The Vault of bones bp-2

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  He sighed. 'Good sense, Patch, as always. You are absolutely right. What is troubling me is that this night's events are like nothing so much as the answer to a prayer. And I do not pray’ 'Baldwin does,' I told him. 'So what will you do?'

  'Do?' He laughed, and all at once he seemed to grow cheerful again. ‘What will I do? What would the alchemist do, who finds the Philosopher's Stone?' He spread out his arms, and his cloak flew up around him like wings. For a moment the Captain was a magus of night, binding the city to his command. Then the cloak settled, and he was a man again.

  Chapter Four

  The bells of every church in the Rione Campus Martius, with all the other belfries in the city, began to chime the nine bells of terce.

  Gilles had awoken me at dawn. Opening my eyes, I found him squinting at me down his nose, like a surgeon in a mummers play.

  You are rested? Not still in a drunken stupor? The Captain has need of you’

  'I was not so drunk – I hardly drank anything last night’ I rasped indignantly, my leathery tongue giving the lie to my protest. And then, 'Has need of me? How so?' I asked, curious despite myself. 'He is taking you with him to see Baldwin’ I all but choked.

  'Why, O Gilles, is the Captain taking me? It is much too weighty a matter’ I protested when I had recovered my breath.

  'Aha!' he said, chuckling. Your perfect manners’ He smiled. 'Listen, Patch: I will not say more now, but I can at least tell you this. The Captain has a great liking for you, lad, as do I. You are a brighter light than most; you are young, and you have proved that you have the liver for our sort of work. If the Captain chooses to take you along to an important audience, perhaps he means you to learn something. Eyes open, yes? Eyes and ears’ 'And mouth shut tight?'

  Gilles merely laughed, and, seeing that my unsteady hand was shaking ruby droplets on to the bed linen, reached out to steady my cup.

  'Look upon it, then, as your reward for having the hardest head on the Cormaran, and for returning to us despite all’ he said. 'By the bye, you will be Peter of Zennor, of course.' I nodded. It was the name I had assumed in London, where my own name was likely to lead me to the scaffold.

  Gilles had ordered a set of fine clothes laid out for me. I dressed hurriedly, all fingers and thumbs, and although I heard a commotion beyond my door I was too nervous to join in with what was clearly a rowdy breakfast. When at last the Captain knocked, I was pacing in front of the window, watching the goats play-fight amongst the stones. After that I broke my fast on raw eggs, cheese and good bread with the Captain, who all but ignored me, instead leafing through a sheaf of old parchments. But at last he poured me a mug of small beer and one for himself, toasted me with a warm smile, and drank.

  'That is better’ he said, wiping the foam from his beard. Well, my lad, are you ready for the off? An emperor is waiting for us.'

  I followed him out into the already bustling street. Striding through the Campus Martius, we came at last to the bank of the Tiber, and nervous though I was, my heart leaped to see it, running fast over a bed of weedy, tumbled stones. Perhaps I had been expecting something as grand and majestic as the Thames, but here was a stream much like my own River Dart back in Devonshire. But that was merely the river itself. If it seemed friendly and familiar, what lay along its banks was not. We passed a dark, lowering building spiked with gibbets that overhung the bank of the Tiber, a brace of leathery cadavers swinging there seemingly unnoticed by those who walked beneath them, and crossed a great stone bridge that led over the river to a strange, circular castle that guarded the far bank.

  This, Patch, is the Pons San Petri’ said the Captain. 'The Romans built it – the old ones, mark you – and they built that thing as well’ he said, pointing to the castle. "That is the Castel Sant' Angelo, the fortress of the pope. Grim, is it not?' 'Not as grim as the one behind us’ I said.

  'Ah yes, the Tor di Nona. That is where the Holy Father has his enemies strangled in the dead of night. Up there’ he pointed up the hill across the river, where I could just make out the long roof of a great church, 'that is Saint Peter's, from where the Church extends its control over the souls of men. But here we stand between the symbols of its power over their bodies. The pope is also a prince, lad. Old Gregory is also Ugolino, Count of Segni.'

