Relics bp-1

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  Will had both hands on my shoulders. I cringed, and loosened my hold on the rope. It shot through my hand, burning it, before I snatched it away with a curse and turned back to my torturer.

  'I do not understand why you had to come back at all,' I yelled at him, spittle forming on my lips. Why did you? You have… you have pushed me aside!'

  'How? How have I pushed you aside, Patch, and from what, pray?'

  'From the life I had made for myself here. From my friends. I feel like a corpse – no, no, I feel like your bloody shadow, you bastard!' 'Shadow be fucked. I ask again: pushed you aside from what? No, let us rather say, from whom?' 'From the Captain,' I muttered. 'No, that is not it. Try again.' 'I don't know. Gilles. Dimitri. My friends – everyone!' 'Everyone? Is there anyone in particular whom you feel I have…'

  I slammed my hand down on the rail, and turned to him, teeth clenched in fury. 'Look, Will, you know who I mean. You certainly know. Don't make me fucking say it!' 'I'll say it for you. Anna.'

  I believe my hand would have gone to Thorn at that moment, but Will knew my mind better than I knew it myself, and laid his hand gently over mine on the rail. If I had expected to see triumph in his face I was disappointed. He was watching me soberly, carefully. Then he held up a finger and kept it there between our two faces.

  'Anna – yes? I am right, and please don't say anything. You think too much, brother. You always did. Back at college you were always thinking, while I was out fucking or brawling. You envied me, and I confess I envied you somewhat too. Patch, we both should have fucked and thought in equal measure, but we did not, alas: look where it's got us. And yes, you know my ways and suspect the worst. But you are wrong. Wenches… wenches like me because, mostly, they don't do too much thinking and they like a lad who tends to put his dick before his brains. And that's always served me well. But I am not the fool you imagine me to be. Not quite. Your Princess Anna… I like her very well, boy. But she is not, Brother Petroc, what I would call a wench. She thinks all the time! And although she likes me well enough – I make her laugh, fiddlededee! I make her blush, for shame! – it is something of a sisterly affection.'

  He laughed with no trace of humour. We were staring into each other's eyes like two tomcats ill-met on a roof. Still his finger did not waver before my face. 'Do you understand what I am telling you?' he said, finally.

  'She won't let you fuck her,' I answered, every word soaked in livid yellow bile. Will took a deep breath and bit his lip.

  'She doesn't want me to fuck her, you little shit. She wants-' and suddenly his finger was stabbing into me below my breastbone. You. She wants you. Is that clear enough?'

  'She doesn't! She does not!' I heard my voice rise to an unpleasant shout. 'She dodges me like a leper! I might as well be ringing a fucking bell! But you, she's all over you, isn't she?'

  Yes, and do you know what she talks to me about? Day in, day out? You. Bloody Patch this, that and the fucking other. I am so happy that you are miserable, brother, for I am just as miserable as you, and Anna, sweet Anna, is more miserable than the two of us put together. I am going off my head, Patch! My life… I am living under a great grey rain cloud that drenches me day in, day out with its pitiful bloody sorrow.'

  My head was spinning, and I could feel the wine I had drunk and how it was weighing me down. I did not want to listen to Will any more. I could not bear to listen to what he was telling me. For if he was right, then my own actions… I tried to clear my head. Will's face came into focus as if for the first time in weeks. He looked dreadfully tired and old. I felt ancient myself. All at once the bitter humours that had been choking me drained away like vinegar leaving a broken keg. I was myself again, feeling my skin like a long-abandoned set of clothes. I felt a bit sick, and worse, much worse, I knew I had made a complete, unforgivable and unredeemable idiot of myself. My burnt hand stung, but I grabbed the painter and tugged at it feebly. I could not bring myself to look at Will, so instead I began to mumble, watching the gig merrily defy me.

  'She can't possibly want me, brother,' I began. 'But thank you for saying she does. It… anyway, a noble attempt, and I am in your debt for it.'

  Will sighed heavily. He leaned far out over the rail so that I was forced to meet his eyes again.

