The Vault of bones
( Brother Petroc - 2 )
Pip Vaughan-Hughes
Pip Vaughan-Hughes
The Vault of bones
Prologue
‘The moon was very bright, so bright that the feathery leaves and umbels of the water dropwort under which I lay painted my body with crisp, trembling shadows. Spiders were busy looping their silk between blades of iris, and each new strand blazed like the trail of a falling star. I raised my head and breathed in the clean, sweet scent of the plants. Something flopped wetly in the shallows of the river, and my head cleared. The river. It stretched away from me, straight as a blade of damasked steel, towards the dark hump of the city that squatted away to the north. I stood up lazily, only to be startled by a mighty confusion of noise: I had roused a heron, and, screeching, he blundered into the air, clapping his wings hollowly. The river broke into a ferment of colliding ripples.
I had fallen asleep, that was obvious. Had I been fishing? I could not recall, although I must have had something more than water to drink for my thoughts to be so muddled. I would have to dodge the Watch to get back into Balecester, and I had to be back before dawn: Magister Jens began his class promptly after Vespers, and to be late meant a tongue-lashing in his excruciating Swabian-tinged Latin. I looked around for a bag or a fishing-pole, but could see nothing in the flattened greenery. I had left a man-shaped dent in the tall grass. The dew was already settling, and I found I was soaking wet. My head was cold, and I was brushing the dewdrops from my tonsured pate when an awful peal of thunder shook the ground beneath me and the distant, shadowed city burst into a great roil of fire. A fountain of destruction it was, too bright to look at, brighter than burning pitch or the fire of the Greeks, that burns even on water. For a moment the buildings stood out in the heart of the pyre like children's toys: the cathedral, the castle, the bishop's palace, until the flames poured over them like a tide and they were consumed. Scorching air billowed around me, and my clothes, damp and clinging an instant ago, stuck to my flesh like molten lead. The water dropwort was burning and the fronds and flowers turned to white ash before my eyes. I opened my mouth and fiery air rushed in. Flames blossomed in my throat, my chest, my belly. My teeth turned to glowing coals. With my last strength I threw up my arms and screamed forth a gout of fire.
I was choking, and as I had that thought a voice above me said, ‘You are choking him.' I opened my seared eyes and saw a man's face looking down at me. His forearm was across my neck and he was pinning me down to the burned earth, but as I twisted and turned to see what I thought would surround me, I saw not the ashes of the water meadows of Balecester but rumpled bed linen and, further away, the walls of a chamber, lit by rush lights and by the glow of a dying fire. The man was watching me intently. His face was familiar: black arched brows, brown almond-shaped eyes. I could not place him, though, and let my head sink back into what I found was a sweat-soaked bolster. I let my eyelids fall, and for just a few more seconds the river was running once more, and everything was green and still. Sweet fronds of water dropwort bowed and danced. 'Patch. Patch! Do you hear me?' The green fronds became fingers waving inches from my nose. I opened my mouth to protest, but only a strangled croak came forth. 'He wakes. Piero? Please fetch the Captain’ It was not an English voice, nor an English face. I blinked, and it came into focus again. The mouth was smiling.. ‘Patch, can you speak?'
I shook my head. At once, a strong hand was lifting my head, and a cup touched my lips. I let icy water slip across the charred leather of my tongue and down my throat, then gulped until I gagged and spluttered. "Who am I?' I gasped.
PART ONE
London
Chapter One
Late December 1236
We came to London on Childermass Day, blown up the Thames by a snow-filled squall out of the Low Countries. It was an ill-omened day, to be sure: Herod massacring the innocents, best forgotten; or perhaps worth remembering after the heedless roistering of Christmas. But despite the nasty weather I was all aquiver with the excitement of seeing London for the first time. It is the heart of England, and every Englishman feels its pull, even the meanest villain who has never ventured further than the edge of his masters land. So to finally behold the great city… I admit that, like a child, I ran about the ship, getting in everyone's way, and at last volunteered to climb the mast and keep look-out. I had not seen England since that day, two years and more ago, when I had been taken aboard the Cormaran, a wretched, wounded fugitive. And so now, when the wet snowflakes stung me I did not care, and when the first houses came in sight around the great bend of Stepney Marsh, although they were but mean eel-fishers' hovels, I thrilled at the sight. And when the dark, spiked bulk of the Tower resolved itself out of the grey distance I all but fell off my perch to the deck below.
