Vagabond (Extract)
de Taillebourg inclined his head to acknowledge the justice of the reproof. “If any man knows where the Templar treasure is,” he went on humbly, “it is the man who was their sacrist, and now, we hear, that man lives in Durham.”
Sir William took the sword away. Everything the priest said made sense. The Knights Templar, an order of monkish soldiers who were sworn to protect the pilgrims’ roads between Christendom and Jerusalem, had become rich beyond the dreams of Kings, and that was foolish for it made Kings jealous and jealous Kings make bad enemies. The King of France was just such an enemy and he had ordered the Templars destroyed to which end a heresy had been cooked up, lawyers had effortlessly distorted truths and the Templars had been disbanded. Their leaders had been burned and their lands confiscated, but their treasures, the fabled treasures of the Templars, had never been found and the order’s sacrist, the man responsible for keeping those treasures safe, would surely know their fate. “When were the Templars disbanded?” Sir William asked.
“Twenty nine years ago,” de Taillebourg answered.
So the sacrist could yet be alive, Sir William thought. He would be an old man, but alive. Sir William sheathed his sword, utterly convinced by de Taillebourg’s tale, yet none of it was true except that there was an old monk in Durham, but he was not French and he had never been a Templar and, in all probability, knew nothing of any Templar treasure. But Bernard de Taillebourg had spoken persuasively, and the story of the missing hoard was one that echoed through Europe, spoken of whenever men gathered to exchange tales of marvels. Sir William wanted the story to be true and that, more than anything, persuaded him it was. “If you find this man,” he said to de Taillebourg, “and if he lives, and if you then find the treasure, then it will be because we made it possible. It will be because we brought you here, and because we protected you on your journey to Durham.”
“True, Sir William,” de Taillebourg said.
Sir William was surprised by the priest’s ready agreement. He frowned, shifted in his saddle and stared down at the Dominican as if gauging the priest’s trustworthiness. “So we must share in the treasure,” he demanded.
“Of course,” de Taillebourg said readily.
Sir William was no fool. Let the priest go into Durham and he would never see the man again. Sir William twisted in his saddle and stared north towards the cathedral. The Templar treasure was said to be the gold from Jerusalem, more gold than men could dream of, and Sir William was honest enough to know that he did not possess the resources to divert some of that golden hoard to Liddesdale. The King must be used. David II might be a weak lad, scarce breeched and too softened by having lived in France, but Kings had resources denied to knights and David of Scotland could talk to Philip of France as a near equal, while any message from William Douglas would be ignored in Paris. “Jamie!” he snapped at his nephew who was one of the two men guarding de Taillebourg. “You and Dougal will take this priest back to the King,” Sir William ordered.
“You must let me go!” Bernard de Taillebourg protested.
Sir William leaned from his saddle. “You want me to cut off your priestly balls to make myself a purse?” He smiled at the Dominican, then looked back to his nephew. “Tell the King this French priest has news that concerns us and tell him to hold him safe till I return.” Sir William had decided that if there was an ancient French monk in Durham then he should be questioned by the King of Scotland’s servants and the monk’s information, if he had any, could then be sold to the French King. “Take him, Jamie,” he ordered, “and watch that damned servant! Take his sword.”
James Douglas grinned at the thought of a mere priest and his servant giving him trouble, but he still obeyed his uncle. He demanded that the servant yield his sword and, when the man bridled at the order, Jamie half drew his own blade. de Taillebourg sharply ordered his servant to obey and the sword was sullenly yielded. Jamie Douglas grinned as he hung the sword from his own belt. “They’ll not bother me, Uncle.”
“Away with you,” Sir William said and watched as his nephew and his companion, both well mounted on fine stallions captured from the Percy lands in Northumberland, escorted the priest and his servant back towards the King’s encampment. Doubtless the priest would complain to the King and David, so much weaker than his great father, would worry about the displeasure of God and the French, but David would worry a great deal more about Sir William’s displeasure. Sir William smiled at that thought, then saw that some of his men on the far side of the field had dismounted. “Who the devil told you to unhorse?’ He shouted angrily, then he saw they were not his men at all, but strangers revealed by the shredding mist and he remembered his instincts and cursed himself for wasting time on the priest.
And as he cursed so the first arrow flickered from the south. The sound it made was a hiss, feather in air, then it struck home and the noise was like a poleaxe cleaving flesh. It was a heavy thump edged with the tearing of steel in muscle and ending with the harsh scrape of blade on bone, and then a grunt from the victim and a heartbeat of silence.
And after that the scream.
* * *
Thomas of Hookton heard the bells, deep toned and sonorous, not the sound of bells hung in some village church, but bells of thunderous power. Durham, he thought, and he felt a great weariness for the journey had been so long.
