Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

Gilles merely laughed, and, seeing that my unsteady hand was shaking ruby droplets on to the bed linen, reached out to steady my cup.

'Look upon it, then, as your reward for having the hardest head on the Cormaran, and for returning to us despite all’ he said. 'By the bye, you will be Peter of Zennor, of course.' I nodded. It was the name I had assumed in London, where my own name was likely to lead me to the scaffold.

Gilles had ordered a set of fine clothes laid out for me. I dressed hurriedly, all fingers and thumbs, and although I heard a commotion beyond my door I was too nervous to join in with what was clearly a rowdy breakfast. When at last the Captain knocked, I was pacing in front of the window, watching the goats play-fight amongst the stones. After that I broke my fast on raw eggs, cheese and good bread with the Captain, who all but ignored me, instead leafing through a sheaf of old parchments. But at last he poured me a mug of small beer and one for himself, toasted me with a warm smile, and drank.

'That is better’ he said, wiping the foam from his beard. Well, my lad, are you ready for the off? An emperor is waiting for us.'

I followed him out into the already bustling street. Striding through the Campus Martius, we came at last to the bank of the Tiber, and nervous though I was, my heart leaped to see it, running fast over a bed of weedy, tumbled stones. Perhaps I had been expecting something as grand and majestic as the Thames, but here was a stream much like my own River Dart back in Devonshire. But that was merely the river itself. If it seemed friendly and familiar, what lay along its banks was not. We passed a dark, lowering building spiked with gibbets that overhung the bank of the Tiber, a brace of leathery cadavers swinging there seemingly unnoticed by those who walked beneath them, and crossed a great stone bridge that led over the river to a strange, circular castle that guarded the far bank.

This, Patch, is the Pons San Petri’ said the Captain. 'The Romans built it – the old ones, mark you – and they built that thing as well’ he said, pointing to the castle. "That is the Castel Sant' Angelo, the fortress of the pope. Grim, is it not?' 'Not as grim as the one behind us’ I said.

'Ah yes, the Tor di Nona. That is where the Holy Father has his enemies strangled in the dead of night. Up there’ he pointed up the hill across the river, where I could just make out the long roof of a great church, 'that is Saint Peter's, from where the Church extends its control over the souls of men. But here we stand between the symbols of its power over their bodies. The pope is also a prince, lad. Old Gregory is also Ugolino, Count of Segni.'

My strength was ebbing under the baleful watch of the bodies dangling from the Tor di Nona. I began to feel weak again. What was I, a bumpkin, a pipsqueak from the boggy moors, doing here? I followed the Captain like a whipped hound into the tangle of streets that made up that part of Rome called the Borgo, which lies beneath the walls of Saint Peter's Church. Saint Peter's! The dangling cadavers of the Tor di Nona had all but driven the thought of her from my head, yet there was the mighty arched tower of her bell tower, there the great flight of steps up which pilgrims were crawling, and rising in the distance, the basilica itself. I stopped in my tracks, slack-jawed with wonder yet again, until the Captain tapped me on the shoulder.

It was not hard to find the Sign of the White Hound. It was directly across a square that stood before the church of Santo Spirito in Saxia, the biggest church hereabouts, whose bells were beating the air with their din; and the two French soldiers from last night were standing self-consciously in front of the door, pretending not to guard it. They recognised me straight away: there was no mistaking my finery, which the Captain had bid me wear. As always, he himself was dressed in simple black, almost priestly garb, with a cloak thrown about his shoulders and a black coif covering his greying hair. Only when you came very close would you see that what seemed to be homely cloth was in fact damasked with strange creatures and plants, with subtle workings of silver thread. This morning it was I whom the two bodyguards fixed their blue eyes upon, and seeing this, the Captain leaned and whispered in my ear.

