The Vault of Bones (12 page)

'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 rabbit 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.'

'And yet that jolly man is filled with hatred, do not doubt it,' said the Captain, bitterly. 'And no doubt it is a hatred very specifically of my people. The
domini canes,
as they call themselves: the hounds of God - they are darkness manifest. I cannot look upon their black cloaks without my gorge rising, for they wear them to mock our
perfecti.
They mock the living and the dead without distinction. Patch, had Pope Gregory ordered the Inquisition while you were still a cleric?'

Word had just reached us,' I replied. 'Although it did not mean very much to me then, I confess. But sitting here ...'

'It makes the crackle of the flames a little less friendly,' finished the Captain.

'Master, are you saying that His Holiness placed you at the right hand of this Peter deliberately? How much does he know about you?'

'He does not know I am a ... a
credente,
said the Captain, all but swallowing the word. 'I am certain of it. Only my company knows that secret, and not all of them. We are all bound to each other by secrets, as you know. I believe - I
think
I believe - that it was a meaningless act. But the Dominicans themselves have much to say on the nature of belief.'

'No man less like a devil could ever be imagined’ I said. 'I have never liked friars, but I would gladly have ridden a few days in Peters company. That is ...'

'I cannot abide them’ said the Captain. 'That they mock my faith, that is one thing. But they roam the country, begging and pretending that they live the life of the Christ, when all they are about is prying and sniffing and stirring up hatred in the breasts of ordinary folk. But ...' He dragged his fingers across his brow. 'I should not have spoken so hotly’

'But they killed your people!'

'Loathe them as I do, I have always striven not to be drugged by hate's poison’ he sighed, and bowed his head wearily.

'I suppose it makes no difference’ I muttered. 'Hate will not raise the dead. But it is as strong as love, is it not? It makes a wondrous armour, I think’

'But my dear Petroc, it gets in the way of business’ said the Captain. I had never heard a man utter a sadder thing, nor heard such a note of desolation in a human voice.

'If it were me, I would wish them all in hell’ I said, bitterly.

'Have you not heard what I have been telling you?' said Michel de Montalhac, softly. 'My poor friend, this is hell.'

We talked a little, after that, of lighter matters, and the fire died down, but a pall had been cast over the evening and I took myself off to bed before long, although I could not sleep at first. Then I dozed, and when I opened my eyes again I saw the Captain hunched over in front of the embers, writing. The scratch of the quill and the low hiss and spit of the fire sounded like the breathing of a dying man. The quill was scraping as I went off to sleep, and was scratching still as I woke the next morning.

'There: it is all set down’ said the Captain, turning to me, his eyes bagged with netted shadows. 'There are instructions for Gilles, and an account of what has passed here. Take these back to Rome, and wait for your orders - for orders there will be, Patch! Will it not feel good to be about things again?'

'Indeed, sir’ I said politely, stretching, and noting that an ecclesiastical flea had left a trail of bites up my leg.

Well, I am looking forward to the off’ he said. 'Even though I ride with the Devil himself.'

'Be on your guard’ I said, then bit my tongue at my presumption.

'I shall. Nay, do not fear. Yon Peter is no devil - not
the
Devil, at least. He believes he does good. Though I think I will find his goodness more insufferable, in the long run, than plain evil. Besides, he and I will part company at Fidenza, which is only a few days from here.'

'Be that as it may, I will be fearful for your safety until I hear you have reached France safely’ I said.

'Oh, I have supped with bigger wolves than he’ said the Captain. The dark mood of last night seemed to have left him, and he shook out his grey locks like a happy dog before tying on his travelling coif. There was not much else to say, and after he had handed me a thick parcel of letters and embraced me, he left me to my own packing and was gone. I heard his strong, confident stride ringing along the corridor. I went to the window to look for him, but the view was of some inner yard where an old woman sat plucking a goose. It began to rain, and soon Viterbo was wrapped in a wet, grey shroud once again.

