At first he seemed to revive. He was strong and he firmly believed that it would take more than an arrow in the shoulder to do him any lasting harm. As time passed, though, his body began to grow warm, then hot, until he was burning with fever. Streaks of dark, sinister red stood out along the veins of his left arm, the stench of putrefaction filled the air, and he knew without being told that his blood was poisoned and it was going to kill him.
Between the hallucinations and the delirium of high fever there were moments of lucidity during which the man had time to think. What was I doing here? he asked himself on one such occasion. Why did we have to take the castle? With an effort he remembered the reason, recalling how, a month or more ago, they had come racing to tell him of the crock of gold unearthed by a ploughman. The tale had swiftly grown and the crock of gold had become a huge golden statue of an emperor seated with his wife and children around a jewel-encrusted table.
Where was the treasure? Had his troops found it when they stormed the castle? The man tried to bellow for his captain, but his bellowing days were over and all he managed was a croak, for his mouth and throat were parched and his lips cracked and bleeding. The servant attending him must have heard the feeble whisper, for he bent down low over his master, careful not to let his disgust at the smell show on his face.
‘My lord?’ he enquired softly.
‘Tr-treasure,’ the dying man managed. ‘They’ve found it? Wh-what is it?’
The attendant briefly considered a kind lie but decided against it. ‘No sign of any treasure as yet, my lord,’ he murmured. ‘I am very sorry.’
No sign of it, the man thought. Ah, well.
He slumped back against his blood- and pus-stained pillows and wearily closed his eyes.
He lasted the best part of another week, for he had always been a fit man, strong and hardy. He used the time to set his affairs in order, arranging for his succession and for the disposal of his body. He confessed his sins; he said farewell to his beloved mother. Then, late in the evening of 6 April, he gave up his spirit and the forty-one years of his life came to an end. The day was a Tuesday and appropriate, the chroniclers would later say, for Tuesday was dedicated to Mars, god of war.
And Richard the Lionheart of England, who died from septicaemia following a futile treasure hunt that failed to turn up a single gold coin, had been a warrior all his life.
Part One
One
Early May 1199
The five travellers were in no fit state to go before a queen. Their journey had taken three weeks and, although the sea crossing had mercifully been calm and uneventful, since coming ashore nearly a fortnight ago they had encountered wet weather that had soaked them and turned the roads to mud, swiftly followed by sudden hot sunshine, which had burned their faces, raised clouds of dust and attracted a million newly hatched flies to settle on their sweaty skin. The inns had been full to bursting — it seemed that everyone was on the roads just then — and what accommodation they had managed to find had been filthy, the food poor and anything resembling decent wine or ale quite unobtainable.
There had been a brief respite at the great abbey of Fontevrault, where they had been offered clean beds, warm water for bathing, servants to help brush the mud off their clothing and excellent food. They had, however, believed Fontevrault to be their destination and so their pleasure in its generous welcome was mitigated by discovering that they were faced with a further hundred miles or more on the road. The first few hours’ travelling had swiftly cancelled out most of the good that Fontevrault had done.
Nevertheless, they had received a royal summons and, dirty, weary, hungry, flea-bitten or not, they must obey. They had pressed on uncomplainingly and now they were close to their journey’s end. Abbess Helewise glanced at her four companions and, suppressing a moan of distress at their appearance, turned her mind to the problem of how on earth she was to spruce them up.
The summons had reached Hawkenlye Abbey a month ago. Like everyone else, the nuns and monks had still been reeling from the terrible news of King Richard’s death. He had died like the great and noble man he was, some said, fighting and defeating the vicious and tyrannical lord of a castle somewhere in the Limousin, wherever that might be. One version of the tale added the embellishment that the tyrant had been an infidel, and such was local ignorance of the great world beyond Hawkenlye that nobody thought to ask what an infidel lord was doing with a castle in the middle of France. Others — the very few with contacts in high places — heard and believed a version that was closer to the truth, but they had the good sense to keep their mouths shut.
Then, in the middle of April, the messengers had come, three of them in the livery of Aquitaine. They had demanded to see the abbess and had presented her with Queen Eleanor’s letter. It was the queen’s wish, the letter announced, that a chapel should be built at Hawkenlye Abbey, dedicated to the well-being of the soul of her dear son King Richard. Stunned, Helewise read on and swiftly learned that, the queen being unable to come to Hawkenlye, its abbess must go to her at Fontevrault to receive her instructions.
Go to Fontevrault, Helewise thought, her mind already buzzing with frantic planning. Leave Hawkenlye — leave England! — and cross the seas to France. Attend the queen herself and then come back here to build a chapel. Dear God, how am I to achieve all this?
My emotion and distress must not show, she told herself then. She sat quite still, her head lowered as if she still read the queen’s words, and waited until she felt calm. Then she looked up, gave the senior messenger a serene smile and said, ‘I shall set out for Fontevrault as soon as arrangements can be made.’
The first thing she did was send word to Sir Josse d’Acquin, for she could not contemplate her mission without him. Good friend that he was, he must have read the urgency behind the carefully bland summons and he arrived at Hawkenlye ahead of the lay brother who had gone to fetch him. As soon as he understood what they must do, he began making practical and concise plans. A small group was best, he advised, for a great gaggle of people always took longer to get anywhere. Could she manage with just one nun?
‘Of course,’ Helewise had said, instantly deciding on young Sister Caliste.
They would take two lay brothers, Josse went on, and he suggested Brother Saul and Brother Augustus. Smiling to herself — for these two brave and loyal men would have been her choice too — Helewise sent for Sister Caliste and the brethren to break the news.
She had always judged Sir Josse to be a man skilled at organization but even so she was surprised at his swift efficiency. Within days he had found good mounts for all five travellers — the sturdy Horace for Sir Josse, the golden mare Honey for the abbess, the Hawkenlye cob for Brother Saul and borrowed horses for Sister Caliste and Brother Augustus — and a pack animal to carry supplies of food, drink, a rudimentary medical kit, spare clothing and various other bundles and bulging bags whose purpose, Helewise thought, would no doubt become clear as they went along. All too soon it was time to depart. There had been a special service the previous day, during which the community prayed for the travellers, but Helewise snatched a moment to go alone to the abbey church, where she fell to her knees and begged the Lord’s help and protection for her companions and herself while they were away from Hawkenlye.
She kneeled, eyes closed, hands clasped, in the cool, silent church. Then, just for an instant, she thought she sensed something, a sort of brief pressure on her head. With a smile, she opened her eyes, got to her feet and hurried outside. Josse was holding her horse and he stepped forward to help her into the saddle. Then he swung up on to Horace’s back and turned to her. She nodded and he led the way out through the abbey gates and off on the long road south.
They crossed the English Channel from Hastings to Honfleur, on the mouth of the Seine, and then turned south through Normandy and Anjou, stopping when they could in the relative safety of the busy, hectic towns — Lisieux, Alencon, Le Mans, Tours — and when nightfall found them out in the lonely countryside, putting up in
