Warlord(22)

For the moment, all was quiet in the stable, save for a moan or two. We had been kneeling beside a man with a flesh wound on his leg, a Welsh archer named Gerry, and Jean had been cleaning and re-bandaging the deep cut as we talked. ‘You had a high old time in your youth, Father, really kicked up your heels, didn’t you?’ said Gerry to the priest, with a smirk. ‘Let’s hear a bit more about all the tavern sluts this young fellow Henry tumbled, then.’



‘You hold your tongue, Gerald ap Morgan.’ I glared at the man. ‘If you are truly so badly wounded you would do well to lie still and keep silent. But if you are feeling lively I can easily have you on the wall doing sentry duty!’

Father Jean stood up and stretched his back. ‘Let us enjoy a little sunshine,’ he said, and he went over to the door of the stable and looked out at the courtyard, where the castle was drowsing in a bright, warm spring morning. All was quiet, it seemed, and for a moment it was difficult to believe that there was a hostile army outside the gates. I quickly checked that the sentries were all in their places and alert, and then gave my attention back to the priest.

‘It was Bishop Heribert’s visit that was your father’s downfall, of course. He was a great man, very rich, well born and well connected – he had rather grand relatives in England, if I recall. The Murdacs – do you know them?’

I clenched my teeth and shook my head.

‘Well, at that time Heribert was only bishop of a minor diocese far to the south in the Pyrenees, but he was ambitious. And he was surprisingly rich for a man with such a small see. He had an enormous retinue, more than a hundred servants – we had the devil of a job accommodating all his people; monks thrown out of their cells to allow his servants a proper bed, all sorts of chaos. He was planning to stay with Bishop de Sully for several months to learn about the construction process of the cathedral, and because he was very fond of the new music we were making in the choir – and it was something quite special, may God forgive me my pride. In fact, Heribert became so enamoured of our voices that after a while he was attending every Mass and every service at which we sang: Matins, in the dead of night, in freezing January, in that draughty half-built church – he was there. The monks who had been allocated the duty of singing that office may have been sore with cold and slightly hoarse and longing for their warm beds, but Heribert was there. Praying on his knees, beaming at us, sometimes singing along – and not completely out of tune either. He even began to think of himself as one of us, but of grander rank, obviously, as our chanter, our choir master, in fact. He began to think that he was responsible for the music we were making, that we could not make it without him. This annoyed us no end, but Heribert, who was a little mad, I think, was connected to some of the best families in France and our own Bishop de Sully asked us to indulge him in his harmless fancies. But, as God willed it, Heribert had to cut his visit short. He was robbed. Right inside the Bishop’s palace, if you can believe it. One of his store chests was broken into by a thief and several costly items were taken. And, as I’m sure you have been told, your father was blamed for the crime.’

‘Can you tell me what was stolen?’ I asked.

‘There was a strange air of vagueness over the theft. Bishop Heribert was reluctant to say exactly what had been stolen. But in order to aid in their recovery, he finally admitted that a pair of elaborate golden candle-sticks and a silver carving platter and some other valuable objects had been removed.’ Father Jean rubbed his careworn face, his eyes distant as he recalled the painful past.

‘The candle-sticks were quickly recovered,’ the priest continued. ‘A goldsmith with a shop on the Right Bank reported that a cowled monk, his face hidden in shadow, had tried to sell him the candlesticks the night after they were stolen. When the artisan, a little suspicious, asked for the monk’s name, he was told that it was Brother Henri; and when he was asked to reveal his face, the monk had refused and fled, taking the two candlesticks with him.

‘The next day Henri d’Alle’s cell was duly searched by Maurice de Sully’s men-at-arms and – what a strange surprise! – the candlesticks and the silver carving platter were found among his meagre personal possessions.’

‘You don’t believe he stole them,’ I said.



‘I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t now. Your father was not a very holy monk, but he was no dirty thief!’

I winced a little, remembering my own shameful days as a skulking cutpurse.

‘So who was the culprit?’ I asked.