The Vault of Bones

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  ‘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 the 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

  S

  ighing, 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.

  I raised the alarm, of course, although no alarm had needed to be sounded, for the horseman had awoken everyone in the street and perhaps in the whole town. The innkeeper was beside himself, and the inn filled with wails and groans as four watchmen bore the groom's corpse in upon a trestle, his head perched grotesquely upon his chest. It was explained, first to the watchman and then to me - and then, over and over again, to the whole congregation - that the innkeeper, fearing for my safety and seeking to protect me from the deadly air, had sent Giovanni after me with my cape - hanging by the door, sir - which the poor boy must have put on, for the night was cold and he must have thought he would catch his death without it, poor boy - may the saints and the Holy Mother clasp him to their breasts - and so the robber or bandit, or whoever had done this terrible thing - may devils chew upon his liver for eternity - had caught him out in the empty street.

  For some reason the fact that he had been wearing my cape seemed to escape the quick minds of the Watch. And I myself, and indeed the other guests, were all but forgotten in the chaos that had descended upon the inn. The messenger who had come looking for me - this detail too was brushed aside. Still I lingered, half-expecting to be arrested by the Watch, but when a parcel of old, black-clad crones arrived, silent but grimly excited, to lay out the body, I slipped away unnoticed. Back in my room, I secured the latch and pushed the room's one chair, a vast and hideous affair carved from oak, but fortunately for my purposes as heavy as granite, against the door. Then, my hands trembling in earnest now, I pulled the Captain's letter from my tunic.

  The front was blazoned with a large P and sealed with black wax into which the image of a flying, sharp-winged bird had been pressed. I took out my knife and used it to prise up the seal without breaking it. Then I opened the letter. At first I thought it had been dropped in water and the ink all run together, so dark was the page. But looking closer I realised that the Captain had covered every fraction of the vellum with script. I cursed gently. I could not wait for daylight, and yet surely I would be able to read nothing in this paltry light. Looking around the room I saw three other little rush lights dusty and unlit in a corner. Lighting these, I arranged all four flames in a crescent on the floor and, stretching out on the cold tiles, I found I could more or less make out the writing.

  Petroc of Aunefordy from Michel de Montalhac, greetings!

  The letter began conventionally enough, and this I took to be a hopeful sign. And it was not in cipher, Saint Lucy's rolling eyeballs be praised. The Captain disdained such things, though, for as he said, in ignorant times such as ours, plain script is cipher enough. My own eyeballs watering in protest, I read on:

  I am hopeful that this letter will reach you in Rome. If it does not, the bearer must perforce chase you the length of Italy for you must have this news. I am at Imperia, a week's ride from Venice. The letter is entrusted to the swiftest horsemen, but it may be that I will be not so far behind it. No matter. There is reason for my haste, and great need for haste on your part as well

  There is no time for lavish explanation. My journey was short, for I heard Louis Capet was near Marseilles, and so had no need to cross the Alps. Louis C was eager - nay, ravenous -for that item of which I bore tidings. It was the work of an hour, sitting under an olive tree as per his custom, to negotiate a transfer: aid to Baldwin de Courtenay in the form of funds, in return for said item. The next day the king let fly the great bow of state, and sent me speeding into the east in the company of two Dominican brothers who have the power to offer a great portion of the French treasury in return for -I repeat myself - said item. So far, most satisfactory, but as we made ready to depart I discovered that the banks there were
abuzz with rumour: the French king calling on his reserves and credit, and suing for more credit, to raise a gigantic sum, reason unknown. Excellent, thought I. But bankers' news flies fast as greed, for now this came to my ears.

  It is not by chance that I share a banking house with the Republic of Venice. In that infinitely malleable place, everything has its price, especially information, and the bank's agent in Marseilles had some for me, namely this: young Baldwin de Courtenay is up to his eyebrows in debt to Venice, and the Doge is getting impatient. He is about to make the strongest demand upon Baldwin’s Regents in Constantinople for collateral - or he perhaps already has, for matters are not clear. In a bankrupt kingdom, what can collateral mean? Olive oil? I rather think not. Petroc, I fear our nice, easy coup is in the process of going badly awry. I require you in Constantinople with Gilles now, not in Venice. Horst will go with you. I can all but hear you ask, why must it be me? I trust Gilles had a talk with you about the greater trust we would like to place on your shoulders. Well, we are calling upon you sooner than we had thought. As Gilles perhaps also told you, I wish to bring you into the heart of our business. Well then, at this moment there is no place more vital to that business than the Pharos Chapel in Constantinople. Gilles needs a strong companion. Do not tremble. Patch: it is for your quick wit that he needs you, and for your excellent Greek which the Vassileia Anna drilled into you. This affair will be words, not daggers.