The Vault of Bones

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  'A dealer’ said the boy. He was trying to be flippant, but the Captain had him once again.

  You are right. I am a dealer. I am the dealer. Every important relic that is bought and sold in Christendom has passed or will pass through my hands in one way or another. Not the little vials of martyrs' blood or poor bits of sacking that have touched some saint's tomb: my business is the relic over which a cathedral will be built, a town founded, a cardinal's hat bought. I do not buy arid sell: I arrange for the invention and translation of these things.'

  Baldwin looked blank, so I explained: 'Church dogma has it that invention is the discovery of a relic. Translation is its transfer to a new home.'

  'So I conduct my affairs under the mantle of dogma’ said the Captain. 'Thus souls can remain spotless. I have taken wine with popes, and taken their money. I am known to the greater number of your royal cousins, including Frederick Hohenstaufen, whom I count as a friend.' Baldwin looked surprised at that, and I was taken off guard as well: this was the first I had heard of such a friendship.

  'Louis Capet, as I have said, is a man I know well. He will not buy the Crown, or any other thing, from you. He certainly would not buy them from me, and I would not offer them to him: as I have said, they have no worth. But a gift, an imperial gift: that, I will guarantee, will bring you a mighty reward. We have spoken of this very thing, sitting beneath his oak tree at Vincennes. "My dear Jean," I remember him saying, "Think of all the treasures yet behind the walls of Constantinople, the things that bore witness to the suffering of Our dear Lord’"

  I had never heard the Captain talk so much like a common huckster, but then I saw that Baldwin was rapt, and that tears were welling in his eyes.

  "Would that it were in my remit to bring them to you, my lord," I answered,' the Captain went on. '"But I fear the Venetian wolves stole everything at the time of the fatal Crusade." "Ah, not so," he replied, "for I have read an account, The Story of Those Who Conquered Constantinople, by a noble knight of Picardy, one Robert de Clari. He lists the things the Venetians took, but the Crown remains in Constantine's palace, alongside all these others." And he listed to me the things that this Robert claimed had been saved from pillage. He believes you have in your possession the Crown, the Nails, the Burial Cloths, the Spear, Sponge, Tunic, Cane; the Stone of the Tomb, and the Cross itself, or parts thereof. "If," I said then, "if these things were indeed still owned by the emperor it is a great wonder, for I thought them lost." "No, no," he said, "They are there, and I tell you, I would give every coin in my kingdom to bring them here to France’"

  'You heard those very words?' said Baldwin, faintly.

  'And many more on the subject, over the years.'

  The emperor opened his mouth, then closed it again. He reached for the wine jug and filled his cup to the rim, drank most of it off and set the cup down again. His hand was trembling slightly.

  'Can you help me?' he said.

  Chapter Five

  A

  fter the two knights had shown us out of the inn we strolled in silence across the square. The Captain was frowning slightly.

  'Did that meet your expectations ?' I asked, insanely curious.

  He paused and bought us each a peach from an old woman. It was early for peaches and it was a little woody, but the sweet flesh was welcome after Baldwin's tart wine.

  'It could hardly have gone better’ he said, a little distantly.

  What, then?'

  ‘I do not know, Patch’ he said. 'It was all so simple, was it not?'

  'Certainly’ I agreed. Young Baldwin is desperate. He will do anything you say.'

  "Young" Baldwin, is it? He is older than you, I think. No, that is right. This is a moment I have thought about for many years: as I told you, the ultimate of prizes. And it appears the boy has placed everything in my hands. I suppose that I cannot quite believe it.'

  And he said no more, leaving me fairly boiling with excitement. So wrapped up was I in the complexities of what I had heard, and what I was now imagining, that I barely noticed the streets we were passing through, and even the squatting menace of the Castel SantAngelo failed to make me look up from the cobblestones. It was not until we were upon the marble pavement of Saint Peters Bridge that my reverie was broken, and that was only because the Captain had caught me by the arm. Urn?' I muttered.

  'Hold up, lad’ said the Captain. He sounded tense.