Chapter Seven

I

arrived back in Rome two days later, having spent the night once more in Sutri, although this time I had at least found a pallet before the fire, and so had not woken feeling like a drowned sheep. Nevertheless the weather had not broken, and when at last I dragged myself up the stairs of the Palazzo Frangipani I was feeling more like a selkie - that faery seal that can take a human form - than a man. Trailing puddles behind me - for since I had crossed the Tiber and entered the gates of Rome the rain had turned into the kind of torrential deluge I had only ever encountered out on the deep ocean - I staggered into the kitchens, shedding clothes frantically.

'Good Petroc, what cheer?' called Roussel.

'None whatsoever,' I shot back, grumpily. 'I have water in my ears and mayhap I am growing fish scales beneath my tunic. For the love of God, find me something hot to drink!'

'Nothing easier,' said my friend, pouring a big cup of red wine into which he thrust a poker that had been resting in the fire. A cloud of fragrant steam boiled up. 'Is Captain de Montalhac close behind?'

'No,' I said, curtly. I was naked now, and freezing, and realising what a mistake this was I ran out and across the hall to my chambers, where I grabbed a blanket and an old tunic I had left flung across the bed. I returned to laughter, for Gilles had heard me, and Horst, and I had to smile in turn as I crouched before the fire, warming my gooseflesh.

It took several long, gut-warming swallows of the hot wine before I felt inclined towards conversation, but meanwhile my comrades had gathered around me and were waiting expectantly. It was Gilles who broke the silence.

What happened, Patch? Where is the Captain? Where ... where have you been?'

To see the pope’ I replied as casually as I could.

'That we know’ Roussel chimed in. We had a visit from the Lateran guard, who came looking for the pair of you and to inform us that you were to be guests of His Holiness. We rather took that to mean you had been arrested, but then the Captain's note arrived, which put us at our ease.'

'So where was old Gregory?' asked Gilles. 'Rieti? Trevi?'

'Viterbo’ I said. And I told them of our journey, a tale short in the telling, for I had nothing to relate of the road nor the city save endless rain. 'But as to what befell us there’ I finished, 'you must read this. The Captain stayed up all night writing it. I hope it is dry.' I fished the bundle of letters from my sodden valise, and found, to my relief, that the thick oiled leather of the bag had indeed kept out the deluge.

'But, Patch’ said Horst, through clenched teeth, 'where is Captain de Montalhac?'

'Ah. He is making haste northwards as we speak, and I hope he has found fair weather. Gregory ... I mean to say, His Holiness commanded him to meet with the King of France as soon as possible. It is all in the letter’ I added, hopefully.

'France?' cried Roussel in disbelief.

'Indeed’ said Gilles. 'It is all here. And there are orders for us. The quiet life is over, boys.'

'I'm not going back to France, that is for fucking certain’ said Roussel. Horst said nothing, but his shoulders slumped.

'Nothing like that’ said Gilles consolingly. We would be leaving Rome in any case within the month. You did not wish to stay for the summer, did you? For the agues? Watching the dead pilgrims being stacked one upon the other, and wondering if you will be next to go? I think not.'

'Tis true that the poison creeps from the river when the hot weather comes’ muttered Horst, reluctantly.

When Orion calls his dog to heel’ added Roussel. I nodded my head. When the Dog Days came, every sane man left Rome. And I knew full well that the bestial vapours and poisons were particularly deadly to Englishmen.

Well then, do not fret. You are bound for Venice and the Ca' Kanzir - not you, though, Patch. Does that not cheer you?'

The others nodded, mollified, but I jumped up, dislodging my blanket. It does not cheer me!’ I exclaimed. Why must I be left to face the ague?'

'Peace, man. And put your bare bum away. You are being left nowhere’

What, then?' I said, tucking the blanket back about me while the others chuckled.

'Give me a little time to ... to arrange things in my mind, if you would’ said Gilles. 'Let us discuss things over dinner, you and I. Roussel, I should like you to ride down to Ostia Antica post haste, and begin putting the
Cormaran
in readiness. The Captain wishes us to sail within the week’

After Roussel had gone off to pack his valise and Horst to instruct the kitchen, Gilles began to pace, head deep in the letter.

What is the Ca Kanzir?' I asked him.

'The Captains palazzo. Home, on land, to the company of the
Cormaran.
Your pardon, Petroc: the captain's writing is atrocious. I need to concentrate.'

