‘No! Push it this way. Just do it, Luca.’
With a scraping sound, Luca slides the bow along the ground. I touch it, very carefully. It vibrates, like a purr. ‘Not hot at all!’
I grab it and back out of the tunnel. Luca follows. We sit side by side, concealed by the stone altar. I tuck the bow under my robes. The knights dig on. No one has noticed anything.
‘It’s not hot?’
‘It’s something about enchanted objects,’ I whisper. ‘I think only the person who is meant to have them can touch them.’
The bow in my hands has the smooth patina of antique timber. As with Luca’s horn, I feel various images carved along its length. ‘I’ve never felt such old wood before,’ I say.
Luca is a warm absence near me, as we peek around the side of the altar. The knights are hard at work. With axes and picks gathered from town, they strike at the heavy marble floor. Once the first slab is broken, they get through the marble easily. Demons watch from their icons’ niches. Finally, having dislodged the bricks and stones, the knights start to dig.
‘Back away! Back away!’ It’s the voice of Peter Bartholomew, ringing with new authority.
The knights step back, wiping marble dust and sweat from their foreheads with their tunic sleeves.
Peter, with a torpid demon attached to the heavy cross around his neck, genuflects before the altar, then leaps down into the hole to examine it. The church’s floor is now covered with broken marble and dirt. Some knights look disheartened.
‘It’s not far enough!’ Peter orders. ‘Keep digging!’
With irritated murmurs, the knights pick up their tools. All they have uncovered are stones and bits of stray bone.
Lifting his hands to the ceiling, Peter runs up to the altar. We quickly duck our heads.
‘Lord, show us your lance!’ he cries, as if he’s God’s commanding officer. ‘Use it to guide us to Jerusalem!’
Peter’s footsteps move off. Luca and I peer around the altar again. Knights are crossing themselves. Ramberti sneers.
Peter has returned to the digging site. The knights pull back as he throws himself into the hole. He claws at the dirt, then rises, both hands thrust into the air. He’s clutching something.
‘Jesus has guided me,’ he cries, rapturously. ‘I have it!’
Between his fingers is something small and brown. From a distance, it looks like a small piece of bark. An indignant demon is pulled into the air behind it, eyes half-closed, as though just aroused from a long sleep.
‘What is it?’ Luca asks.
‘It’s not burning him.’ Either Peter is the person who’s meant to have this lance, or it’s not really enchanted.
Monsignor Ramberti steps forwards. ‘Let me see,’ he commands.
Peter turns. He is a large man. But Ramberti is larger and has surprise on his side. He grabs the object from Peter, striding quickly away.
‘Careful,’ Peter warns. ‘The lance is still sharp.’
‘The lance is…’ Ramberti says, turning the object over in his hands. He yelps. Drops of blood run down his fingers and splatter on the floor.
‘He’s pierced himself!’ Luca whispers, as Ramberti collapses.
Peter kneels on the dirt beside him. He makes the sign of the cross in the air. One of the knights, also a priest, steps forwards.
‘Is divine unction required?’ he asks.
‘If you can hurry,’ Peter tells him.
Ramberti is coiled like an injured snake. The younger priest drops by his side and reaches for Ramberti’s forehead. But Ramberti thrashes, pushing him away.
The priest sucks in his breath, frightened. He approaches again, but Ramberti stays out of reach. He writhes and groans and then is still. From the side of the church, Thanatos materialises, moving quietly towards Ramberti. He leans over the priest, then stands, puzzled.
Peter might claim to have visions, but he doesn’t see Thanatos. Not now, anyway. He passes a hand in front of Ramberti’s mouth and stands. ‘The Monsignor needs to leave the church. This is no place to die.’
I watch Ramberti closely, remembering lines from the book. This lance is necessary for the charm the demons want to perform. I wonder what power struggle is going on between Thanatos, demon of death, and Ramberti, who seems close to death. All that’s clear is they both want to get to Jerusalem. While I watch, Thanatos bends over and picks up the lance.
Demons leave their dark niches. Wings spread wide, they open their mouths and howl in ecstasy. It’s deafening. I reach for Luca’s hand, invisible in the darkness.
‘Ramberti is dead!’ someone cries.
