The Swaddling Bands of Christ
Of John the Baptist his arm, and a part of his head
A piece of the True Cross, and another such
The holy Spear
The Sponge
The Chain
Milk of Our Lady
The Reed
Our Lord's Blood
The purple Tunic of Our Lord
Blood of Our Lord as expressed by a holy picture
A victorious Cross
A Stone from the Sepulchre
The Shrouds
The Sudarium
Towel that dried the feet of the Holy Apostles
Head of Saint Bias
Head of Saint Clement
Head of Saint Simeon
Rod of Moses
Perhaps I was staring for a long time, for when I looked up the Captain had turned away and was leaning on the parapet, staring down into the dun-coloured waters below. I cleared my throat and he looked around.
I thought you had turned to stone. What do you make of it?' I could only shake my head in answer.
'The Inventarium has a powerful effect on most who read it’ he said, reaching for the vellum, which he refolded and tucked away in his bosom. 'The credulous, the pious, the merely curious, and of course those of us who have a professional involvement’ I was glad to listen to him, for I discovered - indeed, for a superstitious moment, actually feared - that I had been struck dumb. But the Captains eyes bored into me, and at last I found my tongue.
'All those things: all those holy things’
‘You are thinking like a Benedictine,' the Captain said, not unkindly.
'Forgive me, but... but I was a monk once: the things on this list were the pillars of my faith, and my faith was every moment of my day. And to see them itemised thus and thus, like stuff in a tithe-barn
'... is shocking?'
'Yes. I am shocked. Truly.'
'Itemised like stock-in-trade. That is precisely what they are: to Gregory, to Baldwin de Courtenay, to me and, my dear Petroc, to you. And to a thousand others’
I sat in silence. He was right: I knew that. Had I not broken into a church to steal the body of a saint? Had I not seen a man butchered before my eyes so that another might possess the hand of Saint Euphemia, a saint with no importance outside one little English city?
'I cannot believe what I have read’ I whispered.
The Captain nodded. 'Two days ago, you heard me speak of the Philosophers Stone. Well, these things were what I meant. They have the power to convert the base metal of credulity - let us call it faith, if you prefer, my Benedictine - into the purest gold. Well’ he exclaimed, rising and clapping his hands together. 'This has been a fine mornings work. I feel as if I have dozed off beneath a tree and awoken to find a golden apple in my lap.'
'So you will accept this commission?'
'Accept? My dear boy, this is ...' He threw back his head and laughed at the ceiling beams. 'There is no greater prize in all the world for a man in my trade. I believe I will indeed accept.'
'Gregory seems to think that it is a difficult proposition, though, sir.'
‘I do not share his anxiety. And’ he dropped his voice to a whisper, 'it will bring us a river of gold, all of it honest. I... to be frank with you, Patch, this is quite beyond belief, and I am not at all sure what it will mean for you, for me - any of us.'
The Captain's distant mood vanished after that, and we fell to the kind of plotting and scheming that is the fruit of an excited mind, but that is forgotten once calm returns. And our surroundings began to seem more pleasant. We were not prisoners, that was clear enough. But we were not free, if only because we had nowhere to go. In the event, we were summoned to dinner before our gentle captivity grew too onerous, and followed a major-domo through the outskirts of the palace and into a long refectory that would not have been out of place in a monastery back home in England. It did not seem to belong to the palace itself, although some attempt had been made to make it seem grand with hangings and gleaming fittings of silver and gold. An altar stood at one end, upon which a great and ancient-looking crucifix stood. But the golden candlesticks seemed out of place on the plain, monkish tables, and for the first time in two days I began to feel a little at home. We were evidently not to dine with His Holiness, for I guessed these were not the state dining halls. And indeed we filed in with the lowlier sort of cleric - that is, given the circumstances, for I had never in my life thought of bishops and abbots as lowly, but today I had seen cardinals swarm like sparrows. Many of these worthy souls knew their place and took their seats in groups of friends or compatriots, I supposed. I was casting around for a spare couple of places when the major-domo gravely nodded towards three empty settings towards the end of the table nearest the altar. I glanced at the Captain, who shrugged and followed the man.
