don’t have to explain anything,’ Sir Geoffrey said, ‘my lord.’ The last two words were added reluctantly.
‘I should fillet you now,’ his lordship said mildly, ‘then have you stuffed and mounted on a pole to scare the crows away from my newly born lambs. I could show you at Skipton Fair, Sir Geoffrey, as an example to other sinners.’ He seemed to consider that idea for a few heartbeats, then shook his head. ‘Just get on your horse,’ he said, ‘and fight the Scots today instead of quarrelling with your fellow Englishman.’ He turned in his saddle and raised his voice so all the archers and men-at-arms could hear him. ‘All of you, back down the ridge! And quick, before the Scots come and drive you off! You want to join those rascals in the fire?’ He pointed to the three Scottish prisoners who were now nothing but dark shrivelled shapes in the bright flames, then he beckoned Thomas and changed his language to French. ‘You’ve really come from France?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Then do me the courtesy, my dear fellow, of speaking with me.’
They went south, leaving a broken stone cross, burned men and arrow-struck corpses in a thinning mist, where the army of Scotland had come to Durham.
Bernard de Taillebourg took the crucifix from about his neck and kissed the writhing figure of Christ that was pinned to the small wooden cross. ‘God be with you, my brother,’ he murmured to the old man lying on the stone bench cushioned by a palliasse of straw and a folded blanket. A second blanket, just as thin, covered the old man whose hair was white and wispy.
‘It is cold,’ Brother Hugh Collimore said feebly, ‘so cold.’ He spoke in French, though to de Taillebourg the old monk’s accent was barbarous for it was the French of Normandy and of England’s Norman rulers.
‘Winter comes,’ de Taillebourg said. ‘You can smell it on the wind.’
‘I am dying’ – Brother Collimore turned his red-rimmed eyes on his visitor – ‘and can smell nothing. Who are you?’
‘Take this,’ de Taillebourg said and gave his crucifix to the old monk, then he stoked up the wood fire, put two more logs on the revived blaze and sniffed a jug of mulled wine that sat in the hearth. It was not too rank and so he poured some into a horn cup. ‘At least you have a fire,’ he said, stooping to peer through the small window, no bigger than an arrow slit, that faced west across the encircling Wear. The monks’ hospital was on the slope of Durham’s hill, beneath the cathedral, and de Taillebourg could see the Scottish men-at-arms carrying their lances through the straggling remnants of mist on the skyline. Few of the mail-clad men had horses, he noticed, suggesting that the Scots planned to fight on foot.
Brother Collimore, his face pale and his voice frail, gripped the small cross. ‘The dying are allowed a fire,’ he said, as though he had been accused of indulging himself in luxury. ‘Who are you?’
‘I come from Cardinal Bessières,’ de Taillebourg said, ‘in Paris, and he sends you his greetings. Drink this, it will warm you.’ He held the mulled wine towards the old man.
Collimore refused the wine. His eyes were cautious. ‘Cardinal Bessières?’ he asked, his tone implying that the name was new to him.
‘The Pope’s legate in France.’ De Taillebourg was surprised that the monk did not recognize the name, but thought perhaps the dying man’s ignorance would be useful. ‘And the Cardinal is a man,’ the Dominican went on, ‘who loves the Church as fiercely as he loves God.’
‘If he loves the Church,’ Collimore said with a surprising force, ‘then he will use his influence to persuade the Holy Father to take the papacy back to Rome.’ The statement exhausted him and he closed his eyes. He had never been a big man, but now, beneath his lice-ridden blanket, he seemed to have shrunk to the size of a ten-year-old and his white hair was thin and fine like a small infant’s. ‘Let him move the papacy to Rome,’ he said again, though feebly, ‘for all our troubles have worsened since it was moved to Avignon.’
‘Cardinal Bessières wants nothing more than to move the Holy Father back to Rome,’ de Taillebourg lied, ‘and perhaps you, brother, can help us achieve that.’
Brother Collimore appeared not to hear the words. He had opened his eyes again, but just lay gazing up at the whitewashed stones of the arched ceiling. The room was low, chill and white. Sometimes, when the summer sun was high, he could see the flicker of reflected water on the white stones. In heaven, he thought, he would be forever within sight of crystal rivers and under a warm sun. ‘I was in Rome once,’ he said wistfully. ‘I remember going down some steps into a church where a choir sang. So beautiful.’
‘The Cardinal wants your help,’ de Taillebourg said.
‘There was a saint there.’ Collimore was frowning, trying to remember. ‘Her bones were yellow.’
‘So the Cardinal sent me to see you, brother,’ de Taillebourg said softly. His servant, dark-eyed and elegant, watched from the door.
‘Cardinal Bessières,’ Brother Collimore said in a whisper.
‘He 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
