Father Jean sighed: ‘I do not know. But I am certain that it was not your father. That, however, was not how our noble bishops Heribert and Maurice de Sully saw matters. The candlesticks and the platter had been found in your father’s cell and therefore he must have been guilty …’
Again I looked at my own past actions and felt another twinge: I had once thrown guilt on to a boy by hiding a jewel that I had stolen among his spare clothing. He too had been driven from his home as a result. I wondered if God was reminding me of my own sins, through the words of this honest priest.
Father Jean, unaware of my guilty thoughts, carried on with his tale. ‘There was a huge scandal, of course, and although Henri protested his innocence in the strongest possible terms, he was expelled from the cathedral, and he had to leave Paris. He had no choice in reality: Bishop Heribert wanted Henri to be interrogated by the King’s provosts, which would have meant torture, to reveal the whereabouts of the other items stolen, and then for him to be tried and severely punished. De Sully demurred. As a monk, he insisted, Henri was protected by benefit of the clergy; he could not be handed over to the lay authorities for torture, trial and punishment. But had your father remained in Paris, the Bishop might have had to bow to pressure from Heribert’s powerful family. It would be better for everybody concerned, de Sully said, if Henri were to be banished. I wept when he left us, still dressed in his monk’s robe, and with one small sack of food and clothing over his shoulder. Pouces and I said goodbye to him on the big bridge that spans the Seine, the Grand-Pont – and he told me he was heading north to England.’
‘What happened to Trois Pouces?’ I asked.
‘He died, God rest him. I left Paris later that year to make a pilgrimage to Rome, and I heard that Pouces had succumbed to the smallpox – there was an outbreak in Paris after I left the city, thousands died, the bodies piled up in the streets, and a friend told me that Pouces had been called to God.’
‘And what became of the music-mad Bishop Heribert?’
‘Oh, he thrived. He did not hold his Pyrenean post for long, his family made arrangements for him to join the Holy Trinity Abbey in Vendôme; and he is there to this day – he is now a cardinal, no less! And I hear that he is as enthusiastic about music as ever.’
‘So the last time you saw or heard from my father was twenty odd years ago, at your leave-taking on the Grand-Pont?’
‘Sadly, I never saw him again. I pray that we shall be reunited in Heaven.’
‘But what about his family: the seigneurs d’Alle? Surely Henry; could have gone to them?’
‘His father – your grandfather – was dead by then, and his elder brother Thibault had inherited the lands of Alle, and, well, I got the feeling that they were not as close as brothers should be. In fact, I asked Henri if he would go to Thibault for help and he told me that he would sooner starve in a ditch than be in the same house as him and his family. There was not much love lost between them, it seems. I believe the new seigneur was concerned about the consequences of the scandal and considered that Henri had disgraced the family name by his crimes. Henri was a proud man: he would never beg for succour from anyone.’
‘And so he went to England,’ I said, letting out a long breath. Strong emotions had been stirred by Father Jean’s tale – it occurred to me that I’d like to meet my uncle Thibault, the mean-spirited Seigneur d’Alle, and express my feelings about his abandonment of my father to him fully and frankly down the length of my sword blade.
* * *
I left Father Jean in the infirmary and completed a tour of inspection of the defences of the castle. When it was done, I took a long look out over the wall at the enemy camp; I could only detect a sense of peaceful indolence among the depleted enemy, and it was hard to believe that these were the same men who had assailed us so ferociously the day before. The camp had the air of a holy day – indeed, it was Whitsun Eve if I recall correctly – and I guessed that with the departure of the King a good deal of the besiegers’ determination had gone with him. I was almost certain that they did not intend to attack us that day, and ordered half the men to stand down and eat and rest.
I shared a loaf of bread and a lump of cheese with my squire Thomas, washed down with a jug of the local wine. Thomas had cleaned the blood and filth from my sword Fidelity, and was carefully sharpening it with a stone. It seemed the lad had recovered from his fit of remorse and I decided not to mention it in case it stirred up another bout of tears. Instead, I told him what Father Jean had said about my father. Thomas listened gravely and said: ‘I think we should pay a visit to Cardinal Heribert in Vendôme. That is, assuming the King comes soon to relieve us and we survive this siege.’