The Vault of bones bp-2

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  'I do not think that this is entirely necessary’ he began, waving at the fire. 'But we are in the pope's house, and the walls may be listening. Oh, yes’ he said, seeing my shock. 'It is a simple thing to build hollow pipes into the walls of a room, that carry sound down to waiting ears. And perhaps there is a black-robed brother kneeling before our keyhole. Would you care to find out?' I shook my head. 'Sensible. The crackling of our fire will mask our words, I hope, and I am sorry I could not think of a better way. Needs must’ 'But I thought the pope was your friend!' I told him.

  'Popes have no friends. That is how they become popes’ said the Captain. 'He is a customer, an acquaintance and someone who finds my profession a source of great fascination – that is, what he believes to be my profession. If he knew the truth, he would be fascinated in quite a different way.'

  'That at least I can believe’ I said, choking back a mouthful of the hot, sour-sweet wine.

  'Ah, Patch’ said my companion, with a sigh of such unguarded melancholy that I turned to him, startled. His face was grim, set, as if he were about to open a door and step out into a snowstorm. Instead he reached out his hand for mine, and grasped it tightly.

  This is something of which we have spoken very briefly’ he said, sadly. 'I should have talked of it sooner, but when one is so much out in the world, as we have been, it is hard to talk about things that belong within. We both have much to forget, you and I, but now, alas, it is time to remember. There would have been a better time and place than here in the lion's den, but so be it.' He paused, and threw another twiggy branch of olive on to the blaze. The dead leaves flew up in a sizzle.

  ‘You know all the secrets of our… of the company of the Cormaran, let us say. And the chief secret, to those who care about such things, is that some of us – Gilles, myself, Roussel, the other men of Toulouse – are Good Christians. That is, we are what the people call Cathars, worshippers of cats, for the Church considers no slander too vile for us. To the world at large, heretics. Now, I should add that most of us, most particularly myself, are not very diligent in pursuit of our faith. We are outcasts, and most of us still feel the anger and pain that attended our casting-out. We carry horrible things here’ he touched his breast, 'and here.' And he held his fingers against his brow. 'Because those we left behind us have been destroyed, by the French and by the creatures of the pope: aye, this one as much as any, and perhaps he will prove to be the worst of all’ 'This I knew’ I said quietly.

  'I am glad’ said the Captain. 'Then you may or may not know that, within our faith, there are two sorts of believer. The greater part of us have always been what we call credenti or croyants: those who believe the tenets of the faith but are not constrained by all its practices. I am a croyant, as is Gilles. We all are. But the second… they are the pinnacle of our faith, if you like. We call them perfecti. They are the ones who have given themselves in body and in soul to the Lord’ I blinked: it was utterly strange to hear the Captain talk of the Lord in this way.

  'The perfecti are those who take the Consolamentum, which is our only sacrament. In doing so they renounce the world and all its temptations. It is all a little complicated for such casual talk’ he said apologetically. 'But I can explain the essence thus: God is perfect; nothing in the world is perfect; therefore nothing in the world was created by God. The Evil One – whom most call the Devil – made this visible, tangible world, and indeed he is that which is called "God" in the book you know as the Old Testament, for who but the Devil could use his creations so cruelly? God made the invisible world. So you see it is all very simple’ he smiled thinly. 'That is why we are so suited to our vocation: to us, no relic can be holy, for all matter is evil’

  'And the Saviour?' I breathed, for here it was at last, the question I had longed to ask but dared not, for although I had lost my faith I still quailed at the bald fact of heresy, though it drew me on. 'Jesus Christ was the Holy Spirit.' 'Not a man?'

  'How could he be, when all flesh is the Devil? Christ was spirit, and any man who takes the spirit within himself will become Christ.' 'But the Crucifixion…' I began.

  '… Was a sham, a mummery. A trick to deceive mankind. The Holy Spirit cannot die.'

  'So this world is nothing?' I pressed. 'But what of the scriptures?'