No sooner were we seated than another man appeared at my shoulder. He was slim of build and he would have had a rather jolly face had his eyes not been hooded and shrewd. His black hair was tonsured. He wore robes of pure white, unadorned, which lent him a certain ghostly gravity, but this was dispelled when he tapped the Captain lightly upon the shoulder and smiled down at him.
'I believe we are ordained to be companions at dinner’ he said. 'Or at least this worthy fellow tells me so.' The major-domo bowed stiffly and turned back to the throng.
The white-clad man sat down next to the Captain, reached for a nearby bread basket and offered it to us.
'I am Peter of Verona’ he said. 'Here, have some bread. It is a rarity for a mendicant to be offering food, though, is it not?'
I laughed politely, and the Captain did too, although his laughter was a little forced.
Well met, Brother Peter’ I said. 'My name is Peter too: Petrus Zennorius, late of Cornwall’
'And I am Michel Corvus Marinus’ said the Captain.
'Cormorant! A mendicant and a cormorant at the same table - the kitchens will be in turmoil to keep this table stocked’ smiled Peter. I laughed again: it was rather a good jest, for a cleric. At that moment the food began to come out, and it was excellent. We fell to, and I had spilled much gravy down my chin before any of us were ready to converse again. Indeed I was so busy chewing an exceedingly tasty but stringy piece of roast kid that I did not even notice that we were being addressed.
Well, that explains it’ Brother Peter was saying.
'Indeed it must’ agreed the Captain.
'Explains what?' I asked, no doubt rudely.
'The reason for our being thrust together at this worthy table’ said Brother Peter. 'The Lord has seen fit to provide me with a travelling companion - well, to be precise, the Lord's Vicar - for I am setting out tomorrow for the town of my birth, and your friend is turning his head towards France. His Holiness told me I would not be travelling alone, and now there will be two upon the road, for a day or two at least’
'An unlooked-for blessing’ said the Captain, with very uncharacteristic piety.
The finest blessings are always those that come unasked’ returned Peter.
'Amen’ I agreed. 'And what is the nature of your journey, if I may humbly ask, Brother?'
The friar threw up his hands. Something about the vigour of the gesture made me flinch. To preach, of course!' he said, as happy as a child. 'Three years past - we were speaking of unsought blessings, were we not? - when our beloved Gregory began his attack on the plague of heresy I was given, by His Holiness in person, the honour of being his Inquisitor General in the northerly part of the Italian lands, and alas! my official duties bring me south too often, for I love my homeland, flat and marshy though I will admit it is, and even more I love preaching the word of the Lord to my own people.'
We were dining with an inquisitor. No wonder the Captain seemed a trifle stiff. I tried to catch his eye, but his whole attention was upon the friar, who was tapping a goat bone upon the table top to make his point.
'And that is what I mean,' he was saying. 'These unhappy souls will gladly let
their errors lead them to the fire if we do not save them! And if we cannot? Well, burn they must!'
To my enormous relief, the Captain soon turned the conversation aside from heretics and their ordained fate, and we fell to empty bantering before parting as bosom friends, Peter arranging to meet with Master Corvus after breakfast for a leisurely start upon the road. But as soon as we had gone our own way, the Captain's mouth froze in a grim line and we marched in stony silence back to our room. Once we had shut and latched the door, I was amazed to see my companion blow life into the embers that lay in the hearth, for the evening had grown warm and much of the dampness had left the chamber. But he fanned them into a blaze and laid on more wood, until he had made a pyre fit for a phoenix, that leaped, crackling and roaring, up the chimney. Then he leaned back in his seat. It was uncomfortably hot now, and sweat was beginning to bead on my temples.
'How pleasant it is to warm my old bones’ said the Captain loudly. Then he turned to me, and I saw that he too was red-faced and sweating. 'A little excessive, perhaps’ he said in a lower voice, and gestured. 'Come closer’ he said. I pulled my chair up next to his, and he poured me some wine, which was white and beginning to grow unpleasantly warm.
'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 rab
bit 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 was 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.'
The Vault of Bones Page 10
