Heretic. Bernard Cornwell
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remedies,’ she said tiredly. ‘The things we learn from aunts and grandmothers and old ladies. Take iron from a room where a woman is giving birth. Everyone does it. Even you, priest, touch wood to avert evil. Is that piece of magic sufficient to send you to the fire?’
Again Thomas ignored her answer. ‘You insulted God?’ he asked her.
‘God loves me, and I do not insult those who love me. But I did say his priests were corrupt, which you are, and so they charged me with insulting God. Are you corrupt, priest?’
‘And you danced naked under the lightning,’ Thomas concluded the indictment.
‘To that,’ she said, ‘I plead guilty.’
‘Why did you dance?’
‘Because my father always said that God would give us guidance if we did that.’
‘God would do that?’ Thomas asked, surprised.
‘So we believed. We were wrong. God told me to stay in Castillon d’Arbizon and it only led to torture and tomorrow’s fire.’
‘Torture?’ Thomas asked.
Something in his voice, a horror, made her look at him, and then she slowly stretched out her left leg so that he could see her inner thigh and the raw, red, twisted mark that disfigured the white skin. ‘They burned me,’ she said, ‘again and again. That was why I confessed to being what I was not, a beghard, because they burned me.’ She was crying suddenly, remembering the pain. ‘They used red-hot metal,’ she said, ‘and when I screamed they said it was the devil trying to leave my soul.’ She drew up her leg and showed him her right arm, which had the same scars. ‘But they left these,’ she said angrily, suddenly revealing her small breasts, ‘because Father Roubert said the devil would want to suck them and the pain of his jaws would be worse than anything the Church could inflict.’ She drew her knees up again and was silent for a while as the tears ran down her face. ‘The Church likes to hurt people,’ she continued after a while. ‘You should know that.’
‘I do,’ Thomas said, and he very nearly lifted the skirts of his Dominican’s robe to show her the same scars on his body, the scars of the hot iron that had been pressed on his legs to make him reveal the secrets of the Grail. It was a torture that drew no blood for the Church was forbidden to draw blood, but a skilled man could make a soul scream in torment without ever breaking the skin. ‘I do,’ Thomas said again.
‘Then damn you,’ Genevieve said, recovering her defiance, ‘damn you and damn all the damned priests.’
Thomas stood and lifted the lantern. ‘I shall fetch you something to wear.’
‘Frightened of me, priest?’ she mocked.
‘Frightened?’ Thomas was puzzled.
‘By this, priest!’ she said and showed him her nakedness and Thomas turned away and closed the door on her laughter. Then, when the bolts were shot, he leaned on the wall and stared at nothing. He was remembering Genevieve’s eyes, so full of fire and mystery. She was dirty, naked, unkempt, pale, half starved and a heretic and he had found her beautiful, but he had a duty in the morning and he had not expected it. A God-given duty.
He climbed back to the yard to find everything quiet. Castillon d’Arbizon slept.
And Thomas, bastard son of a priest, prayed.
The tower stood in woodland a day’s ride east of Paris, on a low ridge not far from Soissons. It was a lonely place. The tower had once been home to a lord whose serfs farmed the valleys on either flank of the ridge, but the lord had died without children and his distant relatives had squabbled over ownership which meant the lawyers had become rich and the tower had decayed and the fields had been overgrown by hazel, and then by oak, and owls had nested in the high stone chambers where the winds blew and the seasons passed. Even the lawyers who had argued over the tower were now dead and the small castle was the property of a Duke who had never seen it and would never dream of living there, and the serfs, those that remained, worked fields closer to the village of Melun where the Duke’s tenant had a farm.
The tower, the villagers said, was haunted. White spirits wreathed it on winter nights. Strange beasts were said to prowl the trees. Children were told to stay away, though inevitably the braver ones went to the woods and some even climbed the tower to find it empty.
But then the strangers came.
They came with the faraway Duke’s permission. They were tenants, but they did not come to farm or to thin the ridge of its valuable timber. They were soldiers. Fifteen hard men, scarred from the wars against England, with mail coats and crossbows and swords. They brought their women who made trouble in the village and no one dared to complain because the women were as hard as the soldiers, but not as hard as the man who led them. He was tall, thin, ugly, scarred and vengeful. His name was Charles and he had not been a soldier and he never wore mail, but no one liked to ask him what he was or what he had been for his very glance was terrifying.
Stonemasons came from Soissons. The owls were ejected and the tower repaired. A new yard was made at the tower’s foot, a yard with a high wall and a brick furnace, and soon after that work was finished a wagon, its contents hidden by a linen canopy, arrived at the tower and the new gate in the yard’s wall slammed shut behind it. Some of the braver children, curious about the strange happenings at the tower, sneaked into the woods, but they were seen by one of the guards and they fled, terrified, as he pursued them, shouting, and his crossbow bolt narrowly missed a boy. No child went back. No one went there. The soldiers bought food and wine in the market, but even when they drank in Melun’s tavern they did not say what happened at the tower. ‘You must ask Monsieur Charles,’ they said, meaning the ugly, scarred man, and no one in the village would dare approach Monsieur Charles.
Smoke sometimes rose from the yard. It could be seen from the village, and it was the priest who deduced that the tower was now the home of an alchemist. Strange supplies were taken up the ridge and one day a wagon loaded with a barrel of sulphur and ingots of lead paused in the village while the carter drank wine. The priest smelt the sulphur. ‘They are making gold,’ he told his housekeeper, knowing she would tell the rest of the village.
‘Gold?’ she asked.
‘It is what the alchemists do.’ The priest was a learned man who might have risen high in the Church except that he had a taste for wine and was always drunk by the time the angelus bell sounded, but he remembered his student days in Paris and how he had once thought that he might join the search for the philosopher’s stone, that elusive substance which would meld with any metal to make it gold. ‘Noah possessed it,’ he said.
‘Possessed what?’
‘The philosopher’s stone, but he lost it.’
‘Because he was drunk and naked?’ the housekeeper asked. She had a dim memory of the story of Noah. ‘Like you?’
The priest lay on his bed, half drunk and fully naked, and he remembered the smoky workrooms of Paris where silver and mercury, lead and sulphur, bronze and iron were melted and twisted and melted again. ‘Calcination,’ he recited, ‘and dissolution, and separation, and conjunction, and putrefaction, and congelation, and cibation, and sublimation, and fermentation, and exaltation, and multiplication, and projection.’
The housekeeper had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Marie Condrot lost her child today,’ she told him. ‘Born the size of a kitten, it was. All bloody and dead. It had hair though. Red hair. She wants you to christen it.’
‘Cupellation,’ he said, ignoring her news, ‘and cementation, and reverberation, and distillation. Always distillation. Per ascendum is the preferred method.’ He hiccupped. ‘Jesus,’ he sighed, then thought again. ‘Phlogiston. If we could just find phlogiston we could all make gold.’
‘And how would we make gold?’
‘I just told you.’ He turned on the bed and stared at her breasts that were white and heavy in the moonlight. ‘You have to be very clever,’