Anna, meanwhile, was snug in the cabin, wrapped in furs, reading. She cared not one whit about London, so she said, and she had been teasing me gently about my boyish anticipation since we had set sail from Bruges. She did not come on deck at my cry, although many of the crew rushed to the prow, as London was reckoned a good landfall by all sailing men, and these ones had been promised a long shore-leave. And she did not emerge as we slipped through the open gates of London Bridge. Only when we were safely tied up at Queenhithe Wharf did she deign to step forth, sniff the air and wrinkle her nose, and give me her hand.
'Oh dear’ was all she said, as she looked up at the sooty buildings that rose around the basin of the wharf, itself fairly muddy and stinking, for it was here that all the fish sold in the city came ashore; and as I later discovered, it served as a public privy, a great jakes for any Londoner to use. So Anna's royal nose had reason to object, but despite the stink and the snow I was all afire and bustled her up the water-steps. It was a half-mile to our lodgings at the Blue Falcon in Cheapside so a litter was found, and as the two footmen – under the cold eye of Pavlos the Greek, once a bodyguard of Roman despots, now devoted heart, soul and sinew to his vassikia, his princess – jolted Anna through the teeming streets I jogged alongside, chattering, while she swatted flakes of wet snow from her face. I was an outlaw in this country, but I gave it little thought, for my face had come into the lines of manhood and my skin was burned dark from the sun, and indeed I was as like the terrified, lost little monk who had fled these shores as the butterfly is to the crawling worm.
That first day was a flurry of organising, greeting, paying calls, and it was not until the next morning that we could take our ease, if only for a short hour, in the big, faded private chambers that we were to share with Captain de Montalhac, his lieutenant, Gilles de Peyrolles and Pavlos, who, as well as her bodyguard, was also Anna's devoted, self-appointed manservant.
The others having left to call on some important merchant or other, Anna and I sat in the Blue Falcon's not-quite-comfortable chairs and broke our fast on fresh bread, smoked fish, gulls' eggs, sweet butter, warm goats' milk and cold, bitter ale. Being still full of a good night's sleep and so somewhat heavy and contented, I watched as my love ate and drank. Her night-black hair was loose and hung about her shoulders and back. Her face was brown, with a constellation of darker freckles scattered across her cheeks. When I had first laid eyes on her, high on a lonely island hilltop, she had been pallid from years in the ghastly climate of Greenland and several weeks in the pitch-black hold of the Cormaran, on to which she had been smuggled in a load of whalebone. But the sunlight had quickly given her back the complexion of her people, and the only reminder of those grim days was the space in her mouth where the scorbutus, the sickness which had blighted us all as we crossed the endless Sea of Darkness, had stolen one of her teeth. Her front teeth had a little gap between them as well, in whi
ch she liked to work the tip of her tongue when she was thinking hard about something. Her eyebrows were black ink-strokes above her brown, almond-shaped eyes, in which the mercurial tumult of her humours played like the reflection of the sky in still water.
I loved her for all this: for all that lay on the outside, the flesh that clothed her, the scent that was hers alone, the way her hair shimmered like the nape of a jackdaw's neck. But most of all I loved her for what lay within, for like a great city Anna held within her a powerful complexity – a tumult, as I said – that had its cause, in part, in the way her life story had skipped like a stone just above the dark waters of disaster. But the other part was Anna’s own self, for – to me, at least – she was a creation without peer. The blood of emperors, of old Romans, flowed hot and furious in her veins, and I believe she felt her ancestors' presence very keenly. Certainly they would appear to me in flashes of anger or joy, the face of some long-dead queen or warrior usurping her own features to glare out at a strange world before vanishing back into the past.
