Warlord(94)

‘Peace, my friend, peace,’ said a familiar voice behind me, ‘this garden is meant as a haven of tranquillity.’ And I turned to see Brother Michel standing behind me, smiling serenely, his arms folded across his belly, his hands tucked into the opposite sleeves of his simple habit. Beside him stood the servant Alban, astonished at my rudeness, but bearing a tray of wine and cheese. ‘It is time, Your Grace, for your nap,’ said Brother Michel in a soothing voice. The sun was approaching the meridian.

‘But I must explain to this boy, I must tell him …’ quavered the Bishop.

Brother Michel smoothly interrupted him: ‘You know what the new doctor has said about complete rest, Your Grace – and you may talk again with Sir Alan later. Perhaps this evening. Perhaps we can even persuade him to stay with us for a while.’

The Bishop nodded, and got obediently to his feet and began meekly to walk towards the corner of the garden and the house, shepherded by Brother Michel with his right arm around his shoulders.

I said: ‘Your Grace, I cannot stay, I am afraid: but I would ask one more question, if I may: do you have any idea of the identity—’

But the monk turned his head back to me: ‘Be patient, Sir Alan, I beg you – refresh yourself: eat, drink, and I shall be with you very shortly. Then we can discuss the right time to arrange another interview with His Grace.’ And then he caught sight of the bowl of thyme that the Bishop had left on the stone pathway. ‘We mustn’t forget your medicine,’ said Brother Michel, and he took two steps back towards us and reached down with his left hand to pick up the fragrant clay bowl.

I looked at his hand as it descended, grasped the bowl and picked it up, and it was all I could do to prevent myself from crying aloud in surprise. In a blinding flash, I knew the identity of the ‘man you cannot refuse’ – for I saw with a sense of chill horror that the left hand, which Brother Michel had used to collect the bowl of thyme, had two tiny thumbs, each perfectly formed and sprouting from a single thick root.





Chapter Eighteen



As Brother Michel and the Bishop walked away towards the big stone house, it took all my self-discipline to turn to the servant and say: ‘Just set the tray there, please, and leave us in peace for a few moments.’ And while Alban, the serving man, slowly walked away, shaking his head at the foolishness of his betters, I whispered to Hanno: ‘We must go, now; we must leave immediately.’ So many pieces of the puzzle had suddenly fallen into place that my head was reeling. I had to find somewhere safe and quiet to think. ‘We must get out of here, right now!’

Hanno did not argue. As soon as the servant had disappeared into one of the outbuildings, we began to saunter casually towards the gate in the garden wall, and the waiting horses, not hurrying, certainly not running.

‘Why do we go?’ said Hanno quietly.

‘Brother Michel is the “man you cannot refuse”,’ I said. ‘I am certain of it. He was a friend of my father’s when they were at Notre-Dame together, and he is the one who stole the relics from Bishop Heribert. He is the one who has been killing clerics, or rather ordering their deaths, and he is the one who’s been trying to kill me these past months.’

Hanno stopped. ‘Maybe I just go and kill him now.’ We were a dozen paces from the garden gate, and before I could answer, it swung open and a tall knight strode into the walled garden: it was Sir Eustace de la Falaise, the dull, cheery Templar I had last seen with Sir Aymeric de St Maur in the Order’s compound north of the city.

He was not alone.

Behind Sir Eustace came a file of men-at-arms; half a dozen men each carrying a loaded crossbow – and pointing it at Hanno and myself. But it was not the sight of so many men aiming their weapons at my unarmoured body that gave me pause – it was the clothing that they wore. Each man, including Sir Eustace, wore a white linen surcoat with a shield depicted on the chest: a blue cross on a white field with a black border.


They led us out of the garden, in silence, through the house and out the other side – the crossbowmen keeping their weapons trained on us at all times. I knew that it was useless to protest, and the slightest wrong move would leave us lying pierced and bleeding on the ground. We were ushered by Sir Eustace into a private chapel beyond the Bishop’s palace, near the abbey wall, and made to stand with our hands in the air while the men-at-arms appropriated all our weapons, even the dagger Hanno hid in his boot-top. The men-at-arms stripped us down to our under-chemise and braies and tied us tightly to two heavy, high-backed oak chairs by the wrists, waists and ankles. Sir Eustace checked the ropes, then without a word they all filed out of the chapel, leaving us bound and helpless, in that house of God. Alone in the chapel, both Hanno and myself spent a futile few moments struggling against our bonds, and both discovered that we were well secured. I raised my eyebrows at him, and he gave me a half-shrug – there was nothing to say – and so we waited in silence, contemplating our surroundings and our likely fate.