The demonic crescendo increases dramatically. It’s impossible to believe that no one else hears them screaming at all.
Luca and I leave the cave church without speaking. Towards vespers, when Luca is hunched over a dying fire in Mattiolas’s house, I try talking to him. ‘You must feel relieved?’
Bitterness washes over Luca’s face. ‘Relieved? I’ll never have my vengeance now. I should have killed him when I had the chance.’
His shoulders slump. The pain of our uncertain relationship intensifies: if we were simply friends, I could hold and comfort him as a friend; if we were lovers, I could comfort him too. As it is, confused and uncertain, I sit quietly, while he suffers.
Eventually, I think of a way to distract him. ‘Can I borrow an arrow? I want to test my bow.’
Luca shrugs. We stride a safe distance from the city, reaching stripped-bare fields. I don’t want to hit anyone by mistake.
‘Come here.’ Luca stands close behind, showing me how to angle my shoulders like I’ve seen archers do, pulling the string back. The bow vibrates, coming to life. My arms are a perfect curve within the curve of his. The bow is like an extension of my muscles and sinews. Under Luca’s instruction, I pull the string until I can pull no further. Then, suddenly—release.
The arrow speeds through the air, then pauses.
Pauses?
The arrow pauses, hanging in mid-air while I try to blink this impossible thing away. Birds can slow in flight, searching out prey. But arrows don’t pause.
‘Do you see that?’ I ask Luca.
‘It’s incredible.’
My arrow finally moves again, arcing down at an invisible target hidden in the long grass. I follow its path, sliding my feet through the grass. A small hare lies dead on the ground. The arrow perfectly pierced its heart.
The bow hunted it for me.
Wonderingly, I pick up the hare. This will be our dinner tonight.
Finally, something is going our way.
Luca
The front door opens while Suzan is back in the kitchen, preparing our hare. Mattiolas and Serafina return from a vespers prayer service. They have become good friends. Everyone knows about Ramberti’s death now. Both expect me to be relieved.
‘I’m not good company,’ I tell them.
I want to be alone with my loss and my guilt. I sit as far from them as I can, and drift away.
‘Luca! Luca!’ Serafina sounds panicked.
Have I been asleep? I look across the room. Serafina stands in the doorway, her face more pale than usual.
‘Luca, Mattiolas is sick.’
Mattiolas leans his head over the table, propped up on one hand. Serafina leans across and loosens his shirt. I see his chest. ‘Mattiolas! How long have you had these spots?’
His lips are dry. ‘It might have been a sevennight.’
‘You didn’t tell us?’
‘I didn’t want to think about it.’
‘Suzan is good with herbs.’ I raise my voice and call her. She speeds into the room. ‘Mattiolas is sick.’
Suzan rests her hand briefly against Mattiolas’s forehead. Serafina hops from one leg to another like an anxious bird.
‘Have you been feeling hot?’ Suzan asks.
Mattiolas, sweaty, nods.
Suzan pulls me aside. ‘Adhemar has typhoid. Its symptoms are like these.’
‘Does the book ha
ve a cure?’
‘Not one it’s told me before. But the book changes. I’ll ask it, and read, and wait.’
Reading, searching, trying to understand, is a difficult task. Suzan struggles over some words as she translates. An hour passes. Mattiolas complains about the light. We move him into his sleeping chamber. Serafina draws the curtains and won’t leave Mattiolas’s side. Suzan and I return to the book.
Sundown approaches, and still Suzan has no answers. I go to check on Mattiolas.
Serafina stands beside his pallet. They make a remarkable pair, and not just because she’s so fair and he’s so dark. Her delicate tunics and the graceful flutter of her hands, always busy, look odd next to his patched clothes and big thick fingers. While I watch, Mattiolas grabs one of Serafina’s tiny hands in his own. His face is wet with fever.
‘I’ll never be Duke of Piacenza.’
Serafina folds her other hand over his. ‘What use does a woman doctor have for a duke?’
I’m glad for her sake that Suzan doesn’t see them like this. I’m glad she’s spared some of the jealousy I feel about her.
I go back to Suzan. ‘He’s delirious. Have you learned anything?’
‘The book says the disease is carried by tiny demons, too small to see.’
