Pip Vaughan-Hughes - Relics

Stepping down into the sunken area before the door, I slipped the False Cordula from my back and propped her against the earth wall. I ducked down and untied the bundle that held the lamp. The tinder struck first time, and I fitted the lit candle into the tiny steel box. To my surprise, it threw a strong, thin beam of yellow light. I reached out and gingerly tried the door: it was unlocked, as before. I would not be needing the chisel, so I tucked it into my boot. It was time. I took a deep, diver's breath and opened the door.

As I had feared, the darkness inside was absolute. It seemed to pour out over the threshold like spilled ink. But the beam from my lantern cut through and broke the spell. I stepped inside and closed the door gently behind me. I had rehearsed the next move in my mind over the last endless hours of waiting. Laying my pack down, I untied the knots that held it together. The splints fell away easily, and I unfolded the oilcloth to reveal the dead woman inside. I did not care to look at her: the blackness of her skin seemed to have some affinity with the shadows around me, and I felt my flesh begin to prickle. Rubbing the sweat from my hands, I padded over to the reliquary, from which the lantern beam was striking shards of metallic brilliance. I propped the lantern on the nearest pew so that it threw its light lengthwise across the lid, searched out the catches with my fingers and opened them. Then, with my flesh crawling in earnest now, I slowly raised the lid itself and let it settle back on its chain.

In the dim light, Cordula had lost even the vestige of benign peace she had seemed to possess that afternoon. Now she lay rigid and clenched, her hands like talons. I could hardly bring myself to touch them. They were hard as wood and very smooth, but at least the rings came off, clicking faintly but horribly over the knuckles. I lifted off the pectoral cross and laid it, with the rings, on the oilcloth behind me. Then the slippers. That was worse: the feet were more dead than the rest of the body, somehow; at once pathetic and threatening. I bent over the coffin and slipped my hands around the body. As I lifted, I inadvertently looked into the saint's face. It was strange how Cordula had retained so much more of life's vestige – essence, as Gilles had said – than had the stacked bodies on the ship. I could sense disapproval in the raised eyebrows, and a warning in the curled, desiccated lips. A warning…

And then I heard it, a faint chink chik! chink chik! not much louder than the cicadas but out of place in the choir of the night. Metal against metal. I let go of the body in my arms, and it sank back into its nest of linen with a faint whisper. On my haunches now, I laid my forehead for a moment against the cold silver of the coffin. The worst had come to pass, as it had to. I was dead. This would teach me to volunteer. I would never see Anna again. All these thoughts and a hundred more hurtled around my mind like sparrows trapped in a room. Then I noticed that the sound had not come any nearer, and was quite unhurried. Perhaps there was time… for what? Quivering, I reached up, grabbed the lantern and set it on the floor, glass against the stone of the altar. Instantly the shrine was plunged into complete darkness. I did not wish to crush the other body or trip over some hidden thing, so as quickly as I could I crawled on my belly to the door. Prying it open, I slipped outside into the little sunken space.

The noise was indeed some way off. It seemed to come from further up the mountain, not from the direction of the village, which gave me a crumb of hope. With infinite slowness I peered over the edge of the hollow. There it was: a light, a red light, swaying with the gait of the invisible person who carried it. A mere spark of fire, the bearer must be a quarter-mile off, but walking fast. Then, as I watched, it flickered out, then reappeared, then vanished again. The bearer, or bearers, of course – it had to be Tom and the two piggish Franks. God of grave-robbers protect me, could Kervezey be with them? How had they managed to make it back so soon? The Captain had been wrong: Kervezey must have been nearer. Or perhaps it was just a goatherd. But goatherds did not carry lanterns, did they? That red spark was an English watchman's lamp, or I had never seen one. So it was Tom and his friends at best, and the worst did not bear thinking about. They were after Cordula. They would not expect to find me. I could probably get away – they would be here in a few minutes, but if I ran now…

I would have to make the switch, or Kervezey would get the relic. I knew I did not have time. But perhaps… Suddenly I had the notion of a plan. I would let Kervezey or whoever was out there believe that they had surprised me in the act. I wanted them to see me drop the prize and run. Surely they would believe that they had the real saint, who would be back in her coffin, waiting, with any luck, for one of us to come back for her. Meanwhile I would have to pray that the Franks would make off with the False Cordula in a hurry, and not chase me. I could not think why they would do that, but enough had gone wrong tonight already. At least I would have the advantage of knowing the path, though that was little comfort, and I would be able to outrun those two fat fools.

Slithering back into the shrine, I found the lantern, singeing my fingers on the hot steel. I fumbled Cordula's rings onto the Egyptian corpse, worked the slippers over the knotted toes until they were secure, and stuck the pectoral cross into the folds of muslin that Gilles had swaddled her with. Only now did I see what a good job he had done with the face: only a serious inspection would show the fraud. But his work would not be wasted. I had the advantage there: I had seen the real relic, and they had not. I wrapped the false saint loosely in the oilcloth so that her face showed, bound the splints back roughly into place. I gathered her up under my arm – strange to carry what once had been a living person as easily as a bundle of dry twigs. I reached for the lid of the coffin, pausing to take a last look at the face of Saint Cordula. She would be Tula now for a while longer. Again I felt her essence creep over me, caressing gooseflesh. I had not forgotten her warning.

"You might be safe after all, my lady,' I murmured, and brought down the lid. Then, grabbing my lantern, I made my way outside. This time I did not bother to hide the light. I could not see the other lantern, but the clinking noise was nearer, and I thought I could hear the crunch of footsteps. Now I needed to wait. I could definitely hear footsteps now, and I began to count them. How many men where there? I judged that they would enter the circle from the same opening they had used that afternoon, as they must be following the same path. That would allow me to show myself, drop the bundle and then put the shrine between me and them as I ran. For the first time I felt grateful for the lamp-black on my face. Thorn was secure in her sheath.

They were coming. I could see red light playing along the passageway I was watching. I steeled myself. I wanted to scream as the energy of fear flooded through me. Grabbing the ring of the door I slammed it hard and ran up the steps, light in one hand, False Cordula under the other arm. I made myself stand in the open, hearing nothing but the pounding of my heart. Then, much quicker than I had expected, the lantern was through the opening, washing the circle with red, and one, three, four outlines followed. They had been running, and stopped awkwardly. If they hadn't seen me, they were blind. Then another two men stepped into the light, and then one more. Seven men. They weren't leaving much to chance, I thought bitterly. I had to move right now, so I cursed loudly in French, flung my lantern in their direction and took off. Swearing again, I dropped the body. Then I was sprinting for the wall and the alley beyond.