  'The New Testament is also our testament’ he said. 'The Old tells of nothing but the Devil, for no God would treat his people thus.' 'So God – my God, I mean, the God of Christendom…' 'Is the Devil himself’ said the Captain, flatly. I gasped. 'So you have not taken this sacrament, this consolation?' I asked, after a long pause. Perhaps I had not understood any of this aright.

  'No. I could not live the life..he paused, and ran his fingers through his hair. He had removed his coif, and in the torchlight I noticed that his hair was beginning to tarnish into silvery-grey. I had never given it much thought, but now I began to wonder exactly how old Michel de Montalhac really was. Certainly I had never seen him so weary. Meanwhile he took a draught of wine and held his glass cup aloft. 'I could not do this, for example. I could not eat flesh, nor milk, nor eggs; nor could I seek fine lodgings. I would have to go about always in the company of another of the perfecti. It is a hard road to choose – deliberately, of course. Most of us, most credenti only take the sacrament on our deathbeds, or when we know

  The Captain was looking quite stricken. His hands busied themselves with his goblet. For a while he fussed with the poker, stirring the blazing coals until the heat grew almost intolerable. Finally he heaved a great sigh and slumped back in his chair.

  'My dear Petroc. We have known each other for two years now, and I know, it is certain, a good deal more about you than you know of me. You have never asked, and that was good. I do not care to speak of the past – I who make the past my own special affair – but tonight matters have come to a sudden and unexpected point. If you will favour me with your patience, I will tell you of my past, or that… that event in the past that now bears very heavily upon our present. Can I do so?'

  I nodded. He squeezed my hand and placed it gently upon the wood of the table. Then he took a sip of wine, pushed his plate away to the side and began. 'Patch, I think I told you where I was born, did I not? That night in Gardar? In any event, I came into this world as the heir to the seigneury of Aupilhac, which lies an easy day s ride to the north and east of Toulouse. To pare a long night's tale down into that of a moment, my people, and most of the folk who dwelt in those lands, were Good Christians. I… No matter, it is all gone, all burned long ago. My dear friend Gregory's uncle and predecessor Lotario de' Conti, who you will know as Pope Innocent but who was as innocent as a ferret in a rabbit warren, declared a crusade against our liege lord, the Count of Toulouse. In the course of this most holy war, the French jackals came down upon us and destroyed all that they could. What they did not ruin, they stole. My parents died when the French chief, Simon de Montfort, burned our castle. I was young and bold, and I escaped the fire, as… as you will have gathered.' He paused, and placed the tips of his forefingers gently against his closed eyelids. Thus he sat for a long while, and I waited, not hearing the hiss and pop of the fire, but imagining the grey stone walls of our chamber straining to catch his next words. At last he opened his eyes and blinked wearily.

  'The fury of the Church of Rome died down a little after Avignon fell to Louis of France,' he said. 'That Louis in whose company I have sat, and who is a kind and gentle man, but who has sent a legion of my folk down to death. No matter: there is a stain upon all of us, even those who call themselves innocent. But here is the burden of my story: there is a new danger lately risen, worse in a sense than the crusaders because it creeps through the land like fingers of rot in an old house. When Simon de Montfort sacked my home, there was a priest in his company: one Dominic Guzman, a Castilian. This Dominic had a special hatred for the Good Christians, for whatever reasons men are driven to such passions. He was de Montfort's pet – he would watch the sieges and butchery from his master's side. And he w
as at Lavaur, of course, and Beziers… all great slaughters. I can hardly bear to tell you that this man was declared a saint two years ago, although the world has been rid of him for longer than that – he died in his bed, make no mistake. But not before he had founded his own order of preachers..

  'The Dominicans, yes: who in England we call the Black Friars. And our new friend Peter of Verona is…' 'One of Gregory's black-robed devils.'

  'There was a Black Friar in Balecester for a while,' I said, remembering. 'He came and stirred things up – I remember him preaching in the market and outside the cathedral. He was thin and white-faced, and a bit sweaty. Folk would have fits and roll about in the mud at his feet. Not at all like our friend from Verona.'

