… What’s his name?’ he added to himself, his brow creasing in concentration. There was a brief pause, and then he snapped his fingers and said, ‘Ambrois de Quercy, that’s the man.’
‘Is de Loup still here?’ It seemed too much to hope that he was.
‘No, he’s long gone,’ the man replied.
Josse felt himself slump in dejection. It had seemed promising for a moment and now ‘De Quercy’s not left, if that’s any use to you,’ the man said.
‘Where is he?’ The question snapped out of Josse and he hoped his informant would not take offence and clam up.
Fortunately, the man did not seem to have noticed; he was pointing into the distance, where beyond the woodland and the grieving women Josse could make out a group of tents. ‘That there’s where they tend the wounded. You’ll find de Quercy in the end tent.’
‘He was wounded in the fighting?’
The man laughed hoarsely. ‘No. He’s tortured with the bellyache and his bowels have turned to water. With any luck,’ he added viciously, ‘the bugger’ll die.’
A short while later, Josse and Gus drew up beside the tents and, dismounting, Josse handed over Horace’s reins. He had given the carter a couple of coins and, hiding them under his tunic so fast that they appeared to vanish, the man had laid a finger to the side of his nose and given Josse a wink, as if to say, All that’s our little secret, isn’t it? If the man dying of dysentery could put Josse on to de Loup’s trail, as he was fervently hoping he could, then those coins were a small price to pay.
He entered the tent. On both sides were rows of low cots and straw mattresses, each bearing a sick or wounded man. In attendance were black-clad nuns, vividly bringing to Josse’s mind the Hawkenlye nursing sisters, and one of them approached him with a look of enquiry on her weary face.
‘I seek Ambrois de Quercy,’ Josse said without preamble. The sister, he was sure, was in no mood for small talk.
‘Over there.’ She gestured. ‘Second cot down. He’s very sick,’ she added in a hiss. ‘You’d better be quick.’
Josse walked across to the bed where de Quercy lay. He did indeed look near death. His face was as pale as the linen sheet drawn up to his neck, and his eyes had sunk in his skull. His hair was wet with sweat.
‘Ambrois de Quercy?’ Josse said softly.
The man’s eyes flew open. They were pale and almost colourless. ‘Who wants to know?’ he rasped.
‘Hugh de Villiers,’ Josse said, making a name up out of the air.
‘What do you want?’ De Quercy’s eyes closed again.
‘I seek Philippe de Loup.’
The man smiled, the expression stretching his skin horribly. ‘You do, do you? You and a hundred others.’
Josse stored that away to think about later. ‘Is he here?’
‘No.’ Unconsciously echoing the carter’s words, de Quercy added, ‘Long gone.’
‘Where?’
The dying man’s eyes opened again. ‘Get me some water,’ he commanded, jerking his head towards a jug and a cup that stood on the floor beside his cot. Josse did as he was asked, holding the cup to de Quercy’s lips. After a couple of sips he turned his head away. Then, ‘Chartres.’
‘Chartres?’
‘Yes, he has gone to Chartres,’ the man repeated, saying the words with insulting slowness and clarity as if addressing an idiot.
‘Why?’ Josse was still stunned by the news.
‘They are building a new cathedral there. Have you not heard?’ De Quercy persisted with the same insulting tone. ‘De Loup wishes to make his own special contribution.’ The cracked, bleeding lips spread in a cruelly sardonic smile.
Why, Josse wondered, the emphasis on the word ‘special’? ‘You mean-’ he began.
But de Quercy had started coughing, so violently that his whole frame shook. Josse refilled the cup and offered it. De Quercy drank greedily, coughed some more and started to choke. One of the nuns hurried over, elbowed Josse out of the way and, putting one strong arm behind de Quercy’s shoulders, raised him up off his pillow. She thumped his back and a lump of something bloody shot out of his mouth to land with a plop on the sheet. The coughing lessened and then stopped, and she laid him back on his mattress, pulling back the stained sheet and sponging at it with her apron.
Josse stared down at de Quercy’s tunic, uncovered now. On the left breast, over the heart, there was a small embroidered insignia of a woman in a horned headdress standing in a boat shaped like the crescent moon.
Josse slipped out of the tent before anyone could think to ask just what he thought he had been doing disturbing a sick man like that. He hurried over to where Gus stood with the horses, and said curtly, ‘Mount up, Gus — we must get away from here.’
Gus instantly obeyed. As Josse set off up the track leading around the woodland and off to the north, kicking Horace to a canter and then, as people, animals and tents were quickly left behind, to a gallop, he could hear the hoofs of Gus’s horse pounding along behind. When they had been riding fast for some time, he slowed, then stopped. Turning to Gus, he told him what de Quercy had said.
‘Philippe de Loup’s gone to Chartres!’ Gus looked every bit as surprised as Josse had been. Then, surprise turning to apprehension, Gus whispered, ‘That’s where Abbess Helewise has gone.’
‘Aye, lad, I know, but I doubt she’ll be there yet,’ Josse said reassuringly, ‘and even if she is, de Loup doesn’t know her, nor she him. There’s no danger to her from him, I’m certain.’ He wasn’t quite as sure as he was making out, but there was no need to admit it. ‘Come on, Gussie,’ he added, quite sharply, for Gus was still shaking his head anxiously. ‘I need you to think.’
‘Sorry, Sir Josse. What am I to think about?’
Josse smiled, and Gus’s tense expression eased. ‘De Quercy told me that de Loup has gone to Chartres because they’re building the new cathedral and de Loup wants to make some special contribution,’ he explained. ‘Now what, young Gussie, are we to make of that?’
Gus rested an elbow on his saddle-bow and leaned on it. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment, ‘he could just have meant that, like most rich folk, de Loup is going to pay for a bit of glass, or a statue, or something.’
‘De Loup?’ Josse said disbelievingly. ‘The man who owns that evil tower and puts it to unimaginably terrible use?’
‘Maybe making a show of giving money for the new cathedral is intended to cover up how evil he is,’ Gus said shrewdly.
‘Perhaps.’ Josse sighed. ‘But it doesn’t seem right…’
‘On the other hand,’ Gus went on slowly, ‘maybe he’s planning mischief. Maybe “special contribution” means he’s going to do something destructive.’
‘The cathedral has suffered more than its fair share of mysterious fires,’ Josse murmured. ‘Is it- Could it be that a man of Philippe de Loup’s nature cannot bear to see something good and holy rising from the ashes, and so has gone to Chartres to make sure it doesn’t?’
‘They had a fire five years back.’ Gus spoke eagerly now, his words tumbling out. ‘One of the pilgrims back at Hawkenlye told me. Lightning struck the old cathedral and started the blaze and everyone feared that their precious relic had gone up in flames. At Chartres, they’ve got the Blessed Virgin’s nightgown, you know, Sir Josse, the one she wore when she gave birth to Our Lord.’
Josse smiled. ‘So I’ve heard, Gussie. I believe it’s called the Sancta Camisia.’
‘Anyway, it turned out that some of the old priests had managed to grab the nightie and they’d hidden in the crypt or something with it, and it was quite undamaged.’ His face awestruck, he whispered, ‘It was a miracle, wasn’t it, Sir Josse?’
‘Perhaps it was, Gussie, or-’
But Gus wasn’t listening. ‘What if someone like de Loup or one of his old knights started that fire and it wasn’t the lightning at all?’ he said. ‘And, now that they’re getting on with building the new cathedral, he’s gone to Chartres to burn that one down too?’
‘Why would he do that, Gussie?’ Josse asked, although, remembering the palpable malevolence in the room in the tower, he thought he already knew.