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“It is, my liege.”
“My liege, my lord, my lord, my liege. You used to call me Dickon, and beat me if I failed to please your every whim.”
“True, my liege.” St. Clair permitted himself a tiny smile. “But that was many years ago, when you were but a boy and needed shaping, as all boys do from time to time. Now you are Count of Poitou and Anjou, Duke of Normandy and of Aquitaine, and Lord of Brittany, Maine, and Gascony. I imagine few would dare call you Dickon to your face today.”
“Hah!” Richard’s eyes gleamed with delight. “Dare call me Dickon? Few would dare even to say what you said there. I’m glad to see your balls have not gone soft.” He turned to de Sablé. “This is the man who taught me all I know of weaponry and warfare, Robert—taught me the elements of using sword and lance and axe and crossbow long before William Marshall of England came into my life, taught me to strive every day for perfection, to lift and throw, to build muscles. Marshall gets the credit for my youthful training, but I had learned most of what I know from this man here while I was yet a stripling lad. I’ve told you this before, I know, but now he stands before you in the flesh: the man who made me who I am.”
May God forfend! The thought sprang unbidden to Sir Henry’s mind, for although the compliments were flattering, there was much about who Richard Plantagenet was that scandalized every moral fiber in the elderly knight’s being. He had taught the boy to joust and fight, that was certainly true; he had dinned weapons craft and military discipline into him from the age of eight until he was fourteen. And he had done it with a stern, single-minded tenacity born not of love, or even of admiration, but of duty, because in those days Henry was Master-at-Arms to the boy’s mother, Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine. Eleanor who had been the Queen of France before she divorced her husband and married King Henry II of England to become Queen there, retaining her Duchy of Aquitaine, the largest and most powerful fiefdom in France. She had once been called the strongest woman in Christendom, but her strength had somehow failed her sons, of whom Richard was the third born and said to be his mother’s favorite. Even in his boyhood, notwithstanding that he was soon known as a swordsman and fighter without equal among his peers, there were aspects of the young man’s character that both chilled and repelled Henry St. Clair. And now, after long years of not having set eyes on his liege lord, he found he had no slightest wish to be regarded, even in error, as the man who had made Richard Plantagenet into who he was.
“Sit, man, sit you down. This is your own house and I am but a guest in it. Sit you and join us and tell us what you have been up to, hiding yourself away here for all these years.”
Ector stepped forward and pulled a seat out from the table for his master, and Sir Henry sat, arranging the folds of his cloak carefully so that they did not impede his movements.
“Here, have some capon,” Richard growled, pushing the serving platter towards his host before Henry could say anything. “Nothing wrong with your kitchen staff, I’ll give them that. My meat never tastes this good. Spices or something…” Richard savaged his meat again, his short red beard glistening with grease. De Sablé ate more fastidiously, nibbling at his fowl rather than rending it, and St. Clair took the opportunity to examine him more closely. The Angevin knight appeared to be in his late thirties, perhaps five years older than his liege, and his face was nobly formed, with clear brown eyes above a long, straight nose and a jaw that was clearly square beneath his spade-shaped dark brown beard. It was a stern face, yet not devoid, Henry guessed, of either humor or compassion, and he wondered briefly who the fellow was and why he should be here alone, in the company of Richard Plantagenet, one of the most powerful and mercurial men in all Christendom. Henry pulled a wooden trencher towards him, then served himself a wing from one of the cold capons. It held little meat, but he was not hungry. His mind was racing with the possibilities and portents of this unexpected visit. He picked up the meat and then laid it down again untasted.
“I was saddened to hear but recently that your father is still at odds with you over the succession. I had hoped that question might have been resolved long before now.”
“Aye, as did we all. And it was, in truth, until the old boar changed his mind again. He is a stubborn old pig, for one who thinks of himself as a lion. I will have the better of him yet, though. God’s throat, I will. Wait you but a while and see with all the world. He’ll make me heir to England ere he dies, and he will not last long now, pray God.”
Even although he knew there had been little love between the father and son, and he had heard reports of how the old King was visibly and rapidly declining, Henry St. Clair was nonetheless affronted to hear the son speak of his father’s impending death so callously. Before he could think of anything to say, however, Richard continued.
“Still, the old boar did well for himself during his life, I’ll grant him that…and for me, as well, now that I think of it. Built me an empire, did he not? I’ve detested him all my life and even hated him at times, and yet I can weep for him, too, upon occasion. He may be a miserable tyrant but by God, he has been a man, and a king, to reckon with. I swear I know not how he and my mother lived together for so long without killing each other.”