  'Listen to me,' he said. 'I do not know – much less care, you understand – what has passed between you two sour creatures. But I do know women a little, and it is plain that there has been a misunderstanding. Or rather more than that, I'll grant you. The truth of it is, she does not hate you, but she is certain – deathly certain – that you loath her, and that is the canker that gnaws at her. How fitting that it should gnaw you as well.' 'Oh, Christ,' I moaned.

  ‘You have been cold towards her since the fight in Bordeaux.'

  'No, no, she has been cold to me! Since she came to me, all bloody when I was trying to wash myself…' Suddenly everything was horribly clear. I beat the rail with both fists, and the gig sped backwards through the wake yet again. 'Ah, ha. She disgusted you.' 'No!'

  'Understandable, all stinking and covered with blood like that. But that-' and he was smiling now, '-that is the only thing that I do understand. She is… she's a fucking princess, Patch, and she is arse over tit in love with you, you worthless Dartmoor sheep-shagger. That, my brother, is the greatest mystery of all.'

  I fear I overwhelmed Will with the force of my embrace and the hot tears that soaked into his tunic, but he was good enough not to say anything, except to stifle my litany of contrition. I believe it was then that he truly returned to life for me, and as we finally mastered the gig and made it fast alongside the Cormaran we were both cackling and chattering like tannery sparrows.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I barely noticed as we tied up among the grey marble buildings of Pisa, and Zianni slipped ashore to disappear into the crowd. Gilles had to grab us both to break into our merriment, telling us to arm ourselves and put on our best clothes. It was time to find out what awaited us on shore. There was some great and mysterious scheme afoot, it was plainly written in the tension with which the Captain and Gilles held themselves. They paced the deck like two great coursing hounds waiting for the off, and remained distracted and close-lipped as we rowed towards the bustling quays of the Republic. I was a little surprised when the Captain clapped a filthy old travelling hat on Will's head and sent him off ahead of us.

  I should have been swept away by the noise and the energy of this city and these people, who chattered away like starlings as they bought and sold, strutted and embraced. As we hurried across the Campo dei Miracoli I should have gawped at the marble cathedral and the odd, half-collapsed building shrouded in scaffolding which was either being shored up or knocked down. But I was far too happy – I who had not felt happiness for an eternity of bitter, angry days – and Gilles and the Captain strode so quickly through the midst of these wonders that we were soon into the narrow streets beyond. Night was falling and the lamps were being lit when we ducked under an arch of flowering vines and made our way up a blind alley to the house at the end. It was an inn, the Taverna dei Tre Corvi, and three carved ravens brooded over the door, which opened to reveal Zianni, who nodded in response to a whispered word from Gilles, slipped past us and made off down the alley. We paused on the threshold, Gilles staring at the alley's mouth until he was satisfied. He nodded to the Captain, who led Will inside.

  ‘Wait out here, Petroc. The inn is closed tonight to all but us. If anyone seeks to enter, draw your sword and call out. We will not be long.'

  I was left looking at the closed door and wondering why they had chosen me of all people as their bodyguard. Perhaps it was because I had become such a killer, I thought wryly. It was getting very dark now and the torch that burned at the mouth of the alley did nothing but throw weird shadows through the leaves of the vine. It was silent too, although we were in the midst of a swarming city. I curled my hand around the hilt of my sword, leaned casually against the door post and tried to feel brave. Now and again,
footsteps would clip up or down the narrow street beyond the vine and I would see a figure pass by the entrance. Despite my mood, I began to wonder who the footsteps belonged to. A workman? A lady, or a nun? Now and then there were flurries of activity and the street would be full of passers-by. Then, for long minutes, no one at all.

  It was during one of these lulls that I heard another set of footfalls approaching. They were hard and confident: a soldier for certain, I thought, but now they softened. A lawyer, perhaps? I had no idea, of course, whether a lawyer walked any differently from a costermonger, but I liked the idea and was amusing myself idly thus when the footsteps stopped. I looked up, surprised, and thought I saw a figure under the torch. As I watched, it stepped across the alley and seemed to press itself into the wall. I strained my eyes and thought I could see a shadow there. Perhaps there was someone watching me, perhaps there was no one. I carefully loosened my sword in its sheath. The more I stared the less I could see, and the more convinced I became that eyes were on me. Finally, when I could see nothing at all, I took a step into the alley. Immediately there was a flickering in the shadows and someone took off up the street. The footsteps faded and I let go of the hilt of my sword. My hand came away damp with sweat. I wondered for the hundredth time what was happening behind me. Over my head the wooden ravens creaked on their iron perch.

