go well at the castle?’ I asked. Clearly something had made Robin happy, and it cannot have been the task of handing over the toll of silver coins to the customs men.

  ‘I picked up a little news,’ he said, slurping down the spoonful and popping a hunk of bread in his mouth before chewing like a thoughtful cow. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and smiled. ‘It seems that Bordeaux will be rather crowded when we get there. Lot of visitors this time of year.’

  I waited for him to elaborate on this statement, but he said nothing more for a long while. Finally, when he had swallowed the last of the stew and wiped his bowl with a crust, chewed and swallowed it, he said, ‘It seems that no less a personage than Queen Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, will be gracing her capital city when we arrive. She has been in Spain fetching her beauteous grand-daughter Blanche – apparently she wants to marry the unfortunate chit off to Louis, Philip of France’s idiot son – and she’s on her way back up north to Poitiers with a mercenary force. But the Queen herself and the unlucky Princess will be spending Easter Week in Bordeaux.’ He grinned at me. ‘Which means—’

  I finished Robin’s sentence for him. ‘That Marie-Anne and the boys will be there at Easter too.’

  And I beamed at my lord. He smiled happily back at me. ‘Is there any more of that stew? It really is delicious.’

  Chapter Eleven

  By noon on Good Friday, The Goose was moored at the docks in the deep bend in the River Garonne before the great walled city of Bordeaux. Although it was a holy day, the very day on which twelve hundred years ago Our Lord Jesus Christ out of love for this sinful world suffered crucifixion on the hill of Calvary, the quay was abustle with sailors and merchants securing their ships and cargos and preparing for the celebrations of Easter Week.

  Robin’s cheerful excitement at the prospect of seeing his Countess and his two sons had lifted the spirits of all of our party, and we wasted little time bidding farewell to Samuel and the sailors of The Goose and heading towards the Abbey of St Andrew, where we planned to seek lodgings for a few days.

  We were warmly welcomed at the lovely old Abbey, although the place was filled almost to overflowing with visitors who had flocked to the city for the Easter celebrations at its cathedral, and the hosteller managed to find us seven cots in the men’s dormitory, and a straw-filled corner for Nur in the women’s quarters. Robin could, if he chose, have presented himself at the ducal palace and demanded that the servants of Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine find lodgings for himself and his party. But we wanted as little official notice as possible taken of our visit. There might have been a certain amount of awkwardness between the mother of the new King and the outlawed Earl who had so staunchly supported his dead brother. And while I knew that Eleanor was privately fond of Robin – indeed, she had provided a haven for his wife and children among her ladies-in-waiting – she was bound to support King John, her only living son, in public against any nobleman who, rightly or wrongly, had incurred his displeasure.

  There was also the matter of our quest: we did not want to broadcast the objective of our journeying in these southern lands and wanted to keep our movements as quiet as possible. If questioned we had agreed to say that we were making for Montpellier to consult one of the learned doctors there about Goody’s condition. It was a feeble lie, and anyone who looked closely at our party, seven oak-hard warriors and a deformed witch, would have questions to ask. But the story would serve as long as we remained in the guise of humble travellers. Staying at the ducal palace as Eleanor’s guests would mean announcing Robin’s rank to the world and that, he felt, would draw unwelcome attention. So we lodged as pilgrims in the dormitory of the abbey and were content to do so. Indeed I’d have been happy to roost anywhere – a pig sty or a palace – that was not the damp, cold heaving deck of a crowded, merchant’s ship.

  Once we were settled in the Abbey, Robin disappeared almost completely for the whole of Good Friday and Holy Saturday – we assumed he was spending his time with his wife and his two sons Miles and Hugh. The rest of us joined the throngs of people milling about the city on the last day of Lent or attended one of the many services in the vast cathedral.

  I caught sight of Robin only once during that time, walking hand in hand on a path by the broad River
Garonne with Marie-Anne, dark-haired Hugh who would then have been about ten, running on ahead and then coming back to urge his parents on. Robin had Miles on his shoulders and the four-year-old blond lad was squawking excitedly at the assorted river craft that passed by. The sight of them squeezed my heart and I wondered if Goody and I and our unborn children would ever know such carefree happiness. England, home and Goody seemed so far away, the task ahead of me seemed so daunting, and I was conscious that I had already wasted nearly three weeks aboard that ship; when I thought about the little time I had in which to find the Grail and carry it back, my spirit quailed.

