So the lance was still to be had! He thought of calling a Crusade to liberate Treille, to capture the prize that had been pilfered by the deserter and return it to its rightful place. Borée, of [352] course. But who knew where it would end up then? Paris or Rome or even back in Antioch.
At that moment, things got even worse-Anne walked in. She looked at him, prone, covered with welts, and held back a smile of amusement. “You asked for me, my lord?”
“I did. Physician, give me a word with my wife.”
“But the leeching, my lord, it is not over…”
Stephen jumped up, swatting the slimy little creatures off his back. “You have the hand of an executioner, doctor, not a healer. Get these creatures out of here. From now on I’ll handle my ill temper my own way.”
Anne regarded him with a slight smile. “I’m surprised these slimy things offend you so, since you are akin in so many ways.”
She came over and ran her hand along his back, mottled with fiery red welts. “From the look of this, your ill temper must have been most severe. Shall I apply the salve?”
“If you are not too offended to touch me.” Stephen kept her eye.
“Of course not, husband.” She dipped her hands in the thick white ointment, applying it liberally to the welts on his back. “I am quite used to offense. What was it you needed of me?”
“I hoped to inquire into the well-being of your cousin Emilie. That her visit to her aunt went well.”
“I suspect so.” Anne spread the salve. “She seems quite rosy.”
Rosy… Both of them knew the bitch never went within fifty miles of the old hen, her aunt.
“I would like to talk with her,” he said, “and hear the details of her visit.”
“These leeches seem to have dug particularly deep,” Anne said, applying pressure to one sore. Stephen jumped. His head spun. “All this leisure here does not seem to suit you, husband. Perhaps you should return to the Holy Land for some more amusement. Regarding Emilie, I’m afraid she is too weary to [353] provide much detail. Weary …” she said, pressing again, “yet rosy, as I say.”
“Enough.” Stephen seized her arm. “You know I do not need to ask for your permission.”
“You do not.” Anne glared. “But you also know she remains under my protection. And even you, my scheming husband, must know what price you will have to pay if any harm comes to her.”
She dug the edge of her nail into a particularly swollen welt, Stephen almost jumping off the table.
He raised his arm as if to strike. Anne did not flinch. Instead, she merely looked at him, detestation firing her eyes. Then she slowly eased into a smile. “I am here, husband, if you wish to strike. Or I can call one of the housemaids, if you find my face too rough.”
“I shall not be mocked,” Stephen said, brushing her away, “within my own house.”
“Then perhaps it would be wise to move.” Anne smiled sharply.
“Get out,” he shouted, passing his hand within an inch of her face. “Do not pretend, Anne, that your little vow of protection gives me even a moment of hesitation. In the end, you will regret such mockery. You, and the pink-cheeked whore that waits on you, and the lowborn fool she is so wont to fuck.”
Chapter 121
“YOUR GRACE!” Stephen knelt to kiss the ruby ring of Barthelme, bishop of Borée, even though he thought him the most air-filled, well-fed functionary in France. “So good of you to join me on such short notice. Please, sit here by me.”
Bishop Barthelme was a corpulent, owl-eyed man with a sagging jowl that seemed to sink almost undetectably into his massive purple robe. Stephen wondered how such a man could take a step, or climb a stair, or even perform his sacraments. He knew the bishop did not like being summoned. He thought he was too good for this diocese and longed for a larger position. In Paris, or even Rome.
“You have taken me from my sext for this?” the bishop wheezed.
At Stephen’s nod, a young page filled two silver cups with ale.
“It’s called alembic.” Stephen raised his goblet. “It is brewed by monks near Flanders.”
The bishop managed a smile. “If it’s God’s work, then I feel I have not strayed too far.”
They both took a deep draft. “Aaah.” The cleric licked his lips. “It is most sweet. Tastes of apples and mead. Yet I feel you did not call me to hear my opinion of your ale.”
“I have asked you here today,” Stephen said, “because there is a hole torn in my soul which you can help mend.”
[355] Barthelme nodded and listened.
Stephen leaned close. “You have heard of this uprising in the south, where a jester has led a rabble of peasants.”
Barthelme smirked. “I know a stupider man does not exist than Baldwin, so it is not so far-fetched that he was outfoxed by a fool. Yet reports say this man was your fool once, your lordship?”
Stephen put down his cup and glared through the bishop’s haughty smile. “Let me get to the point, Your Grace. Do you know what this jester carries with him, that is the source of his appeal?”
“The message of a better life. The freedom from bondage,” the bishop said.
“It is not his message that I speak of, but his staff.”
The cleric nodded. “I have heard that he parades around with a spear purported to be the holy lance. But these petty prophets are always claiming this or that… holy water from the baptism of Saint John, burial shrouds of the Virgin Mary.”
“So this does not concern you?” Stephen asked. “That a trumped-up country boy uses the name of our Lord to incite rebellion?”
“These local prophets.” The bishop sighed. “They come and go like the frost, every year.”
Stephen leaned forward. “And it does not concern you that this peasant marches around with the word of Christ, inciting the rabble to overthrow their lieges?”
“It sounds like you are the one who is worried, Stephen. Besides, I have heard it is not grace this lad is seeking, but grain.”
A smile etched onto the cleric’s face, the smile of a gambling man with knowledge of the outcome. “What do you want, Stephen, for the church to fight your battles? Shall we contact Rome and declare a holy crusade against a fool?”
“What I want, Your Grace, is to strike these ignorant puppets where they most ache. More than their bellies or their [356] desires, or their silly dreams of this precious freedom they long to taste.”
Barthelme waited for him, quizzically.
“Their souls, Your Grace. I want to crush their souls. And you are the man who can do it for me.”
The bishop put down his drink. His expression shifted from amusement to concern. “Just what is it you want me to do?”
Chapter 122
NO REPLY CAME from the King, and day by day, the ranks grew more tired and impatient. These were not soldiers, prepared to occupy a city like Treille. They were farmers, tradesmen, husbands, and fathers. They longed to go home.
Lookouts were scattered along the road to the north, but each day, no answer came.
Why? If Emilie had contacted him? If she was able. And what if she was not?
Then one day the lookouts did spot a party traveling south toward the castle. I was in the great room. Alphonse burst in. “H-Hugh, a party of riders is approaching. It looks like it could be from the King!”
We rushed to the city walls as fast as our legs would carry us. I climbed the ramparts and watched the party approach, my heart racing. From the north, six riders at full gallop. Knights, carrying a banner, but not in the purple and gold of the royal flag.
But with a cross upon it. Knights pledged to the Church.