Warlord (Outlaw 4) (29 page)

‘Of course, of course, it is not a thing that a man can decide lightly over dinner. But may I tell you something that may influence your decision. I know that you fought, and fought with courage against the Saracens in Outremer during the Great Pilgrimage – but I suspect that you, like many of the men who survived it, feel that it was not a well-managed expedition, that too many Christian lives were sacrificed for naught.’

He had struck the target full on: I felt that the Great Pilgrimage, for all its good intentions and for all the valour of the men who took part, had achieved nothing but an ocean of spilled blood – Christian and heathen alike – but I did not generally trouble to express this unpopular opinion to my fellow men, unless they too had experienced the mindless carnage of that ill-fated campaign.

Sir Aymeric continued: ‘It is not generally known, but our new
Grand Master, Sir Gilbert Horal, has set his heart on finding an acceptable permanent peace with the Saracens in the Holy Land. He is one of a new breed of Templars, which I must say includes myself, who feel that the years of useless slaughter in Outremer must come to an end, and if it is humanly possible we must learn to live with Saracens as our neighbours, and undertake to share the blessed land where our Lord Jesus Christ lived and died.’

I was moved by his speech: Robin was wrong – these men were not ‘blood-thirsty God-struck maniacs’ but good men trying to serve Christ and find a reasonable solution.

‘It would make my heart glad to become a Brother of the Order,’ I said quite truthfully. ‘I am deeply touched by your offer, and I thank you for it. But I must contemplate quietly on it and pray for guidance first.’

And there we left it.

The servants brought more wine, rich puddings and tarts, and fruit – golden oranges from the southern lands, sweet as nectar. And I asked Sir Aymeric the question that had been in the back of my mind for most of that fine meal.

‘Sir Aymeric, what do you know of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Our Lady and the Temple of Solomon? Their badge is a blue cross on a white field with a black border.’

‘The Knights of Our Lady? Ah, Sir Alan, now you are taking me back to my days as a novice. I have not seen that badge or heard that name for many, many years.’

‘But you do know of them?’ I persisted.

‘Oh yes, they were part of the Order once – and famous, too, for their deep faith and prowess in battle. It was our new Grand Master himself who formed the Knights of Our Lady, oh, a good thirty years ago in Spain. Sir Gilbert was a fiery young man back then, and very devoted to Mary, the Mother of God. He formed a company of knights – a hundred or so young, devout Templars, men of exceptional skill and dedication – who vowed that they
would fight in the name of the Queen of Heaven to the last drop of their blood to clear the Moors from Spain. They compared themselves to the fabled knights of King Arthur – fearless warriors for Jesus Christ and his Blessed Mother Mary. Sir Gilbert was their first Master, of course, and he designed their badge, using his own family emblem, the blue cross on white – argent, a cross azure, as the heralds would have it. For ten years or so they had a powerful influence on the war against the Moors, pushing them back in several notably bloody engagements, if I recall rightly, and doing great deeds of valour. Sir Gilbert was a very different man then – full of passion and rage, with a burning desire to rid the world of all non-believers. He’s quite different now, of course, older and wiser – but I shall remind him of those days when I see him next. It will make him smile.’

‘Where are these knights now?’ I asked. ‘Who commands them today? Who is their present Master?’ I found I was holding my breath as I awaited the answer.

‘Oh, the Knights of Our Lady are no more. They were disbanded long ago – perhaps fifteen years ago, I think. The Grand Master of the time – Odo de St Amand – completely suppressed them; he felt, I believe, that there should only be one Order of Templars, that these chapters within the Brotherhood, dedicated to this saint or that, were bad for morale, caused unnecessary rivalry and diluted our sense of purpose – and he was quite right, of course. By the time they were suppressed, many of the Knights of Our Lady had perished in the Spanish wars, some were then absorbed back into the ordinary ranks of the Brotherhood, others left to join other Orders – the Hospitallers, mainly. Some retired to the cloister and became monks. It happens to all men; we lose the zeal that we had as youngsters, and become shamefully fat and lazy.’ Sir Aymeric smiled and slapped at his belly, which had only the tiniest suggestion of a paunch; hardly shameful for a man in his late thirties.

