‘Robert, I believe, knew more than he told me about the garrison. It was through him that you hired all the men for the Château Gaillard, wasn’t it? Through him you collected together Jean and the others, so when his usefulness was done it was only right that he should also be silenced for ever. But why you killed Paul, I do not know. Unless it was chance. You happened upon him as you walked the streets of Paris.’
‘Why should I kill a man for seeing me?’ Pierre said reasonably, his hands outstretched.
‘He had been looking for someone,’ Baldwin said. ‘But perhaps … perhaps he found another when he had been released. Did he see you leaving some other place where you ought not to have been?’
‘I do not know what you are talking about, my friend. And I think I have heard enough wild accusations. I would like to see my old friend Arnaud. Where is he?’
‘Let us take you to him,’ Simon said with a short grin. ‘Follow me, Father.’
Pierre walked along behind the fellow. Really, these English were growing too arrogant for words. He did not like the way that the other man walked behind him, either. It made him feel rather like a prisoner.
They were heading towards a small chapel, he saw, and he frowned quickly, but then shrugged. Perhaps they had some idea that he would tell them more in God’s house — but if so they would be disappointed. He had no intention of telling them anything more at all.
His journey had been so long, from those far-off days when he and Arnaud had first arrived in Pamiers ten or more years ago, frustrated and bitter to be dropped in so far-away and wild an area. They had stopped in that little place near a village, where, God help him, he had been so sorely tempted by that woman. And yes, he had taken her. Against her wishes. And killed her afterwards.
It was an act which was uniquely vile in the eyes of many, but for him it was a necessary evacuation of all those humours which sent a man mad. All knew that men must expel the foul liquid every so often, and she had been a useful receptacle. Nothing more. Then her husband returned from the wars, and he had lived in fear for a while that the fellow might come and try to punish him for his aberration. But he hadn’t. In fact, although Pierre had ordered him to be followed and spied upon, hoping that he would display the same heretical tendencies as so many others, and that he might be able to have him arrested and tortured, Jean had simply been quiet. It was almost as though he had lived his entire life in the last year or two, and wanted nothing so much as to sit back and endure until his end.
But then one day he opened his mouth in a tavern, and by chance one of Bishop Fournier’s men was in the room at the same time. He was reported, arrested, questioned in detail, and gaoled. Only with the help of Arnaud was he released into the Comte’s hands, and thence taken up to Normandy.
He entered the dark chapel, and trailed after the bailiff to the altar, where three bodies remained. There was a man there at their side, praying, and Pierre suddenly recognised Peter of Oxford. ‘My friend, how are you?’ he said with a smile.
But Peter was not so friendly as he had been on their journey here. ‘Père Pierre. God save you.’
It was not the fulsome response he had expected, but no matter. Pierre walked to the bodies. ‘One of these is Arnaud?’
Peter motioned with his hand. ‘He’s there.’
Baldwin gestured. ‘Please satisfy yourself it is the correct man.’
‘Ah. I am sorry to see that it was Arnaud. The poor man.’
‘He was an executioner,’ Simon pointed out.
‘But a good man … tormented, but he tried his best. Still, it was a terrible thing he did. Robert de Chatillon, whom John de Sapy found dead in his chamber. This Arnaud was there with John. I do not know which killed Chatillon, but I would be inclined to think that it was Arnaud.’
‘What?’ Peter said. He was frowning at Pierre.
‘I think so. I find it hard to accept that a knight, an English knight, could execute a man in that manner. But a torturer and executioner? It would be natural for him.’
‘You blame him for Chatillon’s death?’
‘I only say what I believe happened.’
‘I suppose you blame him for Comte de Foix’s death as well?’
‘I have to assume that …’
‘I should warn you, Pierre, that I spoke to Arnaud before his death,’ Peter said firmly. His face showed revulsion. ‘He confessed his sins. He had time. And he told me all he had done. And for whom.’
‘You cannot repeat things told to you under the seal of the confessional,’ Pierre said, aghast.
‘No. But I can call on all the angels and archangels and all the saints in heaven to witness your words now, Père. For what you say here, in this holy house of God, must be the truth, no matter what. A lie in here would be the same as a lie told barefaced to God Himself. Do you dare perjure yourself in here?’
Père Pierre felt his resolve slipping. ‘You seek to accuse me?’
‘No. I only listen. Along with all God’s Host.’
‘I will not remain here to be insulted!’
‘You are free to leave,’ Baldwin said.
Pierre took one long look at him, then turned on his heel and marched from the chapel. Behind him he heard the knight coming after him, but once he was outside the following steps stopped, and he shot a look over his shoulder to see the knight standing in the doorway, watching.
There was nothing to it. Nothing at all. They could do nothing against him, that much was certain. The King’s anger would be fearful, were they to do anything to him. No, he was secure.
He was crossing the yard when he heard bellowing voices, laughter, and then a shriek. Turning, he saw a little boy being up-ended over the shoulder of some man as he ran. On the way, he kicked a ball by accident, and it fell a short distance from Père Pierre. He stooped to it, and picked it up. It was a simple wooden ball, solid and unyielding, chipped and dented where it had been dropped or thrown. He tossed it into the air and caught it, smiling.
Then the boy caught sight of him and his face seemed to constrict, somehow, his eyes widening, and then his mouth opened and he uttered the panicked, mortal shriek of a soul in distress.
And Père Pierre’s face changed. He stopped and stared, at first in astonishment, and then disgust. He put his hand to his belt as though to draw a knife, but his action was seen. Ricard held tight to Charlie, and Simon and Baldwin hurried to them.
‘The young bastard should have died in London,’ the good père declared. He spat at the ground, then spun and marched from the château.
Simon and Baldwin sat down at a table with Peter of Oxford in the main hall with jugs of wine and earthenware cups.
‘So, Baldwin, what was that all about?’ Peter asked.
‘The boy recognised him. It was something of a gamble on my part, but I thought it might work. The lad’s apparent calmness in the face of all seemed to me to show that he had not seen the actual death of the woman or her husband, but I felt sure, from all Ricard told us, that he must have been scared. After all, the fellow was found hiding himself in a little hutch in the yard, if Ricard was telling the truth. And yet he went with the men happily enough. So I think he was there when the woman and her man arrived home with all the musicians, and they were left in the yard to sleep off the drinks. Meanwhile, I think that the priest came to the door. The boy was probably woken by all the noise, and heard the priest’s arrival. Maybe the woman woke him, though, and sent him to his hiding place.’
‘We could ask the lad,’ Simon suggested.
‘He is three or so, Simon. Would he understand what we were asking?’
‘He is a very bright fellow.’
‘Perhaps. But to ask him about this would undoubtedly upset him. Better, I am sure, to guess, and to leave him alone. I do not want to upset my witness. So, she woke him, perhaps, and sent him out. He had seen the priest, though, through some hole in a floorboard, let us conjecture, so he recognised the man. And then he fled.’