Heretic by Bernard Cornwell

the paste would encase the wax and the whole would then be entombed in soft clay, which had to be gently pressed into place to cradle the wax, but not distort it. Narrow tunnels would run through the clay from the outside to the entombed wax, and then Gaspard would take the shapeless clay lump to the furnace in the yard where he would bake the clay and the beeswax inside would melt and run out through the tunnels and, if he did it well, he would be left with a hard clay mass within which was concealed a delicate cavity in the shape of the tree of life.
    “And the cow dung?” the Cardinal asked. He was genuinely fascinated. All beautiful things intrigued him, perhaps because in his youth he had been denied them.
    “The dung bakes hard,” Gaspard said. “It makes a hard shell around the cavity.” He smiled at the sullen girl. “Yvette mixes it for me,” he explained. “The layer closest to the wax is very fine, the outer layers are coarser.”
    “So the dung mixture forms the hard surface of the mold?” the Cardinal asked.
    “Exactly.” Gaspard was pleased that his patron and savior understood.
    Then, when the clay was cold, Gaspard would pour molten gold into the cavity and he must hope that the liquid fire would fill every last cranny, every tiny leaf and apple and nail, and every delicately modeled ridge of bark. And when the gold had cooled and become firm the clay would be broken away to reveal either a grail-holder that would dazzle Christendom or else a mess of misshapen gold squiggles. “It will probably have to be done in separate pieces,” Gaspard said nervously.
    “You will try with this one,” the Cardinal ordered, draping the linen cloth back over the wax cup, “and if it fails you will make another and try again, and then again, and when it works, Gaspard, I shall release you to the fields and to the sky. You and your little friend.” He smiled vaguely at the woman, made the sign of a blessing over Gaspard’s head, then walked from the cellar. He waited as his brother bolted the door. “Don’t be unkind to him, Charles.”
    “Unkind? I’m his jailer, not his nurse.”
    “And he is a genius. He thinks he is making me a Mass cup, so he has no idea how important his work is. He fears nothing, except you. So keep him happy.”
    Charles moved away from the door. “Suppose they find the real Grail?”
    “Who will find it?” the Cardinal asked. “The English archer has vanished and that fool of a monk won’t find it in Berat. He’ll just stir up the dust.”
    “So why send him?”
    “Because our Grail must have a past. Brother Jerome will discover some stories of the Grail in Gascony and that will be our proof, and once he has announced that the records of the Grail exist then we shall take the cup to Berat and announce its discovery.”
    Charles was still thinking of the real Grail. “I thought the Englishman’s father left a book?”
    “He did, but we can make nothing of it. They are the scribblings of a madman.”
    “So find the archer and burn the truth from him,” Charles said.
    “He will be found,” the Cardinal promised grimly, “and next time I’ll loose you on him, Charles. He’ll talk then. But in the meantime we must go on looking, but above all we must go on making. So keep Gaspard safe.”
    “Safe now,” Charles said, “and dead later.” Because Gaspard would provide the means for the brothers to go to Avignon’s papal palace and the Cardinal, climbing to the yard, could taste the power already. He would be Pope.
     
    A T DAWN THAT DAY, far to the south of the lonely tower near Soissons, the shadow of Castillon d’Arbizon’s castle had fallen across the heap of timbers ready for the heretic’s burning. The firewood had been well constructed, according to Brother Roubert’s careful instructions, so that above the kindling and around the thick stake to which a chain had been stapled there were four layers of upright faggots that would burn bright, but not too