Warlord(84)

‘But surely Christian’s poem is just a story, an allegory, a fantasy – I have composed a few fantastical tales myself and I’d not expect any man to take them as Gospel truth.’

‘Quite so,’ said Master Fulk. ‘Quite so.’ He seemed suddenly deflated. ‘You may very well be right, Sir Alan. But I thought that you might be interested in hearing the tale.’ The light seemed to be dying in his eyes, and he was once again his solid, pungent, rational self. ‘I am in the process of making further enquiries into this Grail; I have heard tell of a young man in Burgundy called Robert de Boron who is said to be investigating these matters. And I’ve written to him to seek his advice. We may learn more.’

Master Fulk’s theory seemed preposterous at first hearing. But as I sat there and thought about it, it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, there might be something in this tale. Many a man has invented a fantastical tale to amuse a rich patron, but, equally, many a man has taken an old tale and used it as the basis of his own story. Perhaps there was some grain of truth behind this Conte du Graal.

The sun was sinking in the west, behind the towers of the palace of the King, which cast long shadows over the river, and I soon took my leave of the big man, after thanking him warmly for taking such an interest in my own quest – and for a very interesting and informative afternoon. Before I left, I asked him a final question: ‘Tell me, Master Fulk, how did Christian, this excellent and inventive poet from Troyes, come to die? Was it peacefully in his bed in quiet old age?’

‘I had a student from Champagne who came to me last year and he told me a curious story about Christian the trouvère,’ said Fulk. ‘Apparently, the man was working quietly in his house one evening, alone – working on the Graal story, in fact – when thieves broke in and killed him for his purse. But they were most singular thieves: they did not bother to take all his valuables – leaving his deep money coffer untouched and only taking the few objects of value that were close to hand – and the manner of his death, my student told me, was also highly unusual. Christian of Troyes was stabbed, only once, and killed instantly by a dagger-blow directly to the heart.’


I needed time to think and so I went to the church of St Julien-Le-Pauvre, which was on the corner of the Rue Garlande. The priest was beginning to say Vespers as I slipped through the door, and I joined the meagre congregation and stood at the back of the church, half-listening to the comfortingly familiar Latin words and half-filling my mind with dark thoughts of magical fish dishes and murdered poets. Although Master Fulk’s theory – that this Grail had been the real object of the theft that my father had been blamed for – still seemed to be far-fetched, it did at least fit all the facts. Somebody was going about merrily murdering people in an attempt to preserve this secret, and therefore it had to be a secret of great magnitude to be worth killing so many for. Could this wondrous serving dish, this Grail, really hold back death? If it were true that the Grail could bestow eternal youth, defeat disease and grant immortality, then it clearly would be the most miraculous object in the world. And I could easily imagine the ‘man you cannot refuse’ and his cohorts – the apparently disbanded, but still very real Knights of Our Lady – killing to keep it in their possession; and killing again to prevent anyone from discovering their secret.



It occurred to me that there was one man in Paris who might be able to enlighten me about whether Bishop Heribert had claimed to possess the Grail or not. It was the man I had been waiting to see since I had arrived in Paris all those weeks ago, but who seemed to be reluctant to talk to me about the matter: Bishop Maurice de Sully.

As the priest concluded the service of Vespers, and all were joined in the final prayer, I resolved that I would seek out Bishop de Sully the very next day; I would go to his palace and demand to see him – I had waited long enough. I would go there and refuse to leave the hall until I had been granted a few moments of his time.


‘Sir Alan, I am so sorry, please forgive me, as God surely knows, you have been more than patient – but the Bishop cannot see you today, and he may not be able to see you for some time.’ Brother Michel’s kindly face was a picture of misery; he seemed to be taking this news harder than me.

I had consumed a light and hurried breakfast at the Widow Barbette’s and had then marched over the Petit-Pont, turned right past the Hotel-Dieu and, without even taking a minute to gaze in awe at the cathedral, which had been my unfailing habit these past weeks, I strode up to the wide doors of the episcopal palace, knocked loudly and demanded to see Brother Michel.