  'And yet that jolly man is filled with hatred, do not doubt it,' said the Captain, bitterly. 'And no doubt it is a hatred very specifically of my people. The domini canes, as they call themselves: the hounds of God – they are darkness manifest. I cannot look upon their black cloaks without my gorge rising, for they wear them to mock our perfecti. They mock the living and the dead without distinction. Patch, had Pope Gregory ordered the Inquisition while you were still a cleric?'

  Word had just reached us,' I replied. 'Although it did not mean very much to me then, I confess. But sitting here…'

  'It makes the crackle of the flames a little less friendly,' finished the Captain.

  'Master, are you saying that His Holiness placed you at the right hand of this Peter deliberately? How much does he know about you?'

  'He does not know I am a… a credente, said the Captain, all but swallowing the word. 'I am certain of it. Only my company knows that secret, and not all of them. We are all bound to each other by secrets, as you know. I believe – I think I believe – that it was a meaningless act. But the Dominicans themselves have much to say on the nature of belief.'

  'No man less like a devil could ever be imagined’ I said. 'I have never liked friars, but I would gladly have ridden a few days in Peters company. That is…'

  'I cannot abide them’ said the Captain. 'That they mock my faith, that is one thing. But they roam the country, begging and pretending that they live the life of the Christ, when all they are about is prying and sniffing and stirring up hatred in the breasts of ordinary folk. But…' He dragged his fingers across his brow. 'I should not have spoken so hotly’ 'But they killed your people!'

  'Loathe them as I do, I have always striven not to be drugged by hate's poison’ he sighed, and bowed his head wearily.

  'I suppose it makes no difference’ I muttered. 'Hate will not raise the dead. But it is as strong as love, is it not? It makes a wondrous armour, I think’

  'But my dear Petroc, it gets in the way of business’ said the Captain. I had never heard a man utter a sadder thing, nor heard such a note of desolation in a human voice.

  'If it were me, I would wish them all in hell’ I said, bitterly.

  'Have you not heard what I have been telling you?' said Michel de Montalhac, softly. 'My poor friend, this is hell.' We talked a little, after that, of lighter matters, and the fire died down, but a pall had been cast over the evening and I took myself off to bed before long, although I could not sleep at first. Then I dozed, and when I opened my eyes again I saw the Captain hunched over in front of the embers, writing. The scratch of the quill and the low hiss and spit of the fire sounded like the breathing of a dying man. The quill was scraping as I went off to sleep, and was scratching still as I woke the next morning.

  'There: it is all set down’ said the Captain, turning to me, his eyes bagged with netted shadows. 'There are instructions for Gilles, and an account of what has passed here. Take these back to Rome, and wait for your orders – for orders there will be, Patch! Will it not feel good to be about things again?'

  'Indeed, sir’ I said politely, stretching, and noting that an ecclesiastical flea had left a trail of bites up my leg.

  Well, I am looking forward to the off’ he said. 'Even though I ride with the Devil himself.'

  'Be on your guard’ I said, then bit my tongue at my presumption.

  'I shall. Nay, do not fear. Yon Peter is no devil – not the Devil, at least. He believes he does good. Though I think I will find his goodness more insufferable, in the long run, than plain evil. Besides, he and I will part company at Fidenza, which is only a few days from here.'

  'Be that as it may, I will be fearful for your safety until I hear you have reached France safely’ I said.

  'Oh, I have supped with bigger wolves than he’ said the Captain. The dark mood of last night seemed to have left him, and he shook out his grey locks like a happy dog before tying on his travelling coif. There was not much else to say, and after he had handed me a thick parcel of letters and embraced me, he left me to my own packing and was gone. I heard his strong, confident stride ringing along the corridor. I went to the window to look for him, but the view was of some inner yard where an old woman sat plucking a goose. It began to rain, and soon Viterbo was wrapped in a wet, grey shroud once again.

  Chapter Seven

  I arrived back in Rome two days later, having spent the night once more in Sutri, although this time I had at least found a pallet before the fire, and so had not woken feeling like a drowned sheep. Nevertheless the weather had not broken, and when at last I dragged myself up the stairs of the Palazzo Frangipani I was feeling more like a selkie – that faery seal that can take a human form – than a man. Trailing puddles behind me – for since I had crossed the Tiber and entered the gates of Rome the rain had turned into the kind of torrential deluge I had only ever encountered out on the deep ocean – I staggered into the kitchens, shedding clothes frantically. 'Good Petroc, what cheer?' called Roussel.