‘What can I do?’
She sends me out for honey, garlic and salt. Salt is very expensive and hard to find. I hope I bring enough.
Late at night, Suzan stirs her concoction in a silver bowl.
‘You need to move his pallet, so I can walk the bowl around him three times,’ she says.
I move the pallet while Serafina watches anxiously.
Once Suzan has circled Mattiolas, she sits at his side and offers him the bowl. He finds swallowing difficult. Liquid spills from his lips.
‘Come on, Mattiolas,’ Serafina whispers. ‘You can do this.’
Mattiolas closes his eyes. His cheeks sink as he does his best to swallow. Once he does, the change in him is immediate. He cools. His eyes clear. The spots begin to fade.
‘It worked?’ Suzan asks, as though she can scarcely believe it.
Serafina rests a hand on Mattiolas’s damp shoulder. Her eyes shine. ‘It did.’
An idea dawns on me. ‘This is how we get Adhemar to believe us about the book,’ I tell Suzan. ‘We use one of its charms to cure his typhoid.’
I walk Suzan up to the guards outside Adhemar’s palace.
‘She has a cure.’ I point at the silver bowl she’s carrying. ‘A treatment for Adhemar. I’ve seen it work.’
They shrug and let us past, with one of them as an escort.
The palace, handed to Adhemar as part of the city’s spoils, looks like a hospital. A man lies ill in the first room we pass. He isn’t alone. Thanatos stands over him, his iron-coloured cape gleaming.
Suzan pauses at the door. The concoction in her bowl splashes from side to side. She’s shaking.
‘Why pause?’ our guard escort demands. ‘Adhemar is up ahead.’
While we watch, Thanatos goes down on his knees before the suffering man. If he notices that we watch by the door, he doesn’t care. I take the silver bowl from Suzan, who is transfixed.
Thanatos leans his face over the sick man and inhales his breath. A long, silver strand of it. Just like I saw from the guard outside Ramberti’s tent so long ago, just like with Father.
Breath. The man’s soul.
The man’s limbs stiffen rapidly and then he stills. Thanatos’s robes fly out around him as he stands.
‘He’s here for Adhemar,’ Suzan murmurs. ‘This other man’s death was just a diversion…’
‘On ahead,’ the guard insists.
We walk down the hall. In a far larger room, Adhemar reclines on a pile of intensely coloured Byzantine rugs and blankets, softened with layers of white linen. He’s surrounded by priests in purple and red robes, and monks in more simple brown. I’m relieved to see Brother Bonaccorso among them. Now, we have the chance of being believed. Physicians stand nearby, wringing their hands and looking helpless.
‘We’ve come with a cure,’ I say, loudly.
Not many men turn at first. Those that do look sceptical.
‘This weird nun has a cure?’ a priest says to me. ‘Is she mad or lying? Does she possess a special skill or is she a poisoner?’
‘She’s not a poisoner or a liar,’ Brother Bonaccorso tells them. ‘And this is the Conte de Falconi.’
‘I’ve seen this cure work,’ I add.
‘And if it does not?’ one of the priests asks.
‘It can do no harm,’ the man next to him responds. ‘You pray. I will try the physic.’
‘Well, you are the physician.’
They move aside. Suzan and I step closer to the ailing bishop. Adhemar’s illness has progressed further than Mattiolas’s ever did. Once a tall, imposing man, Adhemar now looks like aged parchment stretched over bones.
Suzan holds the dish and walks around him three times. She presses the silver bowl against Adhemar’s lips. ‘Your Eminence,’ she says softly. ‘Drink this.’
Liquid drips down his chin. Helpers move behind Adhemar and raise his head.
‘Luca.’ Thanatos is here now. He looks thirsty.
Adhemar tries to drink. He cannot. The liquid trickles over his face and away. The expression in his eyes is calm and resigned.
Thanatos steps past me.
In Suzan’s hand, the dish shakes. ‘Your Eminence, drink this,’ she repeats.
A whisper, then a stream winds its way outwards from Adhemar’s lips.
‘Suzan,’ I hiss.
I know she sees the silver threads of life moving from Adhemar to Thanatos. She raises the bowl again. A little liquid collects on Adhemar’s lips, not enough to make a difference. The threads thicken.