"They look no happier than they did last evening’ he said. 'Go to, Patch: win them over’

I licked my suddenly dry lips and stepped forward. The taller one was grasping the hilt of his sword in a business-like manner, and it was true: neither of them seemed overjoyed to see us again. Not quite knowing what to do but remembering how I had seen courtly folk act (the few times I had been anywhere near such people), I strolled towards them, halted a few paces from where they stood, pointed my right toe in front of me and bowed slightly from the hip. Straightening up I spread my arms wide and smiled, in what I hoped was a friendly manner. Last night I had been angry and withdrawn and quite eager – as my late friend Will would have said – to get stuck in, and now I wanted them to know I was harmless, or at least in a better mood. Happily they seemed won over, for my true harmlessness was no doubt all too apparent, and both smiled faintly at my display. And now they take me for a prize poltroon, I thought. Nevertheless I cleared my throat ostentatiously.

'Good morning to you, sirs’I said in French, which luckily I spoke tolerably well – luckily, that is, for apart from a smattering of Latin, French was the only tongue that Baldwin and his entourage had at their disposal. We are here at the hour appointed by your master. Pray tell: is he within?'

'His Majesty the Emperor of Romania is within, and he awaits you’ said the tall one in courtly French, and it was then I realised that he and his mate were not men-at-arms, but knights. They had made an effort to disguise themselves in rough attire, but I now saw, as I had not last night, that they wore golden rings on their fingers, and their belt buckles were golden also, and worked in the outlandish fashion of the East. The tall man had taken a sword pommel or shield-edge on the nose once upon a time, and an old scar trailed from his temple to his mouth.

‘You are welcome’ added the shorter man, who had seemed so possessed with fury outside the inn. He had grey hair and age or a fight had robbed him of two front teeth. 'And we beg you to forgive our intemperate manners at our last meeting. It was poorly done.'

'No, no: if my manners were surly, the fault was mine alone’ I said graciously, trying not to sound as relieved as I felt. 'I was mistaken in my assumptions, and somewhat on my guard, as I am not yet familiar with this place.'

'Then we shall be friends, in that at least’ said the tall man. 'Though I took you for a native son of Italy last evening, you are an Englishman, I think.'

'Do I know you, sir? I mean, aside from last night?' I asked politely, for there was something familiar about him that I could not place. 'I do not think so, good sir’ he replied. 'Bruges, perhaps?' I was racking my brains. 'Alas! I was whelped not far from there, but I have not been back these twenty years or more’ he exclaimed with a sad smile. Perhaps he simply looked Flemish, I thought, and let it be.

'Now let us make haste’ said the other man. 'The emperor is anxious to talk with you. Monsieur de Sol’ he called. 'I bid you welcome in the name of His Majesty Baldwin, Emperor of Romania and Constantinople. Please, come inside’

The Captain shot me an approving look as we made our way inside the inn. The Sign of the White Hound had seen better times, but it was not quite so insalubrious as its surroundings promised. I caught sight of a couple of bright whitewashed rooms with long tables laid for the midday meal, and a pretty serving-maid in a clean apron was bustling around. We were led upstairs to a suite of modest rooms panelled in painted wood, with dark wooden ceilings. There were tapestries on the walls – I guessed they were Baldwin's, for they were creased and somewhat clumsily hung – glass in the windows, and fresh rushes underfoot that filled the air with their sweet scent. An ornate but travel-worn chest stood against the wall, and I glimpsed another in the adjoining room, where there was a bed and a somewhat grander hanging, upon which a cross in gold thread shone on a field of red cloth, surrounded by a pattern of smaller golden crosses. Baldwin was sitting in a high-backed chair with his back to the largest window. A shield – a war-shield in size, but bearing no marks of war – hung behind him, and on it a black Flemish lion pranced on a field of gold behind a diagonal red band. The sun was coming in and it was obvious he had chosen this spot so that anyone facing him would be dazzled. The tall man offered us two stools that had been placed in front of Baldwin’s would-be throne, but the Captain winced as if in pain.