The Vault of Bones

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  A hundred pardons for wrenching you from what I hope has been a pleasant tour of pleasant lands, but you will see wonders, my friend. I will require a full report of them, you may be sure! Until then, I wish you speed and safety. Gilles will instruct you, do not fear. Farewell!

  Michel de Montalhac, in Lyons Patch: Pay Attention!

  Jesus. My stomach cramped suddenly with anxiety, and I dragged myself up off the floor and staggered to the window. I thought I might puke the rest of my rich dinner out into the night, but the warm and resin-scented air calmed me at once, and I found that my turmoil had given way to a strange, buoyant calm. It seemed that Venetians were all around me. The Captain had made no mention of danger: This affair will be words, not daggers, he had said. Well, that was rather obviously no longer true. I was ahead of him with the news. Venice had taken Baldwin himself as collateral. And I held a papal decree that gave Baldwin absolution from simony. With this instrument, whoever controlled Baldwin could strip his empire of every holy relic it possessed and sell them for hard cash. Business gone awry, Horst? I should say so. I should very definitely say so.

  With a clarity I had not felt since arriving in London - nay, since the time, long ago it seemed now, that I had set out in the dark of night to steal the bones of Saint Cordula from her island shrine - I turned my head to the east. A half moon was hanging above the turrets of the fortress. It was waxing, and shone so brightly it dazzled my eyes to look upon its face. All was quiet save for the whirr of insects and the piping of the bats. I would leave immediately, I decided all at once. I would ride through the end of the night, and feel the dew gather on my horse's mane. I would see the sun rise before me, and I would take my course down to the sea. I held up my hand. It glowed softly in the light of the waning moon, just risen over the roofs of the town, and cast a crisp shadow on the windowsill. I closed my eyes and imagined the moon working on my blood as it worked upon the waters of the ocean, pulling me ever to the East. I saw a sea of white, dancing light, and beyond, the long walls and strange spires of Byzantium.

  I pulled out my old rag-pickers'-market cloak and tied it around my waist with my sword belt. The cloak was black, which was good: patched and faded as it was, it would attract no attention. Nevertheless I cursed Giovanni for denying me my new cape, then cursed myself for my ingratitude, for the poor fellow had undoubtedly saved my life with the surrender of his own. I was pretty sure that Iblis would be unguarded in the stable, for everyone would be downstairs, gawping at the body, but how to leave unseen? I pondered this for a moment. It would be good to slip away, and to put a distance between me and the Venetian, whoever he was, before he discovered his mistake. Peering out of the window I considered jumping down on to a lower roof that jutted out below me, but it looked slippery with lichen and the tiles were crumbling to boot. So there was nothing else for it. I unhooked my sword from its belt and tied it against the saddlebag, which I slung over my shoulder. The bed, so comfortable and clean, mocked me as I laid a gold piece on the bolster, more than ample payment for my stay. Then I heaved the chair out of the way and peered out into the hallway.

  There was no one there, and the rush lights had almost burned out. A great commotion came from downstairs, grief-filled wailing, but also the excited chatter of men. I tiptoed down the stairs, and craned my neck over the banisters. The entry hall was empty. All the noise was coming from the back of the inn, for they had laid Giovanni out in the dining room. Sending up a prayer of thanks, I was about to let myself out of the front door when it struck me that the place was probably being watched. Or perhaps not, I thought, hand beginning to sweat on the latch-ring. The murderer must surely have fled? Yes, but what if he had not? Biting my Up in vexation at my own wariness, I turned back. The kitchens were this way. Had I not seen the groom disappear that way, a coin in his hand, with orders to lavish the finest bran upon my horse? I thought perhaps I had.

  The kitchen was empty too, and I snatched up a flitch of bacon from the table and a bottle of wine from the floor. From behind a door in the far wall came the sound of dreaming horses. It was dark in the stables, and I had to light a lamp with my tinderbox, taking care not to spill any sparks on the straw. Iblis was not best pleased to see me advancing upon him with his saddle, but let me belt it on, snicking his teeth and shaking his head.

