Heretic by Bernard Cornwell Read Free Book Online Page B

long staves.
    “Tomas, if you prefer,” the friar said, seemingly unconcerned as the two sergeants took a menacing pace towards him. “It is my baptismal name,” he explained, “and the name of that poor disciple who doubted Our Lord’s divinity. If you have no such doubts then I envy you and I pray to God that he grants me such certainty.”
    “You are French?” the consul asked.
    “I am a Norman,” the friar said, then nodded. “Yes, I am French.” He looked at the priest. “Do you speak French?”
    “I do.” The priest sounded nervous. “Some. A little.”
    “Then may I eat in your house tonight, father?”
    The consul would not let Father Medous answer, but instead instructed the priest to give the friar the book. It was a very old book with worm-eaten pages and a black leather cover that the friar unwrapped.
    “What do you want of me?” the friar demanded.
    “Read from the book.” The consul had noticed that the friar’s hands were scarred and the fingers slightly twisted. Damage, he thought, more fitting for a soldier than a priest. “Read to me!” the consul insisted.
    “You cannot read for yourself?” the friar asked derisively.
    “Whether I read or not,” the consul said, “is not your business. But whether you can read, young man, is our business, for if you are not a priest then you will not be able to read. So read to me.”
    The friar shrugged, opened a page at random and paused. The consul’s suspicions were roused by the pause and he raised a hand to beckon the sergeants forward, but then the Dominican suddenly read aloud. He had a good voice, confident and strong, and the Latin words sounded like a melody as they echoed from the church’s painted walls. After a moment the consul held up a hand to silence the friar and looked quizzically at Father Medous. “Well?”
    “He reads well,” Father Medous said weakly. The priest’s own Latin was not good and he did not like to admit that he had not entirely understood the echoing words, though he was quite sure that the Dominican could read.
    “You know what the book is?” the consul demanded.
    “I assume,” the friar said, “that it is the life of St. Gregory. The passage, as you doubtless recognized,” there was sarcasm in his voice, “describes the pestilence that will afflict those who disobey the Lord their God.” He wrapped the limp black cover about the book and held it out to the priest. “You probably know the book as the Flores Sanctorum?”
    “Indeed.” The priest took the book and nodded at the consul.
    That official was still not entirely reassured. “Your hands,” he said, “how were they injured? And your nose? It was broken?”
    “As a child,” the friar said, holding out his hands, “I slept with the cattle. I was trampled by an ox. And my nose was broken when my mother struck me with a skillet.”
    The consul understood those everyday childhood accidents and visibly relaxed. “You will understand, father,” he said to the friar, “that we must be cautious of visitors.”
    “Cautious of God’s priests?” the Dominican asked caustically.
    “We had to be sure,” the consul explained. “A message came from Auch which said the English are riding, but no one knows where.”
    “There is a truce,” the friar pointed out.
    “When did the English ever keep a truce?” the consul retorted.
    “If they are indeed English,” the Dominican said scornfully. “Any troop of bandits is called the English these days. You have men,” he gestured at the sergeants who did not understand a word of the French conversation, “and you have churches and priests, so why should you fear bandits?”
    “The bandits are English,” the consul insisted. “They carried war bows.”
    “Which does not alter the fact that I have come a long way, and that I am hungry, thirsty and tired.”
    “Father Medous will look after you,” the consul said. He gestured at the sergeants and led them back down the nave and out