“Perhaps because he has kept her in jail for the past sixteen years.”
Richard’s head jerked back and he looked at his old tutor in shock, and then his face broke into a grin and he loosed a great guffaw.
“By God, you have the right of it. That probably had much to do with their mutual survival.”
“How is your mother now?”
“Wondrous well, from what my people in England tell me. But one of these fine days she will regain her freedom, and then she will probably become more dangerous and unpredictable than ever! Eleanor will never finish pursuing her own designs.”
St. Clair dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I cannot speak to that, my lord, for we live quietly here and are seldom made aware of what is happening beyond our gates. We seldom receive company nowadays, and since my wife, Amanda, died, more than a year ago, I have sought little to do with the world beyond my walls.”
Richard’s response was instantaneous, emphatic and not at all what St. Clair had wished to hear: “Then you need to get out more and move about in the world. Which is why I am here this night.” Having uttered these ominous words the Duke fell silent, kneading a ball of bread between thumb and finger, his face pensive as he stared towards the roaring fire in the great hearth. When he spoke next, his words surprised the older man. “I had not heard of your lady wife’s death, and I know how much she meant to you…That must have hit you hard, my friend, and it most certainly explains your ignorance of affairs in the world beyond your gates, as you say, so we will talk no more of that.”
He stood up and removed his leather jerkin, and tossed it behind him to land on the chair that held their weather-stained cloaks. Sir Henry raised a beckoning finger to Ector and pointed to the garments, and his steward moved immediately to collect them.
“Your chambers should be ready soon, my liege, and you’ll sleep warm and comfortably. In the meantime, we will have your mantles dried and cleaned, ready for you when you arise.”
Richard grunted and watched idly as Ector left the anteroom, his arms laden with the two heavy cloaks and the Duke’s jerkin. Then, when the doors closed behind the steward, he took his chair from the table and dragged it close to the roaring fire, where he subsided into it again, his feet stretched out towards the flames. His golden-bearded chin rested upon his chest, lower lip jutting in thought, and his fingers brushing absently at his personal crest, with its single left-facing rampant lion richly embroidered in gold wire against a blood-red shield-shaped background on the left breast of his tunic. The silence stretched, and when it became clear that the Duke had nothing more to say for the time being, St. Clair cleared his throat gently and spoke over the crackling of the fire, attempting to ignore the fluttering apprehension in his breast.
“You began to speak of why you came here tonight, my liege, something to do with my need to go out and about more. Am I permitted to enquire more closely about what you meant?”
Richard’s eyes flared open, betraying that he had been on the point of nodding into sleep. He made a harrumphing noise in his throat and sat up straighter, turning in his seat to look over to where St. Clair sat opposite de Sablé at the table. “Aye, you are. I have need of you, my friend. I need you with me, by my side.”
Henry fought to quell a surge of dismay upon hearing that. He allowed his face to express a lack of understanding as he asked, “Here, my liege, in Anjou?”
“No, damnation! In Outremer—the Holy Land.” He glared at St. Clair for a moment, then clearly remembered what the older man had said about his detachment from worldly affairs. “I have been in close communication with the new Pope, Clement, these past few months. It seems we have had a plethora of popes in this past year, would you not agree? Urban the Third, dead in December of the year before last, then another Gregory, the Eighth, for two short months until last March, and now the third Clement, anxious to proceed with this new war after barely a year in office…I suppose you heard about my father’s commitment to winning back the Kingdom of Jerusalem and the Holy Cross for Gregory, last January?”
St. Clair shook his head, wide eyed. “No, my lord, I think not. Or if I did, the tidings did not penetrate my grief. My wife died mere weeks after Pope Urban’s death.”
Richard looked hard at the older man, then jerked his head in a terse nod. “Aye, well, Henry swore an oath to Pope Gregory in Gisors, about a month before we heard of Gregory’s death, hard on the heels of Urban’s passing. In truth, he made the pledge in Gregory’s absence, to Archbishop Josias of Tyre, the only Christian see left occupied in all of Outremer. Anyway, the old man committed us all to the war, myself and Philip in particular, even though I was not there—but that should not surprise you, as well as you know him and me. The old lion saw my mere absence as no impediment to his paternal dedication of my life to the papal cause.”