‘So if I were to tell you that I saw a
conroi
of these knights
outside Vendôme two months ago, and another knight bearing a shield with a blue cross two weeks ago in Paris, that would surprise you?’

‘I would be astonished!’

I stared hard at him. He did not look as if he were lying.

‘You do not believe me? I will swear it for you, by my faith, if you wish me to,’ said Sir Aymeric. He seemed hurt that I should doubt his word.

I waved away the suggestion: as far as I could tell, Sir Aymeric de St Maur was telling me the truth. The Knights of Our Lady, as this open-faced Templar had known them, were in their graves, or scattered to the winds; it would appear that the original fellowship that had fought the Moor so bravely in Spain had been dissolved fifteen years ago.

Chapter Sixteen

Three days after my dinner with Sir Aymeric, in the late afternoon, I was invited to Master Fulk’s home on the Petit-Pont. It was Luke who brought the invitation after his lessons had ended, and who offered to act as my guide to the narrow house on the bridge, where I was greeted with great affection by his huge, hairy and malodorous teacher. When Luke had departed, Fulk offered wine and sweet cakes and we sat in his cramped downstairs room, with the shutters flung wide on that warm September afternoon – for which I was grateful, given that it appeared that he had neither bathed nor changed his robe in the weeks since I first met him – and we watched the boat traffic gliding down the brown Seine, our conversation occasionally interrupted by the coarse oaths of the boatmen passing through the arches of the bridge beneath us.

‘After I left you the other week, Sir Alan,’ Master Fulk began, ‘I started to think hard about your father’s story and the goods that were stolen from Bishop Heribert all those years ago. And I remembered something, which I think may be significant. You recall the magical object – the wondrous relic that defeats disease and holds back death – that Heribert was rumoured to possess?’

I said that I did.

‘Now, let me ask you another question: have you heard of a
trouvère
known as Christian of Troyes, who used to serve Philip, Count of Flanders? He died a few years ago.’

I nodded. ‘I read one of his poems called “Erec and Enide” and I was impressed. He was good, very good, some of his poetry was truly lovely.’

‘And have you read “Le Conte du Graal”?’

I sat up straighter on my stool. ‘No,’ I said, ‘but I have heard other
trouvères
speak of this bizarre story. Indeed, they speak of it with something approaching awe.’

‘It is the tale of a young knight called Perceval and his adventures. I have a copy here: will you allow me to read you a little from it?’ Master Fulk pulled a small, fat book bound in brown leather from the sleeve of his robe. He muttered to himself as he leafed through the vellum pages until he found the passage he wanted.

‘Perceval has been invited to dine in the castle of a mysterious fisherman king,’ Fulk said, ‘they are sitting together on a great bed in the hall. Listen to this!’ And he began to read:

‘
While they talked of this and that, a young attendant entered the room, holding a shining lance by the middle of the shaft. He passed between the fire and those seated on the bed, and all present saw the shining lance with its shining head. A drop of blood fell from the tip of the lance, and that crimson drop ran all the way down to the attendant’s hand. The youth who had come there that night beheld this marvel
– he means Perceval,’ Fulk said, interrupting himself before continuing – ‘
and refrained from asking how this could be. He remembered the warning of the man who had made him a knight, he who had instructed and taught him to guard against speaking too much. The youth feared that if he asked a question, he would be taken for a peasant. He therefore said nothing
.

‘
Two more attendants then entered, bearing in their hands candelabra
of fine gold inlaid with niello. Handsome indeed were the attendants carrying the candelabra. On each candelabrum ten candles, at the very least, were burning. Accompanying the attendants was a beautiful, gracious, and elegantly attired young lady holding between her hands a
graal.
When she entered holding this
graal,
such brilliant illumination appeared that the candles lost their brightness just as the stars and the moon do with the appearance of the sun. Following her was another young lady holding a silver carving platter. The
graal,
which came first, was of fine pure gold, adorned with many kinds of precious jewels, the richest and most costly found on sea or land – those on the
graal
undoubtedly more valuable than any others. Exactly as the lance had done, the
graal
and the platter passed in front of the bed and went from one room into another
.’

Fulk paused and looked at me meaningfully. I looked back at him, not entirely sure how I was supposed to react.

‘What exactly is a
graal
?’ I asked. Like the knight in the story, I was concerned that in my ignorance I would be taken for a peasant.

