You do not wish to see any more at this time, do you, gentlemen?' he asked. By the way he kept glancing over our shoulders I could tell he was anxious to leave. The Captain smiled and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.
‘It is no secret that the wonder we have just beheld is but one of many such in this chapel,' he said. The Regent's face fell. The Head of the Baptist, I believe?' the Captain went on. 'The Robe of the Virgin herself?'
‘Yes, yes, and more, much more,' blurted de Cayeux. 'But surely you are both tired. Surely
‘You have a list, of course,' said the Captain, implacably. 'His Majesty King Louis has an interest that does not necessarily end at the holy Crown.'
The Regent, well and truly impaled on the hook of greed, writhed. Strong and vital as he was, he was plainly unmanned. This place seemed to have the same effect on him as on me, although where my discomfort stemmed from my loss of faith, I guessed that for the Regent, piety and a guilty conscience - both beasts with sharp teeth - were gnawing his insides. I felt a tiny prick of sympathy for the man, then stifled it.
‘Yes, a list ... I believe such a thing exists,' I said. De Cayeux gave a sort of whimper and ducked through the door. We followed. He stalked up the central aisle, then halted and turned to face us. He had mastered himself.
'There is an inventory, to be sure. I would be delighted for you to see it, and ...' He dragged a sweaty hand through his curls. 'And I will order a copy made, for His Majesty the King.'
"That will be excellent,' said the Captain. He turned, genuflected a final time towards the altar, and strolled to the Regent's side. 'Such wonders,' he said, shaking his head in a fine parody of ecstatic disbelief. ‘I never thought to see such a thing. That these unworthy eyes ...'
'Indeed! It haunts me, this ... that is to say, the responsibility of guarding the relics of Our Lord's Passion is an honour that I never thought would rest on my shoulders,' said de Cayeux. He had reverted to his blustering tone, but I knew he had revealed to us a glimmer of truth. What mortal man would not be haunted by that terrible thing? But those two men who still pottered around in the chamber behind us like pantrymen clearly were not, and many more like them had stripped a holy city of its wonders as one might skin a rabbit. The Regent was evidently cut from more delicate cloth, as far as his immortal soul was concerned, at least. Leaving them to their devices, he ushered us out to where the guards were waiting with their smoking lantern.
'Dear visitors, I must get back to my affairs. But I insist you shall be our guests tonight, and as long as you stay in this city.' He turned and barked through the chapel door: 'Hughues!'
The chamberlain's grey head popped up behind the altar, looking rather spectral in the dim light. He saw the Regent beckoning impatiently and disappeared, to emerge with de Toucy. The two men hurried about, blowing out candles, and finally left the chapel, their clothes reeking of soot. Hughues was commanded to show us to our new quarters, and the Regent, with a final bow, hurried away down the ruined hall, de Toucy following behind. There was anger there, if I was not mistaken. And now the chamberlain pocketed his key and regarded us, buzzard-like. He scratched his grey stubble with a yellowed nail and sniffed thoughtfully.
'Now. Where shall we put you?' he mused aloud. I looked around at the ravaged walls and shuddered. Where indeed?
In the event, our rooms were not so very horrible, which was fortunate, as we were to make them our home for the next two months. They were two flights up and faced south, out over the Bosphorus towards the shores of Asia. We were in another part of the palace from the Regent's throne room, and it took all our navigating skills to find our way to and from our lodgings to the state-rooms. There were other folk living around us, some in some style, others in more straitened circumstances. Perhaps it was the only section of the wrecked complex that was fit for habitation, for it had the air of a boarding-house, albeit a noble one. I did not know where the Regent had his rooms, but I recognised several of the barons from his court. They too lodged on our hallway, and every time I saw one of them, haughty or sometimes harried, toing and froing from the throne room, I could not help but reflect on the tenuous nature of this empire's heart.
Below us was another courtyard, clean-swept but mouldering, in which a party of stone statues held an eternal conference. Perhaps they were comparing their various dismemberments, or bemoaning the state of their home. In any event they were silent neighbours, although when the moon shone down upon them they seemed to gain some measure of life, an odd revenant tremble that made them kin to the fading, gouged faces of the frescoes and mosaics inside the palace. For although the Bucoleon was all but deserted in most of its vast area, its half-looted decorations kept watch. There were eyes everywhere, and if they were but paint and coloured glass, still they observed our mortal comings and goings, and judged them sternly.