Although St. Clair was feigning interest in this information, he felt that his persistent ignorance was irritating Richard, who cleared his throat noisily and returned to what he had been saying. “Well, it is all arranged, it seems. The French levies are to wear red crosses on white surcoats, the English white on red, and the Flemish green—presumably on white. All highly colorful and rich with meaning, I suppose. We are all agreed to set out next year, but of course my father has no intention of going with us. This is all a ploy to set me safely out of the way while he goes about his own designs of putting my useless brother John on England’s throne. He’ll plead infirmity, sickness, and old age when it comes time to rally to the standards, you wait and see.
“But this third Pope Clement is not a stupid man, and he has made that more than plain to me. He can see clearly what’s afoot here—thanks to the snouting and burrowing of his bishops here and in England—and he knows I will not meekly step aside for my useless, half-wit brother. And so he has expressed his sympathy for my concerns, because he has need of me—wants me to take up arms on behalf of Mother Church, in Jerusalem, as leader of his new Frankish army of deliverance that will win back the Frankish Kingdom from the infidels.
“That desire, were it the sole wish that Il Papa had, would leave me unimpressed, since I have intended to lead the army anyway, ever since I first heard of it. But the German Emperor, Barbarossa, jumped into Gregory’s plans headlong before the old Pope died, swearing to raise an army of Teutons more than two hundred thousand strong. And that, of course, has all of Rome, Clement and all his cardinals, a-chittering in terror, because the last thing they need, or want, is to have the Holy Roman Church beholden in any way to German Barbarossa and his Holy Roman Empire, to say nothing of his unholy Roman armies. They could lose the papacy and all the world, were they to sit back and do nothing. And so, I represent the only hope they have of salvaging their Empire of Men’s Minds.”
The Duke plucked at his lower lip and gazed at Henry through narrowed, unfocused eyes before continuing. “Clement is wooing me, seducing me into leading a Frankish host that will counterbalance Barbarossa’s presence in Outremer and keep the scales of power balanced in favor of the papacy. Our force will be no more than half the size of the German levies, for Barbarossa has almost three times the manpower available to him that we have, but Barbarossa is almost as old as my father, and I intend to use that age difference to my advantage. Our Franks will outfight and outperform his stolid German Goths and his Teutonic knights. And in return for providing that superiority, the Pope has offered me a guarantee—but nothing yet in writing, mind you—of the succession to England upon my father’s death.”
St. Clair wrinkled his nose. “I see. And do you trust this pope, my lord?”
“Trust him? Trust a pope? Do you think me mad, Henry?” Richard was grinning now. “What I trust, my friend, is my own ability to know, and to do, what is best for me and for my people. And so I have agreed to his request. I will command the army if he will aid me in the raising of it.
“Philip will be involved in the expedition, of course—but he already is, since the original agreement at Gisors. Since then, of course, in August, he alienated my father forever by chopping down the old man’s favorite elm tree there, the so-called Gisors Elm, beneath which the King had signed so many treaties, including the one of which I speak. We came close to open war over that incident, and I was forced to side with Philip again, in order to protect my own holdings in France, where my liege loyalties are to him.
“Imagine what an upheaval that caused—the threat of a new war among ourselves in Christendom when the major threat to the papacy lies in Outremer! There was panic in the Vatican, and a flurry of papal ambassadors appealing to all of us individually. Philip allowed himself to be persuaded back into the fold and has restated his commitment to the Holy War. With him, to the prosecution of it and hence to our advantage, he will bring the most powerful vassals in his kingdom: Philip the Count of Flanders and Henry of Champagne. For his sins, poor Henry is nephew to both Philip and myself—did you know that? My mother is his grandmother by her first marriage in France. And, for a certainty, Count Stephen of Sancerre will be there. But I will hold command. The new Pope Clement is sworn to that, albeit I am not yet King and Philip has been crowned for ten years now. He is an organizer, our Philip, an administrator without equal, but it is I who am the warrior. If my father lives long enough to see the army raised, he will make noises about wanting to lead it, but that will be a nonsense, as I have said, presented for the show of it.
“Anyway, once the army is ready, we will set sail immediately for Palestine, and by the time we come home victorious, England will be mine beyond dispute, with the support and blessings of the Pope and all his court.”
Richard stood up and braced an arm against the mantel, staring into the coals. St. Clair remained seated, frowning, his eyes following Richard and then shifting to where de Sablé sat watching, his face an inscrutable mask. Now he cleared his throat and spoke out.
