‘I have to go there!’ The Dominican climbed from his knees and, seizing his staff, set off towards the mist-shrouded city.
Sir William spurred his horse in front of the Frenchman. ‘What’s your hurry, father?’ he demanded, and de Taillebourg tried to dodge past the Scotsman, but there was a scraping sound and suddenly a blade, cold and heavy and grey, was in the Dominican’s face. ‘I asked you, father, what the hurry was?’ Sir William’s voice was as cold as his sword; then, alerted by one of his men, he glanced over and saw that the priest’s servant had half drawn his own weapon. ‘If your bastard man doesn’t sheathe his blade, father’ – Sir William spoke softly, but there was a terrible menace in his voice – ‘I’ll have his collops for my supper.’
De Taillebourg said something in French and the servant reluctantly pushed the blade fully home. The priest looked up at Sir William. ‘Have you no fear for your mortal soul?’ he asked.
Sir William smiled, paused and looked about the hilltop, but he saw nothing untoward in the shredding fog and decided his earlier nervousness had been the result of imagination. The result, perhaps, of too much beef, pork and wine the previous night. The Scots had feasted in the captured home of Durham’s prior and the prior lived well, judging by his larder and cellar, but rich suppers gave men premonitions. ‘I keep my own priest to worry about my soul,’ Sir William said, then raised the tip of his sword to force de Taillebourg’s face upwards. ‘Why does a Frenchman have business with our enemies in Durham?’ he demanded.
‘It is Church business,’ de Taillebourg said firmly.
‘I don’t give a damn whose business it is,’ Sir William said, ‘I still wish to know.’
‘Obstruct me,’ de Taillebourg said, pushing the sword blade away, ‘and I shall have the King punish you and the Church condemn you and the Holy Father send your soul to eternal perdition. I shall summon—’
‘Shut your goddamned bloody face!’ Sir William said. ‘Do you think, priest, that you can frighten me? Our King is a puppy and the Church does what its paymasters tell it to do.’ He moved the blade back, this time resting it against the Dominican’s neck. ‘Now tell me your business. Tell me why a Frenchman stays with us instead of going home with his countrymen. Tell me what you want in Durham.’
Bernard de Taillebourg clutched 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,’
