The path down the embankment was steep, and narrow, studded with rocks that shone pearly grey under the light of the full moon. The chevalier reined his horse where the path split from the main road, and sat still upon the great beast as it stamped and scraped the ground, the heavy hooves inches from the boys’ faces, hidden in the underbrush. For what seemed like an eternity, neither of them breathed, the moonlit form of the man-at-arms and his horse towering above them. Then, with a sudden prick of spurs, the horse started down the path.

They sat up, scrabbling from the broken twigs and dirt, and peered after the chevalier, now riding slowly along the brushy bank of the Canche River. In the distance, the lights of The Masse D’Armes glowed from overgrown riverbank thickets, casting a ruddy, shifting reflection across the water. They watched the chevalier follow the moonlit riverbank, eventually fading in the darkness.

“My da says The Masse D’Armes’ full o’ thieves and harlots,” the first boy said.

“I hear they smuggle wine and cloth from Quentovic to cheat the tolls,” said the second. “Up and down the river.”

The first boy shook his head. “Nah, my da says they sell fake relics.”

The second boy’s eyes widened in the moonlight. “Tha’ can’t be true. Where’d they get them then?”

“They have some wicked bishop helps them,” the first boy said, his voice lowering to add drama to the tale. “Gets them relics to copy. Sends buyers to them. And even …” He leaned in closer, “… shows them how to fake miracles.”

The second boy shivered, making a quick sign of the cross. “You and your wit.”

“By the rood, ’tis true,” the first boy said. “Da says everyone knows. And tha’s why The Masse D’Armes’ only full of thieves, and harlots, and thems fooled into buying devil’s relics.”

“Then what’s a knight do at such a place?”

“Come on,” the first boy said. “Let’s follow him and see.”

Silent as wraiths, the urchins slipped from the brush into the moonlight, gliding down the embankment and skirting the riverbank into the shadows.

The conversation stopped abruptly as the door to The Masse D’Armes swung open, rasping on its iron hinges and grounding into the packed-dirt floor. The chevalier strode into the room in a creak of leather and the metallic swish of mail, and stood before the door, silhouetted by the silvery moonlight outside. With a gloved hand, he gripped the door, and swung it closed behind him. Two maces—the namesakes of the inn—hung on either side of the doorframe.

The knight slowly ran his gaze along the room. A low fire guttered in a large, cold hearth. A lantern sat in the only open window—the other windows were shuttered. On the table, in the center of the room, another lantern flickered, next to a low, square object, covered with sackcloth. In the dimness, he could make out four people. A scrawny woman, slouching at the end of the table, nearest the fire, hood down around her shoulders letting a messy tangle of hair tumble around her bare head. A man, sitting behind the table, his hoary head, gaunt eyes, and frail hands illuminated in the lantern’s flickering light. A shadowy bulk leaning against a stand of wine barrels, darkened and indistinguishable, at the back of the room. And a little man, cowering in the corner farthest from the fire, sitting atop a barrel, holding his face in his hands.

No one spoke. The knight lowered his hands to his side, gripping the leather belt that circled his waist multiple times, and repositioned his sword towards the front, resting his palms on the pommel.

“I seek Siggo, of Tournai,” he said.

The old man glanced at the woman, then back to the knight. “And who are you?”

“I am Dragobert, vassal of my lord, Sigemund de Neufmarch.”

“Shutter the window,” the old man said. The lumbering shadow in the back moved forward into the light. He was an enormous tree trunk of a man, with a low brow and dark eyes. He closed the shutters and moved the lantern to the table, on the other side of the covered object.

“I am Siggo,” said the gaunt man. “What business?”

The knight pulled two leather pouches from his belt and held them by the purse strings into the light. “I have come for the skull of St. Thomas,” he said. Siggo rose slowly, reaching forward across the lantern with outstretched hand. Dragobert pulled the pouches back and shook his head. “I need to see it,” he said.