The rooms themselves were pleasant. They were dry, their ceilings were firm, and the walls were painted gaily with flowering trees and vines, gambolling animals and happy birds. My chamber had three high-arched windows and slender stone columns that ended in carved thistle-leaves. I had a gigantic bed and linen that was changed tolerably often, from which I guessed that a Greek held sway at least over the running of the household; and indeed I was right in that, for the serving girls who made up our beds, the pot-boys who brought our food, and the major-domo who called in every so often to make sure all was in order - all these folk were Greek. It was clear that no Frank would sully themselves with such demeaning work, although most of those who were not soldiers appeared to have no function at all in the working of the palace, and indeed often seemed half-starved. But the Greek servants were cowed, and if they were not, perhaps, slaves, they were not free.
The days passed slowly. The Regent was distracted by the crumbling state of his borders and was often away from the palace for days at a time with his barons, and so there was no one to negotiate with. We did some business with the Italian merchants on the Golden Horn, and I went out sometimes to walk through the city, but I found it too ominous and sad, and all but empty of the Greeks, Anna’s own people. Those that remained were wan and half-starved, and cringed from the swaggering Franks like beaten hounds. I saw more than one man set upon and dragged away by the Regent's men-at-arms, and the city's gibbets were always heavy with stinking fruit. Once I came upon a naked corpse, so bruised that at first I took it for a Moor, sprawled in an empty doorway, and two smiling Franks walking away from it, eyes chilly as fox-lights. So most often I stayed in my chambers, reading the old Greek books that I would find amongst the rubble in deserted rooms. Winter was creeping in, and I found that Constantinople grows bitterly cold when the wind begins to blow down from the land of the Russians. One day, after I had been wandering through the palace in search of wood to burn in my fireplace, I returned to find the Captain waiting for me in the doorway to his own chamber.
At last there was, all of a sudden, much to occupy us. The Captain was already packing his bag. He would be taking ship back to Italy as soon as one could be found, and he hoped it would be in the next two days. A fast ship from Venice had brought a letter from Gilles, and the Captain handed it to me after first locking the door of his chamber.
Jean de Sol and Petrus Zennorius, from Gilles de Peyrolles, Greetings,' I read.
I am in Venice, dubbed the Serene, although serenity is not, at present, a commodity of which I have much stock. I arrived in time to meet the envoys of His Noble Majesty et cetera, et cetera, Louis Capet, the two Dominican friars. They will be taking ship for Constantinople early next week. If the vessel I have chosen to carry this letter is swift, it should arrive a good while before them.
I hope with all my heart that it does. For Baldwin is not here in Venice. I have been to the offices of the Doge, and have searched high and low, but he is nowhere. My friend, I fear that Petroc is right: Querini is holding him. This Querini is a power in the city and I fear it is not safe for our company here. I am leaving for Rome, and on the way I shall make further enq
uiries. The Cormaran I have sent to Alexandria under the guise of trade, but perhaps it will draw Querini’s spies.
The brothers will be with you a few days after you receive this. They are good men, and you are right to trust them. Can you trust anyone else? Dear friend, my suspicious heart tells me that there is more rottenness in Constantinople than even you no doubt suspect. I recommend that, when you receive this news, you will make haste back to Paris with the brothers. Could Petroc remain behind, and use his excellent wit to divine the true nature of this looming disaster?
Michel, I hope I shall see you anon. Safe journey, my friend.
Petroc, to you our usual advice: Pay Attention!
Farewell!
Gilles de Peyrolles
'It makes perfect sense, does it not?' I asked the Captain.
'Alas: it proves - finally, I should say, although I did not ever doubt you - that Baldwin is no longer his own master. Why would he avoid those whose sole intent is to cover him with gold? Baldwin is a fool, but not that big a one. Now there is hardly any point in us being here at all, in this forsaken city, and this ridiculous heap of a palace.'
'But the emissaries, these friars, are on their way’ I protested. ‘They are ready to offer gold for the relics in the Pharos Chapel.'
'I do not believe anyone here is really in a position to negotiate,' said the Captain.
