Read Chapter 27: The Debt of Narbonne

The Auvergne hills rose around them like the shoulders of sleeping giants, and Roland’s leg ached with every step. Seven days of pilgrim’s pace had worn his boots thin and his patience thinner. Isabelle walked ahead, her dyed hair the color of mud, her fine hands rough now from gripping a staff.

They crested a ridge at dusk and saw the chateau. Small, stones gray with lichen, a single tower that leaned slightly east—a structure built by someone with more pride than purse. Roland grunted.

“Home,” he said.

Isabelle turned. “You know this place?”

“I know the man who owns it. If he’s still alive, and still sober.”

They descended through a field of rye gone wild. The gate was unbarred. Two hounds came barking, then stopped, tails wagging, when Roland spoke their names.

“Bruno. Giselle. Good dogs.”

A voice from the shadows of the gatehouse. “Dogs don’t forget a face. Men do.”

The man who stepped out was tall, lean in the way of men who’ve eaten poorly for years, with a scar that split his left eyebrow and a coat of mail that had been patched so many times it looked more stitching than steel. His hair was gray where it had been black.

“Hugues de Beaumont,” Roland said.

“Roland de Vienne.” The hedge knight’s eyes narrowed. “The last time I saw you, you were hailing me across a field of Turkish corpses. You owed me thirty sous and a bottle of wine.” He paused. “And you were younger.”

“So were you.”

Hugues looked at Isabelle. His hand drifted to his sword hilt—not a threat, a habit. “Who’s the girl?”

“A companion. She’s safe. We need shelter for a night.”

“You look like men on the run.” Hugues squinted. “Or women. Hard to tell with the dirt.”

“One night, Hugues. Then we’re gone.”

The hedge knight spat. “Thirty sous and a bottle of wine. You’ll pay with story, then. I’ve been bored for three years. Come in.”

---

The hall was cold but honest. A fire burned in the great hearth, and a serving girl brought bread, cheese, and a pitcher of thin ale. Hugues sat across from them at a trestle table scarred by knives and time. His shield hung on the wall, so battered it barely showed its device.

“So,” Hugues said, tearing bread. “Who’s chasing you?”

Roland chewed slowly. “The King’s envoy. De Molay.”

Hugues raised the scarred eyebrow. “The one who burned the Templars’ treasury records? They say he hunts heretics with a passion that borders on piety.”

“They say right.”

“And you’re the heretic?”

Isabelle set down her cup. “I’m the heretic. Roland is just stubborn.”

Hugues laughed, a sound like rocks in a barrel. “I remember. He was stubborn at Acre. Stubborn at the siege. Stubborn when they broke the lines and every man with sense was running.” He looked at Roland. “I told you that fortress couldn’t fall. You lost half your men.”

Roland’s jaw tightened. “I know what I lost.”

The silence grew long. Isabelle watched the fire.

Hugues sighed. “I’m not prying. A dead man’s debt paid me well enough when I was young. I learned not to ask too many questions of the living.” He leaned back. “You can stay tomorrow and take your leave at dawn. That’s what you wanted to hear?”

“That, and one more thing.” Roland pulled a page from inside his tunic. It was worn from travel, but the ink was still clear. He laid it on the table. “Read this.”

Hugues bent over, squinting at the cramped script. “Ledger entry. ‘The Bishop of Narbonne, owed to the Italian banks, 100,000 livres.’” He blinked. “That’s a fortune. Half a fortune. The bishop couldn’t raise a quarter of that with three lifetimes of tithes.”

“Look closer,” Isabelle said.

Hugues frowned, tracing the line with a finger. “The ink’s different. The numeral’s been scraped and rewritten. Someone changed this.” He looked up. “From what?”

“Ten thousand,” Isabelle said. “The original debt was ten thousand livres. A heavy sum but manageable. Someone altered it to one hundred thousand.”

“Who?”

“The bishop himself.”

Hugues pushed the page away as if it had bitten him. “You’re accusing a prince of the Church of forgery.”

