The Vault of bones bp-2

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  I sat for a while, waiting for my heart to still, and listening for more travellers below. But everything was still on the road, and before long – and with the aid of the last of the wine -I laid my head down again, this time to sleep in earnest. By the time I woke early the next morning, thick-headed and with a mouth full of tiny ants, I had all but forgotten the riders. I found a little stream nearby and led Iblis to drink there, and bathed my own grimy face. Then we set out again.

  After I had ridden for a couple of hours, the Ravenna Road began to amble through soft, rolling country again. It was a little like Devon, I mused, but with olives instead of apples. And then, to confound me even more, orchards began to spring up on either side of the road. There were mountains not too far away, brown backs dotted with trees, and every hilltop hereabouts seemed to have a castle or a fortified village perched upon it. I took an excellent lunch of grilled sausages in one of these villages before pressing on to Spoleto which, despite the innkeepers gloomy assessment, I drew near to well before the sun began to sink behind yet another ridge of high mountains.

  If I had found Narni a little sinister, it was nothing compared to my first view of the city of Spoleto. I crested a hill, and the road – little more than a track, in truth – dropped steeply down into a wide basin between the ridge of mountains I had been riding towards, and the hills over which I had just ridden. A river ran coolly through the darkening land, past a crude round fortress; and away to my left a broad, flat, marshy valley stretched away almost to the horizon, only to be blocked by a high, round-topped peak that seemed to rise vertically from the valley floor. But ahead of me was a town built on a hill that rose from the centre of the basin – I say a hill, but it seemed no less than a tiny mountain in itself, so steep and craggy was it. Down this crag seemed to pour – or rather ooze, like golden resin from a pine-tree – a confusion of honey-coloured stone, which, as I stared, resolved itself into churches, spires, houses and streets, all clinging to the sides of the mountain and springing up in tighter clusters wherever there was a hint of flat land on which to gain a purchase. In the fading light it looked unbelievably ancient, or indeed other-worldly, as if not made by the hands of men at all. With a growing sense of foreboding I rode down the hill towards the gate.

  The sun was not quite down, and the guardsmen, decked in livery the colour of old blood, let me through with suspicious glances but no trouble. I was to meet Horst at the White Lion, near the cathedral. I asked an old woman leaning in a doorway where that might be, and she wordlessly pointed straight up. I took this to mean that I had to ride to the very top of the hill, and indeed I thought I remembered seeing at least one belltower up there, so with a sincere apology to Iblis I guided him up the horribly steep roadway.

  The arms of Spoleto proved to be a white lion, so I guessed that Horst was lodged at the city's chief hostelry. I was looking forward to some supper and a wash, so I fell to imagining what the kitchen might be offering, while Iblis plodded up, climbing the cobbled street with his head lowered purposefully. After a while I took pity on him and dismounted, and together we laboured along our zigzag course, for the road wound up the hillside like clumsy stitching. But despite my misgivings this seemed like a pleasant city after all. The streets, most of which, apart from the one we had chosen, seemed to be nothing more than staircases cut into the face of the hill, were full of people taking their ease, and children playing noisily with tops and hoops. Food was being prepared, and folk were bellowing at each other companionably from windows and doorways. Nevertheless I was beginning to grow weary by the time I led Iblis under a great, mossy archway and on to a patch of mercifully flat ground where, judging from the rotting fruit and vegetables being fought over by a swarm of bone-thin dogs, a market had recently held sway. There was a large church in front of me, and I hoped this was the cathedral, but a cowled monk, scurrying across the marketplace on some errand, told me that the place I sought was beyond, and to the right. As I suspected, that meant heaving our exhausted carcasses up another almost sheer street, and I was cursing the whole world when suddenly the buildings opened up on my left and I found myself looking down a wide course of steps and on to a wide piazza of golden brick, beyond which a marble church rose, blushing faintly pink with the last rays of the sun. This, plainly, was the cathedral. But where was the inn? I was sinking down on the topmost step to get my breath back, Iblis breathing hody down my neck, when there was a loud flurry of voices behind me. I turned, and saw that a party of young men were trotting down the street towards me, chattering loudly. Behind them, at the top of the hill, a loud argument was being played out between a very fat man with a bald head and another younger fellow, who with a final angry wave of his arms, took off after his friends. The fat man watched him go, hands on fleshy hips, before shaking his head and stepping back through a doorway, above which hung a sign emblazoned with the image of a white lion rampant against a blood-red field. I had found my inn.