'No. But what if...' I began.
What?'
'Nothing,' I said, deflated. 'I was thinking that if Querini is holding Baldwin in lieu of a mortgage, there might be a way for us to parlay the negotiations with Louis into ... no, it does not make sense.'
'No, go on,' said the Captain. 'I had not been thinking in terms of a mortgage, simply of hostages.'
Well, if Louis has money to spend on the Crown, could not he still buy it? Then the barons would have money to ... to ransom, or redeem, rather, their sovereign.'
Yes! But why should they, though?' the Captain said, shoulders sagging.
'Because he is their ruler, and because the pope will be, I don't know. Very angry. Excommunicate Constantinople, not that it would make much difference.'
You might be right,' said the Captain, not sounding very convinced. 'No, you might be.'
'And we would collect our commission whatever happened,' I pointed out. He raised his head at that.
A fine point!' he said. 'If money changes hands between Louis and the empire, we stand to collect. The nature of the transaction need not concern us. Patch, you have it!'
'But I cannot do this alone,' I told him.
'Nonsense. It will be plain dealing. The friars will talk money and the Regent, sick with gold-greed as he is, will agree to anything. You have the pope's decree, which gives you the authority to make the transaction. Then you need merely witness the contract, and your work is done. That you can do alone’ he added. 'So. It is agreed. Gilles' information cannot be ignored. I will leave on the morrow -I have found a ship already, a fast Venetian galley with a master happy to be bribed - and you will stay and conclude this ridiculous affair. I am sorry to leave you here, though: this city is detestable.'
'It is’ I agreed, although I was blinking with surprise at the speed of all this. I did not let the Captain see, but I was shaken at the prospect of being alone here, and in the rafters of my mind the ghosts had awoken. I made my excuses soon after and went off in search of drink strong enough to put me to sleep.
I thought it would be easy enough to fetch a servant, but no means existed that I could see. I wandered through the rotting halls, through the pools of shadow that stretched between the rush lights in the walls, thinking to hail someone. But I had navigated my way almost to the Regent's state chambers before I chanced upon a serving wench hurrying on someone else's errand, a linen-draped trencher in her hands. I stopped her and she stared at me, terrified, great black-ringed eyes searching my face for who knows what dreadful portent. It was the girl who sometimes came to clean my room, I found, but it plainly heralded terrible things for servant girls to be hailed by Frankish men in this place, for she did not seem to recognise me, and I hastily spoke to her in Greek.
Wait, dear one. I wish nothing more than a jug of wine. Do you know how I might come by such a thing?' And to show her I had no ill intent, I stepped away and held my palms up before me. She quivered like a mouse stranded in the middle of a threshing floor.
'The tap-room?' I tried again.
Again she shook her head. Indeed she shook all over, so hard that I feared she would drop her trencher. I was so appalled by the terror I was inflicting upon her that I had backed up hard against the wall.
‘Sto kali despoinaki? I told her: Go to the good, little queen. She goggled, and as I edged away she scuttled off in the opposite direction and disappeared into the gloom. Feeling more unnerved than ever, I kept walking until I came to the zone of light and life, where servants were running to and fro and where I could at last follow my nose to the kitchens. There I procured myself a great clay jug of wine from a fat German cellarman, who was quite disturbed to be collared by one of the quality in his own domain, but who promised me the best of his supply. By the smell of it, his supply was poor indeed, but it was not vinegar, and gratefully enough I set off again into the purgatory of deserted hallways.
I had already climbed the stairs and was, I thought, quite close to my chambers when I heard a muffled squeak and a thump behind me. Those sour shadows were rich with suggested horrors, and so I whirled around, to find empty gloom. This was a desolate quarter of the palace, where the walls were flaking and the rush lights few and far between. Doorways appeared at odd intervals, and side passages opened unexpectedly, sometimes giving on to stairways going down and sometimes up, although as far as I knew the upper floors were unsafe and uninhabited. The little hairs on my neck were prickling, and I shrugged away the gooseflesh, shuddering. This place gave me terrors far worse than come upon folk who wander in open places. The sullen dead of a thousand years had left their essences to flitter and blunder about like grey and dusty moths, so thick in places that you could almost smell their grave-cloth wings. I began to step backwards towards the nearest pool of light. Then the sound came again.