  Sir Nicholas, Roland, Thomas and I attended Tenebrae in the cathedral at midnight on Holy Saturday. We were latecomers to this service of shadows – the most moving of all the holy rites – and stood at the back joining in the prayers and psalms with the rest. In the centre of the church, in the place of most honour, was the Tenebrae stand – a candelabrum holding fifteen candles, which were gradually extinguished, one by one, during the service. But despite the comfort of the presence of my friends, and the soothing familiarity of the Tenebrae, I felt an awful, creeping premonition there in that vast cathedral, one I could not shake from my mind: I felt that the candelabrum represented the life force of my lovely wife, growing dimmer and dimmer as the candles were extinguished and the rite ground on. I felt a cold lump grow in my throat – perhaps Goody was already dead, perhaps she had been dead for weeks. I muttered something along these lines to Sir Nicholas who was standing beside me in the gloom.

  ‘But see, Alan,’ he said, ‘look there! A single candle remains burning – that is the hope of Jesus Christ, and tomorrow on Easter Day we shall celebrate the Resurrection of Our Lord. That is the omen you should take from the Tenebrae. The promise of Goody’s resurrection to full health from her illness through Christ’s love, and by the power of the sacred vessel that we seek.’

  He was deliberately trying to bolster my courage, this I knew perfectly well, but as I stared at the single candle burning like a bright hole in the total darkness, I was convinced by his analogy: Goody still lives, I thought, and by the power of Christ she will be saved!

  On Easter morning, after a short night’s sleep, we gathered again outside the cathedral in the chill hour before dawn, to await the rising of the sun, and to sing hymns to celebrate Our Saviour rising from the grave. And, as we sang those jubilant words with full hearts that radiant, freshly-scrubbed morning, and praised God for having overcome Death itself, I felt tears of joy flowing freely. Goody lives, I told myself with a sureness that could only have been inspired by the Son of God himself, and she will be saved.

  There was a bustle at the far side of the crowd, and a festive burst of trumpets announced the arrival for Mass of the ducal party. The crowd parted and I saw Queen Eleanor herself, in a deep-red robe embroidered with golden threads, still slim and straight as an arrow after nearly four score years, striding towards the cathedral door with all the bounce of a young girl. Her fine silver hair was held in place under her elaborate white headdress by a circlet of gold and a jewelled crucifix glittered at the throat; her face was solemn but her crisp blue eyes twinkled with life. She was surrounded by a gaggle of high-born ladies, each in blood-red gowns that matched the Queen’s – although my friend Marie-Anne, Countess of Locksley, was nowhere to be seen – and she was followed by a mass of noblemen and knights talking and jesting and laughing, proud as male peacocks in silks and satins of blue and green and scarlet.

  But there was one man in that crowd of cheerful popinjays who stood out like a dog turd in a fruit bowl. He was dressed entirely in shabby black, with roughly cut black hair, dark eyes, and swarthy features bisected with a yellow scar from eyebrow to chin. It was a face that I knew of old – the face of a man whom I had encountered on more than a few unhappy occasions, and whom I thoroughly detested. It was the Lionheart’s merciless old hunting-dog, a butcher of men, women and children – it was the dark lord of war who called himself Mercadier.

  I felt Roland, who was standing beside me, clutch at my arm, as he caught sight of the man in black. My cousin had clearly not forgotten his treatment at the hands of Mercadier and his men after the battle of Gisors. Then the mercenary was swallowed in the crowd of nobles, his drab weeds drowned in their gaudy plumage, his darkness extinguished by their light.

  The Easter Mass was a joyous occasion, and I gave thanks to God for His blessed son’s triumph over Death and for all the mercies that He had granted to me. I said a prayer, too, for Goody and our unborn child, and although I was not completely at peace – indeed, the worry was ever-present like a sickness in my stomach – I did feel the comfort of God’s love and I reminded myself of Sir Nicholas’s words of the night before.

  After the Mass, we joined in a great and solemn procession around the city, with the Archbishop carrying the huge Easter candle around the inside of Bordeaux’s tall walls, and the rest of us following and singing hosannahs. And then we all sat down to an enormous public feast in the market square, with food and drink provided for free by the bounty of Queen Eleanor and the wealthiest burgesses of that great trading city. Each guest at the feast, and there must at the very least have been five hundred at the rough-hewn plank tables, was given an egg, beautifully decorated with gold foil and painted with an image of Our Saviour, and we feasted on whole grilled lambs and vats of rabbit stew with bacon, and beef and pork in vast golden pies, and game birds roasted on spits, and cheeses and tansy pudding, and fruit and nuts and sweetmeats until we were close to bursting. Rose-coloured wine from the local vineyards flowed like a river all afternoon, and we were entertained by jongleurs, tumblers and beast-masters and magicians, fire-eaters and dancing dwarfs.