  Then I saw why. A small company of soldiers, I hurriedly counted eight of them - were strung out across our path. They did not loll, like most soldiers do when they wish to be menacing, but stood like statues. Five of them held short, broad-bladed spears, and all wore both swords and knives over surcoats of red and yellow. They all wore kettle-helms, brightly polished and gleaming, except for one man, the tallest, who was bareheaded.

  What is this?' I hissed.

  'They wear the livery of the pope,' the Captain answered under his breath. 'Keep still, Patch. And on your life, do not touch your blade’

  The tall man stepped towards us, hand raised imperiously.

  'In the name of the Holy Father, halt!' he proclaimed, somewhat unnecessarily, for we were rooted to the spot.

  'Signor Michel de Montalhac?' he asked.

  'At your service’ the Captain answered levelly.

  ‘You will accompany me immediately. You too’ he added, with a haughty jerk of his chin in my direction. Without turning, he snapped his fingers, and his men started towards us. I noted, with more than a little unease, that they marched in perfect step with each other.

  'Please walk ahead’ said the officer, for so I assumed him to be, with perfect politeness.

  Well, well. This day grows ever more interesting’ said the Captain calmly.

  'My God, sir, what do you mean? What is happening?' I hissed.

  We have just received an invitation from the pope himself. Do not worry, lad: all this nonsense is merely a bit of mummery, meant to impress us. You are thinking of the poor flitches hanging from the tower over there, are you not?' I nodded, biting my lip. Well, do not fear. Those to whom the pope wishes harm are visited in the dead of night. You would do well to fear a knock at your door, but polished helmets at midday? Mere Roman nonsense. And besides, His Holiness is in Viterbo, I believe’

  'So what is all this about, then?'

  The Captain gave one of his French shrugs. A diversion’ he said, carelessly.

  And so we walked - calmly, for despite their order, our escort was polite enough not to hurry us - across the bridge, past the Tor di Nona and into the narrow streets beyond. Mummery it may have been, but the crowds parted before us as water divides around the prow of a ship. Through the broad ways we passed, through squares where marketing wives gawped at us, under beetling towers hung with flags, past knots of urchins who mocked us with great skill, for mockery was their stock-in-trade and they took pride in it. I did not notice much of this, for despite the Captain's easy words I did not feel at ease, and kept my eyes on the ground, watching my feet pace out the flagstones that lay between me and God knew what fate. The towers of the noble families loomed over us on all sides like a sinister forest of branchless trees: columns of brick all emblazoned and battlemented with the furious pride of their makers. Then we were in that quarter where the ancient ruins are more plentiful than the works of modern man, but even these are piled up with more brick towers and strange little fortlets that perch upon the ancient marble like the daubed nests of swallows.

  And then a great shape rose before us, squatting, heavy as the sins of the world, upon the earth. The Coliseum, almost domestic at this time of day: as we skirted it, I noticed that here and there a face peered out of a window in a crudely bricked-up arch, or a flag of newly washed clothing flapped pathetically.

  Our escort whisked us past and into a quarter I had never entered. We had left the city behind - or so it seemed, for past the Coliseum the buildings thinned out and suddenly we were in farmland. Or rather, it was like entering a vast garden, for in the dis
tance, all along the skyline, the jagged walls of Rome stood guard. We were climbing a hill, walking past churches and here and there a lone tower that threatened the poor farmers' huts that stood amongst the vineyards and fields of vegetables that were just now sprouting shoots and fronds of exultant green. Olives and figs grew on either side, and the din of human tongues was supplanted by the chit-chat of starlings and finches. Away to our right our path - in truth it was a rather grand road, paved with cut stone - was flanked by a high brick bridge, which began down near the Coliseum but which ran away out of sight over the crest of the nearest hill, upon which stood a great church rising amidst a village of smaller churches and cloisters. The strange bridge seemed to be purposeless, for it forded no stream and carried no road, but where it led was no mystery, for though I had never seen it, like every Christian man I knew what church stood upon a hill just within the city walls of Rome: Saint John Lateran, the pope's church, and next to it his palace.