“A hundred thousand men, you said, my lord. Forgive me for asking, but…who will pay for that?” He hurried on before Richard could react. “I mean, I know you said your father was the one who made the commitment to the venture, at Gisors, and that is as it should be, but will he carry through with it now, since the events of August, knowing you will prosper thereby?”
“Aye, he will.” Unfazed by the question, Richard spoke over his shoulder, not quite looking at St. Clair but speaking to him nonetheless. “He will, because he knows nothing and will learn nothing about my agreement with Clement. And before you ask me how I can be sure of that, the answer is that Clement needs my goodwill today far more than he will ever need my father’s. And to make doubly sure of that, I have made it clear to the Pope that I will have my own spies watching closely. Should I ever hear the smallest whisper of suspicion that the Holy Father might have been in contact with my profane father, I will resign from the army, quit the Holy Land immediately with all my men, and leave him to work out his own destiny, and that of Holy Mother Church, with Barbarossa and his Germans.”
He thrust himself back from the fire and dragged his chair back to the table, where he leaned against the back of it, his forearms folded across its top. “As for the funding of the venture, I have told you the Church is willing to contribute gold under the terms of my recent agreement with Clement. And there are other sources of supply. That, too, was taken care of at Gisors. We initiated a new tax at that time, both in France and in our Plantagenet territories in England and elsewhere. It is called the Saladin Tax—a good name, don’t you think?” He plainly thought so; St. Clair could see that from the way the Duke almost smiled as he mentioned it. “I thought of it and named it. It will be most useful when I apply it fully in England. Each man in the realm, priests not excluded, will pay a three-year levy of one-tenth of all his income. Some people think it is too onerous, I am told, but that does not concern me. England is the richest jewel in the Plantagenet crown. It can well afford the price I demand of it in such a noble cause. And besides, I would sell London itself to raise this army, could I but find a buyer with sufficient wealth.” He thrust his lower lip out in a pout. “And a noble cause it is, Henry, apart from all the politics involved.”
Having delivered that opinion, the Duke appeared to have reminded himself of his official persona, and he stepped gravely from behind his chair and seated himself before continuing. “This upstart infidel in Palestine, this Sultan dog who calls himself Saladin, has raised his foul head far enough above the sand to beg to be stamped on. He has taken Jerusalem and Acre back from us, although he will not keep them long, and his treachery has resulted in the defeat of the Christian armies in the Holy Land and the death of hundreds of our finest knights, including those of the Temple and the Hospital. Not to mention the loss of the True Cross discovered by the blessed Empress Helena six hundred years ago. For all of those transgressions he deserves to be struck down, and it is all in hand. We will be in Outremer by this time next year, and you will be by my side.”
“I…see…” Henry had to fight hard to keep his voice and his face from betraying any vestige of the consternation and panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. He counted slowly to ten before continuing in a very calm voice, “In what capacity, my liege?”
Richard frowned. He was clearly reaching the end of his limited patience. “Capacity? You’ll be my Master-at-Arms, of course. What other capacity would you expect?”
“Master-at-Arms?” The unexpected declaration left St. Clair floundering.
“Why not? You think yourself unfit?”
“No,” Henry responded, stung by the tone in which the question had been uttered. “Not unfit, but perhaps no longer fitted, if you take my meaning. I am old now, my liege, too long removed from the field. This time next year I will be fifty, and I have not swung a sword in years. In truth, since my wife died I have not even sat astride a horse. There must be younger men at your command, more suited to this task you would have me attempt.”
“Away with that old man nonsense! My father is fifty-nine and he was in the saddle, fighting me tooth and nail in Normandy, mere months ago. Besides, it’s not your muscles I require, Henry, it’s your brains, your skills and experience, your knowledge of men and warfare, and, above all else, your loyalty. I can trust you with absolute certainty, and there are few men about me of whom I can say that.”
“But—”
“No buts, man. Have you not heard a word I’ve said? The ruck of folk, both here and in my soon-to-be new kingdom, think I should take William Marshall of England to my heart. Yes, Marshall is the finest soldier of our time, bar me myself. But William Marshall is my father’s man. Has been all his life, body and soul. So he can never be mine. He has my father’s thinking and his prejudices. He dislikes me and distrusts me and he always has, seeing in me his master’s natural but begrudged heir and resenting me for it. I will not have him come that close to my designs, for I distrust him even more than he does me. Is that plain enough for you?”
“Yes, my liege, it is…yet I would beg the privilege to be allowed to think upon this for a time.”