  My strength was ebbing under the baleful watch of the bodies dangling from the Tor di Nona. I began to feel weak again. What was I, a bumpkin, a pipsqueak from the boggy moors, doing here? I followed the Captain like a whipped hound into the tangle of streets that made up that part of Rome called the Borgo, which lies beneath the walls of Saint Peter's Church. Saint Peter's! The dangling cadavers of the Tor di Nona had all but driven the thought of her from my head, yet there was the mighty arched tower of her bell tower, there the great flight of steps up which pilgrims were crawling, and rising in the distance, the basilica itself. I stopped in my tracks, slack-jawed with wonder yet again, until the Captain tapped me on the shoulder.

  It was not hard to find the Sign of the White Hound. It was directly across a square that stood before the church of Santo Spirito in Saxia, the biggest church hereabouts, whose bells were beating the air with their din; and the two French soldiers from last night were standing self-consciously in front of the door, pretending not to guard it. They recognised me straight away: there was no mistaking my finery, which the Captain had bid me wear. As always, he himself was dressed in simple black, almost priestly garb, with a cloak thrown about his shoulders and a black coif covering his greying hair. Only when you came very close would you see that what seemed to be homely cloth was in fact damasked with strange creatures and plants, with subtle workings of silver thread. This morning it was I whom the two bodyguards fixed their blue eyes upon, and seeing this, the Captain leaned and whispered in my ear.

  "They look no happier than they did last evening’ he said. 'Go to, Patch: win them over’

  I licked my suddenly dry lips and stepped forward. The taller one was grasping the hilt of his sword in a business-like manner, and it was true: neither of them seemed overjoyed to see us again. Not quite knowing what to do but remembering how I had seen courtly folk act (the few times I had been anywhere near such people), I strolled towards them, halted a few paces from where they stood, pointed my right toe in front of me and bowed slightly from the hip. Straightening up I spread my arms wide and smiled, in what I hoped was a friendly manner. Last night I had been angry and withdrawn and quite eager – as my late friend Will would have said – to get stuck in, and now I wanted them to know I was harmless, or at least in a better mood. Happily they seemed won over, for my true harmlessness was no doubt all too apparent, and both smiled faintly at my display. And now they take me for a prize poltroon, I thought. Nevertheless I cleared my throat ostentatiously.

  'Good morning to you, sirs’I said in French, which luckily I spoke tolerably well – luckily, that is, for apart from a smattering of Latin, French was the only tongue that Baldwin and his entourage had at their disposal. We are here at the hour appointed by your master. Pray tell: is he within?'

  'His Majesty the Emperor of Romania is within, and he awaits you’ said the tall one in courtly French, and it was then I realised that he and his mate were not men-at-arms, but knights. They had made an effort to disguise themselves in rough attire, but I now saw, as I had not last night, that they wore golden rings on their fingers, and their belt buckles were golden also, and worked in the outlandish fashion of the East. The tall man had taken a sword pommel or shield-edge on the nose once upon a time, and an old scar trailed from his temple to his mouth.

  ‘You are welcome’ added the shorter man, who had seemed so possessed with fury outside the inn. He had grey hair and age or a fight had robbed him of two front teeth. 'And we beg you to forgive our intemperate manners at our last meeting. It was poorly done.'

  'No, no: if my manners were surly, the fault was mine alone’ I said graciously, trying not to sound as relieved as I felt. 'I was mistaken in my assumptions, and some
what on my guard, as I am not yet familiar with this place.'

  'Then we shall be friends, in that at least’ said the tall man. 'Though I took you for a native son of Italy last evening, you are an Englishman, I think.'

  'Do I know you, sir? I mean, aside from last night?' I asked politely, for there was something familiar about him that I could not place. 'I do not think so, good sir’ he replied. 'Bruges, perhaps?' I was racking my brains. 'Alas! I was whelped not far from there, but I have not been back these twenty years or more’ he exclaimed with a sad smile. Perhaps he simply looked Flemish, I thought, and let it be.