  At our swift pace we were there in the broad square before the church much faster than I would have liked, and our escort ushered us past the broad rise of steps that led to the church and through a gate into a courtyard. I fully expected to be strung up on the spot, but instead the officer gave us a courteous bow and led us inside the palace.

  We were met, in some inner state chamber, by a cardinal, a sick-looking man in late middle age, who nonetheless was the first cardinal I had ever met and who therefore set my knees atremble with awe until I remembered that I had long since left the Church, and that I need not fear its lords, at least in principle: for as our current predicament showed, in practice any lord was dangerous whether he wore purple or cloth-of-gold. This cardinal was not especially happy to see us, and I suspected we had disturbed either prayer or breakfast, for he sniffed at us impatiently, and informed us that His Holiness desired to speak with one Michel de Montalhac, whom he presumed one of us to be. His Holiness was currently residing in Viterbo whilst the populace of Rome overcame its troubles and ceased to act like feral children - this last delivered with a sniff of extra severity - and so he regretted, et cetera et cetera, but we would have to take horse. This very moment. No delay possible. And out he swept in a petulant fuss of purple silk.

  So it was out to another yard with us, where our escort - the same officer, but different men - waited with a pair of horses for us. Now here was mortification indeed, for I was forced to admit I had not ridden a horse since I was a lad, and then only Dartmoor ponies and mules. The soldiers exchanged looks of amused disbelief, and even the Captain permitted himself a little smile as he scribbled a message for Gilles on a hastily procured scrap of parchment, but at last a kindly guard took pity upon me and offered to lead my mount until I felt at ease on her back, and so we set off. It was strange to see the Captain swing himself up on to his horse as if he rode every day of his life, when in truth I had never, in two years, seen him mount so much as a dog-cart. I myself was very frightened, up there upon the back of my mare, but it was a fear based upon concrete circumstances - the danger of a broken limb or at least humiliation - and so allowed me to forget, for a few miles, what fate must have in store for us. And although I sat stiff with fear for a mile or so, after I saw that I was not to be thrown or devoured by the great creature I began to grow more confident, and after an hour I was trotting along unaided.

  Of the journey to Viterbo there is little to tell, save that it began to rain as we left the city and poured the rest of that day and the second too, and the sky was so low that the skirts of the clouds trailed upon the sodden ground. My world shrank to that portion of grey misery that was framed by the dripping window of my hood. We rode all day, and my arse, besieged by hard saddle and sodden britches, was chafed raw. That night we took our rest at Sutri, in a rich pilgrims' way station where our status as guests of His Holiness brought us abundant food and a comfortable bed, but we were not at ease, despite our escort's attempts to draw us out. For the Captain was polite but distant, and I was so caught between indignation and terror that I could muster up nothing but the sorriest parlour-talk.

  There were not sufficient beds, it being a busy time on the Pilgrims' Way, and so while the Captain was invited to bed down with the captain of our guards - Captain with captain: there would be a song about that, I vowed, should I ever make it back to the Cormaran - I had to make do with a straw pallet in the corridor, along with the other soldiers and a heap of pilgrims, all snoring, farting and reeking of wet clothes and feet. It was no worse than sleeping below decks on a ship, though, and once I had overcome my damp shivers and made myself a little warmth, it occurred to me that, if the pope intended us any harm, his men would hardly be allowing us this casual freedom on the way to his lair. So I did sleep, after a fashion, and awoke with a stiff neck and a sleeping pilgrim hugging my legs as if they were his wife.

  We set out again into the weather, and reached the town of Viterbo midway between lunch and dinner - or so we guessed, for we had seen neither glimpse nor glimmer of the sun's face the whole long, wet day. I was not cheered by the town, for it hid behind forbidding walls of some ominous grey stone, and the houses within those walls were all of a kind: grey and dour. There was no one about, and the rain poured from roofs and made brooks of the streets. Up these our party splashed, up to the walls of a building, half church, half fortress, that hunkered down amongst the grey houses like a defeated titan.

  'The palace of the pope!' exclaimed our officer, trying to sound haughty, no doubt, but merely seeming wet and out of sorts.