  The proprietor of the White Lion – the fat gentleman I had seen arguing outside – was evidently used to his guests arriving in the last stages of fatigue, and he raised not so much as an eyebrow hair as I stood before him panting, sweat pattering down on to my tunic from the tip of my nose. He had a bed for me, but of course. Please to leave my beautiful horse with Giovanni the groom. Of course, Signor Horst of the Cormaran had arrived four days ago; and come in, come in.

  'He left this for you’ said the innkeeper, opening a drawer in his table and passing me a letter. I glanced at it, and saw that ‘Petrus Zennorius' was written there. I was about to ask for Horst's whereabouts, but at that moment a serving girl passed with a flagon of something cold enough to make the earthenware beady with dew. I must have looked desperate, for the innkeeper signed discreetly to another girl, who was placing a beaker of icy white wine in my hand so speedily I thought for a moment that I had conjured it up myself by sheer force of desire. I took a deep draught as the fat man watched me indulgently.

  ‘It is good, yes?' he asked. I nodded, although the cold liquor was making my teeth ache and my eyes throb. 'Our cellars are deep, the deepest in Spoleto. The Romans dug them down into the cold heart of the earth. Now, you may eat when you wish, but I would like you to take a jug of this wine to your room and lie down for a little. You look – forgive me, sir – but you look as if you passed last night in an unfriendly ditch’ 'Under a tree, actually’ I gasped through frozen teeth.

  'Sir! My remark was made in jest! Where was this tree? I am overjoyed that you made it alive to stand beneath my roof, for the roads hereabouts are not safe at night. Not safe at all, sir’

  'I was molested by nothing worse than ants and mosquitoes’ I said, tipping the last of the wine down my gullet. 'I thought it a friendly country, to tell you the truth’

  'That, my dear, exceptionally fortunate young sir, it is not. No, not by any means. Now, if you will not lie down I surely will, from the shock of what you have just told me. Druda!’ He beckoned over the girl who had brought my wine. Take the young master to his room – the good one with the red awning. Bring him more wine, and tell him to drink, and sleep’

  I did not, it seemed, have any choice in the matter. Druda, a solid girl with thick brown hair gathered into a purposeful bun, showed me to my room and returned a minute later with a bedewed flagon. She regarded me, a stern look on her freckled face, until I gave up fiddling with my pack and lay down on the pallet.

  'Good’ she said, and set the flagon, and a beaker, down next to me. Then, with a final glance to make sure I was obeying orders, she left me. I had to admit the bed – it was a real bed, a massive thing of black oak with four pillars and a canopy of somewhat threadbare red velvet – was comfortable. The hay that filled the mattress was fresh, and the linen smelt of flowers. I obediently drank a beaker of wine, then another, and settled back against the bolster.

  The innkeeper had been right. When I opened my eyes again it was pitch dark in the room. Wondering how long I had slept, I sprang up and hurried to th
e window. It was late: the waxing moon which had kept me company last night was nowhere to be seen, and the stars shone very brightly. But there was still noise drifting up from the town, and I hoped I had not missed dinner. My head was clear, and all the fatigue of the day had drained from me. I stretched happily.

  Then I remembered. Horst must be waiting for me. I hurried out into the hall, felt an absence at my waist and, patting myself, realised I had left my knife on the pillow. I buckled it on, along with my purse, which I had also, improvidently, forgotten. Shutting the door, I was surprised to find a large, gnarled key in the lock, so I turned it and tucked it away in my purse. I clattered down the stairs and was met by the raised eyebrows and indulgent smile of the innkeeper. Lamps were flickering from many sconces in the stone walls, and tired-looking servants scurried about.

  'So you did sleep, signor!' he said. ‘You have all but missed dinner’ he went on, with a kindly wag of his finger, 'but certainly we can find something tasty for you’

  'Oh. That would be wonderful’ I said. 'By the way, did my friend Horst return?'

