Bernard Cornwell - 1356 (Special Edition)

‘To remind himself of the men he’s killed.’

‘Some think it is sorcery,’ the cardinal said.

‘Not sorcery, Your Eminence, just deadly skill.’

The cardinal sucked at a lark. ‘I am told, Sir Robert, that you refuse to fight against the English?’

‘I made an oath,’ Robbie said.

‘To a man who was excommunicated from the church. To a man who married a heretic. To a man who has proven to be an enemy of Mother Church, to Thomas of Hookton.’

‘To a man who saved my life when I caught the plague,’ Robbie said, ‘and to a man who paid my ransom so I could go free.’

The cardinal pulled a sliver of bone from his teeth. ‘I see a man who wears bones in his hair, and you tell me you caught the plague and lived with a heretic’s help. And this afternoon I watched you defeat fifteen good men, men who are not easily beaten. It seems to me, Sir Robert, that you have unnatural help. Perhaps the devil aids you? You deny using sorcery, but the evidence suggests otherwise, wouldn’t you agree?’ He asked the questions silkily, then paused to sip wine. ‘I might have to talk to my Dominicans, Sir Robert, and tell them that there is the stench of wickedness in your soul. I might be forced to encourage them to heat their fires and wind the ropes of their machines that stretch men till they break.’ He was smiling, and his plump right hand was massaging Robbie’s left knee. ‘One word from me, Sir Robert, and your soul will be in my care.’

‘I’m a good Christian,’ Robbie said defiantly.

‘Then you must prove that to me.’

‘Prove it?’

‘By realising that an oath made to a heretic is not binding in heaven nor upon earth. Only in hell, Sir Robert, does that oath have power. And I want you to do me a service. If you refuse me then I shall tell King Jean that evil has entered his kingdom and I shall ask the Dominicans to explore your soul and burn that evil from your body. The choice is yours. Are you going to eat that lark?’

Robbie shook his head and watched as the cardinal sucked the meat from the fragile bones. ‘What service?’ he asked nervously.

‘A service for His Holiness the Pope,’ Bessières said, carefully not saying which Pope he meant. The service was for himself, who prayed nightly that he would be the next man to wear the fisherman’s ring. ‘Have you heard of the Order of the Garter?’

‘I have,’ Robbie said.

‘Or the Order of the Virgin and Saint George?’ Bessières continued, ‘or the Order of the Sash in Spain? Or, indeed, King Jean’s Order of the Star? Bands of great knights, Sir Robert, sworn to each other, to their king, and to the noblest aims of chivalry. I have been charged with creating a similar order, a band of knights sworn to the church and to the glory of Christ.’ He had made it sound as if the Pope had commanded the creation of the order, but it was all Bessières’s idea. ‘A man who serves in the church’s order,’ he went on, ‘would never know the torments of hell, nor the agonies of purgatory. A man who serves our new order would be welcomed into heaven and sung into the company of saints by choirs of shining angels! I want you, Sir Robert, to serve in the Order of the Fisherman.’

Robbie was silent. He watched the cardinal. Men were cheering a performer who was juggling half a dozen flaming brands while balancing on stilts, but Robbie did not notice. He was thinking that his soul would be freed of its perplexities if he were to be a knight in the service of the Pope.

‘I want the greatest knights of Christendom to fight for the glory of our Saviour,’ the cardinal went on, ‘and each man, while he fights, will receive a small subvention from the church, enough to feed himself and to keep his attendants and horses.’ The cardinal placed three gold coins on the table. He knew Robbie’s propensity to gamble, and to lose. ‘All your sins will be forgiven,’ he said, ‘if you become a Knight of the Fisherman and wear this sash.’

He took from a pouch a scapular made of the finest white silk, edged and fringed with cloth of gold, and embroidered with scarlet keys. The Pope received gifts daily that were heaped in the sacristy at Avignon, and Bessières, before he left that town, had hunted through the bundles and discovered a trove of scapulars woven by nuns in Burgundy and sent to the Pope, each of them lovingly embroidered with the keys of Saint Peter. ‘The man who wears this sash in battle,’ the cardinal continued, ‘will have God at

his side, the angels will draw their flaming swords to protect

him, and the saints will beseech our blessed Saviour to give him victory. A man who wears this sash cannot lose a fight, but neither can a man who wears this sash cleave to an oath made to a godless heretic.’

Robbie stared hungrily at the gorgeous scapular, imagining it around his waist as he rode to battle. ‘The Pope has enemies?’ he asked, wondering whom he would need to fight.

‘The church has enemies,’ Bessières said harshly, ‘because the devil never ceases his fight. And the Order of the Fisherman,’ he went on, ‘has a task already, a noble task, perhaps none nobler in all Christendom.’

‘What task?’ Robbie asked, his voice low.

For answer the cardinal beckoned a priest to his side. To Robbie the newly invited priest, who had startling green eyes, appeared to be the cardinal’s opposite in almost every way. Bessières had charm, but the priest looked stern and unbending; the Cardinal was plump, the priest was lean as a blade; the cardinal was swathed in red silk trimmed with ermine, while the lesser cleric was in black, though Robbie caught a glimpse of scarlet lining in one of the hanging sleeves. ‘This is Father Marchant,’ the cardinal said, ‘and he will be the chaplain to our order.’

‘By God’s grace,’ Marchant said. His strange green eyes rested on Robbie and his mouth twitched as if he disapproved of what he saw.

‘Tell my young Scottish friend, father, the holy task of the Order of the Fisherman.’

Father Marchant touched the crucifix hanging about his neck. ‘Saint Peter,’ he said, ‘was a fisherman, but he was so much more. He was the first Pope, and God gave him the keys of heaven and earth. Yet he also possessed a sword, Sir Robert. Perhaps you remember the story?’

‘Not really,’ Robbie said.

‘When the evil men came to arrest our Lord in the Garden of Gethsemane it was Saint Peter who drew a sword to protect him. Think of that!’ Marchant’s voice was suddenly passionate. ‘The blessed Saint Peter drew a sword to protect our Redeemer, our precious Christ, our Son of God! The sword of Saint Peter is God’s weapon to protect his church, and we must find it! The church is imperilled, and we need God’s weapon. It is God’s will!’

‘Indeed it is,’ the cardinal said, ‘and if we find the sword, Sir Robert, then the worthiest of the knights in the Order of the Fisherman will be permitted to guard the sword, and to wear it, and to use it in battle, so that God himself will be on his side in every fight. That man will be the greatest knight in all Christendom. So,’ he pushed the coins and the scapular a little closer to Robbie, ‘as it says in the scripture, Sir Robert, choisissez aujourd’hui qui vous voulez servir .’ He quoted the French for he was certain Robbie would not understand the Latin. ‘Today, Sir Robert, you must choose between good and evil, between an oath made to a heretic or the blessing of the Holy Father himself.’ The cardinal crossed himself. ‘Choose today whom you wish to serve, Sir Robert Douglas.’

And really there was no choice. Robbie reached for the sash and felt tears in his eyes. He had found his cause and he would fight for God.

‘Bless you, my son,’ the cardinal said. ‘Now go and pray. Thank God that you have chosen rightly.’