It was no ghostly sound after all. A man's low growl, the click of metal on stone, and a woman's moan, stifled. I listened again. My hairs were still prickling, but now they were telling me of a different kind of fear. Was it fear, though, or pleasure? A tiny, sharp voice in my skull told me this was none of my business. I agreed with myself wholeheartedly, but then came another moan, more desperate than before. That was no woman: it was a child. I set down the wine and made my way towards the sound. My feet made no sound in the thick dust, and it was obvious from the rustling ahead that I was undetected. Now I could tell that it was coming from one of those sinister side passages. Back to the wall, I slid along until I was close enough to peer around the corner. I hesitated, for I was fearful that I had heard nothing but an illicit but happy coupling, and that my intrusion might be taken for prurience or worse. But I was no prude, and knew what love sounded like, and lust as well; and this did not sound quite like either. So, gritting my teeth, I leaned slowly, silently, into the darkness of the passage.
Nothing was visible at first save two pale stains of light, and for an instant my heart lurched at the threat of the unearthly, but then they resolved themselves into a pair of naked legs, white and sun-starved. A man seemed to be crawling up a narrow flight of stone stairs on his hands and knees, but there, in the almost black shadows beneath the collapsed tent of his clothing, was another pale smear: no more than two black holes in a weak halo of light, a ghost skull which, as I blinked, uncomprehending, became the great, terrified eyes of the little Greek serving girl I had met in the corridors below. She mewed like a kitten, and no louder, for a thick hand was over her mouth. The ink-black circles of her eyes were as hollow as those of a corpse, yet she gave a feeble jerk and the man who lay upon her slapped her head hard with the hand which was not stopping her breat
h.
Black hair, pale skin, dying eyes. I did not think, I did not consider, until my hands were caught in the man's clothes and I was wrenching him backwards. He was big but surprised, and I threw him against the wall, grabbed him and spun him towards me. I glimpsed thick, sandy hair and a dull, drunken Frankish face. Then I broke his nose with my forehead, a sound like a walnut cracked between stones; and as his blood ran down my neck I kneed him in the cods and swung his slumped weight out into the corridor. He landed heavily on the stone floor. I ran at him and landed one good kick in his guts before he cringed away, stumbled to his feet and lurched off into the shadows. I heard his feet picking up speed and vanishing into the desolation.
I turned to find the girl cowering against the steps. Her long tunic of homespun was still tangled about her ankles, and I reckoned, my mind whirling to make a calculation of the unspeakable, that her attacker had not reached his goal. Making soothing noises as if to a frightened beast I reached out to her, but she gave an awful, feral cry and, gathering her tunic up to her knees, jumped up and darted past me. She sprinted away, pale legs scissoring, up the corridor towards my quarters. In another instant she was gone. Had I not had a ringing in my head, and another man's blood trickling down my front, I might have dreamed the whole thing for all the evidence that remained.
My jug of wine was where I had set it down, but later, as I lay upon my bed and drank, I knew that the sly palace ghosts had lapped at it like Aristotle tells us the shades of the dead heroes, feeble and squeaking, drank the warm blood of sacrifices. The haunted wine was suitable company, for if I had gone in search of wine to dull her memory and my grief, I had instead found Anna's fetch. For what else could that girl be? I knew it was not so, with my scholar's mind that shunned superstition and with the aching in my head, for I had butted a living man, and such oafs do not seek to violate spirits. But my bereaved heart had found a shred of relief, a piece of flotsam to cling to in the howling storm, and so I lay there and remembered how I had first found my love and saved her from a man who meant to kill her, how her black hair and white skin had pierced my soul. Only when the wine was all but gone, and I could taste clay from the jug in the dregs, did I banish such thoughts and tell myself that I had merely saved the virtue of an inconsequential servant, and made an enemy of Christ alone knew who. At last I slept, and the mothy ghosts of the palace swarmed about me, drawn to me, as to all who slept there, as if to flame. We draw them, we living souls, our hot blood and beating hearts as enticing as a lantern on a summer night, but the dead are never warm, and we cannot give them warmth; and they dash themselves against us as we dream our little, desperate dreams of life.
The Vault of Bones Page 24
