by Simon Raven
‘I also told you, earlier tonight, that its value depended on the conditions of its discovery. Quite simply, darling, if there are lots of nosy Frogs quacking about the place, as it now seems there may be, we haven’t much chance. They don’t know about the Écrevisse because they haven’t read the Appendix; but try smuggling two cubits by nine inches by six – well over 1,500 cubic inches – of gold and jewels and enamel over the drawbridge under your shirt – with vanloads of Frog officials looking on. They’ll be on to you like flies on to shit, and they won’t believe it’s baby’s new rattle.’
‘What with the quick and the dead,’ said Jo-Jo, ‘Ivan has much to contend with. What about my darling Baby Canteloupe? I don’t want her frightened by anything horrid.’
‘Baby don’t frighten easy.’
‘Well, I think I’ll tell her what’s going on and leave it to her. That all right?’
‘I said I’d leave that decision to you. You tell her whatever you think best. As you know, Ivan has his role, and Baby and Canteloupe have theirs.’
‘Yes…as cover for Ivan.’
‘Baby might well have something nearer the front line.’
‘Jesus, Ptoly,’ said Jo-Jo, digging her nails into his chest, ‘if anything happens to Baby I’ll fucking well kill you. I think I shall warn her to clear off before it’s too late.’
‘It is too late, angel pie. Baby is committed. Tell her what you like, she can’t get out of it now.’
‘Get out of what?’
‘Baby has promised me…that if I tie up some little money worry of Canteloupe’s –’
‘I thought Canteloupe was rolling.’
‘He has made one or two mistakes – errors of omission – in the last two or three years. We were talking about it when he first got here the other day. And since then –’
‘Since then you’ve grabbed him by the balls. So Baby’s promised you – what?’
‘That she’ll go there with Ivan, if he needs her, and… well… soothe any nasty female tantrums.’
‘Ptoly, what can you mean?’
‘Whatever version of Xanthippe’s death and its aftermath is the true one, there could be affronted female feelings to be dealt with. Hero or Xanthippe, either of them, for one reason or another, might make herself very unpleasant. Now, my little love, you of all people know how clever Baby can be at… reassuring fellow females.’
‘Dead fellow females?’
‘Oh yes. Mutatis mutandis the problems are presumably analogous.’
PART TWO
Hallowed Ground
While jo-jo and Ptolemaeos slept in the fenlands, Jean-Marie Guiscard had greater joy of the bright morning, as he walked on the ramparts of the Castle of Arques.
September Castle in September, he thought: the season in which the Lady Xanthippe arrived here, seven hundred and twenty-five years ago, almost to the day. O the red sun rising and the white pockets of mist, loitering among the turning trees over the moat. No wonder she found it beautiful, no wonder she was pleased with it when she first came. Yet soon she wearied of it. Why? Unappeased longing for the sea…could that truly have been the cause of her death? Well, true or not, it made a sad, pretty tale… A pretty tale? ‘There is an aspect of all this,’ M. le Directeur had said in Eu, ‘which really intrigues me.’ It was that Henri Martel had disliked Xanthippe because ‘another watched him from behind her eyes’. ‘There is something, something pas honnête about this lady,’ the Director had said. That was why he, the Director, had given instruction for the restorations to be begun after all. Restoration would mean excavation, and excavation might turn up something peculiar to do with Xanthippe, something – what were the Director’s exact words? – ‘something “fishy”, as the English would say…the uncovering of which, if only it turns out to be as truly disgusting as I hope it will, would make my reputation – and, just possibly, yours.’
And so orders had been drawn to commence work on the Castle in just two weeks’ time (‘quinze jours’) and now, with thirteen of those days still to go, Jean-Marie Guiscard was pacing the walls (while the woodland mist melted into the red and gold of the morning) and devising programmes and priorities for the forthcoming course of repairs.
As far as that went, Jean-Marie was very happy: he wished to make the Castle a safe and comely place in which the people could walk in peace, having tender memories (those few that knew of her) of the Despoina Xanthippe of Ilyssos. What did not make him very happy was the attitude of the Director, that learned antiquary M. Socrates Besançon: true, had it not been for that attitude there would be no restoration in prospect; but it was nevertheless deeply distasteful to Jean-Marie to think that anyone was eager to dig up matter injurious to his beloved Princess…which was most certainly (‘something “fishy”, as the English would say’) what the Director had in mind.
