Pip Vaughan-Hughes - Relics

Telling my story to these strangers made me almost lightheaded. In a fury I ripped open my tunic and began to scrabble at the silk that held the reliquary. At once the Frenchman was on his knees in front of me, holding my wrists and murmuring as if to soothe a frightened animal.

'Be still, be still, young sir,' he was saying. We will help you. Do not worry. We will help.' But I had pulled the binding free, and the reliquary tumbled to my lap and onto the floor, where it lay, palm up, slender golden fingers glowing softly in the candlelight. Everyone gasped, including me. The disembodied thing on the floor seemed to offer a blessing to the room. 'Heavens above,' said the Frenchman, unnecessarily.

After that, everything changed. The swordsman wrapped me in a fur robe from the bed. The man from downstairs, who seemed to be called Rassoul, poured a goblet of wine and made me drink. All the while, the Frenchman turned the golden hand in his own two hands, holding it up to the light, seeing how the gems on the rings sparkled, examining the workmanship. Finally he shook it. Drawing his dagger, he deftly inserted the point at the base of St Euphemia's wrist and turned it. With a faint pop the casing opened, and a black thing fell out onto his palm. He held it up to me.

It was frightful, a little wizened claw like a bunch of old blackthorn twigs. St Euphemia must have been very small, for her hand was no bigger than a young child's, though the reliquary had seemed to shelter that of an adult. The Frenchman was holding it between thumb and forefinger.

'Look at what a sad little thing you have been carrying,' he said, and his voice was full of some emotion I could not place. 'Dead flesh and gold. What power they have over the living.'

Tenderly, he slipped the claw back into its golden glove and sealed the end once more. He passed the reliquary to the swordsman, who placed it carefully on the table behind me. I was glad I did not have to look at it any more. I could feel the fingers still pressing into me and, looking down, I saw that the outline of a hand stood out red above my breastbone. Sweat, dirt and chafing had branded me with St Euphemia's mark. I wondered if it would ever fade.

'Now, Master Petroc, I am afraid we have deceived you,' said the Frenchman. My heart stopped. So this is what happened to fools who meddled in matters beyond their understanding. I waited for the swordsman.

My face was hiding nothing tonight. 'No, no, no,' the Frenchman went on quickly. 'You are safe with us. But I am not Monsieur de Sol.' 'But who are you?' I managed. 'And where is he?'

'I am Gilles de Peyrolles, his lieutenant. He is aboard our ship. He does not often come on land these days. We will take you to him.'

I must have looked unconvinced, because he laughed and went on: We have not heard such a tale since-' and he looked at his companions '-since we told our own stories. I know Adric. He is an odd man, but very wise, and always welcome amongst us. If you have his friendship, you have ours. As to your burden, we will be happy to purchase it, but it is worth far more than your passage to France. The captain will know, and he will not cheat you.'

The Lieutenant helped me to my feet. 'Now it is time to go. We were going to stay another night or two, but now we had better catch the tide.'

The other men moved through the room quickly and soundlessly, gathering up the ledger, quill and ink and throwing clothes into drawstring sacks. The Lieutenant wrapped the reliquary in a damask handkerchief and hid it inside his robe. The swordsman handed me a tunic of fine, supple broadcloth, deep blue and woven with tiny silver circles. 'Put this on,' he said. I obeyed. It was the finest piece of clothing I had ever worn, and it fitted me well enough.

'It suits you,' said the swordsman. 'Now keep your back straight and your wits about you. Come along.'

Someone blew out the candles, and then we were in the corridor. We hurried down the stairs and into the tap-room, emptier now but still loud and bright. I thought I saw a signal, no more than a look, pass between Gilles de Peyrolles and the innkeeper. My three new companions ducked their heads together for a brief moment. The door opened, and we left the White Swan.

Outside, the Lieutenant held the wrapped hand out to me. Would you carry this just a little further?' he asked. It was the last thing I wished to do, but I took the bundle and tucked it inside my new doublet. We set off again, hurrying down the crooked alley. I noticed with a lurch that the men were gripping the hilts of their weapons. We passed through the tunnel and I could see a narrow strip of moonlight twinkling on water, framed by the narrow mouth of the passageway. We were almost at the entrance when the moonlight vanished. Shadows blocked our way. The Lieutenant cursed and barked something to his colleagues. I did not catch his words, but suddenly Rassoul had me by the arms.

'There will be trouble. I will carry you through – it will be safer for all of us, and you are all bones and air. Do not let go. And do exactly what I tell you,' he hissed, then he swung me across his shoulders as easily as if I were made out of straw. Guessing what he meant me to do, I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. He drew his sword, and we were charging the shadows.

In an instant there was a crash and thud as bodies collided. A staff swung by my head. I saw the swordsman leap up and it seemed he stood for a moment on a man's shoulders before they both tumbled. The Lieutenant ran full tilt at another figure, ignoring a falchion that swung too soon. His left elbow smashed into the man's neck, and as the figure lurched backwards, I saw de Peyrolles' dagger punch into his belly, three or four stuttering thrusts almost too quick to follow. The stave whistled past my head again. Then my bearer flicked his sword and the stave went spinning away. Something hot splashed my arms and I felt my grip loosening. But now we were clear of the alley and on the broad wharfside. In the dim light two figures lay on the cobblestone, one kicking its legs like a crushed frog, the other still. I heard moaning from back in the shadows. There was a shout from the right, and four more figures were rushing at us. The Lieutenant shouted something. Rassoul handed his weapon to the swordsman and turned, but he had gone only a few steps when a stave thwacked across his shins and we sprawled. I landed on my shoulder and rolled, my left ear mashing against the stones. Then Rassoul was up with a knife in his hand.

'Big boat, serpent on the bows,' he gasped at me. 'Fifty paces upstream. Go!'

I ran for it. Not from fear – there had not been time for that. But the swordsman's voice held the power of command. These people knew their business, and I did not. So I sped away up the wharf. The madness of a fight fills a man with energy that he must release somehow, and that energy carried me along now. I barely felt my feet on the uneven cobbles.

It was surely fifty paces by now, I thought, slowing down a little and trying to see the boats tied up beside me. I thought I saw a bigger vessel just ahead, then was sure: a great, oceangoing ship with lights burning on deck. My breath was coming in gasps now, and my mouth filled with a bitter metallic taste. Head down, I ran for the gangplank.

But at that moment a flash of white flame spurted deep in my skull, and then I was lying with my face to the dock, breathing a stench of old fish guts and my own blood. A voice muttered above me, and then my ears stopped ringing and I heard more clearly. It was a voice I recognised, and one that I expected.

'Got you, Petroc!' hissed Sir Hugh de Kervezey, kneeling down upon me. His knee dug into the small of my back and I gasped with the pain.

"What a tough little priest you turned out to be,' he said, and flicked my head down onto the stone. I felt something pop in my nose and blood gushed down the back of my throat and poured onto the ground. 'I knew you would come home, of course,' the silky voice continued. And your old librarian fooled me for a while. But your other… erstwhile brothers are not so gristly as Brother Adric, and they watch and spy on their fellows. A plump one – Thomas? Tobias? – let slip that Adric had met, from time to time, with a certain French collector of curios at the Sign of the Swan in Dartmouth. A collector, an outlaw and a stolen relic – all became clear. It is but a morning's ride, through such pretty country, and so here I am.' He smacked my left ear with a cupped hand and a frightening pain blossomed. And now I want the hand.' He smacked my other ear, the bruised one.