  The innkeeper looked puzzled. Why, no!' he replied. Were you expecting him?' 'Of course. He is lodging here.'

  'No. No, sir, he is not. He stayed one night only, then left very early the next day. If I might risk an opinion, he seemed in a mighty hurry.' He frowned. 'I did give you his letter, did I not?'

  ‘Yes, you did, but I have not.. ‘ I drew it out, and the innkeeper's eyes fell on the unbroken seal. He brightened.

  'I knew I had not forgotten! But, signor, I see you are confused. Why not open the letter? Perhaps things will be clearer.'

  I was frowning now, and I suddenly did not want to read Horst's message under the eyes of this stranger. But an odd sense of urgency set me to work on the seal, which broke easily. I unfolded the parchment and found it held another folded note, this one on fine white paper. The open letter was signed Horst and was near illegible. I tilted it towards the light of a rush lamp and glanced at the innkeeper, who was obviously burning with curiosity, and who was leaning his fat frame closer. He caught my eye, coughed respectfully and withdrew, reluctantly, behind his table. I peered at Horst's words. They were hastily written with a badly cut quill, and I guessed that Horst was a poor scribe at the best of times. But with a little more light and a deal of squinting, sense began to emerge from the tangle of scratches and inky splatterings. To Pelroc Petrus Zennorius, in haste!!!

  I missed you on the road, friend, though I sought you day and night. A letter from Captain de Montalhac found me in Florence: business gone awry, says he. And he bid me turn you from Venice to Ancona, whence M. de Peyrolles awaits with a ship – by God's grace he has not yet found one! I thought I would wait for you here in Spoleto, but cannot wait. I will be two days in Foligno, up the road. If this finds you, meet me there! I am away myself to said Ancona before dawn tomorrow. Follow with as much speed as you can muster. Enclosed a message from the Captain. I have no more news than this. Hurry, friend, and take care, for it is not SAFE for us now. We will await you at the Three Dolphins. HURRY!!

  (Sweet Christ, the wenches in this place, and NO TIME) Horst von Tantow ex Cormaranus I folded the letter back around the Captain's note and slipped both inside my tunic. I must have had surprise writ boldly on my face, for the innkeeper was almost fizzing with interest, but I hastily feigned what I hoped looked like bored irritation.

  'He could not wait for me, the wretch!' I sighed. 'No matter. Good sir, I will take up your offer of supper, even if it be table scraps, for it seems I must rise at an ungodly hour. My foolish friend believes he missed me here and is hurrying to catch up with me…' I hurriedly racked my brains for Gilles, map, and for the name of the next town on the Ravenna Road. 'Foligno’ I said finally. 'He waits for me in Foligno, now. That is not far, I do not think?'

  'A pleasant mornings ride’ said my host, his face showing genuine relief at so easy an explanation to my troubles. ‘You may sleep late and enjoy the day, signor.'

  'And yet I must make haste’ I said quickly, echoing Horst's words. 'He is a fool, alas, and will not tarry. I would not have us chase each other all the way to Ultima Thule, so I had best put an end to this nonsense. I will leave at sunrise, although I would greatly prefer to stay and enjoy your excellent hospitality.'

  And there was an end to it. I went off to dine on an endless procession of wonderfully savoury dishes which, if they were table scraps, came from the leavings of Mount Olympus. I took care not to drink too deeply of the wines, both white and richly dark, with which the servants were most solicitous. Nevertheless it was with a groaning belly and slightly numb limbs that I at last dragged myself back to my room, having left strict instructions that I was to be woken before dawn. I locked myself in, stretched out on the bed and, remembering Horst's warning, tucked my knife under the bolster. Then I drew out the letters, threw Horst's scrawl to one side, and examined the smaller document.

  Even in the weak candlelight I could read the Captain's bold, educated hand. I was about to break the seal when there came a discreet tap at the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sighing, for I was quite full, I rose lazily and unlatched the door, which opened to reveal the freckled face of Druda. I believe I blushed, for during my supper I had been having thoughts of a somewhat speculative nature about this serving-wench, the speculation directed mainly at what she might look like without her very proper clothing. And indeed she lowered her eyes most fetchingly, but then broke the spell by giving me a message from the innkeeper: namely, that my friend had arrived and was waiting for me. Puzzled, I followed her downstairs. There was the innkeeper, somewhat the worse for food and drink at this late hour, scratching his head groggily.