  'Now let us make haste’ said the other man. 'The emperor is anxious to talk with you. Monsieur de Sol’ he called. 'I bid you welcome in the name of His Majesty Baldwin, Emperor of Romania and Constantinople. Please, come inside’

  The Captain shot me an approving look as we made our way inside the inn. The Sign of the White Hound had seen better times, but it was not quite so insalubrious as its surroundings promised. I caught sight of a couple of bright whitewashed rooms with long tables laid for the midday meal, and a pretty serving-maid in a clean apron was bustling around. We were led upstairs to a suite of modest rooms panelled in painted wood, with dark wooden ceilings. There were tapestries on the walls – I guessed they were Baldwin's, for they were creased and somewhat clumsily hung – glass in the windows, and fresh rushes underfoot that filled the air with their sweet scent. An ornate but travel-worn chest stood against the wall, and I glimpsed another in the adjoining room, where there was a bed and a somewhat grander hanging, upon which a cross in gold thread shone on a field of red cloth, surrounded by a pattern of smaller golden crosses. Baldwin was sitting in a high-backed chair with his back to the largest window. A shield – a war-shield in size, but bearing no marks of war – hung behind him, and on it a black Flemish lion pranced on a field of gold behind a diagonal red band. The sun was coming in and it was obvious he had chosen this spot so that anyone facing him would be dazzled. The tall man offered us two stools that had been placed in front of Baldwin’s would-be throne, but the Captain winced as if in pain.

  'I am not a young man, and my bones are as old as I am’ he said ruefully, making his way to another chair set off to the side. 'If you will permit me, I will be more pleasant company if my back is straight’ I pulled one of the stools next to him and sat down. We heard a hiss of exasperation as Baldwin heaved his chair around to face us. He was no longer a commanding shadow half hidden in light but merely a young lad in a rented room. He put a brave face on things, though, and called for wine and food. Then he raised a pale, lordly hand in greeting.

  'Gentlemen’ he said, you are most welcome. Monsieur Jean, last night you spoke of my palace of Bucoleon. I wish with all my heart you were my guests there, rather than here, but expedience… no matter. And already I am remiss. Let me introduce my two most faithful of men: this’ he said, indicating the tall knight, 'is Fulk de Grez, and here is Gautier de Bussac. These most excellent knights have been my faithful companions as I have made my way from one chilly northern land to another – we all miss the sun, eh, boys?'

  Fulk de Grez glanced at us with something almost like mortification in his eyes. These men, I saw, must be from Outremer. They had probably fought hard their whole lives, against the Infidel, pestilence, the sun itself, and this was their reward: handmaidens to this half-emperor. Yet they played their parts with exceedingly good grace. Gautier de Bussac brought a silver dish with water and clean linen towels, and we all washed our hands. The serving-maid came in with a silver flagon of wine, a tray of glass cups and a dish of little honey cakes. Only when everything was set to Baldwin's satisfaction did they retreat to an inner chamber.

  'At last’ said the emperor, when we all had a glass in hand. ‘I have been waiting for this moment.'

  ‘I am honoured that one so illustrious should be so eager to make my acquaintance’ said the Captain gravely.

  'Forgive me, but I am an impatient man’ Baldwin went on, then paused. He took a sip of wine, which was rather poor stuff, and sighed. 'That is not true at all’ he said. 'I have already learned that you are more perceptive than most men, Jean de Sol, and very well informed about my affairs. So you will know that I am nothing if not patient. I waited for years for my Regent to hand the throne over to me, or at least to die, but like Methuselah he clung to life like a strangling vine. Now he is dead at last, but I must wait patiently by the thrones of my rich cousins while they decide whether or not they will grace me with a little gift. I am patient because I need their gifts, not for myself, but for my empire. This you already know, I think, but the Empire of Romania is all but destitute. Venice took everything at the very start, and they hold all the choicest land. They squeeze the trade-routes like a wolf's jaws around the throat of a lamb. When the crusaders took Constantinople they set up their empire and left it supplied with nothing more than promises while they moved on to other deeds. My brother Robert, who was a besotted fool, died nine years ago, and if old John de Brienne had not been named Regent there would no longer be an empire. We are beset on all sides: by John Asen of Bulgaria, by John Vatatzes of Nicea, byThessalonika.' He sank back in his chair as if the very act of telling these things had exhausted him. 'My barons are loyal when it suits them so to be. My Greek subjects, to a man, loathe me as they loathe all followers of the Church of Rome. So I need money, a great deal of it, and soldiers. I have not been home for two years, and yet I am still empty-handed – no, I have my hands full of promises.' And he held up both fists and shook them. His knuckles were white.

