Vagabond - Bernard Cornwell

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the crucifix that hung about his neck and held it towards Sir William. In another man the gesture might have been taken as a display of fear, but in the Dominican it looked rather as though he threatened Sir William’s soul with the powers of heaven. Sir William merely gave the crucifix a hungry glance as if appraising its value, but the cross was of plain wood while the little figure of Christ, twisted in death’s agony, was only made of yellowed bone. If the figure had been made of gold then Sir William might have taken the bauble, but instead he spat in derision. A few of his men, fearing God more than their master, made the sign of the cross, but most did not care. They watched the servant closely, for he looked dangerous, but a middle-aged cleric from Paris, however fierce and gaunt he might be, did not scare them. ‘So what will you do?’ de Taillebourg asked Sir William scornfully. ‘Kill me?’

      ‘If I must,’ Sir William said implacably. The presence of the priest with the French embassy had been a puzzle, and his staying on when the others left only compounded the mystery, but a garrulous man-at-arms, one of the Frenchmen who had brought two hundred suits of plate armour as a gift to the Scots, had told Sir William that the priest was pursuing a great treasure and if that treasure was in Durham then Sir William wanted to know. He wanted a share. ‘I’ve killed priests before,’ he told de Taillebourg, ‘and another priest sold me an indulgence for the killings, so don’t think I fear you or your Church. There’s no sin that can’t be bought off, no pardon that can’t be purchased.’

      The Dominican shrugged. Two of Sir William’s men were behind him, their swords drawn, and he understood that these Scotsmen would indeed kill him and his servant. These men who followed the red heart of Douglas were border ruffians, bred to battle as a hound was raised to the chase and the Dominican knew there was no point in continuing to threaten their souls for they gave no thought to such things. ‘I am going into Durham,’ de Taillebourg said, ‘to find a man.’

      ‘What man?’ Sir William asked, his sword still at the priest’s neck.

      ‘He is a monk,’ de Taillebourg explained patiently, ‘and an old man now, so old that he may not even be alive. He is a Frenchman, a Benedictine, and he fled Paris many years ago.’

      ‘Why did he run?’

      ‘Because the King wanted his head.’

      ‘A monk’s head?’ Sir William sounded sceptical.

      ‘He was not always a Benedictine,’ de Taillebourg said, ‘but was once a Templar.’

      ‘Ah.’ Sir William began to understand.

      ‘And he knows,’ de Taillebourg continued, ‘where a great treasure is hidden.’

      ‘The Templar treasure?’

      ‘It is said to be hidden in Paris,’ de Taillebourg said, ‘hidden for all these years, but it was only last year that we discovered the Frenchman was alive and in England. The Benedictine, you see, was once the sacrist of the Templars. You know what that is?’

      ‘Don’t patronize me, father,’ Sir William said coldly.

      De Taillebourg inclined his head to acknowledge the justice of the reproof. ‘If any man knows where the Templar treasure is,’ he went on humbly, ‘it is the man who was their sacrist, and now, we hear, that man lives in Durham.’

      Sir William took the sword away. Everything the priest said made sense. The Knights Templar, an order of monkish soldiers who were sworn to protect the pilgrims’ roads between Christendom and Jerusalem, had become rich beyond the dreams of kings, and that was foolish for it made kings jealous and jealous kings make bad enemies. The King of France was just such an enemy and he had ordered the Templars destroyed: to which end a heresy had been cooked up, lawyers had effortlessly distorted truths and the Templars had been suppressed. Their leaders had been burned and their lands confiscated, but their treasures, the fabled treasures of the Templars, had never been found and the order’s sacrist, the man responsible for keeping those treasures safe, would surely know their fate, ‘When were the Templars disbanded?’ Sir William asked.

      ‘Twenty-nine years ago,’ de Taillebourg answered.

      So the sacrist could yet be alive, Sir William thought. He would be an old man, but alive. Sir William sheathed his sword, utterly convinced by de Taillebourg’s tale, yet none of it was true except that there was an old monk in Durham, but he was not French and he had never been a Templar and, in all probability, knew nothing of any Templar treasure. But Bernard de Taillebourg had spoken persuasively, and the story of the missing hoard was one that echoed through Europe, spoken of whenever men gathered to exchange tales of marvels. Sir William wanted the story to be true and that, more than anything, persuaded him it was. ‘If you find this man,’ he said to de Taillebourg, ‘and if he lives, and if you then find the treasure, then it will be because we made it possible. It will be because we brought you here, and because we protected you on your journey to Durham.’

      ‘True, Sir William,’ de Taillebourg said.

      Sir William was surprised by the priest’s ready agreement. He frowned, shifted in his saddle and stared down at the Dominican as if gauging the priest’s trustworthiness. ‘So we must share in the treasure,’ he demanded.

      ‘Of course,’ de Taillebourg said instantly.

      Sir William was no fool. Let the priest go into Durham and he would never see the man again. Sir William twisted in his saddle and stared north towards the cathedral. The Templar treasure was said to be the gold from Jerusalem, more gold than men could dream of, and Sir William was honest enough to know that he did not possess the resources to divert some of that golden trove to Liddesdale. The King must be used. David II might be a weak lad, scarce breeched and too softened by having lived in France, but kings had resources denied to knights and David of Scotland could talk to Philip of France as a near equal, while any message from William Douglas would be ignored in Paris. ‘Jamie!’ he snapped at his nephew who was one of the two men guarding de Taillebourg. ‘You and Dougal will take this priest back to the King.’

      ‘You must let me go!’ Bernard de Taillebourg protested.

      Sir William leaned from his saddle. ‘You want me to cut off your priestly balls to make myself a purse?’ He smiled at the Dominican, then looked back to his nephew. ‘Tell the King this French priest has news that concerns us and tell him to hold him safe till I return.’ Sir William had decided that if there was an ancient French monk in Durham then he should be questioned by the King of Scotland’s servants and the monk’s information, if he had any, could then be sold to the French King. ‘Take him, Jamie,’ he commanded, ‘and watch that damned servant! Take his sword.’

      James Douglas grinned at the thought of a mere priest and his servant giving him trouble, but he still obeyed his uncle. He demanded that the servant yield his sword and, when the man bridled at the order, Jamie half drew his own blade. De Taillebourg sharply instructed his servant to obey and the sword was sullenly handed over. Jamie Douglas grinned as he hung the sword from his own belt. ‘They’ll not bother me, uncle.’

      ‘Away with you,’ Sir William said and watched as his nephew and his companion, both well mounted on fine stallions captured from the Percy lands in Northumberland, escorted the priest and his servant back towards the King’s encampment. Doubtless the priest would complain to the King and David, so much weaker than his great father, would worry about the displeasure of God and the French, but David would worry a great deal more about Sir William’s displeasure. Sir William smiled at that thought, then saw that some of his men on the far side of the field had dismounted. ‘Who the devil told you to unhorse?’ he shouted angrily, then he saw they were not his men at all, but strangers revealed by the shredding mist, and he remembered his instincts and cursed himself for wasting time on the priest.

      And as he cursed so the first arrow flickered from the south. The sound it made was a hiss, feather in air, then it struck home and the noise was like a pole-axe cleaving flesh. It was a heavy thump edged with the tearing of steel in muscle and ending with the harsh scrape of blade on bone, and then a grunt from the victim and a heartbeat of silence.

      And after that the

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