altars about the abbey where priests muttered prayers for the dead.
‘You have been chosen,’ Father Marchant said to the men who knelt in their armour before the altar. ‘You have been chosen to be Saint Peter’s warriors, the Knights of the Fisherman. Your task is great and your reward will be heavenly. Your sins are forgiven, you are freed from all earthly oaths, and you are granted the power of the angels to defeat your enemies. You will go forth from here as new men, bound to each other by loyalty and sealed to God by your sacred oath. You are His chosen and you will do His will and one day be received by Him in paradise.’
Robbie Douglas felt a surge of pure joy. For so long he had looked for a cause. He thought he had found it in the company of women, or in the friendship of other warriors, yet he knew he was a sinner, and that knowledge gave him misery. He gambled; he betrayed his promises. He was a feared fighter in the tournaments of Europe, yet felt himself to be weak. He knew his uncle despised him, but now, before the glittering altar and under the stern voice of Father Marchant, he sensed he had found his salvation. He was a Knight of the Fisherman, given a task by the church and promised a reward in heaven. He felt his soul lift to the moment’s solemnity, and he swore to himself that he would serve this company of men with all his heart and strength.
‘Stay and pray,’ Father Marchant told the men, ‘for tomorrow we set forth on our mission.’
‘God be thanked,’ Robbie said.
And Sculley farted. A noise that echoed off the abbey’s walls and seemed to linger.
‘Jesus,’ Sculley said, ‘that was a wet one.’
The Order of the Fisherman was consecrated and would go to war.
‘The secret,’ Thomas said, ‘is to put a bolt in the groove.’
‘A bolt?’
‘A quarrel. An arrow?’
‘Ah!’ the woman said. ‘I knew I’d forgotten something. That happens when you get ancient. You forget things. My husband did show me how to use one of these things,’ she put the crossbow on a small wooden bench that stood between two orange trees, ‘but I never did shoot one. I was tempted to shoot him, though. Are you running away?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re getting wet. Come inside.’ The woman was old and bent, a tiny thing, hardly reaching Thomas’s waist. Her face was shrewd, wrinkled and dark. She wore a nun’s habit, but over it was a rich cloak of crimson wool trimmed with miniver.
‘Where am I?’ Thomas asked.
‘You jumped into a convent. Saint Dorcas’s convent. I suppose I should welcome you, so welcome.’
‘Saint Dorcas?’
‘She was full of good works, they tell me, so I’m sure she was a terrible bore.’ The old woman went through a low doorway and Thomas, following her, picked up the crossbow. It was a beautiful weapon with a dark walnut stock inlaid with silver. ‘It belonged to my husband,’ the woman told him, ‘and I have so little of his that I keep it so I can remember him. Not that I really wish to remember him. He was a peculiarly nasty man, rather like his son.’
‘His son?’ Thomas asked, putting the crossbow on a table.
‘My son, too. The Count of Malbuisson. I am the dowager countess of the same county.’
‘My lady,’ Thomas said, and bowed to her.
‘Goodness me! Manners are not dead!’ the countess said happily, then sat in a well-cushioned chair and patted her lap. For a heartbeat Thomas thought she wanted him to sit there, but then, to his relief, a grey cat came from behind a chest and leaped onto her knees. She waved as if suggesting Thomas could sit anywhere, though he remained standing. The room was small, just four or five paces in each direction, yet filled with furniture that seemed to belong to a great hall. There was a table draped with a tapestry, two big chests, a bench, and three chairs. Four massive silver candlesticks stood on the table with some bowls, plates, and an ornate chess set, while on the limewashed walls hung a crucifix and three leather panels, one painted with a hunting scene, another with a ploughman, and the third showing a shepherd and his flock. A tapestry depicting two unicorns in a grove of roses hung over a small arch, presumably hiding the countess’s bedchamber. ‘And you are?’ the countess asked.
‘My name is Thomas.
‘Thomas! Is that English? Or Norman? You sound English, I think.’
‘I’m English, though my father was French.’
‘I always liked mongrels,’ the countess said. ‘Why are you running away?’
‘It’s a very long story.’
‘I like long stories. I have been shut away here, because otherwise I would be spending money that my daughter-in-law would prefer to squander, so here I am with nothing but nuns to keep me company. They’re dear women,’ she paused, ‘on the whole, but quite tedious. You will find some wine on the table. It isn’t very good wine, but better than no wine. I like mine mixed with water, which is in the Spanish jug. So who is chasing you?’
‘Everyone.’
‘You must be a very wicked man! How splendid! What did you do?’
‘I’m accused of heresy,’ Thomas said, ‘and of abducting another man’s wife.’
‘Oh dear,’ the countess said. ‘Would you be very charming and give me that blanket? The dark one? It’s rarely cold here, but today is distinctly chilly. Are you a heretic?’
‘No.’
‘Someone must think you are! What did you do? Deny the Trinity?’
‘I upset a cardinal.’
‘That’s not very wise of you. Which one?’
‘Bessieres.’
‘Oh, that man is quite horrid! A pig! But a dangerous pig.’ She paused, thinking. There were voices beyond the inner door, women’s voices, but faint. ‘We hear things in the convent,’ the countess went on, ‘news from the world. Didn’t I hear that Bessieres was looking for the Holy Grail?’
‘He was. He didn’t find it.’
‘Oh, my dear, of course he didn’t. I doubt it exists!’
‘Probably not,’ Thomas said, lying. He knew it existed because he had found it, and having found it he had thrown it into the ocean where it could do no harm. And the sword he sought? Was he to hide that too?
‘So whose wife did you steal?’ the countess asked.
‘The Count of Labrouillade’s.’
The countess clapped her thin hands. ‘Oh, I like you more and more! Well done! Well done! Labrouillade is a vile creature! I always felt sorry for that girl, Bertille. A pretty little thing, too! I can’t imagine her marriage bed, or rather I can! How horrible. It would be like being rutted by a grunting sack of rancid lard. Didn’t she run off with young Villon?’
‘Yes. I got her back, then took her away again.’
‘You make it sound very complicated, so you’ll have to begin at the beginning.’ The countess suddenly paused, bent forward in her chair and hissed between her teeth. The hiss ended in a moan.
‘You’re unwell,’ Thomas said.
‘I’m dying,’ she said. ‘You would think that all the doctors in this city could do something, but they can’t. Well, one of them wants to cut me open, but I’m not allowing that! So they smell my water and then say I should pray. Pray! Well, I do.’
‘There’s no medicine?’
‘Not for living eighty-two years, my dear, that is incurable.’ She was rocking backwards and forwards in her chair, clutching the blanket to her breasts. She took deep breaths and slowly seemed to feel less pain. ‘There’s some mandrake wine in a green bottle, there, on the table. The nuns of the infirmary boil it up for me, they’re very kind. It does relieve the pain, though it makes my mind very wobbly. Would you pour me a cup? No water with it, my dear, and then you can tell me your tale.’
Thomas gave her the medicine and then told her some of his tale, how he had been hired to defeat Villon and how Labrouillade had tried to cheat him. ‘So Bertille is in your fortress?’ the countess asked. ‘Because your wife likes her?’