  You have no idea’ I assured him. By way of apology I waved a full nosebag in front of his eyes. 'This for later, good beast. Now we must hurry.'

  I guessed it was still not quite midnight by the time I led Iblis out into the night. There was no sign of a watcher with a horse, thankfully; but I had no wish to attract attention, and indeed I knew full well that I was far too poor a rider to canter, or even trot, down these almost sheer streets. First, thinking to find a back way out of the town, I climbed to the very top of the hill, past a little church standing at the end of its own square, and beyond to an open space filled with ruins and sleeping goats. Then the land dropped off into a sheer, wooded ravine so deep that I could barely hear the rush of water below. So I led Iblis back, and we walked slowly down a quiet street that seemed to run parallel to the one we had come up that evening. Sure enough we soon came to an ancient-looking archway I remembered, and then I took both our lives in my hands and plunged down a stepped alleyway. But the wide way coiled about the hillside and after a few agonising minutes of tripping and slipping on dewy stone only to find we had again fetched up on the main street I gave up and swung myself on Iblis. The gate was not far now. I tried to remember if I had heard a curfew bell, and thought perhaps I hadn't, and indeed the gate was open, although a knot of men-at-arms lounged around a glowing brazier. I had buckled my sword back on by then, and was wondering if I would have to charge the guards when one of them, scratching his arse and leaving his halberd leaning against the wall, wandered into my path, hand held up more in greeting than warning.

  What cheer, friend?' He asked. There was no edge to his voice, only wine and the lateness of the hour.

  'Not much, friend,' I answered in my thickest Roman accent, hoping that it would disguise my poor Italian. I must be in Assisi by dawn, and it is a ways away, right?'

  'That it is. But why travel by night? You should be by the fire.'

  'Ah, I was? I told him, leaning down with what I trusted was an easy smile on my face. 'Fell asleep, didn't I? In company, if you get my meaning. Should have set out this morning, but ...' I threw in a leer for good measure. 'Now, my masters a churchman, and an important one, and he'll have my skin for a book-binding if he finds I’ve killed a day in the arms of a wench. So I'm happy to risk a ride under the stars’ I finished with a wink. To my relief the man winked back, a conniving grin spreading across his bristly chops.

  Wouldn't want a flaying on my conscience’ he said. 'All right, be off with you.'

  'Thank you, friend’ I said. 'By the bye, I'm not from these parts, in case you hadn't noticed. I take the north road, yes? How far do I have to go?'

  You'll make it by sunrise if you hurry’ said the guard. 'The road takes you up the valley. It's not yet midnight, and you should be in Foligno by the fourth vigil. If you aren't, ride like the Devil, my friend! Leave the road at Foligno, keep Spello on your right and you'll keep your skin.'

  I bid him farewell, and even waved at the other guards, who ignored me. Beyond the gate the road stretched out into the plain between two mountain ranges, one low, one high and steep. I trotted for a few yards until the gate had fallen far enough behind, then kicked Iblis into a gallop. Away we sped amongst the willows. My plan was to catch up with Horst at Foligno, if indeed he was still there, for two would travel more safely than one, and Horst would know better than I how to deal with the nasty turn things had taken. So I hurried on, giving Iblis his head for a mile or so and then walking for a bit, then racing on again. I was keeping an ear cocked for pursuers, but nobody seemed to have followed me, and the road was utterly deserted.

  Not a friendly country. No, not by any means. The innkeeper's words fluttered aro
und my head and I tried to keep my nerves at bay, though my path led through land that, while it was no doubt pretty in the light of day, was decidedly sinister under the moon. It was flat, and criss-crossed with streams and ditches. Shadowy willows and poplars lurked on either side. But on my right, on the dark mountainside, white villages gleamed, and that made me feel less alone. I did not tarry, though, and saw the towers of Foligno rise before me well before the stars had begun to fade. Now at last I decided to rest, for if the Spoleto watch had been careless, the gates ahead might be more vigilant, and I did not think a night-traveller would be welcomed. So I found an ivy-swarmed ruin a little way off the road, gave Iblis his long-promised nosebag at last, drank some wine and stretched out before the remains of the fireplace, my sword unsheathed at my side.