Thanatos leans closer.
‘I can’t help him,’ Suzan murmurs.
We have come too late.
A priest, realising death is among us, begins repeating the last rites, touching Adhemar’s forehead and hands with oil.
‘Be gone!’ Raymond snarls at Suzan. His one eye threatens menacingly.
Next to him, the golden-haired Bohemond, whom women swoon over, is no more sympathetic. ‘Raymond, you’re a fool for listening to children!’
Suzan tries once more to offer liquid from her bowl. But a loud noise outside the room distracts her. The door is flung open and Peter Bartholomew walks in.
‘Adhemar has died!’ he announces.
The priests around the bed step back. Peter has clearly spoken the truth. Thanatos crouches and drinks the last of Adhemar’s death.
‘His spirit has already appeared to me!’ Peter cries, rapturous. ‘Listen while I tell you what we must do.’
I seize Susan’s hand and pull her from the room. Brother Bonaccorso comes with us.
‘Things are as bad as I feared,’ he murmurs as we step out into the darkness.
‘You’ve had fears?’ I ask.
‘Of course I have. I want to do God’s work. I’ve tried to believe this pilgrimage is what God wants.’
‘But you’re not sure?’
‘What I would give to be sure. About anything, Conte.’
Suzan
We attend Adhemar’s and Ramberti’s burials, inside St Peter’s cave church the next day. At all times now, Luca carries the book with him in a large leather satchel, just in case.
But Raymond and Bohemond are our leaders now, and neither will receive Luca after our failure to save Adhemar. Luca stares at Ramberti’s closed coffin, as if he expects the lid to fly open and the Monsignor to step out. And he ignores Thanatos, like he ignores the demon swinging from a grinning skull in the church wall. The demon twists its clawed fingers around the jawbone and moves it up and down, as though trying to make it speak.
And Luca ignores Narlo, who stands beside him in the strange cave cemetery, chest puffed up beneath his ceremonial robes as if he’s been invested with some important secret.
A
t the wake after the service, Narlo laughs at Luca’s satchel. ‘Is this to keep your book safe from me? I don’t want that,’ he says in a harsh whisper. ‘Next thing you’ll be accusing me of chasing your ugly nun.’
Luca turns to me. ‘Don’t listen to him.’
Narlo stares in the direction of the book demon as though he can see it. His glance strays to the figure beyond. It’s Thanatos, looking amused. He approaches us with a swagger.
‘I can’t tell you how delightful it is to have your attention,’ Thanatos says to Narlo, as though Luca and I aren’t there. He must have made himself visible to Narlo.
‘Narlo de Falconi,’ Narlo says, with a little bow. I watch as he notices the jewels around Thanatos’s throat and on each of his long, elegant fingers.
Thanatos looks around. ‘Another de Falconi boy! They call me Thanatos. It’s fortuitous to meet you at a funeral. I’ve always loved theatre. You and I can really have some fun together.’
‘Fun?’ Narlo sounds impressed. But Luca looks horrified. Nothing good can come of this alliance.
Luca stays to watch Narlo while I walk back to Luca and Mattiolas’s house alone. I want to read about Narlo and Thanatos, if they’re mentioned in the book. It seems clear that most things concerning us are. By candlelight, I read on. But although the book’s pages rustle responsively beneath my fingers, they show me only my mother. She has a child—me! In the flickering light, the images seem to move. They show my mother touching my face with a sachet of herbs, and a mask appearing. The images confirm what I suspected: my mother used enchantment to make me look ugly.
I turn back one page to a picture of sirens. I see them more clearly now, as if the book has filled in their faces. Among them, my mother watches an approaching knight. She radiates love and hope. The next image shows my mother, large with child, standing beside a grave.
Luca
I follow Narlo from alehouse to alehouse until he’s too drunk to learn anything from, then find Suzan in the house, reading. Dark hair tumbles over the shoulders of her white tunic.
‘Suzan.’
‘Luca.’ She glances at the door to the next room, where Mattiolas is recovering and Serafina tends to him. She stands and rests her hand on my arm. ‘There’s something I need to say.’
The Book of Whispers Page 20