I took myself off to my room to get dressed and mull things over. I had heard that the Captain owned a house in Venice, but it had not occurred to me that our company - which I had always likened to that bird, the petrel, whose fate it is to fly endlessly across the wild ocean, alighting only in death - could have a permanent home on terra firma. It was then that I realised that I had not been paying attention, that my world had been filled with my own desires and fears and with Anna, and that no doubt my employers found me an exasperating, if not dull young fellow. Chastened, I found a bottle of Isaac's foul but potent tonic and forced some down. It warmed me, and I got ready for dinner feeling very young and unworthy.

I gave Gilles all my news in the greatest detail. I noticed that he stiffened when I related our meal with Peter the Dominican, and that the poor Captain must perforce be suffering his company at this moment, and at least until they had reached the plains of Lombardia, but pressed on, for I assumed that the details of this must be in the long letter he had read. Still, our gentle abduction made a jolly story now that it was over, and Gilles pressed me for every minute detail of our audience with the pope.

'That reminds me: shall we examine our gift from His Holiness?' said Gilles at last, when I had all but run out of words. He drew out a square of vellum, which I recognised with a start as the one that Gregory had entrusted to the Captain. His eyes raced across the page, and in his excitement his face became quite red. Finally he looked up, and his eyes shone.

'By ... by Origen's ballocks! I am amazed. This is the
Inventarium
of Bucoleon!'

'That it is’ I agreed.

'How did His Holiness get his hands on this wonder?' breathed Gilles, studying it again. 'I have heard of such a list, but

'Baldwin de Courtenay gave it to him’ I said. Why on earth would he do such a thing?' 'The emperor tried to bribe the pope’ I told him. 'And...'

'He failed. Now Gregory is trying to arrange for Baldwin to bribe - forgive me, to freely give as a
gift
- Louis Capet of France with these treasures, in return for aid to prop up his tottering empire’ I explained.

With your humble servants as intermediary?' asked Gilles, grinning like a child.

'God wills it’ I said piously, and we woke the spiders in the ceiling with our amazed laughter.

I slept fitfully that night, sleep eluding me in the way it does when one is utterly exhausted: another of nature's merry jests. So I was up and about early, and just about to set out for Baldwin de Courtenay's lodgings to deliver the papal bull, when Gilles found me as I was helping myself to some bread and bacon. I told him what I was about, and he shook his head, smiling.

'No, no. This is a high,
high
matter of state. It wouldn't look right for you to just trundle up to Baldwin's door and hand that thing over as if it were a tradesman's receipt. No, send Piero to announce your intentions. Request an audience. Tweak the man's pride a little. He is worth it to us.'

So Piero was sent off in his most respectable clothes, only to return within the hour with the annoying news that Baldwin and his retinue - if two men may be called such - had departed on a hunting trip with the Count of Tivoli.

They would be gone for at least ten days.

'So what shall I do with this thing, then?' I asked Gilles, brandishing the letter with its absurdly heavy seal. 'Leave it with his landlady? I jest, by the way.'

Gilles puffed out his cheeks in exasperation. ‘You are right: it is exceedingly vexatious,' he said. 'Sit with me: I have made my plans according to Captain de Montalhac's instructions.'

'Then tell me, please, for I wish to know if I must expose my tender English flesh to Rome's summer poison.'

Gilles laughed. 'No. Listen. I am being sent to Byzantium to open negotiations with Baldwin's new Regent, one Anseau de Cayeux. Meanwhile we shall dissolve the present company for the time being. I plan to set out as soon as I can - tomorrow, I hope - for Brundisium, to find a fast ship bound for Greece. I am sending the
Cormaran
to Venice as per Captain de Montalhac's instructions, where Roussel will set up our winter lodgings. Now then. Patch, you have been at loose ends these past weeks, yes?'

I nodded ruefully.

'Then perhaps you would like to make yourself useful?' I nodded again, eagerly this time. 'Excellent. I would like you to go ahead to Venice and make things ready for the
Cormaran.
There will be much to occupy you, and many vital things to learn. Indeed, this has been my task until now, so it bears a deal of responsibility. Are you equal to it?'