“Think about it for as long as you wish, Henry, but think not to ignore my wishes. I will have it thus, and you’ll refuse me, as your true liege lord, at your peril.” Richard fell silent then, uncaring of St. Clair’s reaction to his words, and sat stiffly, his brow knitting as he glanced around him, half turning towards the door at his back.
“Where is your son, young André?” He turned back to face his host. “Still out tomcatting at this time of night? He had better be, or I’ll not take kindly to his slighting me.” He stopped, struck by the expression on Sir Henry’s face. “What’s wrong, Henry? Something’s amiss, I see it in your eyes. Where is the lad?”
The door opened at that point and a servant entered, his head obsequiously downcast, and scurried towards the fireplace, clearly intending to add more fuel. Henry raised his hand and voice, stopping the fellow in his tracks and dismissing him instantly. As the man hurried away, closing the door noiselessly behind him, his master stood and removed his heavy mantle, folding it gently over the back of his chair before he himself moved to the fireplace. There he silently set about selecting logs and placing them carefully atop the fire, grateful for the chance to collect his thoughts. He had forgotten how disconcertingly intuitive Richard Plantagenet could be on occasion, and as he placed each log and thrust it down into the coals with his booted foot, he cursed himself for his lack of caution in this particular matter.
Richard, however, had no intention of allowing his host to escape the hook. “Well, Henry? I’m waiting. Where is young André?”
St. Clair straightened his back and sighed, then turned to face the Duke squarely. “I cannot answer that, my liege, for I truly do not know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t know where he is tonight, or you plain don’t know where he is at all?”
“The latter, my liege. I have no knowledge of his whereabouts.”
Richard pushed himself upright in his chair, making a great show of wide-eyed surprise. “No knowledge of his—?” He turned to direct an incredulous look at the silent knight de Sablé. “This is a man who has but one son, Robert, and I have seen him spend more time with the boy in a single day than my old lion spent with myself and all my brothers in his lifetime. And now he does not know his whereabouts?” He turned back then to St. Clair, all trace of raillery vanishing. “When did you see him last, then?”
St. Clair shrugged. “It has been more than two months since last he spent a night beneath this roof.”
“Then whose roof does he sleep beneath tonight? And before you answer that question, know that I noticed how you avoided my last one. Has he a mistress?”
“No, my liege, to the best of my knowledge he has not.”
“So when did you last have contact with him? Take care, Henry.”
St. Clair inhaled deeply, knowing there was no way to avoid answering. “Two days ago, my liege. Contact, but purely indirect, through another. I sent him food and clothing.”
“Food and clothing? Is he a fugitive?”
“Aye, my lord, he is.”
“From whom, and for what cause?”
St. Clair could not bear to look the other man in the eyes any longer, and he turned away towards the fire. “He killed a priest.”
“A priest? By God’s holy arse, this calls for more wine. Pour some for us, and then sit down and tell us your tale, for it sounds as though it must be worth an ear. And wipe the misery from your mien, my friend. Bear in mind the name and status of your audience. We have yet to meet the priest who dares to look at us defiantly, ever since my father dealt with the Englishman Becket. Quick now, man, pour, and then tell us what occurred.”
Heartened in spite of his own pessimism by his liege’s obvious contempt for priests in general and by the influence he knew Richard could bring to bear if he cared to, Henry went to the table and poured three brimming goblets of wine while de Sablé stood up and pulled his chair over to the fireplace by Richard’s. He served both of his guests, then dragged his own chair over to join them before returning for his own cup, sipping from it slowly as he returned thoughtfully to his seat, deciding how he would present his story.
Richard’s patience, notoriously scant at the best of times, wore out rapidly, and as usual it was he who broke the silence.
“So, he killed a priest. How and why?”
“By accident,” St. Clair replied. “Although the intent was there, and the man deserved to die. He was raping a woman.”
“Raping a woman…the priest?”
“Aye, and there were four of them, all priests. André came upon them accidentally, but there was a fast-flowing river between them and him and so he could not close with them quickly enough to stop them. He shouted to let them know he had seen them, fired a crossbow bolt at them, and galloped to the only bridge, half a mile downstream. It was too far. By the time he got back to where they had been, they had killed the woman and three of them had vanished, leaving a fourth man dead. André’s crossbow bolt, loosed at random, had found a mark, falling from the sky to pierce the skull of one of them.”
“And this fellow was a priest?”