  It was some time after that when the door opened and Will stepped out. He wiped greasy lips and treated me to a spectacular belch. "You are wanted inside,' he informed me, and indeed the Captain leaned through the doorway and beckoned me inside. Will took my place in the alley. I left him picking his teeth and stepped gratefully into firelight and the smell of good roast meat. I was in a big, square room with ochre walls and a ceiling of painted rafters. There were two long tables, and at one of them sat the Captain. A plump, long-haired man was busy taking a suckling pig from a spit and he beamed at me and beckoned. In no time I had a trencher full of steaming pig-meat and a full beaker of wine and was seated opposite the Captain, who was cleaning his own plate with a hunk of bread. 'Someone was watching from the street,' I told him. 'Did you see them?'

  'Not really, but I heard him.' And I told him of the lawyerish footsteps. He laughed, but looked serious.

  They didn't sound like the footsteps of English mercenaries, then, I take it?' 'Not at all.' I paused and grinned. 'Genteel feet.'

  'Hmm. Excuse me for a moment.' He went over and opened the door, leaned out and whispered something to Will. Then he returned.

  You should be full of questions,' he said, cocking his head at me.

  I was, full to brimming, and after being alone with my thoughts for so long the floodgates were opening.

  'I've been talking to Will, but you have spent the most time with her of late: does Anna hate me?' I blurted.

  The Captain looked genuinely surprised, then threw back his head and laughed long and hard. He took a gulp of wine that trickled into his beard and chuckled some more. Finally he lifted his chin and regarded me down the length of his eagle's nose. 'No,' he said. 'No? Are you sure?'

  'No, she does not hate you. What other questions do you have?' Why is she ignoring me, then?'

  The Captain seemed to be having a hard time swallowing back more laughter.

  'I can assure you that the Vassileia Anna does not hate you. She… she is very fond of you, Petroc. But she is having difficulties of her own.' 'Like what?'

  'She is finding it hard to be herself again – to be a great lady on a ship of fools such as we are. And other things that I have surmised but would not tell you even if I knew them to be true. Now for God's sake, Petroc, ask me something else.'

  I picked up my pig bone and gnawed, almost melting into the bench with relief. Then I remembered where I was.

  'If you will allow me to guess, I would say we are here to meet the man you missed in Bordeaux.' "You are right.' And he is here in Pisa?' 'Right again.'

  'And the others from Bordeaux, the Englishmen – they are here too. They followed us.'

  'Not exactly. Someone has followed us, though, or rather they have followed our friend. But he is safe. Would you like to meet him? He will be able to answer more of your questions.' And he got up and pointed to a door I had not noticed at the other end of the room. 'Through here,' he said, beckoning with a crooked finger. He looked almost devilish, with the firelight flickering on his dark face and picking out the sweep of his brows. 'He is waiting for you.'

  I felt a sudden reluctance, but picked up my beaker and walked over to the door. The Captain knocked twice and opened it. Gilles must have been standing on the other side, for he slipped out with an unreadable look on his face and, with a gentle hand between my shoulder blades, pushed me inside. I found myself in a smaller room with a smaller fire and one square table, on which stood a wine jug. A tall, stooped figure sat with his back to me, hooded and swathed in a black travelling cloak despite the warmth. I took a step back but the door closed behind me with a soft click. The man at the table reached out and tapped the table opposite him. Starting to shiver a little myself, but not wishing to be rude, I made my way slowly to the high-backed chair and pulled it back.

  'Sir, may I sit down?' I croaked. The man rose to his feet, cloak billowing, and threw back his hood. I staggered back and would have fallen into the fire had a long hand not shot out and grabbed my sleeve. We stood, the table between us, and then I had leaped around it and wrapped my arms around him. 'Adric!' I gasped. 'Dear boy!'

  He was all bones, hardly more than a skeleton in a black cloak. But he returned my hug, hands fluttering like bats at my back.

