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 trouvere,’ 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.
It occurred to me that there was one man in Paris who might be able to enlighten me about whether Bishop Heribert had claimed to possess the Grail or not. It was the man I had been waiting to see since I had arrived in Paris all those weeks ago, but who seemed to be reluctant to talk to me about the matter: Bishop Maurice de Sully.
As the priest concluded the service of Vespers, and all were joined in the final prayer, I resolved that I would seek out Bishop de Sully the very next day; I would go to his palace and demand to see him — I had waited long enough. I would go there and refuse to leave the hall until I had been granted a few moments of his time.
‘Sir Alan, I am so sorry, please forgive me, as God surely knows, you have been more than patient — but the Bishop cannot see you today, and he may not be able to see you for some time.’ Brother Michel’s kindly face was a picture of misery; he seemed to be taking this news harder than me.
I had consumed a light and hurried breakfast at the Widow Barbette’s and had then marched over the Petit- Pont, turned right past the Hotel-Dieu and, without even taking a minute to gaze in awe at the cathedral, which had been my unfailing habit these past weeks, I strode up to the wide doors of the episcopal palace, knocked loudly and demanded to see Brother Michel.
‘He is avoiding me,’ I said to the harassed-looking monk, determined that I would not leave until I had been granted a personal audience with the Bishop himself.
‘He is not, I swear it — I swear it by Almighty God and the Blessed Virgin. May I be struck dead if I lie. His Grace the Bishop of Paris is not trying to avoid you.’
I looked at Brother Michel’s face and, in spite of myself, I believed him. He seemed worn out, the lines of age cutting deep furrows on his still handsome face.
‘The Bishop is not avoiding you,’ he said, after a long pause, and with a resigned sigh. ‘The truth is that he is not well. He has been ill for some weeks now, but I was commanded to keep this a secret from the world. I had hoped that he would recover in due course and then might have time for an audience with you. But I am afraid that he has taken a turn for the worse.’
‘Perhaps I might be allowed to visit him, very briefly, at his sickbed,’ I said, though without much hope. ‘Just a few moments; I swear I will not badger him.’
‘His Grace is not here — he has retired to the Abbey of St Victor, beyond the city boundaries, where he keeps a house. He has long been a benefactor of St Victor’s, and he plans to live out his remaining days there in prayer and contemplation. I am sorry, Sir Alan, but I am afraid it is impossible for you to see him. His doctors have insisted on complete rest, no excitement or upsets. We will pray for him, of course, night and day, but I fear that His Grace, that good and holy man, will soon be gathered to God’s side.’
It did not occur to me to argue any further; something about the honest way that Brother Michel had opened his heart to me stilled my tongue. As I walked back to the Widow’s house, my head hanging low, I felt a great weight of despair settle around my shoulders. I felt that I should never manage to unravel the mystery surrounding my father’s expulsion: the little I had discovered seemed to have taken me no further towards revealing the identity of the ‘man you cannot refuse’. And wild tales of magic serving bowls and secret knightly orders only seemed to confuse the matter. I felt as if I were being mocked by Paris itself for my fumbling attempts to find the truth about my father. It was as if the very stones, the bricks and beams of the city were laughing at me.
As I trudged over the Petit-Pont, approaching Master Fulk’s house, I heard a shout that jerked me out of my doleful reverie. ‘There! There he is! Catch him — he’s the murderer. Catch him!’
There was a knot of people, I saw, gathered outside Master Fulk’s house, including half a dozen men-at- arms. A student in a dirty black robe, a fellow called Benoit whom I knew only by sight, was pointing at me and shouting: ‘He’s the murderer! He is! I saw him leaving Master Fulk’s house yesterday evening. It must have been him.’ Then the men-at-arms were running towards me. I felt a passer-by grab my arm. Someone shouted: ‘He’s a murderer; don’t let him get away! Catch him, you fellows!’
Murderer? My stomach grew icy. For an instant I thought of drawing Fidelity and cutting my way clear — but there were too many people in the press around me, and I would have had to kill or maim dozens of unarmed folk to make my escape. And so I stayed still as a rock and when the youngest and fleetest man-at-arms came running up to me, I asked, as coolly and calmly as I could: ‘Tell me, sir, is Master Fulk dead?’
‘That he is,’ panted the man-at-arms, grabbing my shoulder with his sweaty hand.
‘Was it a stab wound to the chest — here?’ I asked, pointing to my own breast, about an inch or two to the left of my sternum.
‘You should know,’ said the man, taking a firm grip on my arm. ‘Folk on the bridge are saying that you’re the one who did this foul deed.’
I have been unfortunate enough to spend time in more than a few gaols — the damp, rat-infested dungeon below Winchester Castle, a pitch-dark storeroom in the fortress of Nottingham, and several others besides — but the crowded stone cell at the foot of the Grand Chastelet on the north side of the Grand-Pont was easily the worst of them all.
I had been stripped of my arms and fine outer clothing, bound and led ignominiously north through the streets of the Ile de la Cite to the Grand-Pont by the men-at-arms. I caught a glimpse of Hanno and Thomas in the crowds that followed me, and that gave me some heart, but the black feeling of despair continued to dog me. At the Grand Chastelet, the men-at-arms presented me to the provost-sergeant on duty, and I was informed that I would be held until the grave charge of murder had been thoroughly investigated. I had been the last person seen to leave Master Fulk’s house the evening before, and he had been killed — as I had rightly feared — by a single dagger thrust to the heart at about that time. It occurred to me that the real killer must have watched me leave, and entered Master Fulk’s house shortly afterwards.
The provost-sergeant ignored my protests of innocence, and when it was revealed that I was an English