Nevertheless, thought Jean-Marie, who was a man of truth as well as chivalry, if there is something ‘fishy’ to be found then it should be found, for one should not give one’s affection, whether to the quick or the dead, on the strength of false premise. Therefore let us combine sound work for security and amenity with a thorough search for any trace which may be left of the Lady’s tomb – or the Lady.
Very well then: to these ends he must now consider the structure of the Castle throughout, beginning with the western gate, proceeding gradually east, and ending with the eastern donjon. Such a scheme, he thought, is topographically convenient and also happens to present the features of the Castle in ascending order of importance from the point of view of those who are responsible for this operation. So. The fourteenth-century barbican or gate house at the west point of the Castle offers no problems, provided we fence off the crumbling stairway down to the adjacent dungeons, in which children (or lovers) might well be injured or trapped. Similarly, as we march along the path to the east, we must block access down to the cells, chambers, serjeants’ and footmens’ quarters (et cetera) which are contained in the low body of the walls to north and south. We should also clear much of the brush, which has an agreeably forlorn air about it but conceals perilous pits and shafts.
Alors. Let us take the central archway which leads into the Court of Honour: the vaulting is sound; and all we need do is scour up the lettering on the Chevalier’s tablet on the north wall within, and restore the monument to the Battle of Arques over the eastern arch without. As for the area between the archway and the tilting yard, once again a clearance of brush, and the prevention of access to chambers or corridors within the ramparts, will suffice.
It is when we begin to cross the tilting yard (or meadow), with the twelfth-century turret of the watch over the Lesser Forest straight ahead of us, and the eleventh-century donjon or keep ahead and to the right of us – it is then that the great problems, whether of security or search, beset us. For the turret of the watch over the Lesser Forest (the Forest of Envermeu to the south-east) is a round and gay little tower which we enter through an enticing Romanesque door at its north-west – only to find ourselves within a few feet of an ugly breach (formerly a window) from roof to floor of the south-east section, a breach through which any child who had entered too eagerly might take off on a precipitate flight over the ramparts to eternity at the bottom of the empty moat, some hundreds yard below. The simple answer is, of course, to brick the breach up to the level of (say) a six-year-old child’s chin; yet quite apart from the difficulties of matching the stone and finding a craftsman with the style and delicacy needed for the task, one has to reckon that the window ledge of the new barrier would make an irresistible temptation to all older children of proper spirit to ride hobby horse over the void, bringing inevitable fatalities which would be blamed on the Department.
Here, reflected Jean-Marie, is all the trouble. As long as the Department does nothing about Arques apart from warning people that it is dangerous, no guilt or discredit can attach to it in case of calamity; but from the moment the Department takes the place under its official wing, anything that goes wrong
will be rubbed with sanctimonious relish right up our nostrils. And so one concludes that in order to prevent children diving into the moat (and but one such incident will be blown up into a Massacre of the Innocents) one must either forbid the tower altogether (a thousand pities), or put bars into the window (thus damaging the fabric of the roof), or just possibly (thought Jean-Marie with uncharacteristic malice) make the sill taper to a knife-edge ridge which will cut into those dear little culs and cons so sharply that none, once the word gets round, will attempt to bestride it. As to all that, the decision must rest, in the end, with M. Socrates Besançon, who was most welcome to it.
The next problem which Jean-Marie had to consider was whether to rebuild the turret’s long vanished sibling, the turret of the watch over the Great Forest (the Forest of Arques to the north), which had once stood on the northern battlements and commanded a fine view over the valley and on to the ridge which ‘the Great Forest’ still covered. The decision here was easy and could be taken at once: since the valley had been choked by projects of labour and the breeding boxes of the labourers, the view was ruined and there was therefore no point in erecting a new tower (leave aside the expense) from which to view it.
And now, thought Jean-Marie, now for the real menace, the donjon or keep. This was a huge hollow cube of jagged flint, perhaps fifty yards square by fifty yards high, which stood in the south-east corner of the perimeter. Its south wall descended flush with the southern rampart; its east wall was rooted some twenty yards only from the eastern rampart; its west wall looked across scrub and debris towards the central archway; and its north wall lowered over the yard or meadow that had once accommodated tournaments and jousts.