It had begun in Picardy, on a field stinking of dead men and horses, a place of fallen banners, broken weapons and spent arrows. It had been a great victory and Thomas had wondered why it left him dulled and nervous. The English had marched north to besiege Calais, but Thomas, duty bound to serve the Earl of Northampton, had received the Earl’s permission to take a wounded comrade to Caen where there was a doctor of extraordinary skill, but then it was decreed that no man could leave the army without the King’s permission and so the Earl approached the King and thus Edward Plantagenet heard of Thomas of Hookton and how his father had been a priest who had been born to a family of French exiles called Vexille, and how it was rumoured that the Vexille family had once possessed the grail. It was only a rumour, of course, a wisp of a story in a hard world, but the story was of the holy grail and that was the most precious thing that had ever existed in all the world, if indeed it had existed, and the King had questioned Thomas of Hookton and Thomas had tried to scorn the truth of the grail story, but then the Bishop of Durham, who had fought in the shield wall that broke the French assaults, told how Thomas’s father had once been imprisoned in Durham. “He was mad,” the bishop explained to the King, “wits flown to the winds! So they locked him up for his own good.”
“Did he talk of the grail?” the King asked, and the Bishop of Durham had answered that there was one man left in his diocese who might know, an old monk called Hugh Collimore who had nursed the mad Ralph Vexille, Thomas’s father, and the King might have dismissed the tales as so much churchly gossip had not Thomas recovered the lance of Saint George in the battle that had left so many dead on the green slope above the village of Crécy. The battle had also left Thomas’s friend and commander Sir William Skeat wounded and he wanted to take Skeat to the doctor in Normandy, but the King had insisted that Thomas go to Durham and speak with Brother Collimore. So Eleanor’s father had taken Sir William Skeat to Caen and Thomas, Eleanor and Father Hobbe had accompanied a royal chaplain and a knight of King Edward’s household to England, but in London the chaplain and the knight had both fallen sick with an early winter fever and so Thomas and his companions had travelled north alone and now they were close to Durham, on a foggy morning, listening to the cathedral’s bells. Eleanor, like Father Hobbe, was excited for she believed that discovering the grail would bring peace and justice to a world that stank of burned cottages. There would be no more sorrow, Eleanor thought, and no more war, and perhaps even no more sickness.
Thomas wanted to believe it. He wanted his night vision to be real, not flame and smoke, but if the grail existed at all he thought that it would be in some great cathedral, guarded by angels. Or else it was gone from this world, and if there was no grail on earth then Thomas’s faith was in a war bow made of Italian yew, painted black, strung with hemp, that drove an arrow made of ash, fledged with goose feathers and tipped with steel. On the bow’s belly, where his left hand gripped the yew, there was a silver plate engraved with a yale, a fabulous beast of claws and horns and teeth and scale that was the badge of his father’s family, the Vexilles. The yale held a cup and Thomas had been told it was the grail. Always the grail. It beckoned him, mocked him, bent his life, changed all, yet never appeared except in a dream of fire. It was mystery, just as Thomas’s family was a mystery, but perhaps Brother Collimore could cast light on that mystery and so Thomas had come north. He might not learn of the grail, but he expected to discover more about his family and that, at least, made the journey worthwhile.
“Which way?” Father Hobbe asked.
“God knows,” Thomas said. Fog shrouded the land.
“The bells sounded that way,” Father Hobbe pointed north and east. He was energetic, full of enthusiasm, and naively trusting in Thomas’s sense of direction, though in truth Thomas did not know where he was. Earlier they had come to a fork in the road and he had randomly taken the left hand track that now faded to a mere scar on the grass as it climbed. Mushrooms grew in the pasture that was wet and heavy with dew so that their horse slipped as it climbed. The horse was Thomas’s mare and it was carrying their small baggage and in one of the sacks hanging from the saddle’s pommel was a letter from the Bishop of Durham to John Fossor, the Prior of Durham. “Most beloved brother in Christ,” the letter began, and went on to instruct Fossor to allow Thomas of Hookton and his companions to question Brother Collimore concerning Father Ralph Vexille, “whom you will not remember for he was kept closed up in your house before you came to Durham, indeed before I came to the See, but there will be some who know of him and Brother Collimore, if it pleases God that he yet lives, will have certain knowledge of him and of the great treasure that he concealed. We request this in the name of the King and in the service of Almighty God who has blessed our arms in this present endeavour.”
“Qu’est que c’est?” Eleanor asked, pointing up the hill where a dull reddish glow discoloured the fog.
“What?” Father Hobbe, the only one who did not speak French, asked.