  It was a glorious day, with much bawdy hilarity from Little John and Gavin, with Thomas quietly smiling and eating like a starving wolf – he was at the age when his belly seemed to have an infinite capacity and I knew that the strictures of Lent had been hard on him. Nur, too, put her face low to the table, lifted her veil and ate as if she might never eat again. Sir Nicholas ate sparingly, but drank a good deal of the delicious light red wine, and favoured me with a genial smile from time to time. Robin had absented himself again and was with his beloved Marie-Anne somewhere in the ducal palace, Little John told us, and we wished the reunited couple joy with many a cup. Only Roland seemed remote from the festivities, and he left us before we had finished our meal with a threadbare excuse about having to go and see a man about a horse.

  That night, as I lay in my cot in the Abbey dormitory with a groaning belly and a head giddy from too much wine, my cousin sat down on a little stool by my bed and looked down at me.

  ‘I must ask you for a service, Sir Alan,’ said Roland formally, his face drawn and serious. I focused on his features with some difficulty. ‘I do not like to ask it of you but I have no choice. There is a task that I must perform and I cannot do it alone – and I believe you are the best man to help me.’

  I sat up in bed, suddenly sober. ‘Of course, cousin, anything. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘It is a grave matter. And you should not agree too readily; there may be a great deal of peril involved.’

  ‘You want me to help you murder Mercadier,’ I said.

  Roland looked stunned. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘We are more alike than you might think, cousin.’

  Roland dropped his eyes. ‘When I think back to that night in Dangu, his men standing over me with the hot coals poised over my eyes, and your good self bargaining with that bastard for my sight … It was the most humiliating episode in my entire life, and the most shameful. I was in dread, I was in trembling terror of the pain, and fearful for my eyes. I lost my courage that night; that man put me in fear and showed me to myself as a coward…’

  ‘You are no coward,’ I said. ‘Any man alive would fear to lose his eyes – and in that horrible manner…’

  ‘Nevertheless, I must kill him, don’t you see? I must wipe out the foul stain o
n my honour caused by that night; and it can only be done with his death at my own hands. Will you help me, cousin? I humbly beg this service, this great boon of you.’

  I did not consider his request for long. Roland was blood of my blood, and he was my loyal friend as well. Mercadier was one of the most unpleasant men I had ever encountered: cruel and utterly merciless. He had blinded a dozen or so knights and hundreds of men-at-arms who had surrendered to him during the wars with Philip Augustus; he and his routiers had ravaged vast territories – ours and theirs alike – with an almost demonic savagery, killing and mutilating women, children, priests and nuns – with no regard for the rules of war or even common decency. The world would be a far better place without Mercadier in it.

  ‘How do you want to do this?’ I said.

  We left the Abbey at first light and made our way out of the city by the western gate. We told no one where we were going – I did not want to have to argue the case for a cold-blooded assassination to Sir Nicholas de Scras, who I was sure would disapprove, or to involve Thomas in a crime as black as this, or explain to Little John why he could not come along on this mission of revenge, which was a deeply personal one for Roland. Gavin I felt I did not yet know well enough to ask to commit a murder, and Robin was busy with Marie-Anne and his sons. We decided that we two would do it, alone. The fewer people involved, the easier it would be to keep secret, and for all his reputation, Mercadier was but one man, after all.

  By casually questioning the revellers at the Easter feast in the market square, Roland had discovered that Mercadier’s troops – fifty war-wise, hard-bitten routiers – were billeted out of Bordeaux a dozen miles to the south-west and their captain would be rejoining them after the Easter Day celebrations; then he and his men would escort Queen Eleanor and young Blanche of Castile north to Poitiers.

  Accordingly, Roland and I set out as soon as the city gates were open on Easter Monday, having hired two riding horses from a sleepy groom at a livery stable nearby, and we rode half a dozen miles south-west on the narrow dusty road through neatly planted vineyards towards a small fortified manor known as the Château de Rouillac. We reined in long before reaching this place and stepped off our horses in a small but dense copse of yew trees beside the straight road that ran south-west out of Bordeaux at the edge of a neat vineyard filled with rows of thick, sinuous, waist-high vines. In the cool of the copse, we were out of sight to anyone travelling the highway, but we could see any horsemen approaching from the north-east.