If the exterior was merely brutish, the interior of the shell was treacherous and vicious. There were mouldering staircases which mounted to tilting platforms flimsily attached to oblique walls. There were high and mighty projections of stone which trembled at the bare sound of the human voice and threatened to fall from the sky like the bolts of Jove to crush the prying wretches beneath. There were steep ridges of grass and earth, treacherously muddy even in the driest weather, from top to bottom of which the unwary might slide as down a chute and over a ski-jump, to fall ten feet on to stalagmitic formations of rock, rusty iron and broken glass. Worst of all, perhaps, there was the well: an open well of ample circumference, approached by an insidious path through a tiny meadow in an inner recess of the keep, inefficiently guarded by a low parapet over which an infant might crawl with ease, variously reckoned to drop for between forty yards and seventy to a puddle of slime and shingle suppurating in a concave rock.
Well, there was only one answer to the donjon: a heavily roped or railed walk along its four inner sides, YOU COME IN HERE AND YOU GO OUT THERE – BY ORDER, and an ex-sous officier or traffic policeman to make sure no one tried to take a diversion. This in turn raised the whole question of how many such officials would have to be employed, their scales of pay, their hours of work and the hours and days of the restored Castle’s opening and closing – but these were problems for his superiors, et Jean-Marie, il s’en foudra.
Having thus settled security’s hash, Jean-Marie started to consider the more entertaining topic of excavation and search. What, he asked himself, were they searching for? They were searching, in the main, for the burial place or tomb of the Despoina Xanthippe of Ilyssos. He, Jean-Marie Guiscard, wished to find it out in order that it might be rescued, re-appointed and distinguished as the resting place of an heroine of French poesy. The learned M. Socrates Besançon wished to find it in order that he might deduce scandal from it, in order that he might dig up something (‘fishy’ or ‘truly disgusting’) which would make for the posthumous disgrace of the Despoina and for the fame, as Scholar and Archaeologist, of M. Socrates. As to that, thought Jean-Marie for the second time that morning, so be it: he must simply abide the event. If they should discover (as surely they would not) any evidence of wantonness or evil doing, well, as he had already told himself, the truth must be served and preserved, a law both moral and academic from which even forlorn and exquisite Princesses were not exempt. In any event, it would be time to taste that particular mess of potage when and if it was ever cooked; meanwhile, let him gratify himself, and oblige the superior on whose good will and offices the whole exercise depended, by intelligent prosecution of the search.
So. All the Chronicle said about Xanthippe’s grave was that it had been ‘near the Chapel of the Castle’, and that ‘Her Treasure and Its Guardian did stay with her’. As for the first, the topological item, it was clearly indicated by vestigial foundations that the Chapel had stood on the flat summit of a low and circular mound which lay between the turret of the watch over the Lesser Forest and the north-east corner of the donjon. It was built on an exact east-west axis, and the east wall had been only a few yards from the eastern rampart, which rose out of the eastern slope of the circular mound and would have towered right up above the Chapel. To the south of the Chapel and the east of the donjon (between it and the rampart) had been and still in part was an elevated and fortified platform for the deployment of engines of the defence such as catapults, giant arbalests and devices for squirting boiling oil (etc.) on to the intrusive; while from the northern and western walls of the Chapel the mound sloped gently away into the tilting yard or meadow.
A grave or tomb ‘near the Chapel’, Jean-Marie told himself, must have been either (1) between the north wall of the Chapel and the turret, or (2) between the east end of the Chapel and the rampart, or (3) between the south wall of the Chapel and the raised platform, or (4) west of the Chapel and north of the donjon. In cases (2) and (3) the situations were (a) unsuitable, for one did not erect tombs where the fray would be hottest and the missiles thickest, and (b) too exiguous (a tomb or grave between the east end of the Chapel and the battlements, for example, would effectively block all martial passage there). Of the remaining possibilities, situation (1) was commodious but must be disqualified for the same reason as (2) and (3) – it was too exposed to the hazards of battle. This left only situation (4), the area west of the Chapel and north of the donjon; presumably, then, the grave must have been either on the western slope of the mound or at its foot, just on the edge of the tilting meadow. One could reasonably assume that there would have been no objection to siting a tomb near a place of simulated combat when the only alternatives were clearly going to be slap in the middle of the real thing. It would, of course, have been very easy to bury the Despoina anywhere in the whole Castle and so somewhere far more peaceful than the edge of the jousting lists: but obviously they needed hallowed ground for the purpose, and this enjoined proximity to the Chapel.