  'But what do you wish to discuss with me?' asked the Captain. 'I am no Henry of England or Louis of France. I have no armies and no treasury. You have all my sympathy, but I believe you want a little more than that’

  'Straight to the mark, sir – thank God. You know what is in my mind, so let us be direct with each other. You know of the Chapel of Pharos’ 'I do’ 'Do you know what it contains?'

  'The relics of the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ, so I understand’

  I all but choked on my wine at these words, so carelessly uttered. If I had not held a goblet I would surely have crossed myself with reflexive piety, but I did not, and in another moment the training of my new life had overpowered the habits of the old one. Meanwhile, Baldwin brought his hands together and kissed his fingertips. I had seen the same gesture last night.

  'Those wonders have been guarded there since the Empress Helen brought them out of the Holy Land a thousand years ago. It is beyond.. ‘ He shook his head.

  'Forgive me, but I am as overcome as you are by even the mention of such relics’ said the Captain with great care. 'The greatest wonder is the Crown, is it not?'

  'The Crown of Thorns itself’ Baldwin breathed. 'The thorns that pierced His flesh, that were doused in His blood. Yes, that is the treasure of all treasures. But there are more’

  The Captain was silent. He leaned back in his chair, as calm as if he were alone in the library of the Ca Kanzir. He regarded Baldwin with no more than polite interest. Only the slight tilt of his head showed that he was paying attention.

  Yes, more’ Baldwin went on, becoming somewhat carried away. 'The Crown is chief of them, but the chapel holds the Spear that pierced His side, the Reed, the Cane, the Sponge, the Chain that bound Him; His Swaddling Bands, His Tunic, His sandals, a part of the Shroud that wrapped His body…' He was rattling away, counting relics off on his fingers. I fought back a grin.

  '… the Towel He used to dry the feet of the Holy Apostles, the True Cross – pieces of it. The head of the Baptist, and Saint Clement's, Saint Simeon's, Saint Bias' heads. The very staff of Moses!'

  'But the Passion relics themselves,' said the Captain. Your pardon, but I am fascinated. As you know from your cousin Louis, I have helped with the translation of a number of relics over the years, and for many clients, including Louis himself. But to hear of such things, and from a man who has seen them with his own eyes…' The Captain passed an expressiv
e hand over his face. ‘I understand the very Stone that blocked the mouth of the Tomb is there?' 'Supposedly… that is, indeed it is. The Sudarium also…'

  Your pardon again, Sire, but is this Sudarium – the facecloth from the Gospel of Saint John, I believe? – is it not part of the Shroud you mentioned?' 'No, I don't think so. The…'

  'No matter, no matter. You are speaking of wonders and I am acting the pedant. There is no doubt you possess a formidable collection. I think you wish for my professional opinion?'

  'Indeed,' said Baldwin, his voice almost cracking with relief.

  Well then. The Pharos Chapel holds the most formidable of any collection of holy relics in Christendom. That you knew.' Baldwin nodded. 'And so…' He held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "There: my professional opinion. I am speechless. Now let us come to the point. Money is easier to talk about.' Baldwin puffed his cheeks and blew out. You are every bit as direct as Louis described you’ he said. 'But that is good.' He cleared his throat, which set off a small fit of coughing. 'How much? How much is it all worth?' he said at last. 'All of it?'