“I’m not accusing him. I know it.” Isabelle’s voice was flat. “I’ve seen his hand on other documents. He amended the entry to make it look like the crown had misrepresented his debt to the Italians. The chain of ledger entries at the vault in Carcassonne confirms it. The whole scheme was designed to make the French crown look weak—as if their own Church was being driven to default by royal greed. A kindling for rebellion.”

“And you found this where?”

“In a Templar vault,” Roland said. “Under Carcassonne.”

Hugues was silent for a long time. The fire crackled. One of the hounds came and laid its head on Roland’s knee, and he absently scratched its ears.

“I’ve heard rumors,” Hugues finally said. “That there are mercenaries north of here. Men with banners raised by the Count of Auvergne, buying up every sword they can find. I thought it was border work—the Duke of Burgundy’s been sniffing around his lands for years.” He tapped the page. “But you’re saying this bishop is funding them.”

“He’s funding them with money he doesn’t have,” Isabelle said. “Or with money he does have, hidden from the crown. Either way, he’s building an army.”

“And we’re standing in his path,” Roland said.

Hugues pulled the pitcher toward him and drank deep. When he set it down, his expression had changed. Softer, and harder at once. “The army’s muster point is at Issoire. Two days’ ride east. That’s not a rumor—I’ve got a cousin in the Count’s service who told me.”

“Issoire.” Roland stared at the fire. “That’s not north. That’s the road to cover our retreat if we go to the English.”

“Unless we don’t go to the English,” Isabelle said quietly.

Roland turned to her. “We’ve made our plan.”

“We made a plan when we thought de Molay was the only enemy.” She picked up the page. “But the bishop is the one who set this in motion. He forged the ledger’s entry. He’s been spending gold from somewhere to hire blades. And he has friends in the Church. De Molay can’t move against a bishop without evidence stronger than what we carry.” She met Roland’s eyes. “But we have his hand. His own corrections.”

“So what do you propose? That we ride to Narbonne and demand he confess?”

“No.” Her voice sharpened. “That we write him a letter.”

Hugues laughed. “A letter. You’ll conspire against a bishop with ink and paper?”

“I’ve seen too many good men die with steel in their hands,” she said. “There are other ways to kill.”

---

They argued into the night, but in the end Roland dipped a quill in the last of the lamp oil, and spoke the words while Isabelle wrote. She had a fine clerk’s hand—small and precise, nothing like the characters of the ledger.

*To His Grace, the Bishop of Narbonne.*

Roland paused. “You’re sure of the address?”

“He styles himself ‘Servant of God and Shepherd of the Flock.’ Use it. Flattery makes men careless.”

Roland grunted and continued.

*You know what we carry. You know what it contains. The entry made in your hand, in the ledger of the Templar vault, was amended from ten thousand livres to one hundred thousand. The original of that page now lies with us, as do the corroborating letters from the Hôtel de Ville. If you wish your perjury to remain secret, withdraw your men from the roads between here and the Channel. Break your alliance with the King’s envoy. Leave the woman Aelis unharmed wherever she walks, and the child Etienne released without mark.*

“The boy’s already broken,” Roland said quietly.

Isabelle’s hand paused. “Then write it anyway. The bishop doesn’t know what de Molay’s told us.”

*You have seven days from the receipt of this letter. After that, I will publish your fraud before the court of England, the court of France, and every cathedral chapter between here and Rome.*

He signed it carefully: *Roland de Vienne.*

Isabelle folded the page. They sealed it with the wax of the candle, and Roland pressed his signet ring into it—the bear of his old house, worn down by years and use.

Hugues watched from the doorway. “A man who writes threats to a bishop,” he said slowly, “had better sleep light.”

Roland looked at him. “A man who rides with one should sleep lighter.”

The hedge knight held his gaze, then smiled an old soldier’s smile. “You still owe me thirty sous.”

“When this is over, I’ll pay you in gold.”

“When this is over,” Hugues said, “we’ll all be dead. But I’ll hold you to it.”

They slept that night on pallets by the fire, and in the dark Isabell lay awake, watching the embers, listening to the wind. She touched the folded letter in her pouch. It was a thin thing to send against a bishop’s army.

But thin things had a way of cutting deepest.