LITMIR.BIZ

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sends you his greetings in Christ, brother.’

      ‘What Bessières wants,’ Collimore said, still in a whisper, ‘he takes with whips and scorpions.’

      De Taillebourg half smiled. So Collimore did know of Cardinal Bessières after all, and no wonder, but perhaps fear of Bessières would be sufficient to elicit the truth. The monk had closed his eyes again and his lips were moving silently, suggesting he was praying. De Taillebourg did not disturb the prayers, but just gazed through the small window to where the Scots were making their battleline on the far hill. The invaders faced southwards so that the left end of their line was nearest to the city and de Taillebourg could see men jostling for position as they tried to take the places of honour closest to their lords. The Scots had evidently decided to fight on foot so that the English archers could not destroy their men-at-arms by cutting down their horses. There was no sign of those English yet, though from all de Taillebourg had heard they could not have assembled a great force. Their army was in France, outside Calais, not here, so perhaps it was merely a local lord leading his retainers? Yet plainly there were enough men to persuade the Scots to form a battleline, and de Taillebourg did not expect David’s army to be delayed for long. Which meant that if he wanted to hear the old man’s story and be away from Durham before the Scots entered the city then he had best make haste. He looked back at the monk, ‘Cardinal Bessières wants only the glory of the Church and of God. And he wants to know about Father Ralph Vexille.’

      ‘Dear God,’ Collimore said, and his fingers traced the bone figure on the small crucifix as he opened his eyes and turned his head to stare at the priest. The monk’s expression suggested it was the first time he had really noticed de Taillebourg and he shuddered, recognizing in his visitor a man who believed suffering gave merit. A man, Collimore reflected, who would be as implacable as his master in Paris. ‘Vexille!’ Collimore said, as though he had almost forgotten the name, and then he sighed. ‘It is a long tale,’ he said tiredly.

      ‘Then I will tell you what I know of it,’ de Taillebourg said. The gaunt Dominican was pacing the room now, turning and turning again in the small space under the highest part of the arched ceiling. ‘You have heard,’ he demanded, ‘that a battle was fought in Picardy in the summer? Edward of England fought his cousin of France and a man came from the south to fight for France and on his banner was the device of a yale holding a cup.’ Collimore blinked, but said nothing. His eyes were fixed on de Taillebourg who, in turn, stopped his pacing to look at the priest. ‘A yale holding a cup,’ he repeated.

      ‘I know the beast,’ Collimore said sadly. A yale was an heraldic animal, unknown in nature, clawed like a lion, horned like a goat and scaled like a dragon.

      ‘He came from the south,’ de Taillebourg said, ‘and he thought that by fighting for France he would wash from his family’s crest the ancient stains of heresy and of treason.’ Brother Collimore was far too sick to see that the priest’s servant was now listening intently, almost fiercely, or to notice that the Dominican had raised his voice slightly to make it easier for the servant, who still stood in the doorway, to overhear. ‘This man came from the south, riding in pride, believing his soul to be beyond reproof, but no man is beyond God’s reach. He thought he would ride in victory into the King’s affections, but instead he shared France’s defeat. God will sometimes humble us, brother, before raising us to glory.’ De Taillebourg spoke to the old monk, but his words were for his servant’s ears. ‘And after the battle, brother, when France wept, I found this man and he talked of you.’

      Brother Collimore looked startled, but said nothing.

      ‘He talked of you,’ Father de Taillebourg said, ‘to me. And I am an Inquisitor.’

      Brother Collimore’s fingers fluttered in an attempt to make the sign of the cross. ‘The Inquisition,’ he said feebly, ‘has no authority in England.’

      ‘The Inquisition has authority in heaven and in hell, and you think little England can stand against us?’ The fury in de Taillebourg’s voice echoed in the hospital cell. ‘To root out heresy, brother, we will ride to the ends of the earth.’

      The Inquisition, like the Dominican order of friars, was dedicated to the eradication of heresy, and to do it they employed fire and pain. They could not shed blood, for that was against the law of the Church, but any pain inflicted without blood-letting was permitted, and the Inquisition knew well that fire cauterized bleeding and that the rack did not pierce a heretic’s skin and that great weights pressed on a man’s chest burst no veins. In cellars reeking of fire, fear, urine and smoke, in a darkness shot through with flamelight and the screams of heretics, the Inquisition hunted down the enemies of God and, by the application of bloodless pain, brought their souls into a blessed unity with Christ.

      ‘A man came from the south,’ de Taillebourg said to Collimore again, ‘and the crest on his shield was a yale holding a cup.’

      ‘A Vexille,’ Collimore said.

      ‘A Vexille,’ de Taillebourg said, ‘who knew your name. Now why, brother, would a heretic from the southern lands know the name of an English monk in Durham?’

      Brother Collimore sighed. ‘They all knew,’ he said tiredly, ‘the whole family knew. They knew because Ralph Vexille was sent to me. The bishop thought I could cure him of madness, but his family feared he would tell me secrets instead. They wanted him dead, but we locked him away in a cell where no one but I could reach him.’

      ‘And what secrets did he tell you?’ de Taillebourg asked.

      ‘Madness,’ Brother Collimore said, ‘just madness.’ The servant stood in the doorway and watched him.

      ‘Tell me of the madness,’ the Dominican ordered.

      ‘The mad speak of a thousand things,’ Brother Collimore said, ‘they speak of spirits and phantoms, of snow in summer and darkness in the daylight.’

      ‘But Father Ralph spoke to you of the Grail,’ de Taillebourg said flatly.

      ‘He spoke of the Grail,’ Brother Collimore confirmed.

      The Dominican let out a sigh of relief. ‘What did he tell you of the Grail?’

      Hugh Collimore said nothing for a while. His chest rose and fell so feebly that the motion was scarcely visible, then he shook his head. ‘He told me that his family had owned the Grail and that he had stolen and hidden it! But he spoke of a hundred such things. A hundred such things.’

      ‘Where would he have hidden it?’ de Taillebourg enquired.

      ‘He was mad. Mad. It was my job, you know, to look after the mad? We starved or beat them to drive the devils out, but it did not always work. In winter we would plunge them into the river, through the ice, and that worked. Devils hate the cold. It worked with Ralph Vexille, or mostly it worked. We released him after a while. The demons were gone, you see.’

      ‘Where did he hide the Grail?’ De Taillebourg’s voice was harder and louder.

      Brother Collimore stared at the flicker of reflected water light on the ceiling. ‘He was mad,’ he whispered, ‘but he was harmless. Harmless. And when he left here he was sent to a parish in the south. In the far south.’

      ‘At Hookton in Dorset?’

      ‘At Hookton in Dorset,’ Brother Collimore agreed, ‘where he had a son. He was a great sinner, you see, even though he was a priest. He had a son.’

      Father de Taillebourg stared at the monk who had, at last, given him some news. A son? ‘What do you know of the son?’

      ‘Nothing.’ Brother Collimore sounded surprised that he should be asked.

      ‘And what do you know of the Grail?’ de Taillebourg probed.

      ‘I know that Ralph Vexille was mad,’ Collimore said in a whisper.

      De Taillebourg sat on the hard bed. ‘How mad?’

      Collimore’s voice became even softer. ‘He said that even if you found the Grail then you would not know it,

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