Heretic. Bernard Cornwell
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‘Father Roubert insisted that we use small faggots and that they stand upright.’ The priest illustrated this requirement by bunching his fingers like sticks of asparagus. ‘Bundles of sticks, he wrote to me, and all pointing to heaven. They must not lay flat. He was emphatic about that.’
Friar Thomas smiled as he understood. ‘So the fire will burn bright, but not fierce, eh? She will die slowly.’
‘It is God’s will,’ Father Medous said.
‘Slowly and in great agony,’ the friar said, relishing the words, ‘that is indeed God’s will for heretics.’
‘And I have made the fire as he instructed,’ Father Medous added weakly.
‘Good. The girl deserves nothing better.’ The friar mopped his dish with a piece of dark bread. ‘I shall watch her death with joy and then walk on.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘I thank you for this food.’
Father Medous gestured at his hearth where he had piled some blankets. ‘You are welcome to sleep here.’
‘I shall, father,’ the friar said, ‘but first I shall pray to St Sardos. I have not heard of him, though. Can you tell me who he is?’
‘A goatherd,’ Father Medous said. He was not entirely sure that Sardos had ever existed, but the local people insisted he had and had always venerated him. ‘He saw the lamb of God on the hill where the town now stands. It was being threatened by a wolf and he rescued it and God rewarded him with a shower of gold.’
‘As is right and proper,’ the friar said, then stood. ‘You will come and pray to the blessed Sardos with me?’
Father Medous stifled a yawn. ‘I would like to,’ he said without any enthusiasm.
‘I shall not insist,’ the friar said generously. ‘Will you leave your door unbarred?’
‘My door is always open,’ the priest said, and felt a pang of relief as his uncomfortable guest stooped under the door’s lintel and went into the night.
Father Medous’s housekeeper smiled from the kitchen door. ‘He’s a good-looking one for a friar. Is he staying tonight?’
‘He is, yes.’
‘Then I’d better sleep in the kitchen,’ the housekeeper said, ‘because you wouldn’t want a Dominican to find you between my legs at midnight. He’ll put us both on the fire with the beghard.’ She laughed and came to clear the table.
The friar did not go to the church, but instead went the few paces down the hill to the nearest tavern and pushed open the door. The noise inside slowly subsided as the crowded room stared back at the friar’s unsmiling face. When there was silence the friar shuddered as though he was horrified at the revelry, then he stepped back into the street and closed the door. There was a heartbeat of silence inside the tavern, then men laughed. Some reckoned the young priest had been looking for a whore, others merely supposed he had opened the wrong door, but in a moment or two they all forgot about him.
The friar limped back up the hill to St Sardos’s church where, instead of going into the goatherd’s sanctuary, he stopped in the black shadows of a buttress. He waited there, invisible and silent, noting the few sounds of Castillon d’Arbizon’s night. Singing and laughter came from the tavern, but he was more interested in the footsteps of the watchman pacing the town wall that joined the castle’s stronger rampart just behind the church. Those steps came towards him, stopped a few paces down the wall and then retreated. The friar counted to a thousand and still the watchman did not return and so the friar counted to a thousand again, this time in Latin, and when there was still nothing but silence above him he moved to the wooden steps that gave access to the wall. The steps creaked under his weight, but no one called out. Once on the wall he crouched beside the high castle tower, his black robe invisible in the shadow cast by the waning moon. He watched down the wall’s length where it followed the hill’s contour until it turned the corner to the western gate where a dim red glow showed that the brazier was burning strongly. No watchmen were in sight. The friar reckoned the men must be warming themselves at the gate. He looked up, but saw no one at the castle’s rampart, nor any movement in the two half-lit arrow slits that glowed from lanterns inside the tall tower. He had seen three liveried men inside the crowded tavern and there might have been others that he had not seen, and he reckoned the garrison was either drinking or asleep and so he lifted his black skirts and unwound a cord that had been wrapped about his waist. The cord was made of hemp stiffened with glue, the same kind of cord that powered the dreaded English war bows, and it was long enough so that he was able to loop it about one of the wall’s crenellations and then let it drop to the steep ground beneath. He stayed a moment, staring down. The town and castle were built on a steep crag around which a river looped and he could hear the water hissing over a weir. He could just see a gleam of reflected moonlight glancing from a pool, but nothing else. The wind tugged at him, chilled him, and he retreated to the mooncast shadow and pulled his hood over his face.
The watchman reappeared, but only strolled halfway up the wall where he paused, leaned on the parapet for a time, then wandered back towards the gate. A moment later there was a soft whistle, jagged and tuneless like the song of a bird, and the friar went back to the cord and hauled it up. Knotted to it now was a rope, which he tied around the crenellation. ‘It’s safe,’ he called softly in English, and then flinched at the sound of a man’s boots scuffing on the wall as he climbed the rope.
There was a grunt as the man hauled himself up the rampart and a loud crash as his scabbard thumped on the stone, but then the man was over and crouching beside the friar. ‘Here.’ He gave the friar an English war bow and a bag of arrows. Another man was climbing now. He had a war bow slung on his back and a bag of arrows at his waist. He was more nimble than the first man and made no noise as he crossed the battlement, and then a third man appeared and crouched with the other two.
‘How was it?’ the first man asked the friar.
‘Frightening.’
‘They didn’t suspect you?’
‘Made me read some Latin to prove I was a priest.’
‘Bloody fools, eh?’ the man said. He had a Scottish accent. ‘So what now?’
‘The castle.’
‘Christ help us.’
‘He has so far. How are you, Sam?’
‘Thirsty,’ one of the other men answered.
‘Hold these for me,’ Thomas said, giving Sam his bow and arrow bag, and then, satisfied that the watchman was out of sight, he led his three companions down the wooden steps to the alley which led beside the church to the small square in front of the castle’s gate. The wooden faggots piled ready for the heretic’s death were black in the moonlight. A stake with a chain to hold the beghard’s waist jutted up from the waiting timber.
The castle’s tall gates were wide enough to let a farm cart enter the courtyard, but set into one leaf was a small wicket gate and the friar stepped ahead of his companions and thumped the small door hard. There was a pause, then a shuffle of feet sounded and a man asked a question from the gate’s far side. Thomas did not answer, but just knocked again, and the guard, who was expecting his companions to come back from the tavern, suspected nothing and pulled back the two bolts to open the door. Thomas stepped into the flamelight of two high torches burning in the inner archway and in their flickering glow he saw the guard’s look of astonishment that a priest had come to Castillon d’Arbizon’s castle in the darkness, and the man still looked astonished as the friar hit him hard, straight in the face, and then again in the belly. The guard fell back against the wall and the friar clamped a hand across the man’s mouth. Sam and the other two came through the gate, which they locked behind them. The guard was struggling and Thomas brought up a knee which made the man give a muffled squeal. ‘Look in the guardroom,’ Thomas ordered his companions.
Sam, with an arrow on his bow’s string, pushed open the door which led from the castle’s entrance. A single