The days passed pleasantly enough. The weather improved, indeed it became quite warm, and the stench from the filthy kennels that ran down the middle of every street made itself known to us. What time I had that was not spent in affairs of business I spent with Anna, and we explored high and low, from the vast, ugly hulk of Saint Paul's Cathedral to the Tower perched upon its mound. We squinted at the heads displayed on London Bridge, marvelled at the goods on display at the markets, and lost ourselves in the roistering crowds at Smithfield. Anna grudgingly admitted that London was worthy of at least a little admiration. She was always grudging with praise for anything Frankish, as she called everything outside her homeland of Greece. Franks were barbarians, boors, bloody-handed primitives. She made an exception for me, thank God, and for most of the Cormaran’s crew, but on the whole she resented the fate that had decreed she must pass her time in Frankish lands, and dreamed – every night, so she said – of the day that she would return to her home in Nicea and even, perhaps, see the greatest city of them all, lodestone of her heart: Constantine's city, Byzantium.
We had passed a week in this manner when the captain asked that I make a journey down the Thames to Deptford to buy a new anchor for the Cormaran. I would be gone a day, no more, and I bade Anna farewell with a kiss and a fierce embrace, knowing full well I would be back in those arms by nightfall. I took a wherry downriver, enjoying the boatman's skill as he manoeuvred us through the water traffic and shot the foaming race under London Bridge. It was a sunny day, and I stepped on to the bank at Deptford at around the noon hour. I took a mug of ale and a hot pie at a tavern, sought out the ironworks and paid for a fine anchor. The ironmaster was a voluble Kentishman, and before any money had changed hands a big flagon of cider appeared and we passed it between us in the blazing heat of the forge. Kentish cider is no match for that of Devon, and I told him so in good humour. That set him talking all the more, and before long we were in his cider store, eating great lumps of hard cows' cheese from the downlands of Sussex and sampling the contents of various barrels and tuns. My head well and truly fuddled, I at last conceded that a thick, mouth-puckering scrumpy from the Weald would not be laughed out of the fine county of Devonshire, hugged the man like a brother, and staggered off to find a wherry bound for London.
But there was no wherry. I had spent far too much time at the ironworks. Now it was dark, it was snowing again, and the tide had turned. Cursing, I made my way to the inn, an ancient pile of wattle and daub that the breath of the river had all but dissolved, and enquired after a boat, but there were none to be had until the morrow. And so I reluctantly took a room – there were plenty free – and hoped that Anna would not take my absence amiss. The place was pleasant enough, in truth: there was a hearty fire that hissed and crackled with the jolly song of burning flotsam, good ale and hot wine to chase off the cider hangover I was already suffering. I took myself off early to bed, where I had to curl up tight against the creeping damp of the linen, feeling a little sorry for myself, but not overmuch: for I was playing truant, as it were, and that is a pleasure all to itself.
The pot-boy woke me some time before the fourth hour, while the mist was still thick on the face of the Thames. There were stars in the sky, and marsh birds shrieked and piped out in the foggy desolation. There was a wherryman up and about, said the boy, and when I had jogged through the mist to the edge of the river, I found an ill-tempered man, a boat and a favourable tide. As the bells of the city were chiming the eighth hour, I was whistling up Garlick Hill on my way to the Blue Falcon.
I crossed the threshold of the inn expecting a ghastly tongue-lashing from Anna, but when I found her in the parlour, perched upon a settle by the window, she greeted me with a soft, distracted smile. I sat down warily opposite her and poured out the apology I had been constructing since my wherry had passed the Isle of Dogs.
‘I am glad you had a nice time’ she said, stopping me with a hand to my lips. 'But now I have a puzzle for you. Can you make head or tail of this? It came just after you left’ And she handed me a letter, a neatly folded square of vellum sealed with an anonymous, blank blob of wax. The seal was broken, and I unfolded the vellum and scanned the neatly written words within. To Her Majesty the Vassileia Anna Doukaina Komnena, respectful greetings.