'Of course I am,' I said proudly. 'I thank you all for your confidence, and I promise to reward it, many times over.' Flowery words, perhaps, but I was overjoyed. I had become a supernumerary to the
Cormaran
s affairs, and now I was being offered a chance to get back into the heart of things. 'I am at your service, sir!'

Gilles nodded gravely. ‘I - neither the Captain or myself - have never doubted that. That is why I have more to tell you. We would like to establish a permanent base here, Patch’ he said. 'Rome is the very heart of our trade, as you must understand. It would be valuable to us if we had a representative here. After Venice, we - this has been in our thoughts for some time, you might like to know - would like you to look into that matter for us’ I must have been gaping like a codfish, for he laid a hand on my shoulder and squeezed companionably.

'Everything in time, Petroc. These sound like mighty affairs, but they are not, necessarily. We want you to stretch your legs, see a little of the world, and hopefully divine your place in it. Still as sanguine?'

I pulled on an earlobe. 'He is considering!' cried Gilles, merrily. I slapped my hands on the table.

'No, sir, I have considered. I am your man, whatever the task. I owe you and Captain de Montalhac my life, and it is at your service.'

'Done’ said Gilles. 'Very well. We are leaving this place. Horst is finding you a room in the English Borgo, where you will stay for the next few days.'

'But I thought I was leaving at once?' I said, confused.

'Ah. You must deliver Gregory's decree to young Baldwin de Courtenay, or have you forgotten already? And as for Venice, do you know the way?' I shook my head. 'Easily remedied. The Captain has a map, of course. And there is the small matter of transport’ he went on. You can, of course, ride?'

I felt my ears redden. 'Only mules’ I muttered, mortified. 'Mules, and the horse I rode up to Viterbo and back’ I added hastily, hoping to salvage a little dignity.

Yes, that is rather what I meant. Michel mentions in his letter that you were a little ... gingerly, he put it, upon your mount. Well, with your new-found rank we will not send you out into the world on an ancient mule, lad’ said Gilles. You will ride a horse, like a gentleman - for that is what you are, make no mistake - and you will ride it well. Horst will teach you, I think’ 'Horn?'

'He was once a knight in his own land’ Gilles said, 'and a warrior who rode out to battle many times. He will teach you, all right, probably far more than you will ever need to know. And now, let us find that map’

Thus the day settled into the more comforting and familiar rituals of route-planning, timetables, and all those other ways in which men seek to impose form and order on the trackless future. At last I had a purpose. And more: I was to be the Captain's agent in Rome, perhaps - and that, at last, was purpose indeed, and although the Captain and his lieutenant had seemingly tossed it my way like a scrap to a dog, it was a scrap that I kept returning to, each time finding it more savoury.

My new quarters turned out to be two plain rooms two flights up above a narrow street in the English Borgo. I loved this quarter, with its ancient, crumbling buildings and teeming, polyglot inhabitants. Like all of Rome it seemed to have stood forever, quietly wearing away like a great stone outcrop, while men came and went, leaving no more impression than ants. But of course the reverse was also true, sometimes in spectacular ways. Buildings seemingly disappeared overnight, collapsing in dusty mounds, their stones pillaged instantly for new buildings that sprang up as if conjured out of the ground. Everywhere was noise, hubbub, commotion, bustle, laughter, strife, argument, song. I call it the English Borgo, and indeed there were others - Frankish, Frisian, Langobard and more - but in truth the northerners mixed promiscuously, or at least as promiscuously as pilgrims and clerics may.

All this delighted me. I loved to hear the voices of my homeland, of course, for I was an exile, and exile is a sickness for which there is no cure, only balms to assuage the worst pangs. I had, perforce, to assume a false name, for - as I had discovered during my short time in London, and much to my horror - the crime of which I had been accused had given me the sort of notoriety that has maids all a-flutter, their dads growling about nooses and their mothers loosening their stays. I had not, thank the Lord, been accorded the honour of a ballad, but I had a new name, the Gurt Dog of Balecester, a beast who ripped out the throat of the bishop on the altar of his own cathedral and then ran, naked and bloody, through the streets of the city, killing and maiming as he went, before vanishing into the night. The Gurt Dog is what we Dartmoor folk call the Yes Hound, the Devil's own hunting-hound, a sight of which is a sure foreteller of death.