  'Ah, my dear sir! Your friend has returned… no, no, that is not it. He has not returned, but sent a message back for you with a gentleman.' 'A gentleman? Is he here?'

  'No. He waits outside. Apparently he had made prior arrangements for his accommodation..he shook his head, as if such a thing were completely unthinkable. 'He has yet to settle his horse, and would not let my groom near it. These northerners! Oh, I beg your pardon sir: this gentleman is from the north of these lands, not your own brave and magnificent country’ he went on, regaining some of his unctuousness.

  'How vexing’ I muttered. I did not wish to go out again. But I supposed that I must, so I opened the heavy door and was about to step out when the innkeeper exclaimed behind me: 'Good God, your honour! Do not go out in the night air without your cloak! The draught will kill you! The man who was looking for you: Christ's blood, but his tunic was so short you could see his knees!'

  I waved him off, for what could be more ridiculous than a Devon man laid low by cold air, and stepped out, leaving consternation behind me. The street was dark, of course, and empty. I was about to go back inside when I heard a snort and the unmistakable clack of a shod hoof on stone, coming from further down the hill. The gentleman, whoever he was – and I half-thought it might be a friend from the Cormaran, perhaps Zianni, for who else would be wearing a cycladibus out here in the country – must have grown tired of waiting, and set off to find his own lodgings. Feeling that to retreat back into the warmth of the inn would be something of a defeat, and not wishing to prove that fussing old woman of an innkeeper right, I set off after him. If the message he bore was urgent, I would save time and, besides, it was a fine night for a stroll, and I had a large supper to walk off.

  The hill was steep and the dew had already begun to wet the cobbles, so I went slowly, confident that I would soon catch a man leading a horse. But when I reached the point at which the street gave out upon the stairway that led down to the cathedral I still could see no one, and there were no more noises to guide me. Well, I had missed him. Apparently whatever message he bore could wait until tomorrow. Feeling rather glad that I could still enjoy what was left of the evening, and suddenly quite happy to be outdoors, I decided to stroll down and look at the cathedral, for doubtless I would have no time
on the morrow.

  I wandered down the wide steps and across the square. The stars gave enough faint light to show the carvings on the pillars and the cathedral walls: beasts and birds, carved in the strong, strange manner of a century before. I stared up at the towering campanile, patted the head of a stone lion, and – finally admitting to myself that the air was a trifle chilly – decided to start back to the inn. I had traversed the square and had just set foot on the bottom step when two things happened at once. I heard the clash of hooves pounding on cobbles, and looked up to see a figure standing at the top of the steps. I raised my hand, hoping it was not the Watch – and perhaps he had summoned help, for why else would anyone be riding at breakneck speed up that infernally steep hill? And at that moment, hurling sparks to left and right, the horse came into view. The watchman, if so he was, turned and threw up a hand, there was a flash of cold light and the horse sped on, clambering more than running up the hill, the memory of sparks staining my vision. The clatter was barely fading when I heard another sound: a hollow thud, thunk, thud, and saw the watchman collapse into shadow. But still that noise came, like old winter turnips thrown into a barrel, and as I started to run up the steps I understood what was making it. For down the stairs towards me rolled a ball, and as it bounced and juddered to a halt above me I saw that it was a human head.

  Half disbelieving my eyes, I squatted down to make sure, and felt the bile burning its way up my throat, for sure enough I beheld a tangle of wet hair and a pale ear. With infinite reluctance I stood and turned it a little with my foot. The face of Giovanni the groom grinned up at me, teeth clenched, a black bubble swelling and bursting as I watched. I turned aside and puked, then swallowing hot bile and curses, I ran up the remaining steps to where the rest of Giovanni lay in an unseemly tangle of misarranged limbs. There was no sign of his murderer, although the cobbles of the street were scarred with livid marks where the horseshoes had gouged them, and the smell of metal against stone still hung in the air, mingling with the darker scent of blood and fresh shit. I felt very tired all of a sudden and sank down next to the corpse, and noticed that before he died, Giovanni had put on my lovely blue riding-cape.