  'I never thought to see you again,' I said finally, when we were seated by the fire. 'I must confess that I was a little less sure of that,' said Adric.

  I sat back and let out a great gasp, as if I had been holding some part of my breath all these months. Speechless and overcome with joy, I raised his fingers to my lips and kissed them. He harrumphed, embarrassed. 'The Captain seems to think you are full of questions,' he said at last. I held up my hands in resignation. Where to begin?' I said.

  Well.' He filled our beakers. 'Do you know how we both come to be here?'

  Yes, of course. Sir Hugh de Kervezey.' I spat into the flames.

  You've learned a sailor's habits, I see. You are right – Kervezey it was who hurled us out into the world. But he, like the rest of us – you, me, the Captain included – are caught up in a game, or rather a maze. And at the centre of the maze is something small and simple, oddly enough.'

  He had not changed, despite having wasted away almost to nothing. I waited, knowing from long experience that he expected my query but would answer his own riddle whether or not I spoke. In any case, what could he mean? What was Kervezey after?' he prodded. 'The hand.'

  'Ah. No. Well, not exactly. He was after the Captain. I will tell you why in a moment. And what did that have to do with you? Simply that he had discovered that you had been my -what is the right word? Helper? No, protege, as the French say.' 'And friend, I hope,' I said.

  'Always that. In any case he had an informant at the abbey from whom he learned of my occasional meetings with the Captain. Purely by accident, I suppose, I happen to be one of the only people in England who knows de Montalhac's true identity and business. No. Actually that is not quite true. I have known him for years, and we have met often. I do not need to be deceitful with you. I do so hate deception in any case, but it has been forced upon me. No, the truth is that I am an associate of Seigneur de Montalhac, as he says.'

  'Adric! You work for the Captain? You have always worked for him?'

  'In an academic capacity, dear Petroc. I am his bookworm, you might say. I research the esoteric questions he brings me, and hunt on paper what he hunts out here in the world. This, or something like it, Kervezey learned, although I don't think he realised the depth of our connection until much later. Meanwhile I was to be the unwitting snare, and you the bait, that he set for the Captain.' 'But what about the deacon?'

  'Ah
a. He was going to kill the deacon anyway. You just provided a handy scapegoat. Serendipity, I suppose you might say.'

  I slumped against the high back of the bench. My head was beginning to buzz with confusion. First my old friend had appeared as if from the dead, and now he felt the need to tell me my own story in a way that made no sense whatsoever.

  'Serendipity, Adric? It's hard to think of serendipity involving so much blood.'

  'No, no, you don't see it. Well, how could you? But it was so. The hand was a lucky accident for him, which he exploited. I think he was hoping that making you a fugitive would send you back to Devon and the abbey, and give him some advantage over me.'

  "Wait, wait. He tried to kill me by the river. He did kill my best friend.' I could see Will spinning away, his head lost in a cloud of blood. 'He wanted me dead then.'

  'No, that was an accident, I think. Or rather he meant to kill your friend but not you. He wanted you alone and frightened so he could drive you. He miscalculated you, boy, and he lost you for a while. I am afraid I took a dreadful risk sending you to Dartmouth – risked both your safety and the Captain's – but it was the only path I could see. But you did escape with the hand, and that was a wonderful development, the perfect bait for a relic merchant. Anyway, Kervezey couldn't approach me in person, as he'd already done so and I had seen through his scheme…'

  'Stop, Adric, for God's sake!' I raised both hands. 'Kervezey had already been to Buckfast? Why, when'

  Adric sighed. 'I am getting ahead of my tale. Let me start at the beginning. Have you heard of Saint Cordula?'

  Now my head was spinning in earnest. I pressed my fingers to my temples and mouthed a 'no'.

  'But Saint Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins? Every schoolboy knows Ursula.' He waited for my baffled nod. 'Good. For a start, there were eleven virgins, not eleven thousand: Sencia, Saturia, Saturnina – tricky – Saula, Rabacia, Palladia, Pinnosa, Martha, Britula and Gregoria.' 'That's ten virgins, Adric.' I took a long gulp of wine. 'Exactly so. Cordula was hiding on her boat.' He beamed.