Warlord(93)

‘They were the most preposterous cluster of costly rubbish imaginable: a silver carving plate, a pair of golden candlesticks, an old lance head, and something he called a “graal”, a sort of serving bowl. I never fathomed the significance of the carving plate and the candlesticks, though Heribert claimed they had vague miraculous qualities – but the lance head, he told me, came from the weapon that a Roman soldier used to pierce the side of Our Lord Jesus Christ while he suffered on the Cross – and this graal, well, that was the vessel that Christ used at the Last Supper and also, rather conveniently, I must say, it was the vessel used by Joseph of Arimathea to collect the blood of Christ after he had been cut down from the tree at Calvary.’

Despite the Bishop’s dismissive, almost blasphemous, tone, I felt a jolt of lightning run down my spine at his words. This graal, this Grail – if it were indeed the true artefact – was claimed to be the very bowl that Christ had used and drunk from and blessed with the touch of his hands; and as if that weren’t enough, it had held his sacred blood! If it were real, I could scarcely imagine an object more worthy of deep veneration. This Grail had held the sacred blood of Our Lord, it had cradled the life fluid of God himself! To those who believed, it was indeed a wondrous object – that would be well worth killing for. Indeed, for some, it would be worth dying for. It was without a doubt the holiest thing that I had ever heard of.

I pulled myself together and dampened my excitement – though I noticed that Hanno had stepped a little closer, to listen, and that his face seemed to be all eyes. Then I asked the question that had been nagging at the back of my mind. ‘Who else was at this dinner when Bishop Heribert spoke so eloquently of his collection of holy relics?’

‘No one – it was just Heribert and me. And the duty monks who served the meal, of course.’

‘And my father, Henri d’Alle, was he one of the monks who served at the dinner table that day?’

‘He was – him and some of his young friends had been chosen to serve. I don’t recall exactly. It was one dull meal, with a dull, greedy, credulous fool, twenty-one years ago.’

‘Do you believe that my father was the man who stole this graal?’ My question came out flat and heavy, like a sheet of lead being dropped on wet turf. At first I thought that Bishop de Sully would not answer me, so lengthy was the pause between my question and his response.

‘A bishop must be a man of God, a devout follower of Christ’s teachings,’ said de Sully, ‘and as such, I shall answer you truthfully: no, I do not now believe that Henri d’Alle stole any of Heribert’s ludicrous collection of relics. But a bishop is also a lord of men, and a power in the land, and sometimes it is necessary to do things that a good Christian would not normally countenance. I shall answer to God for my actions, of course, but at that time I deemed that it was necessary for your father to shoulder the blame for that crime. I was not certain of his innocence, I may even have convinced myself of his guilt at the time; but I knew that I needed Heribert’s goodwill. And Heribert demanded a scapegoat for his loss. You must understand that the Bishop of Roda was a very wealthy man, absurdly wealthy, and he had agreed to make a vast contribution to the building of the cathedral, to Notre-Dame, to my life’s work. I decided that the building of a sacred monument to God’s greatness, a sublime edifice that would proclaim the glory of Our Lord, which would stand as a testament to the Christian faith for a thousand years – I decided that this work was more important than the continued employment of a young monk who did not have a true vocation for a life in the Church. Would you have made a different decision? I think not. So I sent Henri d’Alle away – he was not punished for the crime; he was asked to leave Notre-Dame and make his way elsewhere in the world. And, as I say, God will judge me for this, but I think not harshly.’

‘You are mistaken,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘Henri d’Alle was punished – he paid for that crime, a crime he did not commit, with his life. He was put to death by someone who calls himself the “man you cannot refuse” because he was innocent. He was innocent and this “man you cannot refuse” was guilty, and was attempting to keep his guilt a secret. Your negligence in seeking out the true perpetrator of the crime led indirectly to my father’s death!’

I found I was jabbing my index finger at Bishop de Sully, my voice rough and barely quieter than a shout. De Sully looked up at me as I ranted at him, his mouth open in surprise and showing his few remaining teeth. All the authority seemed to have gone from him and I recognized, quite suddenly, how old and tired and sick he was, and dropped my arm, feeling ashamed.