‘Normally, it’s a serving dish, about so big,’ Fulk replied holding his hands a foot apart. ‘It is the kind of serving dish that you might use to bring a large cooked fish to the table. The word is a southern one, an Occitan word – we would call it a “grail” in French.’

He was beginning to exhibit a little excitement: ‘But that is not important: in this story the
graal
, or grail is a wondrous object that can bestow eternal youth, defeat disease and grant immortality. Does this not strike you as significant, in the light of what you know about the theft of the goods from Bishop Heribert?’

‘Well, it is a rather odd story …’ I began.

But Master Fulk had become fully animated, his eyes were shining with excitement and he brusquely interrupted me, speaking to me as if I were one of his slower pupils: ‘The candlesticks, the silver carving platter … come on, Sir Alan, come on …’

‘You think that Bishop Heribert had somehow gained possession
of these marvellous objects from a poet’s fairy story – you believe that they actually exist? – and that they were subsequently stolen from him in Paris?’

‘Exactly so, and only the candlesticks and the carving platter were recovered – the least valuable, the least miraculous items were planted in Henri d’Alle’s cell to throw the blame on him. They were sacrificed so that the Grail – the most holy and wondrous of all of these objects – and perhaps the lance, too, might be retained by the thief.’

‘But surely Christian’s poem is just a story, an allegory, a fantasy – I have composed a few fantastical tales myself and I’d not expect any man to take them as Gospel truth.’

‘Quite so,’ said Master Fulk. ‘Quite so.’ He seemed suddenly deflated. ‘You may very well be right, Sir Alan. But I thought that you might be interested in hearing the tale.’ The light seemed to be dying in his eyes, and he was once again his solid, pungent, rational self. ‘I am in the process of making further enquiries into this Grail; I have heard tell of a young man in Burgundy called Robert de Boron who is said to be investigating these matters. And I’ve written to him to seek his advice. We may learn more.’

Master Fulk’s theory seemed preposterous at first hearing. But as I sat there and thought about it, it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, there might be something in this tale. Many a man has invented a fantastical tale to amuse a rich patron, but, equally, many a man has taken an old tale and used it as the basis of his own story. Perhaps there was some grain of truth behind this
Conte du Graal
.

The sun was sinking in the west, behind the towers of the palace of the King, which cast long shadows over the river, and I soon took my leave of the big man, after thanking him warmly for taking such an interest in my own quest – and for a very interesting and informative afternoon. Before I left, I asked him a final question: ‘Tell me, Master Fulk, how did Christian, this excellent and
inventive poet from Troyes, come to die? Was it peacefully in his bed in quiet old age?’

‘I had a student from Champagne who came to me last year and he told me a curious story about Christian the
trouvère
,’ said Fulk. ‘Apparently, the man was working quietly in his house one evening, alone – working on the
Graal
story, in fact – when thieves broke in and killed him for his purse. But they were most singular thieves: they did not bother to take all his valuables – leaving his deep money coffer untouched and only taking the few objects of value that were close to hand – and the manner of his death, my student told me, was also highly unusual. Christian of Troyes was stabbed, only once, and killed instantly by a dagger-blow directly to the heart.’

I needed time to think and so I went to the church of St Julien-Le-Pauvre, which was on the corner of the Rue Garlande. The priest was beginning to say Vespers as I slipped through the door, and I joined the meagre congregation and stood at the back of the church, half-listening to the comfortingly familiar Latin words and half-filling my mind with dark thoughts of magical fish dishes and murdered poets. Although Master Fulk’s theory – that this Grail had been the real object of the theft that my father had been blamed for – still seemed to be far-fetched, it did at least fit all the facts. Somebody was going about merrily murdering people in an attempt to preserve this secret, and therefore it had to be a secret of great magnitude to be worth killing so many for. Could this wondrous serving dish, this Grail, really hold back death? If it were true that the Grail could bestow eternal youth, defeat disease and grant immortality, then it clearly would be the most miraculous object in the world. And I could easily imagine the ‘man you cannot refuse’ and his cohorts – the apparently disbanded, but still very real Knights of Our Lady – killing to keep it in their possession; and killing again to prevent anyone from discovering their secret.