“He wore the square tonsure of a Benedictine, so he was either priest or monk. But his friends had taken his clothes and the woman’s, so André could tell nothing of the fellow’s ranking from his habit.”
“If André could not come close to them, and they were all unclothed, how could he know they were all priests?”
“He had recognized another of the four from across the river, a fellow he had met and had words with once before. This was a priest by the name of de Blois, whose family’s lands abut ours. The rest was deduction. For if two of the four were priests, involved in criminal activities, then it made sense that the other two should also be priests. But that argument is moot now, for we know who the others are.”
“How so? Are they in custody?”
“No, my liege, they are not. André gave chase, but when he did not find them immediately he sought assistance. He came directly home and told me what had happened—this was our own land—and so I sent the captain of my household guard with a party of men to retrieve the bodies and bring them back here. But there were no bodies there when they arrived. They found blood at the scene, and they found marks to indicate that something heavy had been dragged away, but nothing else.”
“You mean bodies were dragged away, I presume?”
“Yes, my lord. There is a great hole close to that point, a vertical chasm that the people hereabouts call the Devil’s Pit. It falls straight down into the earth and appears to have no bottom, and local legend says it simply appeared there one night, back in the time of my grandsire’s grandsire. My captain believed the bodies had been thrown down there and were beyond recovery.”
“And had they?”
“One of them had. The woman. And with her body, the priest’s head.”
“The priest’s head…” Richard was frowning. “What happened to the rest of him? And who was the woman?”
“No one knows who the woman was, my lord. No one has asked after her or come looking for her, and none of our local women are missing. All the women within a circle of twenty miles from here have been accounted for. It would appear safe to say she was not from these parts.”
“It would be equally safe to say she might not have existed at all, save in the mind of her creator, Sir André St. Clair—” The Duke forestalled Sir Henry’s protest with a chopping motion of one hand. “I am not saying I believe that to be true, Henry, but were you and I judges, seeking the truth, we would have no choice but to consider that. With no proof of this woman’s death, and no faintest knowledge of her identity, there is no evidence, other than the word of your son, that she ever existed at all. Even were she a stranger, she must have come here to visit someone, and her disappearance would have given rise to questions. So we will come back to that matter. Now tell me about the priest’s body, headless as it was.”
“The body of the priest was presented as evidence that the poor fellow had been murdered by my son.”
“Explain that.”
Sir Henry St. Clair nodded his head in acquiescence. “From what I have been able to piece together, my liege, the three miscreants stole the bodies, cut off their dead companion’s head, and threw it into the Devil’s Pit along with the woman. They then took his body back with them because he had a deformed hand that identified him beyond doubt as one Father Gaspard de Leon, a visiting priest from Arles. They then told a tale of how, on their way to join their nowdead brother, they had witnessed him in the act of apprehending a sinner in the act of committing sodomy with a young boy—”
“Pardon me—,” de Sablé began, but Richard waved him to silence.
“Go on, Henry. Were you about to say they accused young André of sodomy with a boy?”
“Aye, my lord. I was.”
“Say on, then. Tell me.”
“They said that they had seen the scandalized priest challenge the pederast and attempt to save the boy, but the sodomite had sent the boy scurrying away and then seized his sword and killed Father de Leon, cleaving his skull. He had then cut off the priest’s head and taken it away with him, wrapped in de Leon’s priestly garments, leaving a naked, unidentifiable body behind him. He had not seen them, they said, being separated from them by the swollen river.
“As soon as he had gone, they made their way to the bridge and back to the scene of the murder, then followed the tracks of the killer’s horse down the hillside to the Devil’s Pit, where they arrived in time to see him throw the severed head down into the abyss. Fearful for their own lives, they hid and waited until the killer left, then made their way directly to the castle of their landlord, Baron Reynauld de la Fourrière, and testified under oath to him, and to their superior, Abbot Thomas, about what they had seen, and adding that one of them, the priest called de Blois, had recognized the murderer, a local knight called André St. Clair.”
St. Clair looked from one to the other of his listeners, both of whom sat stone faced. When he saw that they had nothing to say, he continued. “I found out all about this the morning after, when a squad of Baron de la Fourrière’s men came hammering on my door, demanding that I surrender my son to answer the charges of sodomy and murder brought against him. Fortunately, André had left before they came, and I sent a messenger to find him, warning him to stay away.”
“Sodomy.” Richard’s voice was flat and hard. “They accused André of sodomy?”
“Aye, my lord. They did.”