Enfin, thought Jean-Marie, the thing is very plain: unless the remains of the Despoina have been disturbed or removed, they are somewhere in the earth just to the north of the eastern section of the northern wall of that donjon.
Thus it will be observed that Jean-Marie Guiscard who had not the benefit of the Appendix to the Chronicle (of the very existence of which he was ignorant), had nevertheless been able correctly to deduce, from the official version of the Chronicle, the approximate whereabouts of the Lady Xanthippe’s resting place. What he could not know, of course, was that this had not been a mere hole in the ground or a mere box above it, but a shrine complete with crypt and cloister. Another thing he could not know was the condition of the Lady, as alleged by the Appendix, when she was consigned. Nor could he know very much about ‘Her Treasure and Its Guardian’, a phrase which had puzzled him from time to time and the precise significance of which he now began to ponder.
According to the Chronicle of Hubert of Avallon, the Lady Xanthippe had brought from Ilyssos a sumptuous dowry for bestowal on Henri Martel. It further appeared from the Chronicle that one particular item, or perhaps set of items, was distinguished from the rest as Despoina’s special Treasure (‘Thesaurus’ in the Latin of the transcribing monk of Vezelay), and that she had appointed someone, presumably one of her girls, as its sp
ecial ‘Guardian’, ‘Custos’ in the Latin. But the immediate difficulty then arose that the Chronicle stated absolutely flat that ‘The Treasure and Its Guardian did stay with her’ after her burial; and surely it was unthinkable (it had to be unthinkable) that one of the hand-maidens had been buried alive with her mistress.
So what stayed with her? Come, come; common sense. Consider what it was practicable to bury with her in a grave, a tomb or possibly a small mausoleum. Obviously the ‘Treasure’ was some favourite jewel or precious object, a set of such; an eikon or series of eikons, perhaps: and obviously the ‘Guardian’ would have been something of outstanding holiness, a crucifix or a relic or perhaps the paramount eikon of the collection, which radiated a divine and protective influence over the entire bag of tricks. What fault could be found with that explanation? No need to suppose the interment of living hand-maids or the unhealthy presence of ambiguous spirits: all that had happened was that two or more of Xanthippe’s most treasured possessions, one of which had a sanctity that protected the rest, had been placed in her coffin or in some part of her tomb. Pari passu, let it be added, this interpretation of the phrase worked equally well throughout the entire Chronicle.
And just what difference, if any, did this make to the forthcoming search? If the objects were of interest or of value (quite possible), was it his duty to see that they stayed where they were, to prevent their being rifled from the Lady’s tomb on the pretext of research or in the cause of gain? Or was it permissible, after all this time, to remove them from the Lady, who had had long centuries in which to enjoy them, and exhibit them for the public pleasure?
Such problems he could mull over as the days went on: meanwhile, there was one wholly practical decision which must be made here and now. These various and sometimes complex tasks of restoring and making safe, of excavation, sifting and search – in what order should they be performed? He was charged to draw up a memorandum for M. Socrates about this and to present it immediately. The form which the memorandum should take was quite clear, reflected Jean-Marie as he paced slowly across the tilting meadow and the Court of Honour, then under the central archway: the obvious and sensible thing to do was to start with the simple tidying up operations at the west end of the Castle and work eastwards, through restorations of increasing difficulty, until finally they could take on the challenge of the labyrinthine and murderous donjon. This done, they could begin the trickiest tasks of all – a dig beneath the ruins of the Chapel (there might be a crypt of some note) and the probing for, and then (God willing) the excavation of, the Despoina Xanthippe’s place of burial north of the donjon (as he had deduced that it must be), on the edge of the jousting yard and near the bottom of the western slope of the Chapel mound. This scheme (thought Jean-Marie as he peered into the dungeon nearest the barbican) had the triple advantage of simplicity, continuity, and ascending interest and importance: the most demanding jobs would wait until the workers were thoroughly practised, and the fascination of the final probe would compensate for the accumulated tedium of repetitious labour.
