Vagabond

‘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, not unless you were worthy.’ He paused and a look of puzzlement, almost amazement, showed briefly on his face. ‘You had to be worthy, he said, to know what the Grail was, but if you were worthy then it would shine like the very sun. It would dazzle you.’

De Taillebourg leaned close to the monk. ‘You believed him?’

‘I believe Ralph Vexille was mad,’ Brother Collimore said.

‘The mad sometimes speak truth,’ de Taillebourg said.

‘I think,’ Brother Collimore went on as though the Inquisitor had not spoken, ‘that God gave Ralph Vexille a burden too great for him to bear.’

‘The Grail?’ de Taillebourg asked.

‘Could you bear it? I could not.’

‘So where is it?’ de Taillebourg persisted. ‘Where is it?’

Brother Collimore looked puzzled again. ‘How would I know?’

‘It was not at Hookton,’ de Taillebourg said, ‘Guy Vexille searched for it.’

‘Guy Vexille?’ Brother Collimore asked.

‘The man who came from the south, brother, to fight for France and ended in my custody.’

‘Poor man,’ the monk said.

Father de Taillebourg shook his head. ‘I merely showed him the rack, let him feel the pincers and smell the smoke. Then I offered him life and he told me all he knew and he told me the Grail was not at Hookton.’

The old monk’s face twitched in a smile. ‘You did not hear me, father. If a man is unworthy then the Grail would not reveal itself. Guy Vexille could not have been worthy.’

‘But Father Ralph did possess it?’ De Taillebourg sought reassurance. ‘You think he really possessed it?’

‘I did not say as much,’ the monk said.

‘But you believe he did?’ de Taillebourg asked and, when Brother Collimore said nothing, he nodded to himself. ‘You do believe he did.’ He slipped off the bed, going to his knees and a look of awe came to his face as his linked hands clawed at each other. ‘The Grail,’ he said in a tone of utter wonder.

‘He was mad,’ Brother Collimore warned him.

De Taillebourg was not listening. ‘The Grail,’ he said again, ‘le Graal!’ He was clutching himself now, rocking back and forth in ecstasy. ‘Le Graal!’

‘The mad say things,’ Brother Collimore said, ‘and they do not know what they say.’

‘Or God speaks through them,’ de Taillebourg said fiercely.

‘Then God sometimes has a terrible tongue,’ the old monk replied.

‘You must tell me,’ de Taillebourg insisted, ‘all that Father Ralph told you.’

‘But it was so long ago!’

‘It is le Graal!’ de Taillebourg shouted and, in his frustration, he shook the old man. ‘It is le Graal! Don’t tell me you have forgotten.’ He glanced through the window and saw, raised on the far ridge, the red saltire on the yellow banner of the Scottish King and beneath it a mass of grey-mailed men with their thicket of lances, pikes and spears. No English foe was in sight, but de Taillebourg would not have cared if all the armies of Christendom were come to Durham for he had found his vision, it was the Grail, and though the world should tremble with armies all about him, he would pursue it.

And an old monk talked.

The horseman with the rusted mail, broken-strapped breastplate and scallop-decorated shield named himself as Lord Outhwaite of Witcar. ‘Do you know the place?’ he asked Thomas.

‘Witcar, my lord? I’ve not heard of it.’

‘Not heard of Witcar! Dear me. And it’s such a pleasant place, very pleasant. Good soil, sweet water, fine hunting. Ah, there you are!’ This last was to a small boy mounted on a large horse and leading a second destrier by the reins. The boy wore a jupon that had the scalloped cross emblazoned in yellow and red and, tugging the warhorse behind him, he spurred towards his master.

‘Sorry, my lord,’ the boy said, ‘but Hereward do haul away, he do.’ Hereward was evidently the destrier he led. ‘And he hauled me clean away from you!’

‘Give him to this young man here,’ Lord Outhwaite said. ‘You can ride?’ he added earnestly to Thomas.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Hereward is a handful though, a rare handful. Kick him hard to let him know who’s master.’

A score of men appeared in Lord Outhwaite’s livery, all mounted and all with armour in better repair than their master’s. Lord Outhwaite turned them back south. ‘We were marching on Durham,’ he told Thomas, ‘just minding our own affairs as good Christians should, and the wretched Scots appeared! We won’t make Durham now. I was married there, you know? In the cathedral. Thirty-two years ago, can you credit it?’ He beamed happily at Thomas. ‘And my dear Margaret still lives, God be praised. She’d like to hear your tale. You really were at Wadicourt?’

‘I was, my lord.’