  'Mayhap they have lit a fire for us’ muttered the Captain, and seeing my expression, he added: 'Not that kind of fire, Petroc! We are safe, I promise.'

  The gates thudded wetly behind us. I looked around and saw a large open space that looked something like a builder's yard: some grand project had got under way, and blocks and carved pieces of that depressing grey stone lay scattered about everywhere amongst wooden scaffolding, winches and buckets. We parted with our horses, I with great joy, for I could hardly walk, so chafed was my crotch. The grand doorway of the palace was guarded by men in shining mail coats who did not so much as glance at us as we entered.

  Inside the palace it was gloomier than out, for no one had yet lit the torches that jutted from the wall, but at least it was dry: so dry, in fact, that I caught the stony astringency in the back of my throat and almost coughed. The air smelled faintly of incense, of beeswax and of dust. But before I could take stock, we were called to one side, into a sort of guardroom, and there up a plain flight of spiral stairs, along an unadorned corridor of stone and into a room, quite large and as austere as everything else I had so far seen. On the bed, which was large and of a dark wood, two sets of clothing were set out, and when I saw them my heart thumped, for they seemed to be priests' robes: simple things of black and white. What dreadful mockery was this? But while I quavered, the Captain had shucked off his wet clothes and pulled on the dry ones, and I saw that they were not vestments after all, but ordinary tunic and breeches, somewhat old-fashioned but made of fine cloth.

  'How considerate’ said the Captain. 'Mine fit rather well. And yours?'

  'Not too bad’ I admitted. It was somewhat delicious to draw on the clean, dry things after two days of sodden misery. 'I thought they were clerical robes, actually. Some sort of jest.' I swallowed. 'Or worse. I have heard that the heretic-finders dress their victims in such things before

  'Petroc! Your imagination is a rich and wonderful thing, to be sure, but calm yourself, I pray you! You and I would be hanging from the Tor di Nona by now if our host meant us ill. That I promise you.' The Captain combed out his lank hair with his fingers as he spoke. ‘We are to be fed, not cooked. Sit down.' He pointed to the bed. I plopped down upon it obediently. He stood before me, arms crossed.

  'Now then. I have not spoken of this since we were ... invited upon this journey, for although our hosts seem pleasant enough, I'll wager their ears are sharper than their swords. And besides, I have been sunk deep in my thoughts,
for which I apologise. But here is something that will cheer you. Do you remember our conversation with Baldwin?' I nodded. 'Of course you do. Then you will remember that I told that foolish young man that I had supped with popes and emperors. That, Patch, was no idle boast. The truth is that I know old Ugolino de Segni, who now delights in the name of Gregory, ninth of that name, Pontifex Maximus, et cetera, et cetera ... I know Pope Gregory rather well’ You know the pope? I was aghast.

  'Extraordinary, isn't it? But in fact, not really that extraordinary. I knew him long before he took up Peter's keys. He was a diplomat, you know, roaming about the lands of the Church drumming up alliances against the German emperors. What better way to seal an alliance amongst clerics than with the gift of a relic? I became a trusted purveyor, and in time an occasional dinner companion. He is a very learned man, our Ugolino. I tend to keep off ecclesiastical topics, however, and fortunately we share an interest in philosophy. I can talk a little - and he a great deal - upon the subject of Aristotle, and things that branch off from there, and so we count each other as friends. There is no real foundation for it, but then again, he is the pope and, by definition, friendless in the earthly sense. You might find him a little unearthly, Patch. He is uncommonly ancient, but sharp as a pin. Be calm and close-lipped. I will handle the conversation’

  And that was the end of our talk, for at that moment a rap came at the door and a cleric in the robes of some important office entered. It was time for our audience.

  Later, I realised it was a shame that I could not remember more about the pope's palace. I dimly recalled heavily armed guards in the papal livery - many of them, guarding a great many doors that stood at the end of a great many stone corridors. Although the place was not unlike a monastery, in that it was cold, austere and very old, I felt as if we were descending into the earth, and that the successor of Saint Peter must dwell in some cavern in the depths like a lonely old spider. So I had little but an impression of gloom and disquiet, although