He was so easy to talk to, that Juan spoke up. ‘Father?’ he asked. ‘Is it right that the church has so much wealth?’
Every head turned. Grice and Courtney, playing dice, ceased. Sam Bibbo put down the bowstring he was making.
Father Pierre Thomas shrugged. ‘There is no easy answer,’ he said. ‘Our church is composed entirely of sinners — do you know that?’ He laughed. ‘Not a single sinless man amongst us since Jesus. Men are venal and greedy. Proud. In fact, men commit sins every day, and men of the church are no different. But the sins do not make the words of Christ less important.’ He rocked his head back and forth. ‘I have avoided your question — your true question — like a true man of law. Here it is, then. The church needs money, because the church must have money to face Islam, to save Constantinople, to feed the poor, to guide and protect pilgrims, and to build hospitals, schools and orphanages. It needs this money. But I do not say that the church uses the money this way.’ He looked away. ‘And that should make every Christian angry.’
The next day, Grice dismounted to get something out of his horse’s hoof. We were on a narrow trail, going almost straight up, or so it seemed to me. I was the last man, covering the rear against bandits.
Grice looked back at me and waved. When I came up, I expected some teasing. Instead, he said, ‘Never met one like him. The priest.’
I nodded.
‘If they was like him, the world would be a better place,’ Grice continued.
‘He saved my life,’ I said.
Grice nodded, as if something complex had been explained. ‘Ah!’ he said.
We practised every day the weather allowed. I remember Fiore unhorsing me with one of his infernal tricks in a meadow so high that it seemed I’d fall to my death. Instead, I just hurt my hip and cursed the Friulian for two days while it healed. But I was a better lance and a better blade, and I could now hit Fiore occasionally. More than that, I could go a long time not being hit myself. We practised odd things, too — one man against two or three, on horse and foot. Cuts with sharp swords; covers and parries. Facing a lance with a sword.
Sometimes we were merely playing. It’s something I have seen with troubadours and musicians. They will simply play an instrument, making odd sounds, slapping the sound board or thrumming the strings to see what new thing they can find. Thanks to Fiore, I saw weapons in a new way.
De la Motte took to the whole thing immediately, grinning as Fiore hit him in the head without any apparent effort. He grunted.
‘Perhaps we could be a travelling sword school,’ he said. ‘I’ll be the fool who makes the crowd laugh and throw pennies.’
Perhaps I tell this badly. It was a fine trip.
The Green Count was holding his court at Turin. He had a fine castle there and we were expected. I had had days to consider what it would be like to see Richard Musard. Days to consider his betrayal, or simply his inaction. Days to think what he must have thought of me.
The last night, in another ruined chapel, I knelt before Father Pierre Thomas and said my confession. When we were done, I placed my hands in his. ‘Father, I need your. . advice,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘I know absolutely nothing of how to use a sword.’ His delivery was perfect, and we both laughed. ‘But I am at your service, my son. What advice?’
‘You will, I think, remember how you found me?’ I asked.
He smiled. ‘A sinner. About to go to hell unshriven.’
I nodded. It was succinct and damningly accurate. ‘Yes, Father,’ I said. ‘Do you remember what led me to that place?’
‘A life of violence?’ he said gently.
‘Yes, Father. But. .’ I began to tell him of Richard Musard.
He raised a hand. ‘You love this man?’ he asked.
I paused for perhaps ten beats of my heart. ‘Yes, Father. He is — was — my closest friend.’
Father Pierre Thomas shrugged. Around us was the ancient chapel. Above Father Pierre Thomas’s head, an image of the lamb flickered in the firelight, and the Archangel Michael’s sword seemed to move. ‘Then that is all there is,’ he said. ‘What are this man’s sins to you? You see to your own. He betrayed you? Perhaps, and perhaps not, but our Lord was quite firm on what you should do: turn the other cheek.’
I hesitated.
Father Pierre Thomas laughed. ‘It is sometimes as if we have two religions; two versions of Christianity. One for the knights and one for the rest of us. Listen, my son. There is but one way. Jesus did not tell me to turn the other cheek and you to fight.’
I confess I smiled, too.
He was a good priest, but I’m not sure he would have done well commanding routiers. And yet. . sometimes I wonder if he might not have converted them all. He was not like other men.
We arrived at Turin. The Green Count was one of the richest nobles in Christendom, and we were escorted by his uniformed sergeants to an inn and housed like kings. The inn itself was prettier than many great houses in England, despite the mountains and the vast, grim fortress and the bad roads. We had blue ceilings, gilt stars, frescos and coats of arms everywhere.
And baths. Par dieu, there were bath houses, with vats of piping hot water, pools of icy cold water and giggling girls in thin linen shifts with towels. I tell you, messieurs, that the infldel promise their warriors a paradise populated by virgins, which has never seemed so attractive to me. But a paradise full of bath houses. .
At any rate, we were clean, and as neat as an army of loaned servants could make us. The Court of Savoy kept great ceremony, and the Count was as eager for us to appear magnificent as we were ourselves — all of us except Father Piere, who didn’t seem interested in any of it.
Still, I went and waited on him as his own squire when he put on his bishop’s robes, and before my eyes, the son of a peasant turned into a great lord of the church. Only the slight twinkle in his eye revealed that he held some secret amusement at his rank. I was learning about irony from Cicero — still in my baggage with Ramon Llull. I think that Father Pierre viewed his own promotion to legate with irony.
I was resplendent in my red surcoat over spotless armour. By chance, my white cross on my red surcoat was the same device the Savoyards wore. Fra Peter wore his white cross on black.
We filled the courtyard of the inn, seeing to last-minute buckles; William Grice’s swordbelt had broken, so there I was, my breath steaming in the cold winter air, snow falling and my fingers red, sewing like mad despite my finery and my harness. Grice was mortified — first, to be so shabby, and second, to be holding everyone up.
The Green Count’s escort arrived.
And, of course, it was commanded by Richard Musard.
I knew him instantly. I’d thought it through ten times since confessing, but I didn’t do any of the things I had so carefully planned, because I had a needle in my mouth and an awl in my hand.
I met his eye. He had a basinet on, but his visor was strapped up. He wore a beautiful harness and his surcoat had a coat of arms. He wore a fancy silver collar over the surcoat. His dark skin contrasted beautifully with his steel-silver helmet. He looked like a military saint in a painting.
His eye went right over me — about six times. I tried to watch him while I sewed Grice’s sword belt, and I suspect I both cursed and blasphemed, but I got the belt patched and began to replace my heavy needle in my precious needle case.
And there he was. His horse’s head was in my chest.
I looked up and grinned. ‘Hello, Richard,’ I said.
I’d say fifty emotions passed over his face. His eyes widened.
He turned his horse when one of his men-at-arms called, ‘Sir Richard!’ and he rode away. He flicked a backward glance at me and I got to see that he had golden spurs.