Warlord(85)
‘He is avoiding me,’ I said to the harassed-looking monk, determined that I would not leave until I had been granted a personal audience with the Bishop himself.
‘He is not, I swear it – I swear it by Almighty God and the Blessed Virgin. May I be struck dead if I lie. His Grace the Bishop of Paris is not trying to avoid you.’
I looked at Brother Michel’s face and, in spite of myself, I believed him. He seemed worn out, the lines of age cutting deep furrows on his still handsome face.
‘The Bishop is not avoiding you,’ he said, after a long pause, and with a resigned sigh. ‘The truth is that he is not well. He has been ill for some weeks now, but I was commanded to keep this a secret from the world. I had hoped that he would recover in due course and then might have time for an audience with you. But I am afraid that he has taken a turn for the worse.’
‘Perhaps I might be allowed to visit him, very briefly, at his sickbed,’ I said, though without much hope. ‘Just a few moments; I swear I will not badger him.’
‘His Grace is not here – he has retired to the Abbey of St Victor, beyond the city boundaries, where he keeps a house. He has long been a benefactor of St Victor’s, and he plans to live out his remaining days there in prayer and contemplation. I am sorry, Sir Alan, but I am afraid it is impossible for you to see him. His doctors have insisted on complete rest, no excitement or upsets. We will pray for him, of course, night and day, but I fear that His Grace, that good and holy man, will soon be gathered to God’s side.’
It did not occur to me to argue any further; something about the honest way that Brother Michel had opened his heart to me stilled my tongue. As I walked back to the Widow’s house, my head hanging low, I felt a great weight of despair settle around my shoulders. I felt that I should never manage to unravel the mystery surrounding my father’s expulsion: the little I had discovered seemed to have taken me no further towards revealing the identity of the ‘man you cannot refuse’. And wild tales of magic serving bowls and secret knightly orders only seemed to confuse the matter. I felt as if I were being mocked by Paris itself for my fumbling attempts to find the truth about my father. It was as if the very stones, the bricks and beams of the city were laughing at me.
As I trudged over the Petit-Pont, approaching Master Fulk’s house, I heard a shout that jerked me out of my doleful reverie. ‘There! There he is! Catch him – he’s the murderer. Catch him!’
There was a knot of people, I saw, gathered outside Master Fulk’s house, including half a dozen men-at-arms. A student in a dirty black robe, a fellow called Benoît whom I knew only by sight, was pointing at me and shouting: ‘He’s the murderer! He is! I saw him leaving Master Fulk’s house yesterday evening. It must have been him.’ Then the men-at-arms were running towards me. I felt a passer-by grab my arm. Someone shouted: ‘He’s a murderer; don’t let him get away! Catch him, you fellows!’
Murderer? My stomach grew icy. For an instant I thought of drawing Fidelity and cutting my way clear – but there were too many people in the press around me, and I would have had to kill or maim dozens of unarmed folk to make my escape. And so I stayed still as a rock and when the youngest and fleetest man-at-arms came running up to me, I asked, as coolly and calmly as I could: ‘Tell me, sir, is Master Fulk dead?’
‘That he is,’ panted the man-at-arms, grabbing my shoulder with his sweaty hand.
‘Was it a stab wound to the chest – here?’ I asked, pointing to my own breast, about an inch or two to the left of my sternum.
‘You should know,’ said the man, taking a firm grip on my arm. ‘Folk on the bridge are saying that you’re the one who did this foul deed.’
I have been unfortunate enough to spend time in more than a few gaols – the damp, rat-infested dungeon below Winchester Castle, a pitch-dark storeroom in the fortress of Nottingham, and several others besides – but the crowded stone cell at the foot of the Grand Chastelet on the north side of the Grand-Pont was easily the worst of them all.
I had been stripped of my arms and fine outer clothing, bound and led ignominiously north through the streets of the Île de la Cité to the Grand-Pont by the men-at-arms. I caught a glimpse of Hanno and Thomas in the crowds that followed me, and that gave me some heart, but the black feeling of despair continued to dog me. At the Grand Chastelet, the men-at-arms presented me to the provost-sergeant on duty, and I was informed that I would be held until the grave charge of murder had been thoroughly investigated. I had been the last person seen to leave Master Fulk’s house the evening before, and he had been killed – as I had rightly feared – by a single dagger thrust to the heart at about that time. It occurred to me that the real killer must have watched me leave, and entered Master Fulk’s house shortly afterwards.