‘Some scholars — bona fide scholars — think Chrétien’s poems are full of riddles. In the manuscript of Lancelot there’s a totally unnecessary illuminated capital letter on line 4401. The whole poem is 7118 lines long. 7118 divided by 4401 gives you 1.62, the golden ration. Phi. Coincidence? No one knows.’
She stirred her tea with a finger. ‘Have you considered chess problems?’
Doug shook his head, surprised. ‘Why?’
‘Chrétien has a thing about chess. It features in several of his poems — I’m sure you know this — and lots of examples of chequered floors, horses that are half black and half white, black and white coats of arms, a chessboard used as a shield …’
She gave them a probing smile, waiting for them to catch up. Ellie got it first.
‘The poem’s a grid. Eight lines by eight syllables. Like a chessboard.’
Annelise looked at Doug’s translation.
‘The word you’ve translated as “turns” —’
‘I thought it might refer to tournaments,’ Doug said. ‘But it wouldn’t fit the metre.’
‘You could also translate it as “tours”. Have you ever heard of the Knight’s Tour?’
Ellie and Doug both shook their heads. Annelise unfolded herself from her chair and opened a silver laptop that sat on a gilded side-table. She tapped into a search engine.
‘The Knight’s Tour is a chess problem. The goal is to move a knight across every square of the board in turn, using only the regulation move — two up and one over.’
‘Can it be done?’
‘Easily. The problem’s been known for centuries; the earliest solutions in Europe go back to the Middle Ages.’
‘What does that —?’
‘Your poem’s a chessboard — each square is a syllable. Perhaps if you read them in the order the knight moves around them it would spell out something new.’
‘How would you know which order that is?’
Annelise tapped the computer. Ellie and Doug stared. A geometric pattern had appeared on screen, a spiky tangle of black lines criss-crossed into sharp points and overlapping triangles. It wasn’t the same as the Mirabeau mosaic, but the family resemblance was unmissable.
Annelise, with her back to them, didn’t see their shock. ‘This is what one of the solutions looks like.’
‘One of the solutions?’ Ellie repeated. ‘How many are there?’
Annelise moved down the page on the computer. Text replaced pictures. ‘More than you’d think.’ She read a little further, then gave a rueful laugh. ‘According to this website, no one knows how many possible paths there are. Something over one hundred trillion is the latest estimate.’
She gathered up the mugs and piled them on the tray. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.’
‘Not at all,’ said Ellie. ‘You’ve given us lots to think about.’
‘It’s probably all nonsense. There’s something about the Grail that provokes fantasies, even in a hardened old cynic like me. Eight hundred years ago Chrétien de Troyes described a jewelled serving dish. In the next generation it became the cup of Christ. In the German tradition it’s a stone that fell from heaven. Now people want you to believe that it’s the body of Jesus’ love child, or esoteric wisdom. Did you know, there are scholars who argue that Chrétien intended his poem to be as infuriating as possible? He piles up these dense, allusive symbols like a dream, and never tells you what they mean; his plot spins out of control without resolution, and then he leaves the whole thing unfinished. Perhaps it’s just a joke, to drive people mad with wondering.’
‘You don’t think it’s a joke,’ Ellie said. She tucked the leather tube back in the bag and stood. ‘But we’ve kept you up much too late.’
‘Do you have somewhere to stay?’
‘We’ll find a hotel.’
‘Not around here, at this time of night. Stay here. You’d be very welcome.’
Ellie glanced at Doug. A vision of bed, of clean sheets and soft covers and hot water, danced before her eyes.
‘It’s very kind of you —’
Annelise made an embarrassed gesture around the grand house. ‘I’ve plenty of rooms.’
The room she gave them was warm and snug. Doug had to physically drag Ellie out of the shower so he could have a turn. She left her clothes in a corner and curled up naked under the heavy duvet. Her head sank into the pillow — when Doug joined her ten minutes later, she was already almost asleep. He curled around her and wrapped her in his arms.
‘That Knight’s Tour …’
‘I know …’
‘I’ve got it in the bag. We could …’
‘Shhh …’ She didn’t want to think about it.
Ellie woke in darkness. The luminous hands on the bedside clock glowed quarter to four. She lay there a moment, remembering where she was, savouring the dark peace of the night. She was safe and warm; she had nowhere to go. She listened to Doug’s breathing soft and even beside her, like a mother with her sleeping child.
She needed a pee. She slid out of bed and padded across the wooden floor. The toilet was at the end of the corridor, dark except for spandrels of moonlight coming through the window. She couldn’t find the light switch.
I feel like a ghost, she thought. A pale figure, flitting through the old house. It was hardly more fantastical than anything else that had happened.
She fumbled for the flush. The toilet had an old-fashioned chain to pull, dangling somewhere in the dark. As she swiped for it, something outside the window caught her eye. She looked out.
Lights were coming up the driveway.
XLVI
The spear quivers in the mud, a hair’s breadth from Jocelin’s face. Blood flows from a scratch on his cheek. It went very close. Even as I let it fall, I didn’t know which way I would go.
His eyes are so wide I think he might have died of fright. For the first time, he looks at me properly.
‘Where did you come from?’ he whispers.
There’s nothing to say. Now that I’ve made my decision, I never want to see him again. I stumble into the shadow of one of the houses and puke into the mud. Anselm watches me — he can’t understand why I did it. I don’t understand myself. All I can point to is a feeling, a glimmer in my tangled emotions that one wound won’t heal another. Perhaps mercy will.
Five miles up the road we find the farm where Jocelin’s keeping the village women. The guards leap to attention as we approach, but when they see their lord being led by a rope they quickly throw down their weapons. Anselm breaks down the door with an axe. The women who hobble blinking into the light are pitifuclass="underline" their hair loose, their dresses untied and so threadbare they hide nothing. Their necks are gaunt, their faces pale from hunger. And yet their fingers drip with gold — golden yarns they’ve been stitching into dresses for noblewomen to wear at court. Each thread must be worth more than Jocelin spends in a month on keeping them alive. It makes me almost wish I’d killed him after all.
Anselm cuts Jocelin loose. ‘If I ever hear you mistreat your vassals again, I’ll stuff that thread down your throat until you choke on it.’ He jerks his thumb towards me. ‘I’m not as forgiving as my friend.’
We leave them in the farmyard. Jocelin looks as dazed as the women. None of them knows what to do now they’ve been freed.
It’s late afternoon, the sun already touching the horizon, when we find the court. It’s at the frontline of a war, but there’s not much fighting going on. Looking down from a ridge, we can see a patchwork of red and green tents dotting the fields, all the way from the forest to the edge of a river. A siege is in progress: on the riverbank, the army’s set up a mangonel. Every ten minutes or so, it quivers like an insect and a rock sails towards the town on the opposite bank. Some fly over the walls to disturb someone’s dinner; some splash into the water. A few hit their target, though with no urgency.