  I did not sleep long, for a pair of doves fell into conversation in the ivy above my head just after dawn. I arose and looked out of the one remaining window on to a lake of fog, above which the mountains rose, glowing pink. I breakfasted on cold bacon and set off for Foligno. It must have been market day, for the country folk were crowding through the gate, pushing carts, riding on wagons or simply lugging great bags and baskets. I fell in line behind a peasant family pulling a trolley piled with baskets that held fat white geese, hissing and cackling in fury. This town, I was glad to see, was flat, and I headed straight for its centre, steering by the tallest campanile.

  It was the habit of the company of the Cormaran to take the best lodgings in whatever town they found themselves, and so I asked my way to the Golden Fleece, which everyone seemed to think was the fanciest inn, and which I found in a narrow street lined with the grand houses of rich merchants, just behind the main square. It was indeed a comfortable place by the looks of it. I went in, and I was wondering if I might dare risk a sleep in one of its no doubt luxurious beds, when a plump and pretty woman emerged from a side room. She saw me and began wringing her hands.

  'No rooms, dear sir, no rooms today, and I beg your pardon for it!' she exclaimed.

  'Nay, I do not wish for a room’ I told her, noting that she was ashen and that the skin under her eyes looked almost bruised. 'I am seeking a friend of mine. He might have stayed here last night or the night before - Horst of the Cormaran, Tall, half an ear, German?'

  'Oh, dear God!' sighed the woman, and sagged against a table. She began to fan herself with a hand, and I thought she would faint. I too suddenly felt dizzy.

  'Good lady, what ails you?' I asked, tremulously, for perhaps I knew.

  ‘Your poor friend!' she burst out. 'Oh, for pity's sake ...'

  Just then a younger man hurried down the hall and took her shoulders. He gave me a slit-eyed look.

  'Good wife, who is this?' he demanded.

  'Petrus Zennorius, at your service’ I informed him, bowing politely. 'I merely enquired after a friend whom I hoped to meet here, one Horst, but I appear to have given grave offence.'

  'Friend, you say?' 'Friend, comrade, associate.'

  'He's dead’ snapped the man.

  'I ...' I reached for the wall, feeling the powdery whitewash rubbing against my palm. Horst could not be dead. The bacon turned to rottenness in my stomach.

  'Listen, sir, I do not wish to seem unmannerly, but I have passed this morning and the greater balance of yesterday scrubbing his blood from bed linen and floor, which is all in the way of an innkeeper's trade, no doubt, but the thing of it is, your ... your friend had no coin with him that we could find, and so there has been a tragedy, my poor wife is undone with the horror of it, and we are out of purse. There you have it.'

  'Good master innkeeper, do not trouble yourself over payment. I will cover it’I said briskly, straightening up. I wished I could be sick, but there would be time enough for that. The man brightened, and so I pressed on: What happened? Where is he?'

  'The holy brothers took him to the charnel house’ said the innkeeper. He was still furious, it seemed, although with me or with fate I could not tell. So I pulled out my purse and found an appropriate coin. Will that allay your trouble?' I asked, tersely. But the two of them brightened, and the woman took the coin and vanished with it into the side room. 'And now, please: what happened to my friend?' I demanded. 'It was not last night, but the night before’ the innkeeper told me at last. He had led me into a dining room and poured me a mug of cool wine and one for himself. 'Master Horst had arrived from Spoleto and took one of our best rooms. A fine-looking gentleman, and very well mannered ...'

  That he was’ I agreed, thinking how fitting it was that tall, stern Horst, knight of Prussia, should leave this final impression.

  'He ate here, and stayed up late, for he appreciated our wine ...' I nodded again. I'm sure he did, I thought. Just as I had enjoyed my own dinner in Spoleto, which ought to have been my last. As grief wrapped its tatters about me, I saw, in the merciless glare of hindsight, the trap that had been laid for us both. Chance, blind chance that I had escaped, and my friend had not. '... and took himself off to bed after midnight’ the man continued. 'He told us he thought a friend might join him that day or the next, so when the other gentleman arrived we thought nothing of it, and sent him up to your friend's room.'