I humbly ask that you will receive a petitioner who will make none but the briefest imposition upon your day. If you would care to hear words from a place that perhaps is still dear to your heart, please receive this humblest of supplicants, who shall call upon you at the hour before noon, tomorrow. The letter trailed off into florid politenesses that tried but failed to disguise the fact that the writer had not signed his name. Who brought this?' I asked. Anna shook her head.
'A tall man’ she said. 'So the pot-boy says. When pressed, he claimed the fellow was not a poor man, to judge by his clothes. That is all’
I read the letter again. It was in French, which gave no clue, although I thought perhaps it might be the French of Paris, and not London French.
'Not a Greek, then?' I puzzled. ‘I mean, this would seem to be from a Greek, would it not? "A place dear to your heart?" Nicea, I suppose’
'That is what… oh, Mother of God, Patch, I can't go on being this calm! Who knows my name, outside our good shipmates? No one! And all this about my heart! Of course it is someone from… someone sent by my uncle’ she finished, her voice sinking into an involuntary whisper.
‘I doubt that’ I said, soothingly. 'Are there Greeks in London?' 'There are’ said Anna. 'Of course there are.' Well, then’
'He was not a Greek’ said Anna. 'I asked. I said, "Did he look foreign?" Apparently he did not. This is Frankish writing, and a Frankish choice of words’ She plucked the letter from me and dropped it on to the settle between us.
'Did you tell the Captain?' I asked, searching her face. Her brows were furrowed and her mouth was drawn into a tight line. She shook her head. 'No. I do not wish to.'
'I think you should.' She shook her head again and gave me a look in which nasty weather was brewing.
'I do not wish to trouble him. He suffers my presence in his company very prettily, and in return I shall not pester him with annoying flea-bites such as this.' She pinned the letter down with her downturned thumb and gave me a look that said the matter was closed. I knew her well enough by now, though, to judge that it was not. But I let it lie, for my love was no mean judge of the world, and prowled around its snares and ambuscades as deftly as any cat.
Well, what shall we do today, then?' I asked, happy to change the subject.
It was early yet, before nine bells, but Anna had heard of a spice merchant in a street nearby who promised the freshest and strangest oddities from Ind and Cathay, and then perhaps a visit to a silk-seller. They were not really shopping trips, these excursions, but rather Anna’s way to justify long and rambling explorations, a passion I shared with her. Whenever the Cormaran brought us to an interesting landfall we would lose ourselves i
n streets and alleys, twisting and turning, chatting to townsfolk in cookshops and taverns, until we thought we had found the heart of the place. London was our greatest challenge so far, and so far we had only dipped our toes in its roiling, limitless waters. So we set out, and quickly found the spice merchant, whose wares were as withered and overpriced as we had expected. Finding ourselves near the Hospital of Saint Bartholomew, we strolled out beyond the walls to the great, stinking plain of Smooth Field, where the kingdom's farmers bring their animals for slaughter and butchering. There were no cows today, merely a churned-up expanse of muddy grass rank with dung and old blood, and a small town of rude huts and some grander houses of wattle and brick, peopled, so it seemed, by filthy children whose play was blows and vile oaths, and by men and women crippled either by drink or the drip. Driven back inside the walls by a reeking host of beggars, we wandered some more, past ancient churches and grand houses, hopelessly entwined in the tangled net of streets. Or so I supposed, until, turning a corner, I found that we had come back to Cheapside, and that our lodgings were only a little way away, across the teeming street.
'How did you manage that?' I asked Anna, amazed. She said nothing, but looked smug and tapped her head wisely with a finger. Then I realised. It is almost noon, is it not?' I said.
'I could not resist’ she said. You do not mind, do you? If I do not find out who this fellow is, it will drive me mad.' 'But.. ‘I began to protest.
You will protect me’ she said, smiling. 'And we will spy, only that. Peer at the fellow from behind a door. Do not worry: if there is trouble, I will tell the Captain, I promise. And, you well know, if trouble is coming, it will find us anyway’
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