1356 (Special Edition)

‘Saint Junien’s abbey?’ the peasant had said. ‘For sure, my lord, along the valley,’ he pointed north with a grubby finger, ‘not far, lord. You can drive an ox there and back in a morning.’ The man had been threshing grain when the Hellequin came to his village, and he had been oblivious of the horsemen until their shadows darkened the door of his barn. He had stared in dumb astonishment at the mounted men, then gone to his knees and scrabbled a

hand at his forelock. Thomas had told him he was safe, that they meant him no harm and then, as he had a hundred times on this journey, asked the man whether he knew of the abbey of Saint Junien, and now, for the first time, someone did. ‘There are monks there, my lord,’ the man said nervously, trying to be helpful. His eyes flickered to the left, doubtless to where his family lived.

His flail, two wooden clubs joined by a length of leather, lay discarded in case these grim men on horseback mistook it for a weapon.

‘Who is your lord?’ Thomas asked.

‘The abbot, my lord,’ the man said.

‘What sort of monks?’ Thomas asked.

The question puzzled the man, ‘Black monks, lord?’ he suggested.

‘Benedictines?’

‘Ah yes! Benedictines. I think.’ He smiled, but it was obvious he did not know what a Benedictine was.

‘Have other soldiers been here?’

He was more sure of this answer. ‘Not in a long while, lord, but some came on Saint Perpetua’s day, I remember that. They came; they didn’t stay.’

‘None since?’

‘No, lord.’

Saint Perpetua’s day was half a year past. Thomas tossed the man a silver coin and turned his horse away. ‘We go north,’ he told his men curtly, and spurred that way.

It was dusk, which meant it was time to seek shelter for the night. A river twisted in the valley bottom where a pair of hovels lay dark under oak trees, but at the valley’s northern end, hidden by a spur of wooded land, was a village or small town, betrayed by the thickness of smoke from its kitchen fires. The abbey had to be there. Two crows flew across the river, black against the darkening sky. A bell rang, calling men and women to their evening prayers.

‘Is there a town here?’ Rymer, the Earl of Warwick’s man, had spurred alongside Thomas.

‘I don’t know, but usually a village grows beside a monastery.’

‘A monastery!’ Rymer seemed surprised.

‘I’m going there.’

‘To pray?’ Rymer suggested lightly.

‘Yes,’ Thomas replied.

Rymer was embarrassed by that answer and went silent. Thomas rounded a bend in the valley and he could see a willow-edged river, and, just beyond it, a large village and the towers of a monastery. The monastery was surprisingly big, surrounded by a high wall and dominated by its large abbey church. ‘We can stay in the village,’ Rymer said.

‘There’ll be a tavern there,’ Thomas said.

‘That’s what I was hoping.’

‘My men will stay there too.’ Thomas stared at the monastery, its high walls dark in the gathering dusk. Those walls looked as formidable as any castle’s ramparts. ‘Is that the place?’ he asked the Sire Roland, who had spurred his horse to catch up with Thomas.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Roland replied.

‘It looks more like a fortress than a monastery,’ Thomas said.

The virgin knight frowned at the distant walls. ‘Saint Junien was told to keep Saint Peter’s sword safe, so maybe it is a fortress?’

‘If it even is Saint Junien’s.’ As Thomas rode closer he could see that the monastery’s huge gates were open. He supposed they would not be closed till the sun finally vanished in the west. ‘He’s buried there, yes?’

‘His earthly remains are there, yes.’

‘So perhaps la Malice is there too.’

‘And maybe we should leave it there,’ Sire Roland said.

‘I would, if I didn’t believe Bessieres is looking for it, and if he finds it he’ll use it, not for God’s glory, but for his own.’

‘And will you use it?’

‘I told you,’ Thomas said curtly, ‘I shall lose it.’ He turned in the saddle. ‘Luc! Gastar! Arnaldus! With me. The rest of you stay in the village! And pay for your victuals!’ He had chosen Gascons to stay with him so that the monks would not suspect their allegiance to England.

Robbie, Keane and the Sire Roland also stayed with Thomas, then Genevieve and Bertille insisted on accompanying him too, though Hugh was taken under the care of Sam and the other archers. ‘Why not take the archers?’ Genevieve asked.

‘All I’m doing,’ Thomas said, ‘is asking the abbot some questions. I don’t want to frighten the man. We go, we ask and we leave.’

‘That’s what you said at Montpellier,’ Genevieve said tartly.

‘These are monks,’ Thomas said, ‘just monks. We question them and we leave again.’

‘With la Malice?’ Genevieve asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Thomas said. ‘I don’t even know if la Malice exists.’ He kicked his heels to reach the gate before the sun vanished behind the western skyline. He cantered across a pasture where a herd of goats was being guarded by a small boy and a big dog who both watched the riders pass in silence. A fine stone bridge spanned the river beyond the pasture and, on the bridge’s far side, the road forked. The left-hand road led into the village, and the right to the monastery. Thomas could see that the monastery was half surrounded by a channel of the river that had been diverted to make a kind of wide moat, maybe so the monks could keep fish. He could also see two robed figures walking towards the open gate, and he spurred again. The two monks saw him coming and waited. ‘You’re here for the pilgrims?’ one of them called in greeting.

Thomas opened his mouth to ask the man what he meant, then had the sense to nod instead. ‘We are,’ he said.

‘They arrived an hour ago. They’ll be glad of protection, they think the English are close.’

‘We didn’t see any English,’ Thomas said.

‘They’ll still be glad to see you,’ the monk said. ‘It’s a dangerous time to be on pilgrimage.’

‘All times are dangerous,’ Thomas said, and led his followers beneath the high arch. The sound of their hooves echoed from the stone walls as the bell’s tolling stopped. ‘Where are they?’ Thomas called back.

‘In the abbey!’ the monk shouted.

‘Someone’s waiting for us?’ Genevieve asked.

‘They’re not waiting for us,’ Thomas said.

‘Who?’ she asked urgently.

‘Just pilgrims.’

‘Send for the archers.’

Thomas glanced at his three Gascons, at Robbie and the Sire Roland. ‘I think we’re safe from a band of pilgrims,’ he said drily.

The horses filled the small space between the walls and the abbey church. Thomas swung down from the saddle and instinctively checked that his sword was running free in its scabbard. He heard the monastery gates crash shut, then the thump as the locking bar was dropped into place. It was almost dark now and the monastery’s buildings were black against a faintly luminous sky in which the first stars shone. A becketed torch burned between two stone houses that might have been dormitories, while two more blazed bright at the abbey steps. A cobbled street ran in front of the abbey and at its far end, where another gate through the monastery’s high wall was still open, Thomas could see a mass of saddled horses and four sumpter ponies being held by servants. He dismounted,