  'He was expecting me’ I put in. 'He left me a message in Spoleto, where I had planned to meet him. And there ...' I stopped myself. 'No matter. Who was this other gentleman?'

  'A Venetian’ he said, as I knew he would. 'How did you know that?'

  'Oh, by his voice - talked through his nose. And by his ridiculous, foppish dress’ said the innkeeper scornfully. 'Showing his knees, if you can believe it.'

  'I can indeed’ I muttered.

  'And then there came a crashing and banging, which we tried to ignore, as we pride ourselves, sir, on our discretion. But then came laughter and then nothing, and we forgot about the noise until next morning, when the chambermaid found him.' 'Found Horst ...' I said, an image forming in my mind. I tried to drive it out, but it would not go.

  'Found your friend dead on the bed, all cut up. I have never seen the like. There was blood everywhere - oh, sir, I do beg your pardon’ he said quickly, and poured me more wine. 'In our business one does endure the occasional death on the premises, but from apoplexies or fevers. Never—'

  'And the Venetian?' I broke in.

  'Vanished. Gone out the window, most likely. It would not have been hard.'

  'And everything was gone? All Horst's belongings?'

  'His bag was emptied and there were clothes strewn all over. But we only found clothes. No other effects, no papers, no...'

  'No money.'

  'Quite. And so we did not know what to do. The holy brothers minister to the dead in our city, and they were called. He will be lying in their house.'

  'Oh, Christ’ I said, rubbing my hot but tearless eyes. 'He would have been buried in a nameless pit, would he not?'

  'And so thank the merciful Lord that his friend has come to save him from that’ said the innkeeper hurriedly.

  He took me up to the room, but I saw nothing but a bare bed-frame and clean flagstones that reeked of lye. The walls had been freshly whitewashed, and the place had nothing to tell me. I looked at Horst's clothes, but indeed that was all that had been left. In a daze, I picked out a tunic and some leggings, things that I remembered him wearing, to clothe his corpse for burial, and told the innkeeper to give the rest to the poor. Then he led me through the noise and life of market day to the monastery of the black monks who had taken care of my friend. A friendly, ruddy-faced brother - not at all what I had expected, in truth, for to work with the dead has always seemed to me a dark and lonely vocation - met us at the door and led us through white cloisters to a long room lined with marble-topped plinths, perhaps ten or twelve of them. All were empty save one, and on that one lay a long shape draped with a sheet of white linen.

  Horst was dead all right, although as one so often finds oneself doing when confronted with such an obvious fact, I found myself checking for signs of life. But his skin was waxen and hi
s lips were already drawing back into the yellow grin of death. His throat had been cut, which must have been the fatal blow, but I supposed he must have fought his murderer, for he bore many other wounds: a long slash across his brow, and punctures next to his breast-bone and in his belly. His hands were also cut, and the bones were showing through the butchered skin of his palms.

  You are merchants?' the brother was asking. I nodded, swallowing down my rising gorge. 'So many robberies, I am afraid’ he said almost apologetically. "These are troubled times.'

  'Many robberies, good brother, but murders?' I asked. The monk stroked his tonsured scalp absently.

  'Murders, yes, of course. Those who love His Holiness are assassinated by the followers of the emperor, and, one has to admit, vice versa’

  'This is the emperor's city,' put in the innkeeper, with a certain pride.

  'As I said, troubled times,' the monk said diplomatically. 'But a killing like this, for the sake of robbery?' He scratched his head again. ‘I will admit, I was surprised.'

  'And yet you see many corpses,' I said, curious despite the confusion of my grief. 'Such is the calling of this house,' he replied, bowing his head. It was a show of piety, but I thought that the monk was a practical more than a holy man, and a good one, at that. Yes, indeed we see the dead. I said these were troubled times, but, my son, look about you! I have seen every table in use, and more poor souls stretched out on the floor. Wars, and plague - the Lord sees fit to keep us busy. But, come to that, I have not often seen a thief go at his victim in this manner. He fought back, your friend: one can see from the hands.'