Warlord(105)
The great man came to see me himself, one grey afternoon in January. I was standing beside my bed – the fevers had left me pathetically weak, but I forced myself to get out of the warm, comfortable cot each morning and stand by the window for as long as I could, staring out over the vast building yard of the cathedral of Notre-Dame. It was abandoned by the gangs of workmen in the very coldest season; the mortar could not be mixed and set properly when frost and ice ruled the night. That morning, it had snowed and the high roof, the buttresses and the canvas-covered sections of the scaffolding of the cathedral bore a crust of white that resembled a giant nun’s wimple.
‘It is even more beautiful in the winter,’ said a voice behind me. And I turned slowly to see the Bishop, very gaunt but smiling, standing in the doorway of the cell. He was alone, but holding a large earthenware pot in his hands. I could see a ladle poking from the open top, and tendrils of steam, but it was the hot, fruity, spicy smell filling the room that allowed me to recognize the Bishop’s burden.
‘I have brought you some warmed wine – Doctor Reuben has recommended it; he says it will do you good, and it may quite possibly help me, as well. May I enter?’
It was a curiously humble speech from this most powerful churchman who was the master in this Hotel-Dieu, and therefore my host.
‘Please come in, Your Grace,’ I said. ‘Be welcome!’
With a good deal of effort, the Bishop put the pot on the table by the bed and fumbled two clay cups from a pouch at his waist. He served us both a steaming portion of the rich red liquid, clumsily, spilling some of the liquor and splashing his long white fingers. We both sat on the bed, and after a mumbled benediction from the Bishop, we drank to each other’s health. He was nervous, I saw, which surprised me, and very thin. He looked even more ill than the last time I had seen him. And he did not know how to speak to me. So I tried to make it easier on a sick old man.
‘Your Grace, I must thank you for your hospitality, and for the kindness your servants have shown me here in the Hotel-Dieu. I believe they have saved my life and I am most grateful to them – and to you.’
He regarded me with his pale, empty eyes over the rim of his steaming cup.
‘You are a good man, Alan Dale – I can tell that. As was your father, I recall. You may not think me such a good judge of character after, after …’ He tailed off; then rallied. ‘But I never wished any harm to come to you, or to your friend – Johannes. We buried him with dignity in the graveyard at St Victor’s, you know. The monks sang a Requiem Mass for him, and I pray that Almighty God has taken him to his bosom.’
I felt a jab of raw grief at his words. ‘We called him Hanno,’ I said, fighting back the burn of unmanly tears.
He nodded and we fell silent for a moment or two.
‘How much did you know,’ I finally asked, ‘about Brother Michel’s activities? Did you know he possessed the Grail? Did you know about the gangs of cut-throats?
‘Those bandits? No, never in my wildest dreams,’ he said, sounding shocked that I should suggest it.
‘And the Grail?’ I persisted. ‘Did you know that Brother Michel possessed the Grail?’
He gave a long deep sigh. ‘The Grail, that God-damned, devilish Grail … yes, I knew he had something that he believed was the bowl that had once contained Christ’s blood. But that was later: your father was long gone by then. And when Michel came to me after his service in Spain – it must be fifteen years ago, now – he was the finest, the most hard-working and intelligent assistant that I have ever had. He was pious too, and humble. I found out much later that he thought he possessed the true Grail, but I was wholly convinced that it was a silly, harmless fancy.’
The Bishop rose and began to pace the small cell. ‘I think I must have known in my heart that he had stolen it from Heribert, and that your father was innocent; but I suppressed that thought. He had such youthful energy and enthusiasm and faith in my cathedral as a grand ideal. And then, later, when he began to find the resources, the money to continue the building work, when mine had run quite dry – well, I did not ask too many questions, I was aware that he was using the Grail in some way as a method of raising revenue. But for such a good cause, I did not want to discourage him. I thought he was displaying it to pilgrims, allowing rich, pious knights to drink from it for a fee, that sort of thing. I had no idea that he had constructed an entire secret order of killers and thieves, upon one old dish. I turned a blind eye, I admit it; I believed, as I still do, that the cathedral is a worthy cause and I confess I was prepared to condone a little relic-mongering to achieve that aim.’