  'None whatsoever,' I shot back, grumpily. 'I have water in my ears and mayhap I am growing fish scales beneath my tunic. For the love of God, find me something hot to drink!'

  'Nothing easier,' said my friend, pouring a big cup of red wine into which he thrust a poker that had been resting in the fire. A cloud of fragrant steam boiled up. 'Is Captain de Montalhac close behind?'

  'No,' I said, curtly. I was naked now, and freezing, and realising what a mistake this was I ran out and across the hall to my chambers, where I grabbed a blanket and an old tunic I had left flung across the bed. I returned to laughter, for Gilles had heard me, and Horst, and I had to smile in turn as I crouched before the fire, warming my gooseflesh.

  It took several long, gut-warming swallows of the hot wine before I felt inclined towards conversation, but meanwhile my comrades had gathered around me and were waiting expectantly. It was Gilles who broke the silence.

  What happened, Patch? Where is the Captain? Where… where have you been?' To see the pope’ I replied as casually as I could.

  'That we know’ Roussel chimed in. We had a visit from the Lateran guard, who came looking for the pair of you and to inform us that you were to be guests of His Holiness. We rather took that to mean you had been arrested, but then the Captain's note arrived, which put us at our ease.' 'So where was old Gregory?' asked Gilles. 'Rieti? Trevi?'

  'Viterbo’ I said. And I told them of our journey, a tale short in the telling, for I had nothing to relate of the road nor the city save endless rain. 'But as to what befell us there’ I finished, 'you must read this. The Captain stayed up all night writing it. I hope it is dry.' I fished the bundle of letters from my sodden valise, and found, to my relief, that the thick oiled leather of the bag had indeed kept out the deluge.

  'But, Patch’ said Horst, through clenched teeth, 'where is Captain de Montalhac?'

  'Ah. He is making haste northwards as we speak, and I hope he has found fair weather. Gregory… I mean to say, His Holiness commanded him to meet with the King of France as soon as possible. It is all in the letter’ I added, hopefully. 'France?' cried Roussel in disbelief.

  'Indeed’ said Gilles. 'It is all here. And there are orders for us. The quiet life is over, boys.' 'I'm not going back to France, that is for fucking certain’
said Roussel. Horst said nothing, but his shoulders slumped.

  'Nothing like that’ said Gilles consolingly. We would be leaving Rome in any case within the month. You did not wish to stay for the summer, did you? For the agues? Watching the dead pilgrims being stacked one upon the other, and wondering if you will be next to go? I think not.'

  'Tis true that the poison creeps from the river when the hot weather comes’ muttered Horst, reluctantly.

  When Orion calls his dog to heel’ added Roussel. I nodded my head. When the Dog Days came, every sane man left Rome. And I knew full well that the bestial vapours and poisons were particularly deadly to Englishmen.

  Well then, do not fret. You are bound for Venice and the Ca' Kanzir – not you, though, Patch. Does that not cheer you?'

  The others nodded, mollified, but I jumped up, dislodging my blanket. It does not cheer me!’ I exclaimed. Why must I be left to face the ague?'

  'Peace, man. And put your bare bum away. You are being left nowhere’

  What, then?' I said, tucking the blanket back about me while the others chuckled.

  'Give me a little time to… to arrange things in my mind, if you would’ said Gilles. 'Let us discuss things over dinner, you and I. Roussel, I should like you to ride down to Ostia Antica post haste, and begin putting the Cormaran in readiness. The Captain wishes us to sail within the week’

  After Roussel had gone off to pack his valise and Horst to instruct the kitchen, Gilles began to pace, head deep in the letter. What is the Ca Kanzir?' I asked him. 'The Captains palazzo. Home, on land, to the company of the Cormaran. Your pardon, Petroc: the captain's writing is atrocious. I need to concentrate.'